It’s Sunday, November 17th, 1996. The day starts out like any other Sunday would, the only difference being today is homecoming at our church and I have to throw some southern dish together - probably my baked beans. The baby usually kicks while I’m cooking those, maybe it’s the smell, I don’t know. As I go about the house opening cabinets and searching for the necessary ingredients, I realize that I haven’t felt the baby move all morning which is a rather unusual thing for her - she normally squirms in protest whenever I wake up and start my day. I already know she’ll be a lazy one - something she inherited from her father, no doubt. I go grab the oreos to see if I can stir her up a bit with those. A chocolate lover, like her mother. I eat a few and still get no reaction from her. I’m starting to worry. What is going on? I continue to make the beans, breathing in as much of the aroma as I can, trying to get her to respond. Nothing. Something is wrong. I’ve had trouble with her before, but nothing like this. This is different. My body has never really taken to her presence very kindly, it seemed to not like her at all during the beginnings of the pregnancy. I still remember the blood. Then more blood. Then blood again. My body really does not want this baby, but I do. We’ve gone too far and we’ve been through too many almost miscarriages to give up now. We only have nine weeks left, we can do this. I get through church and our homecoming lunch, and later that afternoon, I go with Mom to KMart. Of course, she notices something is wrong right away - mothers always know. I just tell her what I know and what I know is nothing. I know that my baby isn’t moving and I am scared to death.
Later that night, I’m lying in bed, tossing and turning, trying desperately not only to ease my mind but also to provoke my baby to do something - anything. My husband sleeps in our guestroom now, claiming, “There’s room for only two in this bed, Donna.” I haven’t even told him yet - I know that that would only add fuel to the fire. He stresses about missing a football game on TV, he would absolutely lose his mind at this and I can’t handle that right now. I need to think without him breathing down my neck. I need calm and comfort. So, I turn to What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I scour the pages of that already worn book, searching frantically for anything that looks remotely like what I’m experiencing. But what am I experiencing? This, in fact, is not something that you would typically expect when you’re expecting. So, I find nothing. The rest of the night is spent in tears and prayers.
The next morning, my husband has gone before I get out of bed - his first shift at the hospital is that day. Figures. Right when I get up, I call my dad and ask him to come pick me up and take me to the hospital. He asks me what’s wrong and I say that I’ll explain on the way. When he pulls into our driveway, he hops out of the car and rushes to the door where I stand waiting. He has barely reached me, and he’s already asking me questions that I don’t feel like answering, all the while helping me down the steps of our front porch and into his car. “Are you having contractions?” “I mean, it’s too early isn’t it?” “What is going on - is the baby okay?” “Are you craving Taco Bell again?” No, yes, I don’t know, what? He gets me safely secured in the passenger seat and he himself is barely in the car before he’s closing the door on his foot and shifting the car in reverse, backing out and buckling up at the same time which looks to be a terribly complex task. If I didn’t completely trust his driving skills, I would have jumped out and started walking to the hospital at this point. On the way, I try to tell him what’s happening, or, more accurately, what’s not happening.
We’ve arrived at the hospital, and dad jerks the car into a parking spot and cuts the engine off. By the time I can take my next breath, he’s ripping open my door and practically dragging me out. I’m positive I look like an oversized penguin with the way I’m waddle-running through the automatic doors and up to the front desk.
“Good morning! How far apart are your contractions?” The young, cheery nurse looks up at me expectantly.
“No, I’m not - I just need to see Dr. White, please.”
Consulting her computer, she says, “Okay, well you can have a seat right over there, and I’ll get you worked in!”
“No, I need to see him right now, it’s an emergency.” She looks back up at me, seems to do a quick examination of my face, and something visibly clicks within her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can just make out a picture of a newborn baby on her desk.
“Yes ma’am, right away, follow me.”
She leads me through doors, hallways, and more doors until we finally reach an examination room with the nameplate reading “Dr. White” beside the entrance. She quickly raps on the door, calling out the doctor’s name as she does so. He answers with a swift “come in” and I’m gently thrust through the door and sat upon an examination bed.
“Donna! What’s the problem?” I’ve seen this man many times now, and he’s quickly learned not to expect good things from me. He’s known from the beginning that I won’t carry my baby full-term, so he started injecting steroid shots into my stomach early on to accelerate the development of my baby’s organs. Doctors are smart sometimes.
I quickly explain to him my problem to the best of my ability, and all at once, he’s urging me to lie down on the bed and cold, wet gel is replacing the warmth of my sweatshirt. My eyes automatically flick to the sonogram where a picture of my baby appears. Dr. White clears his throat and purses his lips. There on the screen is a picture of my baby, tightly balled into the fetal position, eyes shut, fists clenched. My heart both drops and accelerates simultaneously. Fresh tears and prayers form.
“We’ve got to take her. Now.” He says. It doesn’t take him long to see what’s wrong. He tells me that a part of my uterus has ballooned out and it has taken the umbilical cord with it, crimping and twisting it, cutting off all nutrients and oxygen. He says that it’s an extremely good thing that I came to him when I did because in these cases, the uterus ruptures, killing both the baby and the mother. “Some mothers don’t even realize that their baby isn’t moving.” He explains. He says that it’s a guessing game as to how long my baby hasn’t been able to breathe, but judging by how I haven’t felt her move in at least 24 hours… The odds don’t look good. He tells me that she stopped moving so she could conserve what little oxygen she had left. Smart, like both of her parents.
At this point, my mom, husband, in-laws, and pastor have all been called and are waiting outside with my dad. Dr. White doesn’t know how long we have until the inevitable rupture comes, so he swiftly wheels me to an operation room. On the way there, we pass by my visitors, and Brother Ford lays his burly hand on my shoulder and asks Dr. White if we can have a word of prayer. After the prayer, everyone is reusing their crumpled Kleenexes. Now I’m in some room and on some bed where a sheet separates my face from my belly and I am locally anesthetized and shortly thereafter am being cut open. It is now that I realize that I don’t have a name for her.
When my baby is born, she isn’t crying. She isn’t breathing. She isn’t moving. Later, Dr. White explains to me that they had to resuscitate her two times. If she had gone a third time, they would have just let her - something about there being too much brain damage due to the excessive loss of oxygen. He tells me that there will most likely already be some brain damage, but we may not be able to tell until she gets a little older. We’ll need to watch her closely. Now, all three pounds and five ounces of her is asleep in an incubator by my bed with what seems to be a million little wires and machines hooked up to her small body. It’s Monday, November 18th, 1996, and my baby is breathing, and she is moving.