More about the baby...

I know I haven't shared much about this pregnancy or the anticipation of another baby on here, but I have a good reason. I'm scared. BJ's scared. We both had decided that we were done with birthing babies and the biggest reason was the horrible ordeal we went through with our Max. Many of you know, but most of you don't, about how sick he was at birth, and how close we came to losing him. The experience left its mark on both of us, and we didn't know if we could risk it again. Well, God had other plans apparently, and so a baby was on the way. The closer we get to February 4, the more excited I get, but also, the more I think about what happened with Mr. Maxwell. I wrote about the experience not long after it happened, and while reading back through it recently, I thought I would share it here so you can read about it, and maybe send some prayers/good vibes our way so we don't go through it this time. I can't tell you how much we know that we hit the jackpot, and that so many families aren't as fortunate as we were. We thank God everyday for our little man, and we enter into the birth of this new little one with wonder, hope, and fear, but mostly with love. Anyway, here is the story of Maxwell Brian's birth...

Wake me up, when September ends...
From the positive pregnancy test with Max, things in my life changed. Of course it changed emotionally and figuratively, but it also changed physically. I was so, so sick with him. I went to the hospital twice for dehydration and I basically threw up for 16 straight weeks. I had to be monitored for PVCs, or heartbeat skips, and I had two bouts of bronchitis, sinusitis, and acid reflux that could kill a horse. Yes, this pregnancy took its toll on me. The saving grace, though, was that we saw a healthy baby on our ultrasounds. I could deal with everything else as long as our baby was healthy. We wanted him to be a surprise, but we had no such luck. It was apparent that we had another little boy on the way. We never confirmed it, but we were certain we had seen his goods.

Because of my scheduled c-section, Max would be born at 38 weeks, six days - one week and a day from being full term. We were still nervous though, because Cooper, our second born had entered the world at the same gestation, and he had some problems breathing. We didn't get to hold him for two days and it was torture. We were reassured that the incident with Coop was very rare - one in a 1,000 to be exact, so the section was planned. On September 15, at 8:15am, Max made his way into the world at 7lb14oz and 21 in. He was screaming and very pink - a healthy 9 and 9 on his apgars. He looked like a little linebacker - just like his daddy. Dr. Suanes kept reassuring me that he was perfect; he didn't even have to 'suck' out the gunk in his lungs. Thank God. Relax now. Stop shaking. He's perfect; he's screaming and kicking. Despite all the wonderful words coming at me, something was on top of me - a heaviness - a feeling of entrapment. I couldn't kick it. It was hanging around despite the smiling faces - despite the laughs and the football player comments. Stop this Brandie. Ask to see him now. He was so beautiful. I kissed his forehead and told him that I'd see him in the recovery room. I was looking forward to nursing him and counting his fingers and toes. I was so excited to make him mine.

After his daddy took him to the nursery, the OR was quiet and peaceful. I had the strangest sense of calm come over me. It was total peace, and I was warm for the first time in three hours. I drifted to sleep with thoughts of seeing my baby in just a few short minutes. As they wheeled me into the recovery room, I noticed that BJ wasn't in there. Something's wrong. Stop shaking. Where is Max? The weight was back on my chest. I knew something wasn't right. BJ walked in without our baby. Where is he? What's wrong - I demanded an answer as the tears began to flow. BJ told me that he was 'grunty' and so they wanted to let him warm up a bit before bringing him in. No big deal - just a while longer they assured me. No oxygen, no IV's - nothing. He was just a little grunty. The tears flowed despite the the news. This isn't good. Something's wrong here. They don't know, but somethings' wrong. I bitterly told BJ that he would be on oxygen within an hour. I just felt it. Everyone kept brushing off my worries. He's fine - they'd say - just a little grunty. Forty-five minutes later, he was on oxygen. Dr. Suanes was putting him on antibiotics just in case of an infection. My fears were becoming reality.

Before bed, I made my way down to see him. He was in an oxygen hood and he had a lot of monitors on him. But he was beautiful. He had so much hair, and LONG toes. Oh, he was so precious. Why is he sweating? Why is he so irritated? His little chest looks like it's moving so hard. Something's wrong! He's doing better, they'd say. He's hungry - look at him. I ached to feed him. I longed to feel his weight in my arms, but I would wait. I would wait until he was okay.

I didn't sleep at all that night. I couldn't get rid of this terrible feeling. I wanted so badly to go to sit with him. I wanted him to know I was there. In the morning, we were told that he was the same. No better - no worse. He was still on oxygen, and his saturation levels dropped when they tried to decrease it. We could see Dr. Suanes with him for more than an hour. This is bad. This is bad. BJ tried to reassure me, but I was somewhere else. I knew to prepare myself. The look on Dr. Suanes' face said it all. He sat down and told us we were shipping him to a high level NICU - an hour south of us. He was beginning to struggle, and his blood culture came back positive. The tears began. I knew it. I had told everyone that this was going to happen, and no one listened! They all reassured me that he was okay. I was angry. I was scared. I was losing my baby. I told the nurse that I would be going down with him. They advised against it, but I was going. They called the NICU team from St. Mary's and they were on their way. I got up, showered, and got my things ready. I went to see him again. He was pale and sweaty. He was struggling with every breath. Breathe baby boy - breathe. Please hang in there, Max. He's bad. Tell him how much you love him! Tell him you'll see him soon. Tell him he's a fighter - he'll make it through this. I wanted to tell him so many things, but I didn't. I just cried.

An hour later, Dr. Suanes and Dr. Maddock came rushing into my room. "We need your consent to place emergency chest tubes. There are risks, but we have to do it, or Max is going to stop breathing." My baby had a neumo-thorax in each lung, and his lungs were giving up. I wanted to throw up. I signed the papers and they ran to the nursery. They drew the blinds, and all was quiet. I stood up and headed for the door. I wanted to run out of that hospital. I wanted to run like hell and pretend none of this was happening. I didn't want to stop until this place was so far behind me. Breathe, Brandie. Get a grip. You can't run. Pray. Pray like you've never prayed before. Then, it was quiet. I lay on BJ's shoulder, and we cried. There were no words, but what could be said anyway? Everything was inadequate. There was nothing to say to express how we felt. For twenty minutes, we sat together and prayed. The only sound was our breathing and crying. It was truly the most torturous twenty minutes of my entire life. But then, a nurse opened our door. She was smiling. She told us that Max was stable and that his levels were coming down to normal. The chest tubes were doing their job. We went then and saw him. He was calm and pink. He was breathing easy and resting. I cried so hard. I longed to hold him and take him away from this.

The NICU team loaded him up into the incubator. I reached in and touched his hand. He squeezed my finger and broke my heart into a million pieces. Remember his face. Remember his bright eyes. Remember the softness of his fingers. Don't forget. Tell him how much you love him! Tell him. I love you Maxy. I love you more than you'll ever know. Fight little man. Fight for Mama. I'll see you soon. And then, they were gone. We loaded up my stuff, got in the car, and headed south. We called everyone we could think of. We wanted prayers coming from every direction. We didn't know if our baby was alive or gone. We didn't know anything, and it was miserable. I was so scared to walk into that NICU. I was so terrified that someone would meet us at the door and take us into the room by ourselves. I was terrified of what he would look like. Would he know we were there?

The ride up the elevator was too long and too short. I wanted to get there and be with him, but I wanted to wait until he was well. I wanted to ride the elevator until I could take him home. It was safe in there - quiet, and still. When BJ pushed the wheel chair into the foyer of the NICU, we were told to wash our hands and put on protective scrubs. I was so cold, and the water felt so warm and soothing. As we made our way through the NICU to the back, or the unstable nursery as it was called, my heart began to sink. I could see him now. He was hooked up to a ventilator and he was still. The only movement was that of the oscillator that kept the gases moving in and out of his lungs at a rapid rate. I couldn't see his face, and he had tubes in his umbilical stump. He had several monitors going off around him. It was heart wrenching. I couldn't stop the tears now. There weren't any reassuring faces now. Neither one of us dared to ask his prognosis. We didn't want to hear that it might end horribly. We were with him now, and that was enough....to be continued...


...September continued...
We were only with him for a few minutes. It had to be extremely still and quiet around him, and it seemed that we were doing nothing but getting more emotional as we stood there. A nurse led us down a hall and said that we were free to use one of their rooms for as long as we needed. I remember her commenting that they always give rooms to families of the sickest babies. That stuck in my heart like a knife.

About that time, I asked if I should start pumping my milk. I wanted to do something so badly, and this was the only thing that I could control. I hoped with all my heart that the nurse would tell me to do it - that she would be so confident that Maxy would need it that she'd want me to get right to it. I wanted her to see how desperate I was to do something to affect the situation. I don't think I could have dealt with any other answer than, "Yes - you need to start doing that now. Let me go get a pump set up for you." I had just a small bit of hope when she cheerfully walked out the door to get the pump. My mind wouldn't let me consider what would happen if he didn't end up needing it. BJ had gone to the car to get our things, and I was alone. I couldn't handle being alone; too many thoughts were bumping around in my head; I couldn't wait for him to return. When he came back in the room, I felt I could rest a bit, and so I did. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Believe it or not, hunger started to set in as well. We were surprised that we could even think of food, but we did, and BJ decided to go down to the cafeteria and get something for us. He returned with Subway, and it tasted really good. It felt good just to get some kind of substance in us. And then, the door opened. A man in a St. Mary's scrub shirt walked in with a solemn look upon his face. Oh My God - it's the chaplain - my baby's gone; oh my God, my baby's gone! "Are you Mr. and Mrs. Thorne?" BJ grabbed my hand and we both started to cry. "What's wrong?!" I demanded to know if something terrible had happened. He proceeded to tell us that Max was stable, and that he was actually his physician. He wanted to give us his assessment on our baby's condition. Breathe, Brandie. Slow down. He's still here; he's stable. Calm down. Dr. Myles Grant - a name that conjures up good feelings now - was telling us that our son was very sick. It was touch and go, and his condition was extremely fragile. BUT - he didn't think it was anything long-term that was causing it. He simply believed that Maxy's lungs were just not mature enough to handle the outside world. A term baby, not quite mature. Rare, he said, very rare. And then, he said something that changed me. He said, "I truly believe he can beat this." He can beat it? He can really come out of this? Does he think he's going to make it? Don't ask - just take what he said and run with it. He can beat it. My baby can beat this. As Dr. Grant left the room, I was different. BJ was different. I couldn't stop the tears now, but they were different tears. They were tears of hope, and my baby had a chance. It was truly the best thing my ears have ever heard.

I actually slept well that night. My pain meds helped a great deal, and I was able to fall into a deep sleep. With morning, though, came the fear that his condition may have worsened. I told BJ that I could not call down to check on him. I couldn't handle it. I handed the phone to BJ, and my stomach flip-flopped. I thought I was going to faint. I watched BJ's face for any sign of anything - good or bad. I saw his face relax, and I knew our baby was still stable. His oxygen levels had stayed the same during the night, and they didn't have to increase it; that was a very good sign. We decided to get something to eat, and we stopped by the NICU on our way down. Again, that warm water felt so comforting. I can't explain what a soothing sensation it was. As BJ wheeled me in, I started to breathe heavily, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. It was just heart-wrenching to see him so lifeless, and so connected to artificial life. As we stared at him, I prayed that he knew how much I loved him. I prayed that he knew how much I wanted to hold him in my arms. Dr. Arnaez approached us with a smile on his face; I was hoping that meant we were getting a decent update. He told us not to be alarmed by all the wires. He said Maxy was doing very well, and that they were even able to decrease his O2 and his stats were staying up. That was a wonderful sign. We felt rejuvinated and very hopeful as we left the NICU to go downstairs.

By Saturday night, they had removed his oxygen completely, and his stats were still good. We couldn't believe it. I've never felt such joy. On Sunday, our parents came down to visit, and they brought Sam and Coop; it was absolute bliss to hug them and have them with us. My parents were able to go in to see Max with one of us. BJ and his mom went first, and then I took my dad and mom in. They said that he was slowly waking up from his induced coma. He was still on the fast-paced oscillator, but his lungs were trying to take breaths on their own. When I stood above him, I said, "Hi baby boy - I love you so much, little Man." He fluttered his eyes. I said it again. "Oh how Mama loves you Sweet boy." Again, he fluttered. The nurse said, "Well he sure knows his Mama, huh?!" I can't tell you what it did for me. It was the first real connection I had with my baby. I hadn't held him yet, but my heart felt like I was dancing with him. I knew then that he would make it; we would bring him home.

Over the course of the next week and a half, Max continued to fight and continued to improve rapidly. Dr. Grant said that he 'bounced' incredibly well, and that he was a healthy little guy. We were able to bathe him and rock him. Holding him was magic. I could've stayed in that rocking chair forever. I soaked up everything around us so I would never forget that moment. His little body felt so warm and good against my own.

We took him home ten days after we had arrived. His final diagnosis was Pulminary Hypertension; basically, his lungs weren't mature at birth. He was happily taking breast milk, and he seemed to be ready to adjust to life outside the world of buzzers and beepers and stethoscopes. Driving home, I turned around and saw all three of my boys in the seat behind us. I couldn't believe how truly blessed we were. My mind was filled with things from the two weeks that we had just gone through. I couldn't make sense of any of it, and I couldn't let myself think about how close we came to losing our little man. I didn't even try. I knew there would be plenty of time for that later. I just wanted to turn around, look down the road, and know that my family was with me. My two big boys, and my baby who beat the odds. It was how it should have been, and I've never been more grateful for anything in my life.