Olivija’s Winter
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
There was a time in my life when the thought of having a baby wasn’t even in the scheme of things. It was unthinkable. Then I turned 30 and the dream became something like this: finish school, go to graduate school, get my doctorate degree, find a great job, get married, and get pregnant. A few years later I’d have 2.5 children (one boy and one girl), send them both and a half to college, retire in my dream house at the coast, have white or silver hair instead of mousy gray, and live happily ever after.
Some of those things happened. Just not in the order I planned. It happened like this: I finished my undergraduate degree, found a mediocre job, got married, got divorced, got married again, and after that the dream became a blur. I started my master’s degree, got pregnant after a series of medical procedures over several years, and then suddenly my life came to a complete stop on Saturday, December 5, 1998.
My husband, Joe, and I were planning to get a Christmas tree that day, but I was feeling really crummy. I had a lower backache most of the day and was feeling run down and tired. At about 9:00 p.m. we called my husband’s sister to ask her advice--she had become our source of pregnant motherhood tips, being the mother of two boys already. We told her about my ache and tiredness and she calmly told us that we should probably call my doctor and not her. Oh. So we did. After being told to drink a full glass of water, lie on my side, and watch the clock, we realized that the ache was fairly regular. Exactly six minutes apart. This couldn’t be right; I was only in my 23rd week of pregnancy. We raced to St. John’s Hospital, and my doctor happened to be on call that night. She poked and prodded a bit and told Joe to go home and pack a bag; I was on my way to OHSU. She started me on an IV of magnesium and quickly answered my question of “what is that for?” She informed me that the magnesium should help stop my labor. I’m in labor? Oh. She put me in an ambulance and an hour later I found myself in the Trendelenburg position in a very cold room. Joe showed up soon after that. We were both speechless in disbelief.
Part of the dream of having 2.5 kids was that I would have perfect pregnancies, gain minimal weight, walk around with a healthy glow, and pop them out perhaps with no drugs so that I would experience the true gift of motherhood. After the birth, the baby (a boy of course) would be placed on my belly and immediately latch on and suckle and my husband and I would look at each other and smile with pride and gratitude. That was the perfect plan, the dream.
On Monday, I sneezed and my water broke. Somehow my doctors remained calm and didn’t seem at all concerned. I remembered the stories of women whose water broke and within the hour had babies. Later I learned that didn’t usually happen. On Wednesday, December 9, around noon, I felt as if I was having gas cramps. Suddenly I was told I was in labor again. They pushed some needles in my back and told me to relax. Right. They wanted to prep me for an emergency c-section but when they took a look at the ultrasound they realized it was too late. The baby was already on the way. Twenty-five minutes later she came out breech--butt first. I had a quick glance at my child and then they took her away. Joe stood locked in the doorway, not knowing where to be. His eyes asked and I nodded at him to be with her. I was completely lost in grief. My anger boiled over in hot tears and I had no ready words. I had no way of knowing what they were doing, if she was alive, or if I would ever see her again. This was not part of the perfect plan.
Later I was taken in a wheelchair to the resuscitation room and there she was--arms and legs strapped to the table, tubes down her throat and coming out of her belly and arms--all one pound, seven ounces of her. This couldn’t have been my child; it didn’t make sense. Later in my room they told us she probably wouldn’t live. She was on the “edge of viability.” Nobody told us what that meant. We asked for a 1 percent chance of hope and they wouldn’t give it to us. After that I remember us falling together on a bed and weeping.
We didn’t want her to die alone so we chose to be by her side. We signed a DNR (do not resuscitate) because we didn’t want her to suffer. We waited and waited… she lived through that day and that night, and we felt blessed to have her for that one day. She continued to thrive all that first week and still we waited. We didn’t want to get our hopes up. At nine days old, they took her in for heart surgery. She weighed one pound, three ounces, and didn’t stand a chance of surviving the surgery. We waited again for the bad news, but somehow she made it through. And we felt blessed to have her for those nine days. We talked to her constantly about how strong she was, how if she got too tired it was okay with us if she had to go, how we would miss her and love her even still. We felt blessed that she was our child.
Week by week she struggled along. We watched her through the pneumothorax, the brain bleeds, the hourly taking of blood from her heel. Her eyes were fused shut and the flap of skin for an ear still stuck to her head, her skin so thin that bandages were painful. Her lungs were forced open and shut by a machine doing her breathing. We tried hard not to read the monitors, but to read her. Doctors told us that if she made it, she would probably be mentally challenged and maybe blind, deaf, unable to feed herself, or crippled. Still, if she made it, we knew we would do whatever we needed to because she was our child and we were blessed.
Three months we waited for the bad news--we were on a roller coaster the entire time. Then one day the doctor said “when you take her home…” and I thought to myself “wow, she said ‘when,’ not ‘if’!” It was then that I realized that Olivija Winter was a miracle. It didn’t matter what disabilities she might have, or what the future would bring. We would love her regardless because she was our blessing and our gift.
On March 5, 1999, we took Olivija home and my life began again. The plan that seemed so important before suddenly didn’t matter. My list of priorities was rearranged. There was no script to follow; there was no one certain road. Sure, I was able to finish my master’s degree, but I haven’t used it because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Someday I may go back and get my doctorate, but I have no idea what I would study. Someday I might have a great job--if I could possibly find one better than spending every day with my child. I did have another child (a girl again!) and she is as active as 1.5 children, so that idea came full circle on me. Someday I hope they both go to college. I still have the dream of the house at the coast and my hair is turning silver. We’ll see about the happily ever after!
Having Olivija was a life-altering, mind-bending, inexplicable, and mysterious event that took hold of my heart and soul and taught me the true meaning of grace. By no good deeds of my own and certainly nothing I deserved, I am blessed to spend every day with a beautiful, living, breathing, laughing, miracle of love.
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1 comment:
Wow--this is so beautiful, Karina. Olivija is so blessed to have you for a mom. Your writing is such a wonderful gift you'll be able to share with her when she's older.
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