Evan's 3rd birthday is next week.
As always, I try to hide it, but I hurt inside. My anxiety skyrockets and I feel less like a mom celebrating the birth of her beautiful son and more like some ancient warrior preparing for battle the next day.
Why? I mean, Evan is utterly fabulous, he's an amazing, sweet little boy who has the ability to touch my heart with just a smile. I love him to pieces, and everything he does seems miraculous to me.
But no matter how I try, every birthday I remember. I remember the day we got his diagnosis- we were laughing, seeing this active little squishy on the screen, kicking and hiding his face. Then the doctor walked in. And when she told us "There is a problem" it felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest.
Bless her heart, Dr. Papa was absolutely fantastic to us, so compassionate and understanding.
But that feeling still is fresh to me.
Fast forward a few months, through the spring and into the hot summer months, to July 31, 2011.
10 AM, and I begin to suspect I am in labor a full month before our due date. It's a Sunday, and I had just had my baby shower the day before.
We drive to the hospital, I'm definitely in labor but secretly hoping they can stop it. 11:30, we arrive at the hospital and while my husband is parking the car and I'm riding on an elevator to go to get checked out, my water breaks. Everywhere.
They get me in a room, and I'm so overwhelmed by the contractions and the suddenness of it all, and the fear, I have not told the staff that my baby will need special help. Even though my mind is screaming "Get the surgeon, get my doctor, get the NICU staff ready, call my mom!" I'm utterly terrified.
My husband does all this for me once he tracks me down. They check me over, hook me up, prep everything and I see the L&D nurses hustle. I'm dilated to 6 already. This labor is going fast.
My doctor is out of town, so the on call doctor at her practice had to review my file. He's taking too long to get there, the nurses have an edge about them that says we'd better hurry.
"She's going now, whether the doctors are ready or not."
They check me again, and I'm now dilated to 8.
I have to have a csection, my son' sliver could be damaged in the birth canal if I have him this way.
So I'm prepped for the csection. Everything is a blur at this point. Contractions are coming fast and hard and the nurses keep telling me "Just breathe, don't hold your breath, don't push".
They take my husband aside and get him dressed in his paper booties and gown.
I'm wheeled into the OR, alone amongst a scrambling mass of people. The anesthesiologist wants me to sit on the table, and curve my back forward so he can place the spinal. I can't see the needle but I know it's huge. A contraction comes right as he's inserting in my back, but it's okay, I need to be very very still so they can proceed forward as fast as possible.
I'm laid down on the table, already feeling numb, contractions are no longer a problem.
They brief everyone in the room. My husband comes in.
A paper sheet goes up between me and my belly, my baby that's coming too soon.
I worry.
Everything starts and it feels so strange, like pressure with no real feeling behind it. I listen to the doctors talking back and forth.
I wait.
The look in my husband's eyes is two parts adrenaline and one part sheer terror.
I think I keep repeating "it's okay, it's going to be okay".
1:30. I feel my body moving, they're jerking me around trying to get the child out of me. Taking him from me. I rock on the table and the anesthesiologist says "get ready, Dad, take a quick picture when I say so". He gets his phone out and is ready. The anesthesiologist gives the word and he peeks over the paper sheet and points his phone. "Wow. Oh, wow." Those are the the only sounds I hear.
No crying.
They rush Evan away to the side of the room, and my husband watches from my side, silent, unable to see anything for all the medical professionals surrounding our son.
It's a blur until a doctor approaches. He leans over and tells me "the Omphalocele was ruptured. We have him stabilized but he's going to need surgery."
They eventually roll him by in an incubator.
I see Evan for the first time.
Absolute love. I look past the ventilator tube, past the incubator walls and the gauze and bag on his belly.
My son.
I love you.
Then he's gone from me. Taken to the NICU to be prepared for his first surgery.
It's a blur afterwards. I remember very little except my parents arriving, my husband going next door to Cook Children's to wait while surgery tries to keep our boy alive. The roll my bed out to watch Evan go.
It's still so fresh in my mind. And every birthday, I re-live the events even though I know he's fine now.
It's hard to celebrate his success without acknowledging the pain and turmoil of his birth. If I don't remember the struggles we had over his first 8 months, it is minimizing how amazing he truly is.
And I think a little pain is worth that.
