An Adoptive Mother’s First Time in the Delivery Room - Part 1

It’s March. The nineteenth. Three o’clock in the morning.

I’m tired. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I’m cold. I must put one foot in front of the other. Adrenaline will take over soon. All I need to do is get ready, load my things, and make the 40-mile trip to the hospital.

Even though there are two other people with me in the car, the ride is quiet. This experience is new for all of us. I wonder how many hours I will be awake before my head hits the pillow again? I am in awe that my daughter (who I met ten years ago) wants to include me in one of life’s most thrilling events.

We pull in front of the hospital and unload a slew of belongings. Suit case, pillows, diaper bag, car seat, and so on. The valet parking attendant takes my information and my key. It’s five A.M.

Faces covered, we enter the still building and get our temperatures checked. Tags in place, we head to the delivery quarters. Two hours later we are settled and the induction is underway. We take photos and sip on our beverages. The father-to-be takes a nap. Me? I’m wide awake!

Ten in the morning. The light shines bright outside our third story window. Water is broken, contractions become more intense. I attend to my little girl’s needs. Some ice. Some water. Chicken broth.

The pain is escalating. We get the discouraging news that no progress has been made. This might be a long day. An epidural is ordered. I’m sent out of the room for the procedure. My daughter asks why her mom has to leave. I’m helpless. I go on a walk and call my husband.

It’s 12:30.

Things are much calmer when I return to the room. Relief has come, for the moment. Dad is awake and at his wife’s side. The happy couple is excited to meet their son.

Nurses work on different birthing positions throughout the afternoon. The two women began their shift at 7 A.M. and they would love to meet this little one before they leave at 7 P.M.

The doctor arrives a little after five. Her shift at the office is over and she is ready to deliver this baby. But the nurses give her the bad news. Still 7-8 centimeters. Disappointed, she says her goodbyes and allows the doctor on call to take over.

The new doctor comes in. The mood changes dramatically. Everyone knows that he is in charge of this operation now. The Pitocin is turned up. It’s been on all day. The nurses are displeased but their shift is about over. They work intently at different positions doing everything in their power to prevent an undesirable outcome.

Two new nurses arrive. The topic: C-section. It’s only been 12 hours of labor. She’s at nine and a half centimeters, but the baby needs to drop further into the birthing canal. The doctor demands that pushing begin now. This mom-to-be will have to force the baby further down in order for any procedures to be successful.

Two hours later, we are all exhausted and worn down by health professionals that could use a lesson or two in bed side manner. I advocate for my daughter so she can get some rest before trying again. We also need time to discuss other options.

She sleeps, but only for a little bit. Nurses come in and claim a C-section is the only way. We are confused. We are wondering how it got to this point so quickly. This is not an emergency, yet, they say. I rub my hand over my little girl’s forehead as she weeps. I weep with her. This isn’t the outcome any of us wanted.

Breathe. I slowly go over a list of pros and cons. She is young. She is resilient. She will most likely heal quicker than most C-section patients. But she won’t get to hold her baby right away. She will have a longer hospital stay. It will be harder to care for her son when she gets home. I let her know I will be with her to help during her recovery.

It’s thirty minutes into the twentieth of March. I look at the monitor with the baby’s heart rate. It’s dropped from 150 bpm to 120 bpm. I know a decision must be made. A nurse comes in and points out the same thing. My daughter reluctantly concedes to the procedure. Her husband suits up.

I watch as my sweet girl - who I’ve loved since she first showed up on our doorstep ten years ago - was wheeled out of the room by a barrage of nurses. I was alone. The bright white room void of activity.

I pray. I call my husband in the middle of the night. He prays. We hang up. I’ve been up 22 hours, but I can’t sleep. I gather belongings and pack them up. I throw trash into canisters. One day of my life has been spent in this room. One day I will never forget.

The room is clean enough. I’m ready to move. But no word of baby yet.

An hour passes. My mind races. I force myself to lay on the couch. No one has entered the room.

Finally, the door opens. A nurse comes in to start preparing the room for the next delivery. She has no news for me, then exits with some trash. I’m left to wonder what is happening, and why is this all taking so long.

I get a text from the father. He says he’s been kicked out of the room. His wife did not respond to the local painkillers, so she had to be put under.

I catch my breath. I pray diligently. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. We’ve waited nine months for this little one’s arrival. He should be here by now.

I wait. My phone pings. It is a picture. Praise the Lord, by grandson is here. He is beautiful, but I want to know about my daughter. How is my daughter? Is she okay?

My 23-year-old son-in-law texts back that she is getting stitched up.

It’s two in the morning. I try to relax and give the medical professionals time to do their job. Thirty minutes later, a nurse arrives to escort me to the post op ward. We pile all our belongings onto two carts and roll them over.

I see them! My grandson is being attended to by a nurse. So is my daughter. My son-in-law invites me to come meet his son. His name means “God is my help.” Yes, He is.

I look at my daughter. She is groggy. She doesn’t know I am there. She doesn’t seem to realize where she is much at all, or what just happened. My heart goes out to her. It also goes out to the crying baby in the tray. I ask the nurse if I can touch him. I rub his chest and try to comfort him. He is supposed to be in his mama’s arms, but that’s just not the way it happened this time.

I hear my daughter groaning as they check her abdomen and look for blood. I encourage my son-in-law to stay at her side. The nurses swarm around her. I continue skin-to-skin contact with my eight-pound, three-ounce, grandson. He is so precious and looks to be very strong.

The activity is increasing around my little girl. I study my surroundings. What is going on?

All the sudden, I hear the words “code white”.

Nurses move faster. The doctor comes to the ward and starts shouting, “Who called the code white?” A nurse identified herself and gave her reasons. The doctor told her to get out! Arguing ensues. My hand squeezes another tiny hand. This little one was going to be okay. But what about my little girl?

The arguing ends. The doctor leaves. The nurses scramble. One of them tells us a lot of people are going to be coming soon so she is clearing out the space as much as possible.

I hear “code white” announced on the intercom. Teams of people started showing up. EMT is on the scene. Finally, a blood box shows up. They are going to perform a transfusion. My daughter’s oxygen levels were dropping quickly.

The father asks a nurse if his wife is going to be okay. She says they are doing everything they can to make sure that is the case.

I call my husband again. He is groggy, but seems to understand the urgency of the situation. I hold the phone up to our daughter’s ear. She shares a few incoherent words with him. I take back the phone and leave him on the line while the nurses speak with us.

It’s three A.M. The nurse explains what happened when the “code white” was called and how the medical team rallied to get my daughter the help she needed despite the doctor’s initial disapproval. He was now caught up on the situation and on board. I thank God for the nurses and their perseverance to respond with life-saving measures so quickly.

The new mama asks for her baby. She gets to hold him for the first time. She is still groggy though and most of her strength has left her. The father asks if I would like a turn. I pick up my grandson and admire this gift from God. His entrance into this world was not an easy one, but I know his future is bright.

After twenty-four hours in the hospital, we move into the mom and baby unit. I try to sleep on the couch a couple hours before making the hour-long drive back home. Before I leave, I change a diaper and dress the newborn in his first outfit. Then I hand him to my daughter and take some photos. She is still wearing her birthing gown. A teal-colored cloth with cute panda faces.

I look forward to visiting them again soon when I pick them up for the trip home. We expect that to be in just a few days.

But God's plans are not our plans, and we would soon learn what lay ahead on the road to recovery. Read Part 2 of An Adoptive Mother’s First Time in the Delivery Room.