Maggie and Ellen : A Birth Story - Part 1

-->

We had begun to accept that Abigail was going to be our biological miracle. 5 pregnancies, one living child; we felt lucky – we had Abigail. We had given up “trying” and had begun the process of adoption.  And like so many other stories we had heard and read - start adopting, get pregnant.

Walking into this pregnancy I was excited. This go around I knew what I wanted; knew what I needed. I began planning and preparing for delivery right away.

Let’s just be honest – Abigail’s birth did not go as planned. Looking back there are many reasons for this. I didn’t use my own voice and instincts and allowed myself to be directed by others. I was young and so concerned with laboring “right and well;” like it was a test my worth would hinge on. Bath, bed, natural, medicated – I had no clue what I was doing. Labor was going well, then it wasn’t and that’s when things became frantic. The hours that followed were rushed, poorly communicated, and ultimately did not turn out the way I dreamed or planned. 

So this birth – this birth was going to be different. I am older, wiser, and know what is most important to me in birth – peace. Above all else I (we) wanted peace, clear communication, and an environment in which I called the shots.

We live 5 minutes from a hospital and thus made the decision to birth in the safety and privacy of our own home. We got to work, searching for the best birth team we could find in Oklahoma. Yet, before we could sign contracts with anyone, at 10 weeks pregnant, we got the shock of our lives – twins – identical twins.

I was never a girl who wanted twins. It wasn’t something I prayed for or thought would be awesome. In fact, I sat in the car and cried after the sonogram, because I knew my hope of having the birth I longed for was gone.

Boy was I wrong.

It took us weeks to decide where we were going to give birth, but we felt increasingly confident in our choice and team. Brandy our doula and Taryn our monitrice put me at ease, as I began to prepare for a hospital birth in the OR.

Twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. Who’s even heard of this? Who knew it only occurs in one type of twinning and only 10-15% of those. I read a paragraph about it in a book, I think. I’m sure I skimmed over it, because who prepares to receive the news your babies are sick? No one.

August 20, 2014; the third time in a matter of weeks we received news that our lives would forever change – but this time it wasn’t a good change. I’m lucky ray was there, because as soon as the doctor said, “there’s a problem,” all sounds went wonky and I was lucky to catch a phrase here and there. I can remember hearing something about 80-100% death rate for one or both twins; a life-saving surgery in Houston. That was about it. I was given 5 days to eat as much protein as possible (the only thing known to naturally help TTTS). We would then be sent to Houston, assuming we met the standards for surgery (that day we were 1 once off the surgical requirements. One.). On day 4, my water broke.

The six weeks that would follow were a quick eternity.

I once heard a story of a mother who pushed a car off her child who was crushed beneath it. A car. It’s amazing how powerful our mind and body can be. It’s amazing how much strength our children can summon from within us.

August 24, 2014. With as much as I have submerged myself in the world of birth over the last several years you would think I’d know a bit about premature rupture of membranes or PROM. I didn’t. So when Ellen’s bag of waters broke that Sunday afternoon I thought it was over. I assumed I’d be giving birth at 17 weeks 2 days, but I didn’t. The body is an incredible thing.

The doctor told us with broken waters it wasn’t a matter of if my uterus would become infected; it was a matter of when. We were in a battle against time.

Chisolm – my maiden name. We are a Scottish Clan, the Chisholms, known for fighting. “I am fierce with the fierce;” the saying on our Clan’s crest. Glad to know I still have some fight in me.

Ellen, Maggie and I fought for six long, hard weeks. 9 days of hospitalization. 24/7 horizontal bed rest. 6-8 liters of water a day. 3-4 glucose control boosts. Protein. Protein. Protein.

The beginning of the end arrived with shocking speed. It was 3am, Thursday morning, October the 2^nd. I woke up to house-shaking thunder and the sound of pouring rain. It wasn’t unusual to wake in the middle of the night, as all pregnant women know, but this night was different; I felt off, weak, heavy. I lay there for nearly 20 minutes, arguing with myself about if I really needed to go to the bathroom; it was so much work to get out of bed.

The moment I relented and my feet hit the floor, the infection I imagine had been brewing for days exploded with ferocity. My body began to shake and I noticed my hands were blue (a symptom of Raynuad’s phenomenon – a condition I haven’t struggled with for many, many years). The chattering of my teeth was so loud it actually woke Ray. He led me back to bed and checked my temperature (something we did every few hours), 100.1. The contractions began the moment I laid back down.             

 It’s funny how women in labor always deny they are in labor. This was indigestion; surely not labor. Ray woke my mother (who had thankfully arrived on Tuesday) and called the doctor. Not long after 4am we were in the car headed the hour to Mercy Hospital. It’s a wonder we got there – a storm, me contracting and shaking with fever, and my husband who’s nearly blind in one eye and isn’t legally supposed to drive at night.

We drove mostly in silence; praying – begging God to prepare us for what was to come.