The Birth of Jaime Loomis and Cameron Whitford, Part II

I returned home from that first trip to the ER confused and anxious.  The doctors had told me that my chances of delivering in the next two weeks were less than 5%, and also emphasized the lack of research in support of bedrest.  I was given no instructions for at-home care.  This contrasted sharply with what my body was telling me.  I vented my distress to an online group of mothers, whose advice and support I had come to trust and value.  One of the mothers in the group, Raf, is a labor and delivery nurse.  I described to her my symptoms, and she said it sounded like the combined weight of the babies was putting pressure on my cervix, causing it to dilate.  She advised self-imposed bed rest and lots of water. 

I tried to follow her advice,  but without the support of a doctor, it was very difficult to resist chasing after my one year old at a family Christmas gathering.  My contractions grew stronger, but never regular.  They came in waves, and then stopped for hours.  I was wary of the chaos of the emergency room, and determined not to return until labor was absolutely undeniable.  Instead, I continued to keep Raf updated on my symptoms.  On Sunday afternoon, she started telling me to return to the hospital.  My contractions still weren't regular, but they were very close together and increasingly painful. 

I don't know where my husband was, but I remember being alone, lying on the uncomfortable white couch in our formal living room, clutching the iPad, and waiting for him to return.  I still wasn't entirely convinced that it was time to go, and when he finally arrived, we discussed the matter for an hour so longer.  After all, the doctor had told us we had a 95% chance of lasting at least another two weeks.  I phoned Newport Hospital, where I delivered Tristan, and asked if I could come in for a quick check.  The labor and delivery nurse who answered was alarmed by the sound of my voice, and advised us to go straight to Providence.   Around nine in the evening on December 28, 2014, we packed our belongings, and headed in.  

During the hour or so that it took us to get to Women and Infants, it became clear that we had made the right decision.  My contractions were now strong enough that I was writhing in pain, and I could no longer talk through them.  Still, at times they would slow, and when they did, I became full of doubt over whether we should have left Tristan and made the drive.  

Eventually we were ushered into a small, decrepit cell in triage (as I mentioned, this section of the hospital was under renovation), and again, my cervix was checked.  

The stages of my dilation are a bit hazy to me.  I'm not sure if I was 2cm on my first trip, and 2.5 when I arrived on Sunday, or 0cm on my first trip, and 2cm on Sunday.  In any event, I wasn't very dilated. Court and I were relieved but bewildered. Having delivered a baby only fourteen months earlier, I recognized the strength of what I was feeling.  I was offered morphine, which I readily accepted.  An hour later, I was still in pain, and a doctor checked my cervix again.  I had dilated to 4.5/5cm.  This is the cusp of active labor.  The room suddenly buzzed with action.  

My breath became short, and, on the monitors, the babies' heartbeats raced. The doctor by my bedside pointed this out to me, gently asked that I remain calm.  I began babbling, one minute optimistically, afterall, my water remained unbroken, and I had read about the high survival rates of babies born at 31 weeks gestation; the next minute in terror, guilt, and disbelief.  I clutched Court's hand in my own and threw myself helplessly into his gaze.  The firmness and nearness of his presence stopped the manic stream of chatter, and instead, I settled into a bizarre pattern of gasping, laughing, and sobbing.  My skin prickled with goosebumps and I shivered, though I don't remember feeling cold.  I was given various medications and fluids, both intravenously and orally, the explanations of which were lost to me.

At some point I was wheeled into a windowless room with an obstetrician from my own practice.  I remember her as tall, with blond hair, and a confident voice.  She explained to me that I had been given a shot of steroids, to help the babies lungs grow, and magnesium, which, in addition to helping stave off labor, would help prevent potential brain bleeds, which were common in preterm infants.  There was also an NSAID, of some sort, which was helping to prolong labor, I think.  She introduced a doctor from the NICU, who kindly and reassuringly explained how the neonatalogists would protect and care for my babies, were they to arrive that evening.  I remember her as a very calming presence, but I can't recall a word she said.  

I was wheeled to yet another windowless room, which was somehow even darker than the first.  My pain increased, for which I was administered Stadol, a drug which I will never again accept.  I lost all sense of reality. I faded in and out of consciousness, and could not determine when I was dreaming, and when I was awake.  The person in the chair next to me transformed from my husband to my mother, and at one point, even my father-in-law. I kept whispering for them not to leave me, and asking for reassurance that I was awake, and alive.  Meanwhile, nurses filtered through, administering drugs and fluids, and begging me to sleep.  Unfortunately, my pain and fear would not subside, and I remained awake, confused and incoherent.

Eventually, slowly, the Stadol wore off, and I began to understand that my contractions had slowed and I was no longer dilating.  The room came into focus, and I saw that I was in labor and delivery.  Labor had been successfully halted for the 48 hours necessary for the medications I'd been given to take affect on my unborn children.  

I was wheeled to a fourth room.  I still had very little idea of what was happening, or what was to come, and I missed Tristan terribly.  Even so, I was giddy with relief to be in a room with a window, and a sofa bed for my husband.  We watched television, and finally, I slept.