My Life-Changing Experience

The birth of my daughter was the scariest, and the happiest, time of my life. I was afraid of losing her, throughout my pregnancy. It was my greatest fear. Having her, though, changed everything about me. Her birth was not the only part that affected me. It was also the full experience of being pregnant.

All I had ever wanted to be was a mother. I had spent my teen years babysitting, to practice being a mother. I took courses in Child Development, while in high school, to learn more about children. I had everything planned. I knew how many children I wanted to have, what I would name them, and where they would go to school. That whole fantasy died, though, after two bad marriages, and six miscarriages. I had seen many doctors over the years. None of them had ever been able to pinpoint why I could not stay pregnant. I began to consider my body a baby-killer, and fell into a deep depression. After losing so many babies, I had decided to make sure I never conceived, again. I stayed on birth control pills. By the age of 24, I had given up on life.

I began drinking, partying, doing all the things I knew I shouldn't. But I didn't care. I felt I had no life. Nothing to look forward to. Some called it freedom. Freedom to do what I wanted, when I wanted. I had no one to care for but myself. I didn't think I was free, though.

Five years, I was on those pills, before my doctor took me off them. He said my body needed a break. Then, one night of drunken passion with no protection changed everything. I was 29, when I conceived, for the seventh time, quite by accident. When time came for my monthly cycle, I missed it. The thought of being pregnant never crossed my mind. When I was two weeks late, I miscarried. That was how I discovered I was pregnant. I remember looking at the tiny embro, still encased in its amniotic sac, and crying. I'd seen that same thing six times before. I hated my body for killing yet another baby.Even after that, I had still not started, by January 6, 1999. I was, then, four weeks overdue.

"Well, you are pregnant," were the last words I expected to hear, at the clinic. I was at six weeks gestation, eight weeks "clinically pregnant." The doctor put me on strict bed rest, instilling fear of losing the twin. I could not work, exercise, or be around anyone who might upset me. My doctor would not allow me to do anything he considered stressful. "Do you want to have a job and make money? Or do you want your baby? Because you can't have both." That was what my doctor told me. I chose the life of my child.

I lived with extreme nausea. The only things, at first, that I could hold down were Dr. Pepper, and my prenatal vitamins. Even water came back up. I lived with fierce cravings. I felt I would kill over a Burger King double-whopper, onion rings, and Dr. Pepper. I lived, too, with the gripping fear of losing yet another baby. Even mild abdominal pains had me hurrying to the hospital. Then the first trimester was over, and I thought I was in the clear.

At 16 weeks, I received a call to go in to the clinic. The results of the blood tests were back. There was a chance my baby could have a genetic defect, which would have been life threatening. I had never heard of Trisomy 18, until that day. Similar to Down's Syndrome (Trisomy 21), this would've been fatal to my child. I had it all explained to me, and was shown pictures of Trisomy 18 babies. Severe birth defects, especially a deformed heart. Deformed kidneys. Deformed lungs. These babies are usually possibly stillborn, or they die by three months of age. I had to have an amniocentesis.

I remember the genetic counselor telling me, "You know, you don't have to have this baby." All that did was piss me off. I don't believe in abortion. I believe people have the right to choose, but I, myselft, just don't believe in it. I looked right at her, my eyes flashing in a way that made her step back. "I will NOT KILL MY BABY!" I shouted at her. So, she again told me what the options would be. If my child had Trisomy 18, they would help me plan the funeral, if need be.

The ten days I waited to hear the results seemed so much longer. I kept thinking about what I would do, if I lost the baby, now. I had heard the heartbeat. I had felt her move. I had bonded with my baby, without even knowing what I was having.Many prayers went up for me and my unborn child.

The day I finally got the results, I was nervous and terrified. The woman from the clinic told me, "Your baby is fine; perfectly healthy. I see here you do want to know the baby's sex."

"Yes," I replied, holding my breath.

"It's a girl," she said. I had wanted a boy, at first. After such a scare, then finding out she was okay, I was very happy with a girl.

The remainder of the second trimester passed with no problems.

The third, and last, trimester, was hard on me. I had severe abdominal pains, stemming from repeated kidney and bladder infections. I had blurry vision, severe headaches, high blood pressure, and back pain. My feet and legs swelled so much, I went from a Size 7 shoe, to a Size 9. And my skin was taking on a purplish tint. Only during my eighth month, did my doctor realize I was developing preeclampsia. Again, he put me on strict bed rest and a strict diet. Again, I was afraid.

By Week 37, the Braxton-Hicks contractions had completely stopped, and never started again. This worried my doctor. After all, the Braxton-Hicks contractions are the precursor to the real thing. They are the "practice contractions", I was told. If I wasn't having the "false labor", anymore, then something could be wrong.

On August 16, 1999, at 9:00 AM, I went in for my final prenatal exam. The nurse tried to measure my baby, using ultrasound. But, since they measure the circumferance of the head, and hers was in position behind the pubic bone, and couldn't be seen, they had to go by the length of her legs. They were estimating she'd weigh about 9 pounds! That scared me. The nurse was scheduling me to come in the next evening to induce my labor. She had everthing set. I

was going out to the desk to pick up my appointment card, when Dr. Jones saw me. He stopped, looking at me from my purple swollen face, to my huge swollen feet, and said, "We can do this right now, if she wants to." No hesitation with me. I said, immediately, "Let's go."

At 10:30 AM, Dr. Jones induced labor. After twelve hours of hard labor, though, I had not dilated past three centimeters. My doctor was very concerned about that, too. He came into my room, at 11:30 pm, to tell me there was a problem. "We can't really tell what's going on," he said calmly. "She may just be too big. It may be nothing to worry about." Judging by the look on his face, though, I knew something was wrong. All I could think was, I've done everything I could to save my baby. Don't let her die, now. I looked him straight in the eye and said, firmly, "Stop the labor, and cut me open. Don't let my baby die!"

I remember lying on that operating table, numb from my chest, down, begging for my daughter's life. I felt Dr. Jones cutting me open, and the feeling of pressure, as he pulled my belly apart. The next moment, I heard one of the nurses say, "There's meconium in the fluid."

Meconium is the black, tar-like gunk that builds up in the baby's bowels, during the end of the pregnancy. It's usually the baby's first bowel movements, during those first two or three days of life. For the unborn baby to be passing that meconium now, meant trouble. I knew this meant my child was in "fetal distress."

Dr. Jones looked up at that nurse and shushed her. Then, the second nurse said, "Oh my God, look at her head!" Dr. Jones shushed her, too. Then, I felt the pressure beneath my pubic bone, inside of me, as he repositioned my baby's head, and lifted her out. It was 1:20 AM, Tuesday, August 17. Those first cries were the most wonderful sounds I have ever heard.

When they took her out, bathed her, and wrapped her, I did not get to hold her. She was screaming so loudly, and I couldn't soothe her. Dr. Jones made the laughing comment, "Nothing wrong with those lungs! She's letting the whole WORLD know she's here!"

The nurse who had bathed her brought her around where I could see her. I already had her named. I said, "Hi, Sedona." Immediately, she stopped crying and turned her head to the sound of my voice. "Wow," the nurse said, "she knows the sound of your voice." I looked at her, "And who do you think she's been listening to, for the last nine months?"

With a sheepish look, the nurse rushed her on to the nursery. Dr. Jones sewed me up and put in the staples, then sent me to recovery. I didn't really rest, though. Every fifteen minutes, I was waking up, asking the nurse, "How's my baby? I want to see her." She would reply, "I'm not sure. You should be resting, now." I would doze off, just to jerk awake, again, in fifteen minutes, to ask, again. After two hours of this, they finally brought her into my room.

"I hear someone's been asking about this little girl," the nursery worker said, as she placed Sedona in my arms. That first moment was incredibly intense. As all new mothers do, I unwrapped that blanket and inspected every inch of her tiny body. I noticed the bulge on the side of her head, which explained the second nurse's comment. Her head had come into the birth canal sideways. Then, it wedged in there. Twelve hours of hard contractions had nearly broken her neck. I realized how close I had come, again, to losing her. Then, I looked into those little eyes, so intently staring into mine, and knew my life was forever changed. In that moment, the full reality came down on me. This is a brand-new life, so vulnerable, and she needed me. She will be relying on me, for her very survival. I knew, then, that every decision I ever made, even the smallest, for the rest of my life, would affect her, in some way.

Sedona is about to turn nine years old, now. I relive those moments, every day. I feel so grateful to have her, because I came so close to not having her. I cannot imagine my life without her. No other event in my life has ever affected me as the birth of my child. Many times in my life, I had heard people say that a person's life turns around, when they have a child. I understood what they were saying, because I knew about children. I did not understand what they meant, however, until it happened to me.