PTSD

5.19.14

    The following Monday, I had to drive to Fort Worth to Cook Children's Hospital to cover a case for work. I was really excited about getting to work with a pediatric patient because it was something I had asked about repeatedly at my previous job but had never been able to cover. So I got up pretty early and started the 45 minute drive over to Fort Worth.
     Cook Children's Hospital is located just south of downtown Fort Worth, and the building is shaped like a castle. The inside is filled with brightly colored benches and tables, with a very wide open atrium where you can look up at the spires of the castle through a glass ceiling.
      My case ended up getting delayed a few hours, so I migrated to different points of interest in the hospital: the Starbucks with all the sleep-deprived parents; the atrium where families quickly came and went, headed to their appointments in other parts of the hospital; and finally, a row of rocking padded chairs outside of a cardiac specialist's office. I sat on the second floor in my newly found abandoned cove (the cardiac office was closed that day), and worked on some work things while I waited for the lab to be ready.

      The next thing that happened I can only describe as PTSD (or some form of it). Since I was sitting on the second floor, the open atrium was just on the other side of a railing from where I was sitting. From down below, I heard the cry of a newborn. I'm not sure why I knew it was a newborn, but it was definitely that early-life cry, not the boisterous cry from a baby that has been here a few months.
       Immediately, my mind went back to the operating room where we delivered Kaitlyn. I remembered laying on the bed, the blurred image of red streaks in the reflection of the lights, and the blue drape blocking my view of the rest of the room.
       I remembered how quiet it was. I remembered watching Alex as he watched them clean Kaitlyn up and attempt to do CPR on her. I remembered that first moment when he was handed her lifeless body carefully wrapped in a swaddling blanket just like any other baby.
       I remembered the first time I saw my daughter's face, and how my heart broke. I remembered her sweet face and how the only thing I could do is keep apologizing to her for not saving her; not protecting her from passing away.
       "I'm so sorry baby, I'm so sorry," was all I could get out between gasps as the tears ran down the side of my face. I remembered sobbing so hard I felt the rest of my body shake, and then telling myself that I had to breathe and calm down otherwise I was afraid that they would have to put me under general anesthesia in order to close me without excessive bleeding.
       I remembered the quiet.
       I felt like the entire room stopped when they handed Alex Kaitlyn. I'm pretty sure that Dr B and her assisting doctor stopped sewing so that I could sob. I wasn't aware of what the CRNA was doing less than a foot from my head.
       The world stopped when we first saw and held our daughter.
     
       In the last few weeks before Kaitlyn arrived, people would ask me questions about our birth plan and why we chose the hospital we did. I remember that I use to tell people that I wanted a very "boring" birth. What I meant is that I wanted it to be routine. I wanted it to be boring in that it was "just another healthy delivery." We had chosen our hospital because they did over 200 births a month. What I didn't mean is that I wanted it to be quiet. I didn't want the room to stop when her weighty body made its way into my husband's arms. I wanted tears of joy, not tears of unimaginable pain.
       So this time, I am telling people (especially when they ask about the gender and which way I prefer) that I just want a loud birth. I want to hear my child take that first deep breath and scream. Scream until we leave the room, I don't care. Let us know how pissed he/she about being taken out of the warm cocoon that had always been the norm.
        Just cry.
        So that we can cry with you. But ours will be tears of joy and happiness and healing. Tears of how faithful God has been to us. And yes, tears of what might have been with Kaitlyn, your sister, who came into this world silently and never said a word. Tears of how she changed us to be even better parents for you.
        So, little one, cry until you fall asleep. You won't bother us at all.
        Because when you cry, we know that you're here, and that you're breathing.