When I started writing here, it was to keep our loved ones informed and at the same time reclaim time with my family from the flood of texts and calls. I thought I’d keep it simple and focus on our recovery.
It has evolved into more, including a story we’d want to keep and reflect upon in the years to come. Mom has asked that I go back to the beginning, and share a little more about how we got here.
It’s kind of appropriate that I start writing this while we wait in the same lobby where our hospital stay began. This time we’re here for a post operation follow up. Last time, it was simply a couple drops of blood.
Mom was just old enough that we needed to see a high risk doctor in addition to our regular obstetrician. The visit quickly became alarming when the tech conducting the ultrasound said “That’s weird.” The doctor was also puzzled by what he saw. Several detailed ultrasounds and an MRI later, we were referred to a specialist at Winnie Palmer Hospital.
Mom had placenta previa (the placenta blocked the natural exit for the baby) and placenta accreta (it was growing beyond the boundaries of the uterus). They had seen similar cases many times before and had a well rehearsed plan in place. There would be a scheduled cesarian between 32 and 34 weeks, a short NICU stay, and likely additional treatment and surgery for mom a month or so later. In the meantime, mom was told to take it easy and, most importantly…
If there was ever blood or pain, get to the hospital.
Over the next couple months, we’d trek across Orlando every two weeks for ultrasounds. In addition to peeks at our baby, the doctors paid close attention to her placenta and where its blood vessels were. Each visit, every doctor and nurse reminded us…
If there was ever blood or pain, get to the hospital.
On the morning of June 3, mom noticed a couple drops of blood. Without question, we got in the car and drove straight to Winnie Palmer Hospital.
Mom underwent several exams and we were admitted. There had been bleeding, but it had stopped. They’d keep us for two or three days to be sure. The next 24 hours were uneventful and going home soon seemed to be a certainty.
At 10:40 am there was blood. A lot of blood.
And then everything happened fast. Her nurse came in, assessed the situation, jumped on the phone and we helped mom back to bed. Mom was laid back and the fetal monitor was put on her belly. The blood kept coming. I honestly have no idea what the mob of nurses that flooded the room were doing. I just looked into mom’s eyes, reassured her, and listened to Kinley’s heart thump away at 150 beats per minute. Minutes later, we were on the move.
Down the elevator. Into labor and delivery. We stopped at the entrance to the operating rooms. They gave us a minute. Tears streaming down our faces, I told her to relax and not cry. She said “you first” and we both laughed. As they rolled her away she looked back and made me promise to call someone so I wasn’t alone.
I spoke to a couple surgeons and nurses as they entered. They were going to assess, but we discussed what might happen, including delivery. I sat in a chair at the entrance to the operating room. Calls for personnel came over the intercom to O.R. 3. I watched as countless nurses and doctors streamed passed me, flying through the cold metal doors that separated me from my girls.
The tiny operating room rapidly filled up with people. Mom describes it as a scene out of Grey’s Anatomy. The anesthesiologist called out to the staff to “Be gentle! She’s still awake!” He reassured her while the personnel continued talking in little groups and preparing various instruments. He then called out to the staff to be quiet. Everyone fell silent and mom drifted off to sleep.
At 11:17 am, I fired off texts to some friends and family. “We are delivering…”
At 11:23 am, Kinley was born.
A nurse came out to tell me that our baby girl came out crying and was doing well. Another ran out and asked for my phone. She raced back into the O.R. with it to take pictures.
A large crate rolled up in front of me, poised to go into the operating room. It was stacked high with boxes, each with my wife’s name written on them. I knew what must be inside. There were so many boxes.
A nurse snapped me out of it. Our baby girl was coming out. I stood up and looked across the nursing station. Out rolled an incubator, surrounded by at least a half dozen nurses. One nurse stayed slouched over with gloved hands in the incubator, holding our girl’s head steady. They stopped to let me see her, pulling back her cap to reveal her precious face. She was here.
A nurse walked me up to the NICU so I’d know what to do. Up the elevator. Stop at security with my special parent wristband. Wash hands for three minutes.
I rounded the corner to find nurses rapidly working on her, adding monitoring and keeping her warm. A nurse reassured me, explained every little thing they did. I remember none of it. I was sent downstairs while they intubated her — a process that would take an hour.
I looked up at the clock as I walked out. 12:05pm.
Over the next two hours, each time I asked for an update on mom, I was told: “Still bleeding, but stable.”
Finally, I got paged. I rushed back upstairs and met part of the surgical team. Mom was headed for recovery in the ICU.
When all was said and done, mom had to be given 14 units of blood. That’s roughly twice as much blood as a person has in their entire body.
It was from the surgeon that visited just before discharge that we learned that she emptied the bank. Had she needed more blood, they would have had to reach out to other hospitals for help. But, it never came to that. The team never lost control of the situation and their unique experience and plan worked together as it was supposed to. She was here.
So why share this? It’s terrifying, people say. We shouldn’t relive it.
Mom wanted to be able to look back on this and for a reminder to never take anything for granted.
For me, it’s a testament to the small army that came together to save my girls and an opportunity to marvel at how many pieces fell into just the right place to see us through.