It's Gratituesday at Heavenly Homemakers. I'm grateful for a healthy, happy baby today, because we weren't always sure it would be that way. Check out what everyone else is grateful for, then add your own post!
My baby will be 1 tomorrow.
Waahh!!! Sob, sob.
Where did the time go? Somebody stop this thing, I want to get off.
Anyway. In honor of his birthday, I thought I'd share the story of Westyn.
I knew I was pregnant right away, because I started throwing up. Pregnancy and I don't get along so well. But other than the nausea, things were going well. I had an ultrasound at 12 weeks and everything looked wonderful. Then, at 15 weeks, I started bleeding. I went in to the ER at midnight, by myself because the Amazing Husband was home with four sleeping kids. He offered to get a sitter, but despite my fear of what might be wrong, I had peace. I knew God had given me this child, and I was certain that he would be okay. Besides, I didn't want anybody knowing our business. I didn't want to make more of it than it was.
The ER is a lonely place in the middle of the night. It's white and sterile, and everybody there looks like they'd rather be someplace else. Personally, I think they should paint emergency rooms the way people paint their living rooms. White is very glaring at 1am.
The worst part about the visit, though, were the looks of sympathy. When I told the front desk nurse why I was there, she said "Oohhh" in a sighing way and gave me a look of sympathy. So did the nurse who took my vitals and the doctor and the ultrasound tech. They were looks of condolence. I wanted to tell them that my baby would be okay, but I started to doubt. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe I was having a miscarriage.
The ultrasound tech, however, was very nice. She chatted amiably as she hooked me up. But as she began the ultrasound the chatting faded. She kept staring at the screen, taking image after image but not saying a word. And I lay there, helpless and exhausted, trying to remind myself that everything would be okay.
I'm not sure I pulled it off, though, because as the tech finished she looked at me and hesitated. "I'm not supposed to tell you anything," she said. "The doctor makes the diagnosis." I nodded. She hesitated again, then she flipped a switch on her machine.
The sound of a strong, steady heartbeat filled the small room. She smiled at me. And I started to cry. Then she turned off her machine and led me back to my room.
The doctor joined us a while later and explained that I had a chorionic hematoma - essentially a blood clot in my uterus. But, he said, it was the size of his palm, the largest he'd ever seen. "Go home," he told me, "Go see your doctor in the morning, I've already called him. (at 2 am?) Complete bed rest until he sees you."
I thanked him, shook his hand, stood to leave, and collapsed. I'd lost so much blood (and was so tired) that I could hardly function. I had to call my husband to come get me, so we had to call a sitter after all. (Thank you Eric for saving the day!)
Then we went home, with questions but few answers. We didn't know what a hematoma was, or whether it was serious. All we could do was wait.
Looking for the rest of the story? Find it here.