My True Miracle: My Daughter, Evelyn

In March of 2007, one month after my husband and I had moved into a (rented) home of our own following more than a year of going from hotels to the kindness of virtual strangers, I became pregnant. We were surprised, but very, very happy with this turn of events. It seemed as though everything in our lives was looking up, and as though we might finally be able to get things on track again.

We went so far as to chuckle when I began to notice the symptoms of a urinary tract infection, which are not only common in pregnancy, but which have been a trademark of my three pregnancies. We remarked that I must be pregnant. I had a UTI!

Knowing that there were potential complications, and intending to apply for Medicaid, I asked a friend to go with me to the hospital. At the recommendation of a friend's mother, I decided to go to Wishard hospital in Indianapolis, a hospital which I was told was the only local hospital that took self-pay or Medicaid patients.

I called the hospital, and was instructed to go to their urgent care unit, since I was having abdominal discomfort and was pregnant. Once there, I waited about two hours before my urine was taken for analysis. Shortly thereafter, my friend left, leaving me to deal with what happened later by myself.

My urine was tested, and it was concluded that I had a urinary tract infection. Because I was having abdominal pain, however, the attending doctor had decided that I should have an ultrasound performed just to be on the safe side and ensure that I was not miscarrying my pregnancy.

The attending, of course, was not the doctor who was going to perform the ultrasound. Instead, a resident was assigned to my case.

A very young female resident entered my examining room where I was prepared for the transvaginal ultrasound that had been ordered. She prepared me and inserted the "wand" that would show my pregnancy on the screen.

But it didn't.

After close to fifteen minutes, the doctor determined that my pregnancy was "not on my uterus" and ordered more testing, including a blood screening. My blood was taken, and I was sent back out into the waiting room to wait for forty five minutes while it was analyzed.

Wishard Health Services

After nearly three hours, I was called back to an examining room and given the results of the blood work: My hormone levels were abnormally high, and therefore the doctor believed that I had an ectopic pregnancy. They were scheduling me for surgery in the morning to remove the offending pregnancy.

Rather than offering me a second ultrasound by a more experienced doctor, the assumption was made that because the resident couldn't find my uterus on the ultrasound machine and because my hCG hormone levels were abnormally high, I must have an ectopic pregnancy.

I asked for a second opinion from a more experienced doctor, and was told that the doctor was busy and that had to be prepped for the next day's surgery and booked into the hospital.

Immediately I was in a panic. I am severely phobic of needles (along with less than 10% of the population of the United States) and the very thought of submitting to my very first IV was terrifying. I was panic-stricken. I had already given them my blood. I had faced the fear once, alone and frightened, and now I wanted my husband before I submitted again.

I asked to call him. I was told that I wasn't allowed to use the phone. I insisted. An hour later they finally allowed me to make the call. By that point the nurses were frustrated with me because I would not allow them to put another needle in me without my husband present.

Finally he was on his way, panicking now himself. The nurses needed to move me out of the examining room, and therefore they took me into another room. It was a former hospital room that was now being used as a storage closet. There I sat in the dark, waiting for my husband, surrounded by supplies, with orderlies and doctors coming and going for the supplies that the needed.

Needless to say, it was a humiliating experience, and made me all the more frightened about what was to come.

It took nearly an hour for my husband to arrive. He had to find a ride to the hospital as I had driven our only car. Once there, he found me huddled in the supply room, crying. He tried to comfort me and to find out what had happened when an overly-cheerful nurse came into the room and said "Are you ready for your IV now?"

My husband asked her to give us a few moments, knowing that me, needles, and low blood sugar didn't mix well (and I hadn't been allowed any food for the entire day -- they kept offering me an IV for low blood sugar, not understanding that when my sugar is low, the phobia is worse).

We discussed the situation for several minutes, and my husband decided that he wanted a second opinion and more information about ectopic pregnancy before we made the decision to have the doctors go in and remove the pregnancy and possibly my fallopian tube(s) as well.

I signed out of the hospital against medical advice. I have never done this before or since, but am terribly glad (and truly blessed!) that I did. The nurses and subsequently the attending doctor (who was suddenly available) begged me to stay at the hospital until the next morning, promising another ultrasound, but my trust had been shattered by that point, and I wasn't going to take the IV without food in my system.

We left, secure in the knowledge that we were less than a ten minute walk from the nearest emergency room when we were safely and comfortably at home.

Once at home I did some research, all of which pointed more strongly to the possibility of a twin pregnancy than an ectopic pregnancy. Twin pregnancies are characterized by high hCG levels, whereas ectopic pregnancies are characterized by very low hCG levels. At the outside the pregnancy may have been molar, but theoretically, the doctor would have seen that on an ultrasound.

I should add here that the hospital called me every day for two weeks urging me to come in and have my pregnancy terminated "for my own health."

The next four weeks passed without event. There were no more stomach pains and the antibiotic that I had been prescribed seemed to have killed the urinary tract infection that had been bothering me. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me to start bleeding -- heavily -- at ten weeks pregnant.

It started out with some mild spotting -- just enough for me to ask my husband to be sure to prepare to come home from work should things get any worse. Then, after he had been at work for less than two hours, I felt a sort of a "popping" sensation (like when your water breaks) followed by a gush. I rushed into the bathroom. There was blood everywhere. In tears, I called my husband, who rushed home to take me to the emergency room.

This time we went to the emergency room across town at Community Hospitals East. I couldn't be treated at the Community South hospital that was nearby, and found myself waiting for quite some time to be examined. It was assumed at this point that I had miscarried; I was not a priority.

After about an hour, a nurse came to take me to an exam room and to put an IV in me. As with before, this simply didn't happen. The tactic of Community Hospital East was to cajole and make fun of the patient until s/he submits to the needle. Very, very few nurses understand just how bad a phobia of needles really is! The doctor refused to examine me without my blood, but finally relented when he saw that I wasn't going to submit or leave until I had an ultrasound so I could see for myself that the pregnancy was lost.

The doctor felt that in theory he could test my blood for falling hCG levels and prove that I had miscarried. Therefore, the costly ultrasound would no longer be necessary and he would save the hospital and the government money (since at the time I was on medicaid). However, after more than two hours of my pleading with him to do something without putting an IV needle in me, he finally agreed to call in the sonographer, who arrived around 7 am, tired but kind. She was the first kind person I had seen in the entire time that I had been at Community Hospital East.

The sonographer took me into radiology and prepared me for the ultrasound. Perhaps because she was tired, she didn't turn the screen away from us as is often the case with early ultrasounds or ultrasounds when a miscarriage is suspected. Instead, I turned my head, keeping my eyes locked on my husband's.

While the screen was facing us, the sound was turned down. I watched my husband's face, tears rolling down my own. When he broke into a smile, I felt horribly betrayed. "What are you smiling about?" I asked him.

"Our baby," he told me.

I still didn't believe it. I thought that perhaps what he saw was the remains of a pregnancy that would have to be removed with a D&C. Instead, the sonographer said "Why don't you look for yourself?" It was then that she turned up the volume, allowing me to hear, for the first time, the galloping sounds of my daughter's beautiful heartbeat.

My baby was very much alive, and very well. The doctor prescribed me more antibiotics (the right kind, the ones I asked for) for my Urinary Tract Infection (which hadn't been killed, in fact), and I was sent home on strict pelvic rest and partial bed rest.

At this point we had avoided disaster twice.

I had been pregnant before and experience told me that I had nothing to fear as I entered the third trimester. I felt secure with my body, my pregnancy, and was certain that things would work out fine. After all, we had avoided disaster twice already: right?

There seemed to be other plans at work, however, and at 27 weeks I began to experience strong contractions for the first time. I knew that they weren't the "practice" contractions known as Braxton Hicks, and my husband rushed me straight to the hospital. In triage I was calmed down, monitored, and sent home, again on partial bedrest. It wouldn't be the last time.

Again at 34 weeks I was back at the hospital (again St. Francis South in Greenwood, Indiana). The contractions were stronger and more persistent this time. I was given an injection in order to stop the contractions. I don't remember the name of the medication but I do know that it was frightening, as it raised my blood pressure and made me very shaky for nearly 24 hours after the injection was administered. By this point I was on strict pelvic rest, though I was permitted to be up and around as necessary.

I was just over 41 weeks the next time that I began to feel the contractions starting. I knew from the feeling that they were labor contractions, but I wasn't ready to rush to the hospital just yet. I settled myself in at home and when I became tired enough, went to bed, gearing up for what i thought might be a late night membrane rupture or at the latest, the next morning.

However, when I woke up I was still having contractions, mild enough to allow me to sleep, but strong enough to tell me that I needed to think about getting to the hospital. I wasn't quite ready to give up, however, until my husband and a friend of mine suggested that I might be in real trouble if I'd been contracting for so long, especially with a history of relatively short labors.

My husband insisted that I go to the hospital -- and go we did. Upon arrival I was booked into maternity triage and hooked up to a monitor. As usual, the staff at St. Francis hospital were cheerful and encouraging. Until, that is, it was determined that my contractions were very weak and the baby was in distress. Then they were all business, especially with my history of a fear of needles.

By now we had nearly lost our daughter twice in early pregnancy, twice at the beginning of the third trimester, and now during my labor. If you do the math, that's five times that our daughter nearly died during my pregnancy and labor.

I had not received regular prenatal care throughout my pregnancy due to a fallout with Medicaid and struggles to find an alternative to traditional insurance. Because the local midwives worked out of Wishard hospital, i was very hesitant to trust them, I'm afraid. This left me in a strange situation; I was given a choice: the doctor could break my membranes artificially to start labor and give the baby an IV later on with antibiotics (because I hadn't gotten the GBS -- Group B Strep -- test) or she could put me on an IV with antibiotics and pitocin.

I compromised, not wanting pitocin in my system if I could help it! I would take the IV (because I was so afraid to take them myself, how could I possibly force my child to go through that?) and the doctor would rupture my membranes artificially. We would try that, and then start Pit later on if necessary.

It took three nurses and four tries to get an IV into my vein. My veins tend to roll, enhancing my fear of needles. By the time it was over I was terrified, in pain, and badly bruised. The doctor broke my waters and left me to begin labor on my own.

After two hours, however, contractions hadn't gotten any stronger, and pitocin was started. It took having the dose increased twice to actually begin regular contractions. I had wanted a natural childbirth, but I was willing to do anything to bring my baby into the world healthy!

When contractions finally got strong enough, things happened very quickly. I had hardly asked my husband to get an anesthesiologist for the epidural than I felt the urge to push. The nurse said I was only dilated to six and to wait for the doctor and not push (try hearing that when you're in labor!). When the doctor arrived, she checked me and I had dilated to eight cm. She told me to go ahead and push in spite of my cervix still being narrow

One very long push later, my little girl popped out into the world. She wasn't crying. That makes six.

Thankfully the NICU nurses were in the room and ready to take her if necessary. And just as thankfully, the miraculous Dr. Kimmel was able to unwrap the cord from around my little girl's neck and stimulate her to cry.

I was exhausted, and barely able to comprehend that it wasn't normal for a baby to have two tight knots in the umbilical cord. I was too tired to note how small my daughter was. The only note that I could make was that she was crying, and her APGARs were strong. She was alive, and she was healthy, if very, very tiny.

This lens donates to the March of Dimes. Every time you make a purchase of one of the books above, 50% of the commission goes to support the March of Dimes in saving babies and preventing preterm labor. Please support this lens in order to help the March of Dimes continue their brilliant work with premature babies. We almost needed them, and though I am grateful that we didn't, I love knowing that this charity is there for those who need them!