Joshua Law Whitaker-- October 10th, 2007

Joshua Law Whitaker

October 10th, 2007

12:49 PM

3 pounds, 0 ounces

On a cool September evening, just before bed, a chain of events began that would change the next few months dramatically.

After dinner out with Owen & Maki, I rested on the couch with the boys (Jack & Eric), watching my favorite forensic documentaries on Court TV. Around 11 pm, an all too familiar whoosh of fluid signaled the beginning of labor-- only this time it was almost four months too soon. Ron and I piled the older sleeping kids into the van and headed for the emergency room. Jack was excitedly telling Clyde & Heidi that we had to go to the hospital because "Mom's water is broken." At the hospital, it was confirmed that the amniotic sac had ruptured and I was rushed up to LDS Hospital in an ambulance while Ron and the kids went home without me.

An IV was started, and contractions began to wane. Throughout the night, an endless stream of doctors (perinatologists and neonatalogists) came to my bedside to prepare me for the painful scene to come. The baby was measured in an ultrasound, and his estimated weight was one pound, four ounces. At less than 24 weeks, it wasn't even considered a viable fetus, and would most likely be killed during the attempts to revive it after birth. I was told that the baby would be wrapped in a blanket and handed back to me so that we could spend its short life together. I don't know that I've ever cried that much or that hard in my life thus far. I spoke with Ron before sunrise, warning him of the horrible outcome of the pregnancy. We discussed the option of fighting for the baby's life, which was discouraged by the doctors but might allow the baby to live-- although it would undoubtedly be a life full of difficulties and permanent disabilities. I may have slept briefly, but I don't remember. The only thing I can recall is a great gaping hole in my stomach where someone seemed to have ripped out my intestines and set fire to what was left.

As the sun began to fill the hospital, the attitude in the labor & delivery ward changed dramatically. With the administration of IV antibiotics, labor had stopped and my condition was stabilizing. I was moved down the hall to maternity, where I spent the day hearing a new prediction about the baby's outcome. If labor had indeed stopped for good, the baby might be able to stay in me long enough to make survival a real possibility. When evening rolled around, my kids came to see me and Ron and I had a chance to reconvene on the baby issue. Things were looking much better. The nurses moved me to a much bigger room with a great view of the State Capitol. The lights of the Capitol's rotunda filled my room at night if I forgot to close the blinds before bed. In the bigger room (which they nicknamed "the suite"), I had a table and lots of chairs so that my family could eat with me, and enough space for them to move cots in for a sleepover.

The next morning brought even more hope. Each doctor that visited reminded me that every day I stayed pregnant was a huge step toward survival for the baby. I was determined to last as long as I could. Until my water broke, I had only been nervous about the length of the baby's stay in the hospital NICU, as each baby seems to come earlier than the one before. I'd never imagined that things would go so terribly wrong that the baby might not even live at all. The theory that one doctor suggested (which was later supported by other doctors at LDS Hospital), is that I had developed a subclinical infection in my uterus which had weakened the amniotic sac so much that it had ruptured. The antibiotics had killed the infection, which stopped labor. After reading up about it on the internet, I'm pretty sure that they're right.

More time passed, and life at the hospital became routine. Ron was taking fabulous care of the kids, and they were happy everytime I talked to them. He brought soft flannel sheets from Heidi's bed, and bought some silly cartoon character pajamas for me to wear while I waited out labor. Within a few days, I had a small refrigerator stocked with Diet Cherry Coke, yogurt, fruit and Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccinos. He even brought pictures of the kids in frames to keep me company when I was lonely. Every nurse and CNA on the floor was ready to vote him into Husband of the Year fame, and several asked if he had a brother. After the fridge came a microwave and a laptop, more of my favorite foods, and a great collection of my favorite DVD's (including Chocolat and my all time favorite Babette's Feast, which he'd had to track down and order online).

Everyday, I had a visit from Ron and the kids. We lived about twenty or thirty freeway minutes from the hospital, and parking was always a nightmare, but he still came to see me every single day. Eric would climb up into my bed and snuggle with me, and sometimes Jack would too. Some days they'd bring movies and popcorn and other days they'd come with Happy Meals and Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I heard stories about school, got drawings to put up in my room, and always received hug after hug from them.

The room filled with flowers, snacks, books, craft supplies and comfy bedding from home. It was obvious to everyone who set foot in there, that I was very loved and had a great support system at home. More than all the things he gave me however, the love and the patience that Ron showed me were what got me through the whole ordeal. I've never spent so much time away from him, and yet I've never been so much in love with him. He's an amazing man, and a miracle of a husband. I don't know what I did to deserve him, but I'm thankful for him every second of my life.

Each morning, I headed down to Maternal Fetal Medicine for some tests to monitor the well being of the baby. These tests included a daily ultrasound to check the level of amniotic fluid, the baby's movement, and to watch for fetal breathing. Day after day, the gender of the baby was in question. Every once in a while, something appeared that made us suspect it was a boy, but most of the time we had clear shots that screamed girl to everyone. After a while, the frustration had spread to the nurses and doctors and we were determined to figure out whether we were having Sarah Joyce or Joshua Law. I was slipped into the room with "the big ultrasound machine", and a perinatologist took a peek at Josh in front of a crowd of curious onlookers. As the image ran down the baby's backside, we got a clear view of a little butt, and then a shot of what looked like some very female parts. Just as the nurses were agreeing that it was a girl, the little stinker opened his legs and turned just right-- giving us a very clear view of what was very definitely a little boy in all his glory. How he'd managed to keep that thing far enough up front that it was hidden is beyond me. Everyone in the room gasped when it appeared on the big screen-- there was no more questioning this child's gender.

The trips to MFM for testing quickly became my favorite part of the day. I had a chance to see my son (in black and white and looking eerily skeletal) in a daily ultrasound, and hear his strong heartbeat-- often marred by hiccups. The women who work in that room are bright, funny, and caring individuals who I just fell in love with. I looked forward to seeing them and chatting while the baby fought against the fetal monitors strapped to my belly. Josh hated them.

After five and a half weeks-- filled with stories I can tell at another time since it's now after midnight-- I woke up at five AM on October 10th with regular contractions. When my temperature raised to almost 100, a blood test confirmed that my white blood cell count was up, and it was determined that a looming infection could seriously complicate things so the doctor ordered Pitocin to speed up labor and get the baby away from a suddenly hostile environment. A little after noon, I was wheeled into the operating room for delivery. The room is equipped for an emergency C-section, and has a window to the NICU on one wall, so that the baby could be immediately handed through to trained neonatalogists who could resuscitate him in seconds if necessary. Ron had to don a funny white jumpsuit, and a blue hat thingie for the birth, which he hasn't had to do in the past. It was pretty cute. Since we'd had a good idea that labor was immenant since around four o'clock the night before, Ron was going on very little sleep and no food. After a quick and easy delivery, Ron went chartruese and had to sit down. A nurse rushed him juice and crackers to bring him back around. He's never even been remotely close to passing out or throwing up during labor before (I, on the other hand, have now thrown up twice during labor), so I knew it was due to his physical state rather than the birth itself.

Josh was zipped out to the waiting NICU, where he was given chest compressions and attatched to a zillion lines, needles, monitors and tubes. The poor kid was swollen, bloody and fragile afterward, but was alive and stabilizing. He weighed in at 2.9938 pounds-- rounded up that 100th of a percent to 3 pounds-- and was too unstable to get a length measurement. For the second time in a row, childbirth had not been good to me and I bled heavily for too long afterward. Thanks to my weak reproductive system, I wasn't able to see Josh that day-- or even leave my room at all. Ron had a peek at him, and got a few pictures of our fragile little baby.

We were counseled on his status-- which was pretty darn scary at the time. Because he hadn't had enough amniotic fluid to fully expand his lungs, they hadn't grown in proportion to his body. In fact, they were very small and the doctor that took care of him on that first day was worried that they might not be able to support him on their own. Also, he was suffering from pulmonary hypertension, some restriction in his limbs (from being confined without fluid for so long), a funny turned in foot (also from being smashed inside me), and his blood wasn't coagulating well which seriously increased his risk for bleeding in the brain. It was possible that we were going to have a child with a lifetime on an oxygen tank and severe a severe mental handicap. Survival wasn't 100% certain at that point either.

Another long, tear filled night followed. When I was able to see Josh the next day, he was the most critical case in the NICU. His little glass isolette was surrounded by noisy machines and oxygen tanks, with beeping monitors and loud alarms. My heart just ached when I saw him. He looked smaller than he had the day before. The nurse told me that he was looking much better though, and Josh recognized my voice when I talked to him. It was very clear that he knew I was there, which means my visits were going to be a help to him.

In a way, that made everything worse. I'd hoped to spend some time with the family I had waiting for me at home, and to help them move to Tennessee and get settled before I came back to help Josh. As it turned out, I had one night with my older kids before they were whisked off on a plane and started having too much fun with their long distance relatives to have time to talk to me. Jack & Eric, on the other hand, stayed glued to me and I totally lost myself in them. Ron was so busy with the move that I didn't see much of him over the next few days. The boys and I hung out in a hotel while Ron cleaned and fixed up the house so we could turn it over to the landlord and they could head East. When the time finally came for them to leave, it was absolute torture. I cried and cried for the longest time. Although I hadn't seen much of them for the last few weeks, I was about to not see them at all until Christmas time. The idea is still killing me inside. My eyes have been puffy and I'm sniffly from all the crying. It's been three days now, and I still can't think about it without tearing up. However, things are getting easier because I'm surrounded by people I love. Owen & Maki are SO very dear to me. I've been staying with them since Ron left, and they make me feel very warm and secure. I don't know how I'd make it through this without them. Dad has been a tremendous help throughout the whole ordeal, and continues to go out of his way to help me. I love him so much, and am so thankful for the love he gives in return. Getting to know Natasha has been an unexpected blessing as well. I've spent more time with her lately than I have since she was born-- now that my kids aren't monopolizing her during every visit. She's an exceptional girl, and I see a lot of my Dad and myself in her. It's very cool to bond with her!

Anyway, it is now one in the morning and I'm pooped. Josh is an angel! I'll have a more thorough update for you all soon-- but I'll post a quick rundown tonight: He's completely off oxygen already and breathing on his own(at nine days old!), getting breast milk from me and gaining weight rapidly, has no bleeding in the brain, and is done with his heart medication. The little guy is basically just putting on weight and maturing so that he can come home. All the big fears we'd had are gone, and he's just a healthy little midget that will be home sooner than we'd thought at first. He's a miracle child, with a host of guardian angels behind him-- praying for his continued health and sending their love long distance. Even friends of friends of the family have been pulling for him. It's unbelievably moving-- what a beautiful world we live in!

Good night all-- I love you!