How's that for a dramatic pause? More typically a tactic used in spoken word, I've heard rumors that our 10-day blog hiatus has some readers on the edge of their seat. Apologies. Had to do some work, some traveling and lots more staring.When we left off, our heroine wasn't doing so well. The delivery was flawless. Sonja was a true champ and Zoe was healthy and beautiful. It was the ensuing hours that got a little rocky.
I'll save the uninitiated some of the gory details, but I can say matter-of-factly that I learned more about human anatomy that Sunday evening than I did in all my years of school. Mainly because I asked the doctor what was going on and to “please explain it to me like I’m a three-year-old.”
Here’s what she told me: Imagine the uterus is a fist. When a baby is born and the placenta follows, the fist clenches and the tightened fingers – or blood vessels, in our analogy – restrict the flow of blood. Turns out after Zoe joined us, not all of her placenta followed and blood continued to fill Sonja’s uterus. However, because the doctor deemed the placenta to be whole upon initial inspection, she didn’t suspect such a condition was causing Sonja’s problems. That led to four hours of futile treatment – and excessive blood loss – before an ultrasound found the culprit. Emergency surgery followed.
In an attempt to retain some privacy, I’ll sum up the rest of the night as damn scary. For Sonja
(who listened to doctors and nurses converse in the operating room). For me. And for our families.
(More about that later.) Zoe, swept away to the nursery for her first bath and a nap, seemed unaffected. Thankfully, everything turned out fine after some emotional recovery time and Sonja was reunited with Zoe before Monday morning’s sunrise.
In retrospect, I learned one of my first valuable parenting lessons during this experience: I must somehow prepare myself for the day some smart-ass, johnny-come-lately is suddenly responsible for my daughter’s well-being.
Here’s what I mean…
Before emergency surgery even became a consideration, most of our family – convinced that all was well – had left the hospital and were battling a late April snowstorm on their way back to various points around the mitten. Sonja’s mom, Sammy, and sister, Shawn, went out for a bite to eat and were on their way back to the hospital. My sister, Stephanie, was in the room holding Zoe.
By the time Sammy and Shawn got back, Steph and I were waiting in an empty recovery room. When doctors strolled in with updates, they approached me. When nurses had questions, they asked me. When it was time for Sonja to come into the room, everybody was asked to leave… except me.
Later, I wondered how Sammy and Shawn must have felt about that. Or how Sonja’s father and other sister, Shane, would have reacted if they weren’t already headed northwest. Or how I would feel 30 years from now if it were Zoe in that operating room.
At the time, my daughter was six hours old and there was already no doubt I’d fight to my death to protect her. That goes for my sister, as well. Knowing how tightly-knit the Honeycutt clan is, Sammy and Chuck and Shawn and Shane obviously feel the same way about Sonja. But there I was in a room with two women that have known and loved Sonja four times as long as I have, both of whom can draw on their own experiences of giving birth three times, and nurses want to ask me questions? They want these women to leave the room? Wow.
I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Thanks, Honeycutts, for allowing me to do whatever I could to comfort Sonja. I hope you realize
(I think you do) that I love her as much as you all do.
And a warning to Zoe’s future husband: If doctors try to pull that crap with me, you’ll end up in a storage room, hogtied with surgical gowns and IV tubes. My apologies in advance.
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