Death of My Son

When I found out that I was pregnant, it wasn't the "usual" way of taking a home pregnancy test. I was scheduled for a medical procedure that required proof that I was not pregnant before performing the procedure. I explained that I was a couple days late, but that was not unusual for me. My periods were never normal so I didn't think anything about it.

When the nurse called me to give me the results of my pregnancy test prior to my procedure, I was shocked! She told me that I was pregnant and they could not perform the procedure. Alot of emotions ran through me but overall I was ecstatic! While I had been longing to have a child now was not the opportune time since my husband was working part time and I was on Worker's Compensation for a job related injury. Either way, I was confident that everything would work out and we would have a healthy child.

Five months into my pregnancy, I developed what I thought was the flu. I felt lousy, was vomiting and diarrhea. Being a Saturday, I felt it best just to rest and drink plenty of fluids. By Sunday morning when I woke up, I had severe pain in my right side. It was time to go to the emergency room as the pain was unbearable.

When I arrived at the emergency room, one would think that a five month pregnant woman in severe pain would be taken back immediately and examined. However, that was not the case. Forty five minutes later, I was finally called back and placed in a room at the end of the hall. As the pain continued to get worse over the next two hours, I began to vomit again. I began crying out for anyone to come in my room as no one had been in there. Finally, I begged a housekeeper that was walking by to get me help. A doctor finally came in my room and told me they had to do a pelvic exam to determine if the baby was in distress. I assured him that there was nothing wrong with the baby, but I thought it was my appendix. However, the doctor ignored me.

He finally ordered blood tests and took my temperature. I now had a fever of nearly 102 degrees and a white blood count of over 26,000! Now they took me seriously and moved me to a room closer to the desk. The OB/GYN personally took me to have an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay. A surgeon was called in. They determined that I had acute appendicitis. What took them four hours to determine, I tried telling them when I first entered the triage area.

As the surgeon was evaluating me, I told him that I now wanted to go home. The pain had subsided quite a bit and I wanted the hell out of there! (It was at that time apparently my appendix had ruptured thus relieving the severe pain). He told me that the only place I was going was into surgery. He then explained to me that there was a chance I would lose my baby in or after surgery, but they would do everything they could to save it. I became hysterical at the thought of losing my baby.

When I was taken to the holding room prior to entering surgery, the anesthesiologist questioned me about any medications that I was taking. I told him prenatal vitamins. He questioned as to why I was taking them. I told him that I was 5 1/2 months pregnant! As he flipped through my paperwork, he claimed nowhere was it listed on there that I was pregnant. I knew at that time, this would not be good.

When I awoke from surgery, the first thing I asked was if the baby was okay. The nurse assured me that the baby was fine, and that they would keep me in the OB ward to monitor any contractions I might have. After 24 hours in that ward, the doctors were convinced I would not go into labor and moved me to the surgical floor.

Three days later, still in the hospital, I began have severe back pains. I called the nurse into my room and explained that I needed to get out of bed as my back was hurting. As I walked to the end of the bed, my back pain got worse. The nurse helped me back to bed and called the OB ward. I didn't realize what I was experiencing was back labor. The OB nurse examined me and found that I was dilated. I was then rushed to the labor room and my husband was called to get here as soon as possible. A neonatal specialist was called in for the pending premature birth. He explained to us that he would not know if he could help the baby until it was born, but assured us that he would do everything he could to save it.

Rather than delivering this precious premature baby by C-section, the doctor made me deliver him. I was exhausted and in pain from my appendectomy and pushing was not an option. After our son was delivered, he was rushed out of the room. I was taken back to another room while we awaited news. The neonatal specialist came into our room and explained that it did not look good for our son. He did not expect him to live more than an hour. I became hysterical! I told the doctor our son was strong like his parents and would make it! As I cried and prayed that God would not take him, everything seemed like a big blur after that.

An hour and a half after his birth, our son died. We were inconsolable. Our son was gone. All the flutters of life I felt in my stomach would no longer be felt. He departed this world without us not getting to know him, although he was loved tremendously from the day I knew about my pregnancy. I was so hysterical by the news of my first born child's death, the nurse came in and and injected something in my IV. The next thing I knew it was the following day. I wanted my baby and hold him, but he was already at the funeral home. My husband had to make the funeral arrangements without me and without my knowledge. My heart ached for him too. There is absolutely NO pain in ones life that is worse than losing a baby and no one will ever convince me otherwise.

As what would have been his twenty fourth birthday approaches, my emotional pain from losing him is still as fresh today as it was then. I still often cry when I think or talk about him and visit his grave. I have two Polaroid pictures that the hospital took of him to give to us. That is all we have left of our baby that we never got to know. That is an experience where the pain does not subside with time. I often wonder what he would have been like, what he would have looked like, or what kind of man he would have become. He is still loved very much to this day and always will be.

While most people would think this is the end of this story, there is still much more that occurred after our son's death. My health had deteriorated even more. Follow part two to this blog to find out what else could possibly go wrong during the worst time of my life.
　
　
　
The death of my son (part two)As I tried to deal with the loss of my son, I wanted out of the hospital. I didn't care how much physical pain I was in, the emotional pain was more than I could stand. Our son's funeral was in two days and I was going to attend one way or another. I needed to attend to help me process what had happened.



I began asking the doctor to be released from the hospital. My appendectomy incision was left open to keep it from abscessing, according to the surgeon. He finally agreed to release me as long as my husband would clean and dress my incision. Looking at that four inch incision, I don't know how he did it. As I was wheeled out of the hospital, I cried even more. This wheelchair ride should have been a joyous occasion. I should have been holding my beautiful, healthy baby, not leaving with empty arms. A huge part of me was left at the hospital that day and I never wanted to return. Had my heart been x-rayed, I truly believe it would have shown it was literally broken in half.



The day of our son's funeral, I could hardly walk due to the pain I was in...physically and emotionally. I didn't want to say goodbye. I hadn't even said hello yet. I didn't like this nightmare that I was living. After the funeral, I went home and went to bed. I couldn't stand to be alive anymore. I hated God and that He took MY baby. These things happen to other people, not us. I could not accept what I had been through.



The following day, my husband had cooked a wonderful dinner. I tried to eat, but just couldn't. My stomach began to hurt and I felt sick, so I went back to bed. I needed to continue grieving. A friend had come over to visit me, but I didn't feel like being around anyone. I began to feel sick. I yelled for my husband to get a bucket, as I knew I was going to vomit. What I vomited was nothing like I had ever seen in my life. I knew something was terribly wrong and the abdominal pain was getting more and more intense. Finally, my husband told me that we were going back to the emergency room. I told him that I would not return there, but as the pain grew more intense, I begged him to get me there as soon as possible.



When I walked into triage at the hospital, the nurse took one look as to what I was vomiting and took me back to a room immediately. The doctor came in within minutes after I arrived and everyone began rushing around. The nurse told my husband he could go home, as I was being admitted. It was determined that I had a bowel obstruction and would possibly need surgery...again. My potassium level was extremely low, I was dehydrated and the pain was unbearable. But I still wanted out of there. I didn't know how much more physical and emotional pain I could endure.



A tube was placed up my nose and down to my abdomen to attempt to suction out the obstruction. If that did not work, they would have to do emergency surgery. After several days in the hospital, it appeared that the obstruction was gone, but that did not end my problems. As the doctor told me that I could finally go home, he also mentioned that if the results of my last tests were good, he would release me. I called my husband and told him to come and get me the hell out of there. I wanted to go home and grieve. I wanted out of the place that had such painful memories.



Less than ten minutes later, the doctor returned. The tests showed that I had an abscess where my appendix was removed, and I had pneumonia. He said he could not release me since these to problems needed to be treated. I cried. I just wanted to go home. I called my husband and told him the news.

The doctor stuck a large needle into my side to drain the abscess. That too, was extremely painful. As I cried in pain, the doctor responded by saying they had given me something for pain and I shouldn't need anything else. I yelled at him that I didn't care what they gave me, it wasn't working! They were able to remove very little thick fluid, so they had to insert a drainage tube into my side. It would take a few days to drain the abscess. I was also placed on very strong antibiotics for the next several days to fight the abscess, and it finally appeared to work somewhat.

During those days, I constantly cried, grieving for my baby. I yelled at everyone and anyone that came in my room. Finally, the head nurse came in and tried to comfort me. I began yelling at her and lashing out at everyone that came in contact me. I needed a way to vent my emotional pain and that was the only way I could at the time. I wanted out of the hospital so I could grieve and try to accept everything that had happened to me. I just could not do it laying in the place that I lost my baby. I hated God, I hated myself and most of all I hated everything about the hospital. Too many bad memories that I could not process in my mind. I wanted to run away from everything to make the pain go away.

When I was finally released from the hospital, I became very withdrawn. I was still trying to accept my loss and what I had been through over the past month. I also knew my husband was hurting. We needed time together to work through everything we had been through the past month. Unfortunately, this was still not the end of my medical problems relating to my ruptured appendix. Part three will finally explain the end of my nightmare.
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　Death of my son (final chapter)After finally being released from the hospital the final time, I was able to begin the grieving process. I needed that time to process everything that had happened to me and my body over the past month. However, life had to go on. My father in law was diagnosed with Cirrhosis of the liver. Unfortunately, it was not due to alcoholism. He had been hospitalized recently and was given blood transfusions that resulted in him also being diagnosed with Hepatitis shortly after. That led to the Cirrhosis. He was dying and we could not do anything about it, but care for him in his final days. That story is another future blog.

Three months after my release from the hospital, I began having pains in my right side again. Since I knew it could not possibly be my appendix, I assumed it was probably a cyst on my ovary. I went to a GYN, who ordered an ultrasound. It was revealed that I had a "pocket of old blood" near my incision site. I was sent to the emergency room so a doctor could drain it.

The following month, the pain returned. I returned to the doctor who performed the previous procedure. He hospitalized me again stating that I had an abscess on my right side again! I spent a week in the hospital hooked up to another drainage machine with strong antibiotics through an IV. When that was finally cleared up, I tried to get on with my life. My father in law had passed away, and I was still dealing with the emotional trauma of everything that had transpired in my life over the past few months.

The following month, the pain returned. I could not possibly go through life like this and sought out a new doctor/surgeon. He told me that in his 35 years of practicing medicine, he had never seen this before. He was obviously puzzled why I continued to have abscesses months after my appendectomy. He told me he would have to do exploratory surgery to find out what the problem was. I didn't want surgery, but I didn't want to live with this recurring pain the rest of my life.

When I awoke from surgery, my husband explained what the doctor found. I could tell he was heartbroken, but had to tell me the truth. The doctor determined that when my appendix ruptured several months ago, apparently the infection had burrowed itself into my right ovary and had continued down my right tube. He removed my right ovary and tube to solve the problem. After losing our son, my husband knew I would be devastated. This would be one more traumatic experience in my life that I would have to learn to live with and try to accept.

Before I was released from the hospital, the surgeon came in and apologized for what he had to do to clear my body of this infection once and for all. He assured me that I would get pregnant now. Still dealing with all that I had been through, I snapped at him and said "yeah, right!" I always felt bad about that, because he was the most caring surgeon/doctor that I had dealt with through this whole ordeal. His final words to me in that meeting was not to get pregnant for at least six months. He explained that my body had just gone through major surgery and it needed time to heal.

As I slowly began recovering from that surgery, I noticed a huge difference in how I felt. For the first time in months, my body was clear of infection and I could tell it was on the road to recovery. I had my surgeon to thank. When my period was a few days late the month following my surgery, I began to worry. I called my family doctor and explained the surgery I had been through and wanted to know if that would make my period late. The nurse explained it was possible, but if I wanted to come in for a pregnancy test, they would be happy to perform it. (Over the counter pregnancy tests were not on the market at that time).

Waiting for the results of that test seemed to take forever. One of two things ran through my mind. Either my body was still dealing with the surgery, thus making my period late or something else had gone wrong with my body. After all, how is it possible to get pregnant so quick with only one tube and ovary? When the test came back positive, many feelings ran through my mind. I was happy and excited, yet I was scared. I was scared that something could end this pregnancy abruptly like with my first born. After everything I had been through recently, could my body sustain a full term pregnancy? I also worried what my surgeon would say. He told me not to get pregnant for at least six months, but I never believed that I would get pregnant again.

When it was time for my six week post op appointment with my surgeon, I was afraid to go. What if he told me that my body couldn't sustain the pregnancy so soon after surgery? So many "what ifs" ran through my mind. I told his nurse that I was pregnant and I was afraid to tell him. She assured me that she would inform him and it was okay to come to the appointment.

After my surgeon examined me, checked my incision and gave me a clean bill of health, he put his arm around my shoulder. He explained that he understood that I was pregnant. I dropped my head and confirmed my pregnancy. He chuckled and said, "don't worry, no one ever listens to me anyway! You will be fine and have a healthy baby!" He congratulated me and told me to bring the baby in to show them when it was born.

Over the next eight months, I continued to worry about the baby I was now carrying. Each week that went by, was one week closer to my delivery date and one week bigger that my baby had grown. Although I never stopped worrying throughout my entire pregnancy, I delivered a healthy baby girl. My surgeon was right...I was fine and I did deliver a healthy baby. Over the next five years, I delivered two more healthy babies, but I still love and miss my first born son. He can never be replaced. R.I.P. son, I love you.