Its Sunday, November 17th, 1996. The day starts out like any other Sunday would, the only difference being today is homecoming at our church and I have to throw some southern dish together - probably my baked beans. The baby usually kicks while Im cooking those, maybe its the smell, I dont know. As I go about the house opening cabinets and searching for the necessary ingredients, I realize that I havent felt the baby move all morning which is a rather unusual thing for her - she normally squirms in protest whenever I wake up and start my day. I already know shell be a lazy one - something she inherited from her father, no doubt. I go grab the oreos to see if I can stir her up a bit with those. A chocolate lover, like her mother. I eat a few and still get no reaction from her. Im starting to worry. What is going on? I continue to make the beans, breathing in as much of the aroma as I can, trying to get her to respond. Nothing. Something is wrong. Ive had trouble with her before, but nothing like this. This is different. My body has never really taken to her presence very kindly, it seemed to not like her at all during the beginnings of the pregnancy. I still remember the blood. Then more blood. Then blood again. My body really does not want this baby, but I do. Weve gone too far and weve been through too many almost miscarriages to give up now. We only have nine weeks left, we can do this. I get through church and our homecoming lunch, and later that afternoon, I go with Mom to KMart. Of course, she notices something is wrong right away - mothers always know. I just tell her what I know and what I know is nothing. I know that my baby isnt moving and I am scared to death.
Later that night, Im lying in bed, tossing and turning, trying desperately not only to ease my mind but also to provoke my baby to do something - anything. My husband sleeps in our guestroom now, claiming, Theres room for only two in this bed, Donna. I havent even told him yet - I know that that would only add fuel to the fire. He stresses about missing a football game on TV, he would absolutely lose his mind at this and I cant handle that right now. I need to think without him breathing down my neck. I need calm and comfort. So, I turn to What to Expect When Youre Expecting. I scour the pages of that already worn book, searching frantically for anything that looks remotely like what Im experiencing. But what am I experiencing? This, in fact, is not something that you would typically expect when youre expecting. So, I find nothing. The rest of the night is spent in tears and prayers.
The next morning, my husband has gone before I get out of bed - his first shift at the hospital is that day. Figures. Right when I get up, I call my dad and ask him to come pick me up and take me to the hospital. He asks me whats wrong and I say that Ill explain on the way. When he pulls into our driveway, he hops out of the car and rushes to the door where I stand waiting. He has barely reached me, and hes already asking me questions that I dont feel like answering, all the while helping me down the steps of our front porch and into his car. Are you having contractions? I mean, its too early isnt it? What is going on - is the baby okay? Are you craving Taco Bell again? No, yes, I dont know, what? He gets me safely secured in the passenger seat and he himself is barely in the car before hes closing the door on his foot and shifting the car in reverse, backing out and buckling up at the same time which looks to be a terribly complex task. If I didnt completely trust his driving skills, I would have jumped out and started walking to the hospital at this point. On the way, I try to tell him whats happening, or, more accurately, whats not happening.
Weve arrived at the hospital, and dad jerks the car into a parking spot and cuts the engine off. By the time I can take my next breath, hes ripping open my door and practically dragging me out. Im positive I look like an oversized penguin with the way Im waddle-running through the automatic doors and up to the front desk.
Good morning! How far apart are your contractions? The young, cheery nurse looks up at me expectantly.
No, Im not - I just need to see Dr. White, please.
Consulting her computer, she says, Okay, well you can have a seat right over there, and Ill get you worked in!
No, I need to see him right now, its an emergency. She looks back up at me, seems to do a quick examination of my face, and something visibly clicks within her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can just make out a picture of a newborn baby on her desk.
Yes maam, right away, follow me.
She leads me through doors, hallways, and more doors until we finally reach an examination room with the nameplate reading Dr. White beside the entrance. She quickly raps on the door, calling out the doctors name as she does so. He answers with a swift come in and Im gently thrust through the door and sat upon an examination bed.
Donna! Whats the problem? Ive seen this man many times now, and hes quickly learned not to expect good things from me. Hes known from the beginning that I wont carry my baby full-term, so he started injecting steroid shots into my stomach early on to accelerate the development of my babys organs. Doctors are smart sometimes.
I quickly explain to him my problem to the best of my ability, and all at once, hes urging me to lie down on the bed and cold, wet gel is replacing the warmth of my sweatshirt. My eyes automatically flick to the sonogram where a picture of my baby appears. Dr. White clears his throat and purses his lips. There on the screen is a picture of my baby, tightly balled into the fetal position, eyes shut, fists clenched. My heart both drops and accelerates simultaneously. Fresh tears and prayers form.
Weve got to take her. Now. He says. It doesnt take him long to see whats wrong. He tells me that a part of my uterus has ballooned out and it has taken the umbilical cord with it, crimping and twisting it, cutting off all nutrients and oxygen. He says that its an extremely good thing that I came to him when I did because in these cases, the uterus ruptures, killing both the baby and the mother. Some mothers dont even realize that their baby isnt moving. He explains. He says that its a guessing game as to how long my baby hasnt been able to breathe, but judging by how I havent felt her move in at least 24 hours The odds dont look good. He tells me that she stopped moving so she could conserve what little oxygen she had left. Smart, like both of her parents.
At this point, my mom, husband, in-laws, and pastor have all been called and are waiting outside with my dad. Dr. White doesnt know how long we have until the inevitable rupture comes, so he swiftly wheels me to an operation room. On the way there, we pass by my visitors, and Brother Ford lays his burly hand on my shoulder and asks Dr. White if we can have a word of prayer. After the prayer, everyone is reusing their crumpled Kleenexes. Now Im in some room and on some bed where a sheet separates my face from my belly and I am locally anesthetized and shortly thereafter am being cut open. It is now that I realize that I dont have a name for her.
When my baby is born, she isnt crying. She isnt breathing. She isnt moving. Later, Dr. White explains to me that they had to resuscitate her two times. If she had gone a third time, they would have just let her - something about there being too much brain damage due to the excessive loss of oxygen. He tells me that there will most likely already be some brain damage, but we may not be able to tell until she gets a little older. Well need to watch her closely. Now, all three pounds and five ounces of her is asleep in an incubator by my bed with what seems to be a million little wires and machines hooked up to her small body. Its Monday, November 18th, 1996, and my baby is breathing, and she is moving.