It’s been almost 4 years. I guess it’s time I told my story. You know, the story of how I died in childbirth. No, not figuratively. I really died.
Pregnancy for most women is a glorious thing. They find the amazement and the wonder of it a miraculous event. I’m not most women. I hated being pregnant. Hated it. With a passion. Every time.
I got pregnant the first time when I was 16. I have birthed 5 babies total. I didn’t like any of it, any time. I know that makes me sound like a dick but it’s the truth. I gave birth to my first baby (Pooh Butt) with the use of every possible drug I could beg for. My second baby (Buddha Boy) was a dry birth with NO drugs because he was coming too fast for them to be of any use to me. My third (Pea Pie) and fourth (The B) babies were by c-section because my cervix had decided that she too was not a fan of pregnancy, or birthfor that matter.
Then came my fifth baby. My little Princess La La. This pregnancy was just as gawd awful as the first four. Only…. More so. I had more issues and complications than I care to count. Just know: it was bad.
I was asleep one cold night in January when my body told me I had to pee. Not in a few minutes, right damn now! So, I rolled my fat ass up out of the bed and headed to the bathroom. But…. I couldn’t hold it. It was pouring down my legs. I couldn’t even make it stop. As I sat on the toilet, it just kept pouring out like I was pissing Niagara Falls. I flipped the light in the bathroom on so I could see to clean myself up where I had pissed all over myself and began screaming…. I hadn’t been peeing on myself, it was blood. And it was POURING out of me. My bed, my bedroom floor, my bathroom… It looked like the Manson family had been there and forgot to write on the wall. And I was terrified.
My husband jumped up and called 911…. 30 minutes went by and the ambulance hadn’t shown. And I was still gushing blood from my baby shoot! He threw some clothes at me while he struggled to dress himself, and loaded me up in his work van. The hospital was a 45 minute drive away… He got me there in 10, I swear to you, 10 minutes. And the blood was still coming. This was the first time I had ever seen my husband in a panic.
I got to the labor and delivery area of the hospital and they began taking measures to STOP this from happening… I was told I would be hospitalized for the duration of my pregnancy. I was 31 weeks! That means I would be there for about 8 weeks. I was so upset, but I knew it was for the best, they could save my baby. Because as much as I hate being pregnant, I love my babies. From the moment that stupid line turned pink, I loved my babies.
So I resigned myself to the cold, hard fact: I was stuck there, and it was for the best.
At 1:10 on the morning of January 19, 2012, I asked the nurse to come in to remove all the crap they had me hooked up to so I could pee. She came in, did as I asked, and I headed to the bathroom. And she began to scream. It was happening again. Here screams were for help as I started to pass out and she tried to catch me… It was worse this time. So much worse. Giant clots of blood were falling out of me, I’m talking the size of basketballs and even bigger. I can’t even begin to express how that felt. When a veteran labor and delivery nurse panics, you know shit just got real.
I was rushed into surgery and my husband was called. I was 31 weeks and 5 days pregnant.
They couldn’t stop the bleeding. My husband arrived just in time to be there for the surgery. I mean just in time, they had already made the first cut.
The room was hot, it felt like a furnace, I was pouring sweat. They were squeezing bags of blood through my veins because the regular drip wasn’t getting it there fast enough, I was bleeding out. They would later tell me that I had lost over 80% of the blood in my body and I shouldn’t have survived that. My husband would later describe it as “buckets of blood.” He said they were in such a rush, they were throwing my internal organs into bowls… They were in such a hurry to get the blood in my, they couldn’t even tape down my IV, my husband was holding it in my arm.
My heart hurt. Not my figurative heart, my literal heart. I felt it POUNDING and it was painful. “My heart hurts. Am I having a heart attack?” I asked. “No, Hun, it’s just because this is such a rush. You are juuuuuust fine,” they said. They lied.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” I asked, weirdly calm. “No, you’re fine,” they lied again. I closed my eyes.
They delivered my baby, my little La La. And she was the tiniest baby I had ever seen. Barely over 4 pounds. Just over 16 inches long. I opened my eyes to see her but they whisked her away and that is when I got scared. “GO! GO WITH MY BABY!” I screamed at my husband. “STAY WITH HER! DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE HER!” I cried.
And he obeyed.
An anesthesiologist came in and lost his shit. “What the fuck is happening in here?! Where is all your help?! Why do you not have more nurses?!” And I knew right then, they had lied. I was going to lay there and die and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing. I was tied down to an operating table and couldn’t do a thing to help myself or my tiny baby. As he got on the phone to call a code, I closed my eyes again. I was dying. I felt it. I knew it.
A nurse came to my head and smacked me. “Wake up! Don’t you dare fall asleep! You have to stay with me!” she yelled at me.
And then everything went black. I remember feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. My heart didn’t hurt anymore. I was honestly at peace for what felt like the first time in my life. Real, genuine peace. And it was ok. I was ok with it.
They would later tell me that my heart had stopped, that they did code me, and that they were mere seconds away from pronouncing me: dead. From childbirth. I had no idea that women still ran that risk, I mean, it’s fucking 2012! With all of our technology and medical advancements and fucking science…. I could still die giving birth?! Yes. The answer is yes. Yes they do, and yes I did.
The doctor says he has no idea how I survived. He says I shouldn’t have survived. But I did. Over the course of 2 days, I received a total of 6 bags of blood and 3 bags of plasma. And I survived.
La La stayed in the NICU until we were finally able to take her tiny butt home in March. She, unlike most preemies, never had a single set-back. Not one. She was so strong! She fought for her life, and showed progress daily.
Now, here she is, about to be 4, and I can finally tell my story. I can finally heal my psyche. My body has mended but my mind has not. This has fucked with me for many reasons.
I’m sure by now you are wondering what the actual fuck happened. Well, what happened is this: her placenta tore itself away from my uterine wall and when it did, it tore a piece of my uterus. This is called an abruption. When that happened, my uterus tore to pieces, essentially exploding. I would never be able to have babies again, my uterus was destroyed. But, that part was ok with me. I was having my tubes tied after this one anyway.
But instead of just taking out the murderous bitch (my uterus), the doctor sewed it back up. I spent the next 2 years in and out of surgery, addicted to painkillers, and living in pain regardless of the painkillers before they finally removed that bitch. But, she had one more blow to give. The damn thing had attached itself to my bladder and in order to take it out, they had to cut my bladder. I spent a few months with a catheter while my bladder healed, but, thankfully, my uterus, that murderous bitch, was GONE.
And now, La La is a happy, healthy, vibrant toddler. And me? I’m thankful to be alive. And for this reason, she is so much more special to all of us. We could have lost her. Things could have gone a different way. But she fought for her life and I am so very, very glad she did. ❤