For most people, bringing a baby into this world is a
miracle. Rarely, do the horrors of pregnancies going wrong hit the media. So,
what happens to those parents, who suffer behind closed doors?
First of all, my heart goes out to people who suffer in
silence. I was lucky to have several communities come to my husband and my aid:
our church community, friends, family, and my husband’s work. Second, we ended
up at an amazing hospital where we found even more support from other families
going through the same thing, most of the time, far worse.
My
pregnancy was difficult. My diabetes near impossible to control. I nearly
miscarried in my second month of pregnancy. It would be a lie to say that was
the scariest feeling I have ever experienced, but that is only because what was
to come was downright Earth shattering. The pregnancy never felt right again. But,
all pregnancies are different, right? I tried to convince myself of this,
however, nothing was ever quite right. The heartbeat was always … off. We did
extensive ultrasounds, I was told that nothing was out of the ordinary. Who was
I to question a doctor, a medical professional? They went to school to learn
their craft. I can’t even get my bachelorettes degree.
The caesarean was scheduled for thirty-eight weeks.
Thirty-six became stressful. That feeling that looms within someone who can
feel something not quite right. An indescribable feeling that I will never be
able to put into words. I wanted the baby out. I was worried. The doctor
convinced me that the baby’s time growing inside me was more important, that
there was no indication that anything was wrong. So I waited. Painfully.
Stressed. Concerned.
I couldn’t wait to see my son. All of my concerns slipped
away as I prepared for the caesarean. I felt the final tug letting me know he
had entered this world and I waited for the cry. I listened for any sign that
things were okay. I listened for signs that something was wrong. I prayed the
Lord’s Prayer when there was no sign of either. Finally, after far too many
seconds passed he cried out. Tears of gratitude flooded me as I prayed out in
thankfulness.
I was overjoyed to hold my son. I was fine. I was holding
my precious baby boy.
It did not take long for the feeling of wrongness to
creep back up. My precious baby boy did not want to eat. We tried breast
feeding, unfortunately, he ended up on a feeding tube. It was a long eternal nightmare.
The doctor insists that it is important that he sees his pediatrician within
the next week when we are discharged. I keep this in mind, but I am just happy
to be able to return to my other two boys. To start our new lives as a family
of five.
The next day I make the appointment for the end of the
week. Not with my pediatrician, but with another one that I felt comfortable
with. He hears a murmur. My heart skipped a beat. Air was expelled out of my
lungs as I gasp for a grip on reality. I try to rationalize. No big deal, I was born with a murmur but I
am fine. There is a whirl wind of tests, all that I believe to be a waste
of money and time, but let’s be sure.
A letter comes in a few days later. You have an appointment at Arkansas’ Children’s Hospital in Little
Rock, AR.
I missed the part where it was in Little Rock, Arkansas.
Why, had we been referred to another doctor? Another hospital? I began making
inquiry calls to figure out what was going on. I actually get a call from the
Children’s Hospital. They have an appointment opening tomorrow, do I want it? What? No. Why is it necessary? What is going
on?
Several hours
later I would feel like a horrible mother. The doctor finally calls. “There is
something wrong with your son’s heart. He has been referred to the Children’s
Hospital.”
Let me sum up this experience with: I should have known.
I did know. I feel like a horrible mother. I feel like I single handedly
jeopardized my son’s life. How? I can’t really answer that. Why do you feel
that way? Because I knew. I pushed away my concerns and moved on.
This was a month of horror. A month after that, a friend
of mine would be taking care of our older two boys, while my mother rushed up
from Texas, as my husband and I drove our two month old son to the hospital for
losing five ounces in one week. They call it, failure to thrive.
This is where our story begins. All of this happened six
months ago. We are coming up again as we begin our youngest son’s second round
of surgeries. He will have one more after this, but this is in no way curative
care. It’s palliative care.
E. Schierschmidt
