I am sitting on my couch watching a live camera feed of my premature newborn in the neonatal intensive care unit at South Shore Hospital. His eyes are covered up with a mask (getting some light therapy), he’s got a feeding tube sticking out of his nose, and there are a bunch of sticky monitor things all over him in the shape of hearts. The IV is gone and he’s off the CPAP machine as well as oxygen. He is crying and wriggling around. He’s hungry, I can tell through the computer. A pair of hands enters my screen. The nurse has beautiful nails, I must say! His pacifier is popped into his mouth, which he accepts temporarily. “But, he’s hungry,” I think to myself…
Kieran was born on Thursday night, the fourth of May 2017, in dramatic fashion. It was an uneventful and easy Thursday, much like the entire pregnancy was with him. We had gone to the doctor that morning and brought my daughter Quinn so she could meet the doctor and hear her brother’s heartbeat. It was fun! Everything checked out great. Onwards and upwards. Later in the afternoon, Quinn and I met up with a friend of mine for ice cream. We were chatting and hanging out on the picnic blanket when I felt a gush. My water broke! That didn’t happened to me with Quinn—she was eleven days late after an induction that went nowhere and a resulting c-section. I kept thinking that this second pregnancy would sort of go the same way. Not so much…
Another gush…”I really think my water just broke,” I tell my friend, who offers to drive me to my doctor or hospital or wherever I need to go. I was pretty surprised at what happened, but didn’t feel the need to get anywhere quickly. No contractions, just fluid. We could take our time. Another gush. This time, I touched the back of my pants to check it out. Bright red, fresh blood coated my hand. No pain. No discomfort. Just blood…a lot of it. I called 9-1-1 as my friend popped Quinn in the car and got in touch with my husband. Dawn, I’m grateful for you and your quick thinking and caring for Q. More gushes, every 15-20 seconds. I stayed on the phone with the dispatcher and was whisked away immediately after the ambulance got there. Yes, I did get to finish my ice cream! My nurses asked me that all weekend.
We zipped up route eighteen and were only ten minutes from the hospital, which thankfully was where I was scheduled to deliver. The guys in the ambulance were such loves. They assured me they had delivered babies before and they were the best company ever on the way to the hospital. I can’t remember their names, but they were first responders from Whitman. They gave me a phone so I could call my husband, Ian, who was already on his way, but imagining the worst in his mind—that I was bleeding out or something. I had those thoughts, too. What if I don’t make it? I never even said goodbye to Quinn before leaving in the ambulance.
At the hospital, I was in triage for a bit. They checked me out and monitored the baby, who was fine somehow, even though my bed looked like a scene from a horror movie. A bunch of needles went in and out of me, they checked me down under, and the doctor explained that I needed an emergency c-section. They diagnosed me as having had a placental abruption, which is when the placenta peels away from the uterine wall. The placenta is the lifeline from mom to baby, delivering all nutrients and oxygen to the little one. Mine was disconnecting from me, like a life raft with someone on it cutting loose from a rescue boat. Abruptions are rare and could be life threatening to mom and baby. I had never even heard of it and I didn’t really have time to think about what it was in the moment.
Kieran was born within 2 hours of that ice cream cone. The placenta had detached a third of itself from me and it happened in minutes right before I started bleeding, the doctors think. “You saved his life by calling 9-1-1,” they said.
So, now I’m home and he’s crying on the web cam and there is nothing I can do about it. For a few minutes, I thought about all of the articles on attachment, all the information on skin to skin contact and early bonding, everything about breastfeeding etc. I can count the number of times I’ve held my son on two hands and he’s been at the breast only once in four days.
Stop. Just stop. You “saved his life.”
He’s here, even if not yet in your arms. He’s going to be fine. He simply needs time to coordinate breathing and eating, like a lot of preemies do. He is getting the best possible care he can get right now. So, stop. Let it happen. Save up the kisses and hugs and snuggles. You saved his life.
