In Limbo

It was a bloodbath. 

All hands on deck trying to save my life as blood spilled out splashing in puddles on the floor. 

The pregnancy had been high risk; that was discovered during the first trip to the ER with bleeding even before my little baby bump was obvious. The months of bedrest at home almost got us to the finish line until the dreaded bleeding began again. “Three strikes you’re in,” I was told by the admitting nurse after showing up at the ER for the third time. 

The doctors explained the risks and complications of my complete placenta previa. There was a 7% chance of hemorrhage, 2% chance of hysterectomy. My own googling informed me of the possibility of death to either me or my baby. 

My hands shook as I put on a clean gown, careful not to dislodge the port in my arm. I had become a pin cushion during my hospital stay, acclimated to blood tests throughout the night and during meals, stretching out one arm while eating with the other. A far cry from the little girl who nearly fainted at the sight of blood when falling off her bicycle.

“Are you ready?” The nurse smiled at me as she helped me into my wheelchair, arranging the IV bag and stand, my constant companions.

“I’m excited,” I answered, trying to calm the nerves. “I can’t wait to meet my son.” He was full term, and I was eager to hold him in my arms and kiss his little face.

***

Lying in the recovery room I felt “wrong”. I knew a c-section was not a walk in the park as I had been down that road before with my first baby. It’s painful, but this was entirely different. Something wasn’t right. I had been clutching the call button since being wheeled in, and I pressed it for help.

“I don’t feel well. Something is wrong.” 

The nurse clucked over me, checked this and that and left. Returning a few minutes later, she placed a sandbag on my belly. A sandbag. 

“What are you doing?” I felt immediately worse. This was not a solution but rather an exacerbation of the problem.  

“Honey, it’s okay. It’s to apply pressure on your uterus. It will help with your healing.” 

She left me. I was alone with my sandbag and my call button clutched in my hand.

I buzzed again, pressed my thumb repeatedly on that button. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Help me.

A different nurse appeared. 

“I don’t feel well. My back is killing me. Can you please roll me onto my side?” I was unable to move, tubes coming in and out of me and a sandbag on my belly.

She disappeared and came back with reinforcements. “One, two, three.” Like moving a baby elephant, they turned me onto my side.

Immediate relief.  I sighed, feeling like I was on a cloud. After months of distress, I was finally at ease.

Until…

The machines started blaring their erratic beeping. Nurses ran in and out red faced with doctors following closely, everyone chattering “bring her back in.” Bring her back in? Where were they bringing me? I was fine. I was better than ever.

“What’s going on?” I called out to the mob, feeling like the only one in the room not knowing the plan.

“Honey, we have to take you back into surgery. You’re going to be okay.” 

“What?” Instantly alarmed, I was finally aware of the pool of blood I was lying in. 

“On the count of three.”

I was surrounded.

“One, two, three.”

Onto the gurney I was placed and wheeled back down the hallway, blood pouring out from my incision. The 7% risk of hemorrhage went out the window as it became 100% real.

“No, I’m okay, don’t bring me back. I can’t go back,” I begged. I survived the surgery, the long anticipated surgery, my baby was perfect. Let me be. Please.

Lying on my back wailing like an animal, I watched the overhead lights go past. I caught a glimpse of my mother’s terrified face as the gurney clattered past her. My eyes rolled back, desperately looking over my shoulder to assure her that I was okay.

“Nurse. What should I do?” My mother’s voice grew fainter as I was wheeled further and further away.

“Pray.”

***

Like layers going deeper and darker, I went around all four hallways making a perfect square. 

At one point a young girl accompanied me on my dark walk. Not speaking we walked together.

I did not hover over my body like seen in the movies. 

I did not see my relatives as they gathered in the hospital chapel.

I did not hear the desperate phone calls organizing the prayer chain.

I did not feel my organs being taken out and examined while investigating the source of the bleeding. I did not hear the surgeons’ commands nor the beeping of monitors. I did not see the puddles of blood on the floor. 

I did not understand the race against the clock.

I walked that perfect square into the darkness over and over again. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with that young girl.

***

Limbo. 

I was neither here nor there.

I was unaware.

My time was running out.

***

Light came through. Not as in “I’m going to the light” or “the light at the end of the tunnel” but simply the lightness replacing the darkness.

Waking up in the recovery room, I saw the faces of my family sitting on folding chairs at the foot of my bed. Terrified. Stony. Like Mt. Rushmore, they stared at me.

I heard “I’m okay” somewhere deep in my mind, not connecting to my mouth, unable to console. 

“I’m okay,” I tried again, struggling to move those simple words from inside to outside.

***

Days later I slept in my private room, my baby placed in the bassinet next to the bed. Not having the strength to feed him, we formed our mother-son bond by our closeness, with me stroking his cheek, murmuring my love for him. 

My exhaustion cut short every conversation with the doctors, falling into a light sleep when hearing words such as “you’re very lucky”. As my strength grew, so did my questions. How many units of blood did I receive? How close was I to total organ failure? How much time was I actually in jeopardy? The answers were hard to comprehend. What had saved me? The skill of the surgeons? Yes, but I strongly felt there was more. Something we cannot understand. Something we are not meant to know yet.