One year ago, I found myself at 35 weeks pregnant, unaware of the life-threatening situation unfolding inside me. The placenta was detaching from my uterus, a condition known as placental abruption. I had experienced some mild symptoms that made me restless, yet when I visited the doctor earlier that day, everything seemed normal. After discussing my concerns with family, I decided to head to the hospital, apologetically confessing to the triage nurse, “I feel like a paranoid pregnant woman, but I just need to ensure the baby is okay.”
Upon being connected to a fetal monitor, I texted my partner to reassure him that our baby’s heart rate was stable—at least for the moment. In what felt like an instant, everything changed. The monitor began to sound alarms, and panic ensued as the placenta separated, cutting off my baby’s oxygen supply. I felt only a slight lightheadedness. Had I been at home, I would have had no idea that our baby, whom we named Max, was in distress.
Fortunately, I was in the hospital. A flurry of medical personnel surrounded me, and in a blur, my bed was wheeled into the operating room. The chaotic atmosphere made me feel minuscule, as if I were a mere thimble in a game of Monopoly. I asked to call my partner, but someone took my phone and didn’t return it.
The operating room felt surreal, like an alternate reality. As I lay there, I sensed the presence of a dear friend who would pass away from cancer just hours later. I also glimpsed my late grandfather, standing in the corner. Strangely, their presence provided me with some solace amidst the chaos.
Max’s entry into the world was anything but conventional; he emerged through a surgical incision rather than the way most babies do. When I regained consciousness, I heard my partner’s voice and instantly realized I was no longer pregnant. The excruciating knowledge that my baby was not in the room with me is impossible to describe.
The medical records tell me that Max was born unresponsive and blue, with an initial APGAR score of 2. Resuscitation efforts were underway while they stitched me up—my body was healing, yet my baby was fighting for his life one floor below.
In the NICU, tubes surrounded Max, making him resemble a fish entangled in a net. Thankfully, he was a lucky little fish. Our medical team continually reinforced how fortunate we were. They asked how I had known to come to the hospital, but I couldn’t articulate that I hadn’t known; it felt like some unseen force had propelled me from the couch to the car.
I first held Max 12 hours after his birth, a moment that went undocumented, lost in a whirlwind of overwhelming emotions. I was still in a wheelchair, bruised and connected to IVs, while his delicate features peeked out from under a web of cords. Watching his tiny chest rise and fall filled me with awe.
Processing the trauma from that day is complex. I often feel immense gratitude, especially when I think of those who have faced far worse heartbreaks. Yet after Max’s birth, the ground beneath me felt different, as if I could sense the precarious line between life and death. Pregnant women now catch my breath; I see their rounded bellies and can’t help but worry.
Yet, the world keeps spinning. Max is now a year old, his laughter filling our home. He has outgrown his baby clothes, and his tiny fingers remind me of the miracle we experienced. Sometimes I reflect on that lost first picture of us together, but then I’m reminded of the warmth of his little hand against mine, and I realize that’s all I truly need.
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In summary, my journey through a traumatic birth has shaped my perspective on life and gratitude. Max’s survival is a testament to the delicate balance between hope and fear we navigate as parents.
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