Bittersweet

I had barely gotten one hour of sleep the night before terminating my pregnancy.

That morning, I felt sick to my stomach. As I got ready to go to the hospital, I cried excessively on and off the whole morning. Putting on one pant leg at a time, I recalled everyone advising me to stay ‘strong’. Let me be clear, there is no strength in this; I simply didn’t have a choice.

The drive there made me feel nauseous; it felt more and more real as we got closer to the hospital. We arrived for 7am, parked in the underground parking lot of Saint Justine hospital and made our way to the main entrance. As my husband and I stepped in line for security, they asked the usual covid questions, and asked us to pull out our medical care and hospital cards.

“Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no!” I realized I had forgotten my wallet at home.

My husband saw the look of forgetfulness on my face and quickly took initiative. While he went off to the sideline to make a phone call, I explained to security that I had a rather urgent appointment to attend. Moments later, my husband confirmed that he got my father in law to get my cards in our apartment, and sent us a picture of them. The security guard had confirmed that would be sufficient for identification.

“Oh, thank god!” I said. I was relieved, but a part of me wished we had turned around

and gone home.

I felt embarrassed for my forgetfulness but my husband understood considering the emotional upheaval I was going through.

Once we went up to the fourth floor and checked ourselves in, I began to settle into my hospital room – which was bigger than I had expected. The view of the city from the big bay windows was beautiful, and on any other day, I would have appreciated it.

The Ultrasound - One last time.

Once I finally got into my hospital gown, two nurses walked in and introduced themselves. They had asked me to go in an adjacent room in order to verify the baby’s condition one last time. The doctor we had originally met at St. Justine, the week prior, was performing the ultrasound. The baby’s condition, evidently, had not changed. The doctor had given us the rundown of our schedule of the day. Next steps were to prepare to stop the baby’s heartbeat, which had to be done prior to my inducement.

The Needle.

As I headed back to my room, I expressed my concerns with my husband about stopping the baby’s heartbeat. Although this was an option we had previously opted for, there was suddenly something about it that no longer sat well with me. The process involved a needle injection through the amniotic sac that would put the baby to sleep. The idea was to omit any suffering to my baby during child labor, so stopping his heart was the logical thing to do – at least that’s what I thought at the time. The team of nurses left the room to give us time to make our final decision. Knowing that they may end my baby’s life changed something in me. I began panicking. I suddenly wasn’t sure I wanted my baby’s life to end that way. It felt too real, too soon. I began crying while pacing the room, feeling overly emotional. How could I make such a difficult decision in that moment? The team of nurses came back to my room to check up on me. One compassionate nurse approached me and said:

“Based on your reaction, I don’t think this is the right option for you.”

“Will he suffer at all during labor if I don’t?” I asked.

“We can give him morphine after he’s born if he looks like he is suffering.” The nurse

reassured me.

The compassionate nurse had helped me make my decision. I immediately calmed down and agreed to allow my baby a chance to be born alive, although I knew nothing was guaranteed.

Inducement.

At approximately 11 am, I was given my first dose of medication for inducement. I was to be given one dose every three hours throughout the day, and I was expected to deliver between the sixth and seventh dose. My mother met us at the hospital later that morning to provide emotional support. The morning quickly rolled into afternoon, and about a dozen nurses had come in and out of the room, each of them having worked a different shift.

“We normally give an epidural when the pain is an 8 on 10”, one nurse explained.

“However, since we don’t need to worry about the baby’s health condition after birth,

we could give it to you as soon as the pain becomes unbearable.”

‘Since we don’t need to worry about the baby’s condition…” I repeated to myself. A worse statement had never been uttered. I wanted to worry about my baby; I wanted to take care of him. Consequently, this termination was the best thing for him, and I hated it.

I turned to my mom to ask what the epidural would feel like.

“It’s a big needle they put in your back”, she replied, demonstrating the size of the

needle with her index fingers.

“You will have to sit on the edge of the bed, hold Chris’ hand really tight, and make sure not to move,” she continued.

The epidural was another process that made me feel anxious, based on my mother’s description of it. It was nothing I had ever gone through before, and that unknown feeling made me nervous. It was also another reminder that I was soon approaching the delivery.

After lunch, my mother decided to go home for supper, scheduled to come back later that evening.

The Covid Test.

July 2020 was mid pandemic and as a patient in the hospital, I was obliged to take a covid test. I had heard the test was quite uncomfortable and I was reluctant to take it.

“I’ll take it in her place”, my husband volunteered.

“Unfortunately, it has to be your wife as she is the patient”, the nurse replied.

“Can’t I just give you a saliva sample?” I asked the nurse.

“Sorry, this is the most effective and only way to test for Covid”.

The nurse came back moments later with her test tools. She pulled out what appeared to be an oversized Q-tip.

“I will insert the swab into each nostril for 10 seconds each side”, she instructed. “Try

not to move”.

What a time to be in a hospital, I thought. Getting ready to lose my baby was bad enough. As I held my husband’s hand, the nurse inserted the swab inside one nostril and swerved it around, and then the other nostril. I squirmed while somehow trying not to move. It had felt like she was tickling my brain with the giant Q-tip. My husband laughed at me, while still holding on to my hand. I must have made quite the uncomfortable face and he found it humorous.

“It’s not funny, that was so uncomfortable”, I exclaimed to my husband, while rubbing

my face in my hands.

“The results should be ready in about an hour”, the nurse concluded.

I never wanted to do that again, but I was glad I got it over with. The test results came back soon after and were reported negative.

The “Scary” Epidural.

It’s difficult to remember at what point in the evening the contractions began worsening, it just felt like a blur of scary moments. I kept remembering the doctor telling me that the baby was likely going to be still born. This image kept playing in my head as the evening turned into night. At this point, I was in an amount of pain I couldn’t bare anymore. The contractions were fewer and fewer in between, and I had instinctively began taking short and deep breaths. I didn’t think twice about what I was doing, and no one at the hospital had instructed me to do this. I had subconsciously gathered all the scenes I had seen on TV and movies, of a woman in labor: which evidently lead to her screaming.

I began feeling that the time for an epidural was coming near. I had decided to signal the nurse for one.

Once the nurse finally arrived with the epidural, she instructed me to lift my shirt up high as she prepared herself. I closed my eyes expecting an enormous amount of pain. Tightly holding my husband’s hand while sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, just as my mom had described it, I took a deep breath. Before I could exhale, the nurse confirmed she was done and I could lay back onto the bed.

“Seriously? That was it?” I asked.

“I didn’t even feel that.” I said with relief.

“I think times have changed since your mom had an epidural”, my husband proclaimed.

“Yah, maybe”, I replied half-smiling.

My mother had come back to the hospital later that evening, and I happily contradicted her “scary” epidural story. It was a piece of cake. One battle down, one more to go.

Labor

Once the epidural began kicking in, my pain and anxiety began to elevate almost immediately. The nurse had informed me that it would be a few short hours before I’d be ready for labor.

“How will I know when I’m going into labor?” I asked the nurse.

“You’ll just know!” the nurse said. “But how?” I replied.

“I’m not sure, I’ve never given birth before, but you’ll just know”.

That answer had frustrated me. I had wished for a more experienced nurse, one of any that had come in and out of my room that day. I began feeling scared again. I turned to my side, facing the bay windows and couch, where my mom and husband were conversing. Listening to their conversation was as much of a distraction as I was going to get. Crossing my legs, I had wished that the labor wouldn’t commence. I wanted my baby to stay in there for as long as possible.

It was now dark out, and my mother had stepped outside the hospital for some air while my husband stayed by my side. A few moments later, I thought I was going into labor. I buzzed in the nurse to make sure the baby hadn’t began crowning yet. I was willing this to not happen.

False alarm, but the nurse confirmed I was about 6cm dilated and I was getting close. As the nurse left the room, she advised to call her from the hallway if I felt I was going into labor again. My mother was still out, for what felt like approximately twenty minutes.

“What’s taking her so long?” I asked. “I want her to be here when I go in labor”.

In reality, I simply wanted her support. I felt I needed her to be there, to get through this in one piece, both emotionally and physically. A daughter never stops needing her mother.

It was late at night, and the hospital was dark and quiet, and suddenly:

“CALL THE NURSE!” I screamed to my husband, who was half-asleep on the nearby

couch.

There was no doubt in my mind I was definitely going into labor this time.

A doctor working the night shift, and one of many nurses I had met, both came rushing in. The doctor checked me and confirmed I was going into labor.

“Are you ready?” the doctor asks.

“Nope.” I replied.

The doctor omitted my response and began instructing me on what to do.

“Give me a push”, the doctor said, waiting for the baby’s head to crown.

At 10:37pm my son was born. It was simultaneously the best and worst day of my life. The labor was so easy, as it took all of a few short minutes and one small push. It was nothing like I had imagined. Nothing that day was. It was the most euphoric feeling I had ever felt, of course the epidural probably had something to do with it. As the doctor introduced me to my baby from the foot of the bed, I began feeling worried when I didn’t hear his cries.

“He must not have made it through the birth canal”, I said to my husband.

“Just as the doctor had predicted”.

Prior to handing him to me, they checked his heart rate. They had confirmed his strong little heart was still beating. He was alive!

Before handing him to me, one of the nurses brought him to the sink to quickly bathe him. I remember feeling like she was taking so long to wash him. Hurry up, I thought. I didn’t want to waste whatever time he may have had left.

“Can I just hold my baby?” I demanded impatiently.

The moment I held him and saw his perfect little face, his perfect little hands, and all tiny ten toes, I thought, “Oh, I am so in love with you!” I felt in awe, having finally put a face to all those ultrasounds, and pregnancy kicks. I could still remember what he smelled like. What blissfulness! It was truly a bittersweet moment.

My son, Milo Christian Macri, was born on July 15, 2020 at 10:37 pm. Only two things hurt more than the actual birthing, the Covid test and having to say goodbye to my son.