We Have to Trust God
My "new year" has been weird this year. My third and last pregnancy didn't turn out like I wanted. After two natural births, I ended up with a complete placenta previa, a transverse baby and had to have a c-section (which was devastating for me). I was on bedrest for several weeks trying to keep him at bay. We tried to keep baby Joel baking until 37 weeks, he decided to come at 36 (the day after my mom arrived to help from the States, talk about perfect timing!). Before I was wheeled back to the surgery room, I was informed that there was a HUGE possibility that I would also be getting a hysterectomy due to the size of my placenta and the damage it had done during this pregnancy. Not that I want more kids at the moment, but it's always nice to have the option.
The c-section itself wasn't pleasant-- It hurt. They ended up knocking me out (putting me to sleep totally) because baby was transverse and very hard to get out. It was like a wrestling match was going on in my uterus. I woke up groggy and in pain asking for my baby. Less than an hour after birth, my precious, sweet baby was wheeled away to spend the next 11 days in the NICU. (I pause here to say to any mom, dad, grandparent or person that has had any of your children in the NICU for an hour, my hat's off to you. It's an overwhelming, scary place.
Instead of recuperating from a c-section, at home, snuggling my new little one, I braced myself in pain over every pothole and dip and uneven place in the roads we passed over to get the hospital. Four times each day. Twice there. Twice back. I hobbled through a big hospital, waited to be let in, was told how I could touch my baby, IF I could touch my baby and wasn't able to even touch or hold him the first 3 days of his life. I watched my baby, full of tubes, cables and bells lay in a plastic box with his chest and stomach fighting with each other to breathe right. It was one of the most helpless moments of my life.
I pumped milk, every 3 hours. Getting up at night to do so, because well, I know my (bad) history with breastfeeding and wanted him to get at least a few days/weeks of breastmilk. I carried my milk in a little cooler to the NICU every time I went. Name, date, ounces and time. Don't forget two cooler packs.
I sat in a hard, straight backed chair with an achy body and stared at my baby. When I was allowed to hold him for the first time I bawled. He was so tiny. I was so afraid I'd pull out a wire or kink something up. It almost felt like he wasn't mine. It felt so wrong to leave him there alone, all night and to come home to an empty crib and all his things waiting on him. The NICU was so scary, tiny, sick little humans fighting for life. Strong little things.
The tired eyes, furrowed brows and knowing glances passed between parents became like a ritual. No one spoke many words but overtime an alarm went off you couldn't mistake the relief in the parents' faces when they realized that, "Thank God, it's not our baby." But at the same time a sad, tight face worrying for the parents and the baby that was having an issue. You cheered for each baby that graduated and went home and felt a twinge of jealousy--but terror at the same time. When will it be our turn? But... also, would he be ready to send home? What if something happens? Worries.
So this pregnancy was rough. Painful. The most difficult of all three. His birth didn't turn out like I had hoped. His time spent in the NICU wasn't ideal... I didn't understand it. I mean we had given him shots to mature his lungs. BUT, all this reminded me (yet again)
... we have no control of anything in this life. I don't, you don't. Sorry. Whether we choose to or not, we have to trust God.
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