I feel like I’ve told Avett’s story a thousand times, but I’ve never sat down and taken the time to write it out. Avett’s birthday, much like his pregnancy, wasn’t anything that I expected, and practically nothing went to plan, and each time I adapted to our latest curveball, something else would happen to change the plans again. Needless to say, his entry into the world, beginning to completion, was a wild ride.
Surprise! It’s a Baby
First of all, his entire existence was a surprise for all of us. We found out I was pregnant the day before we left for Disney World in August. Since I had Scout, my cycles had been insanely regular — like, I could set my watch by when my period would start. So I knew, planning our vacation, that I’d start my period on Sunday, I’d be finished on Tuesday night, and we’d leave Wednesday morning for Florida and I wouldn’t even have to worry about it.
And then I was finishing packing on Tuesday afternoon and it hit me like a cartoon safe smashing Wiley Coyote: something was missing. Something hadn’t happened.
Surprisingly, I didn’t panic. I had to run to Walmart anyway, so I added a pregnancy test to my list, not thinking anything of it. There are three certainties in this world: death, taxes, and starting your period four seconds after peeing on a $20 pregnancy test. I got home, took it, checked it out, only saw one line, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Yep. At first glance, I didn’t see a line. Nope, nope, nope, I did not. So I finished packing, and when I went to grab the test and toss it, I took another peek at it, and everything changed.
Now, this entire time, I kept Dale in the dark. I figured there was no reason to say anything because obviously this was a nothingburger. There was no need to ramp up his adrenaline if it wasn’t a sure thing, and it was not going to be a thing.
I was wrong.
When I found out I was pregnant with Scout, I didn’t do anything cute to tell Dale. I called him and told him to come home rightthissecond, and then as soon as he came in, I told him. No pomp, no circumstance, just bludgeoning him over the head with the news of a baby. I swore to myself that if I had another, I’d find a cute, special way to tell him.
I did not.
I just came out and threw it at him showed it to him, tongue-tied and speechless. I think for a hot second, when he saw the two lines he thought I had COVID and wouldn’t be able to go on our trip. We didn’t really talk bout it much until a week later when we got back from Disney. I needed some processing time, plus Ellie was with us. We didn’t drink and didn’t do sushi, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t ride Space Mountain anyway.
It’s Not a Girl?
With Scout, we decided to keep her sex a surprise. We figured there were so few true surprises left in the world, we’d take advantage of the one at our doorstep. That was not the case with this kid! After having a pandemic baby, my method of curbing my anxiety has been controlling absolutely everything within my power, and I just wasn’t sure that having another unknown pregnancy would be the best thing for my mental health. We decided to do a Sneak Peek test at 8 weeks. It’s a test you can take at home, almost like a pregnancy test, except you do a finger poke. It’s fairly reliable, except if you have men in the house. It checks for a male hormone, so if you cross contaminate at all, it will falsely show “boy.” So when I got an email dripping in blue, I just assumed I’d fucked it up 😂 I couldn’t believe it. Dale Benfield only makes girls, and I was certain it was a girl.
Nevertheless, I got out my old childhood books from our storage unit and searched until I found the Little Critter book “Just Me and my Baby Brother.” When I gave it to Dale, he just stared at it for a few seconds … I think he was more shocked than I was!
Then we had a NIPT test at twenty weeks Because I’m of “advanced maternal age” or whatever (*eyeroll*), we did additional testing to make sure everything was baseline okay. It was also able to tell us the sex. It confirmed boy, so we were positive now!
Tyler Lucille and the Wonky Placenta
Everything had gone pretty normally in the first twenty weeks. We’d gone to Disney, I once again avoided morning sickness. I was exhausted, but happy. I’d finally settled down with the idea of being pregnant and having another kid. Our baby boy was due on April 14 (one week after my birthday). I was definitely more tired this pregnancy (I was heavier and chasing a toddler), bit everything was going according to plan. Dale had been working so much on the road that the twenty-week scan was the first appointment he got to attend.
Prior to being diagnosed with complete placenta previa, I’d never even heard of placenta previa. If you’re like me, let me explain it a little — when you get pregnant and your placenta forms, it attaches to the side of your uterus and then services little bebe inside you. Mine missed the mark and attached directly on top of my cervix, completely covering it and blocking little boy’s exit.
The twenty week appointment was the first Dale was able to attend because he’d been traveling so much for work. When my doctor came in and explained what was happening — that I would have to have an early scheduled c-section because if my water broke and I started laboring naturally, I could hemorrhage and die — well, I was very happy he was there. She explained that although the placenta could shift, and if it did, I could deliver vaginally, that because of how severe it was, it would 99% not happen. I was told to take it easy: no strenuous exercise, no heavy lifting … and no sex. Total pelvic rest. When we left, when Dale was trying to lighten my mood, he told me he didn’t wanna come to another appointment 😂 We were also told that bleeding was likely, and no matter how insignificant it seemed (even with spotting), if I started bleeding at all, to call the L&D line and go to the emergency room.
Now, I’m a crier. I am who I am.I cry when I’m happy, when I’m sad, and, pertinent to this story, when I’m scared. So I cried. A lot. In front of my doctor, Dale, God and everyone.
Like I said earlier, since becoming a parent in a pandemic, I’ve managed my anxiety by controlling every little thing I can. When I found out I was *surprise* pregnant, that was a lapse in control. When we found out he was a boy, when I just *knew* he was a girl (because Dale only makes girls, duh), that was a lapse in control. And when I found out I couldn’t deliver vaginally, letting my body tell me when it was time, that was a lapse in control. Nothing was going how I thought it would (and how I thought it should) be going.
But then I sucked it up and adapted. Okay, if I can’t do what I wanted to do, and this is my only option, I’m going to learn everything I can about it and be in control of it, damn it. I think that’s whtn God started laughing at me.
I’m not sure that I’m an authority on what you should do if you are diagnosed with complete placenta previa like I was. I can, however, tell you what you should not do, and that is Google complete placenta previa and then join every Facebook previa group you can. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, 0/10, do not do it. They are filled with nuggets of worst-case scenarios that do not help your mind or your peace.
“Controlling” My Destiny
The next thirteen weeks went by pretty uneventfully. I was my exhausted that I was with Scout’s pregnancy (because I had a toddler to chase), I was heavier than I was with Scout’s pregnancy (#pandemicprobz), and I was obsessively aware of my body and of Avett’s movements. We made it through Christmas and into the new year. Each day passed and catastrophe didn’t hit. Dale even bought us tickets to go to Mexico *just us!) for Valentine’s Day and his birthday.
So imagine his sadness when he went with me to my next appointment and my doctor told me I couldn’t go. Dr. Beal squashed his dreams again. At that point, I was afraid he wouldn’t show up for anything else 🙃
The only huge hiccup in that time frame was getting COVID. My entire family (Mom, Dad, sister, brother in law, niece, me, and Scout) all got it at the same time at Thanksgiving, so we all holed up and lived like plague rats in an Ellis Island TB detention center. It was very Velveteen Rabbit. The first day was the worst for me (felt like the flu), then I was sluggish on the second day, then it was just a cold. Scout didn’t even know she was sick. She went down hard for about four hours, then bounced back and that was it. She was such a little champ. It went as easily as it could have possibly gone.
We met some friends in Eureka Springs for a Mardi Gras parade, and Scout had the best time collecting beads and eating hot dogs. We even set my c-section date! At my (5 days late) 32 week appointment, we decided that Baby Brother would arrive on March 20. Finally, everything was falling into place.
The Crime Scene in the Bathroom (TW: blood, pregnancy)
We got home from the 32 week appointment and I was so excited. My Control Gene was satisfied. I knew exactly when, where, and how baby brother would join us, and I could start planning everything for his arrival.
God laughed at my plans.
The day after my appointment, we put Scout to sleep in our bed. She had given me the best snuggles ever. It was almost as if she knew something was about to happen. I dozed with her for a little bit, then went into the living room with Dale. We decided to watch a documentary about Robin Williams. Around midnight, I got up to wash my face and brush my teeth.
Now, if you’re new to pregnancy (or just want to avoid a TMI), here’s your warning to gloss over this paragraph. I was up washing my face, wearing Dale’s bathrobe and nothing else, when I started to feel kind of … squishy … in my nether regions. Which isn’t abnormal in pregnancy, you get gooey in her down-belows, it’s just part of the experience. But I also knew from Scout’s pregnancy that being extra gooey might mean I was losing my mucus plug, which could signal the start of labor — you know, that thing I wasn’t supposed to go into naturally.
Out of curiosity, I stuck my hand down to investigate. And I pulled it back with a little bit of blood on it.
*breathe. just breathe*
*but also tell Dale*
I turned the corner out of our bathroom and held out my hand to Dale, and he popped up like a roman candle. He was amped up and READY to grab Scout and go. In that moment, though, it was only a little bit of blood, so I said to let me run up to the hospotal alone, no need to wake everyone up for nothing if it is indeed just nothing.
And apparently, “nothing” is the word that unleashed the hemorrhage.
Dear Reader, when I tell you I bled, I don’t mean, oh, I cut my hand and I need some stitches. I mean, I gushed blood, down my legs, on to the floor, giant puddles on blood. It was like an episode of Dexter, and it was enough blood that I had gotten really lightheaded. I think had Dale not moved so quickly to get me into the car, he probably would have had to call an ambulance after I passed out. He grabbed a towel (good thinking), led me out to the car, and sat me down in his bathrobe, then ran in to grab a sleeping Scout.
We only live four or five minutes from our hospital, and Dale still made the trip in about sixty seconds 😂 they dropped me off at the emergency room entrance, Dale escorting me inside, waddling in his bathrobe, leaving a slug-trail of blood behind me. While Dale was parking the car, he had the good sense to explain to Scout what was going on — that Mommy is bleeding, but she’s okay, and we’re at the doctor that’s going to make her all better … but you’re going. to see blood, so don’t be scared — and she wasn’t. I later found out she went to preschool and told everyone that “Mommy was bleeding from her bottom.” Lord help me.
The hospital was incredible. I called up to L&D to let them know I was coming, and they met me downstairs. We got upstairs and it was kind of a blur, a result of a zillion things happening at once and the blood loss. I know when they hooked me up to the fetal monitor it took a minute to find him, and it was the longest 45 seconds of my life. Once we heard him, I think everyone in the room exhaled. At that point, I took a picture of myself and the bleeding. I’m adding it as a link here))
And then we waited. For a long time, we waited. They gave me a steroid shot to build up baby brother’s lungs in case he had to come out quickly. My blood pressure had dipped pretty hard and they couldn’t stop the bleeding, but I was convinced I would go home the next day and come back for my scheduled c-section on March 20. We had just set it. That was the plan, so that was what was going to happen.
Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, y’all.
My parents arrived by 1:45am (stunning, since I called them when they were dead asleep at 12:15 and they live an hour and a half away). They took Scout home, and Dale and I continued to wait and see.
I Guess We’re Having a Baby
You would think by now reality would have hit. That I would have accepted that this baby was coming now, that I was not leaving this hospital until I no longer held a human inside of me. That my March 20 surgery was coming off the calendar.
You might think that, but you would be wrong. So very wrong.
I managed to get some sleep, and when I woke up the next morning, I was still Mary Sunshine. I was telling all of my nurses that everything was fine. In hindsight, I can see that my positivity was a trauma response and an attempt to feel like I was still in control of a rapidly declining situation. At the time, though, I’ll be damned if I didn’t think I was just speaking it into existence. They all indulged me for a while, and for that, I am grateful.
Around noon, my doctor had made it in to see me. I even told her I thought I could leave and come back. Unbeknownst to me, though, I had been having contractions all morning. And I HAD NO IDEA. The power of adrenaline, man. My placenta had ruptured and I was in active labor and shit was happening, and it’s hard impossible to stop a moving train. This baby was coming out tomorrow morning, if we could make it that long. They wanted to try to get one more steroid shot in me prior to birth. Which meant that baby boy would be born at 33 weeks and would go directly to the NICU.
I said before that I was a crier. Well, the crying I did in the doctor’s office was nothing compared to the crying I did in that hospital bed. Everything was happening, nobody asked me what I wanted, AND THIS WAS NOT IN MY FUCKING BIRTH PLAN, GODDAMN IT (I may have actually said that between sobs).
My parents brought Scout back up, Dale went to get all of my things, my sister flew home from Phoenix, and I took a shower. I guess we’re having a baby.
Am I Dying?: The Birth
I woke up around 5am on his birth day. I wasn’t being taken back until 7-7:30, and Dale was still sleeping, but I needed a little time to myself to process. I did a Peloton meditation, I prayed to anyone who would hear me. I manifested good health and good luck. I did my makeup and I did my hair (as much possible when I wasn’t allowed on my feet without a nurse). I just sat with myself.
And I felt surprisingly at peace.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.
The anesthesiologist came in and talked to me/us prior to the surgery. Pretty standard, from my experience, but what didn’t seem standard was how big an asshole he was. Condescending, short with responses … and I get it, anesthesiologists don’t typically need a “bedside manner,” so to speak — just don’t kill me and we’re cool — but this was a little much. In his defense, he got more personable as the morning went on (after he didn’t kill me), but it was an anxious start to the morning.
When they wheeled me into the operating room, Dale wasn’t allowed to come in immediately. I had to hang out on my own, sit up on the bed, let the aforementioned asshole anesthesiologist insert a needle the size of Dumbledore’s wand into my spine, and lay down and (like everything else) … wait. At that time, after laying down for maybe 30 seconds, my shoulders started to throb. I kept thinking, I know this isn’t right, this isn’t supposed to feel like this, so I asked the anesthesiologist if it was normal. Per my original assessment, he literally told me, “If your shoulders are aching, it’s not from anything I did.” Thanks. 10/10, vv helpful.
In this moment, I convinced myself I was going to die. Really and truly, I just knew I was going to die. I had a bad feeling and nothing was going to plan and I couldn’t get answers about what I felt and why I felt it, and by God, I’m comin’ Elizabeth. I don’t even think I had time to be scared.
It turns out I was just having a panic attack. Which I would have known, were I at all thinking rationally. Luckily, Dale came in around that time. I saw him and it felt like a huge sigh of relief. He came and sat down next to my head (he had zero interest in watching the action lol), held my hand, and away we went.
It’s an otherworldly experience, being cut in half and staying awake for it. My doctor talked me through everything she did, except for the part when she and her co-pilot (who talked about horses the entire time) started pulling my abdomen apart like summer camp tug of war. I didn’t realize it was quite as violent a process as it was 😂 I was thinking about that when Dale tells me, “he’s almost out!”
And in a moment I can only describe as relieving, I could feel my entire body pull up as though I was Linda Blair levitating, and then settle back sinking into the table, like the deepest breath I’d ever taken, and I heard one beautiful little cry as he was held up over the curtain. One loud, bold, big-kid cry.
But that was it. Nothing afterward. One shriek, and then a lot of silence and nervous tension. I think I asked, “Is he okay?” approximately 4,592 times … and no one would answer me. A few minutes later, he had stabilized enough to be moved into the NICU, and I sent Dale along with him. I got another little peek at him, then he was on his way. I was woozy, but okay, and Avett needed more immediate attention than I did. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see him for a while, so it was important to me that he had Daddy present if I couldn’t be there as well.
I got myself all sewn up and got rolled into recovery. The anesthesiologist became markedly more friendly on the ride down ( maybe once he realized he hadn’t killed me?). When I was rolled into the recovery room, I was strapped back into a blood pressure monitor and I swear, the nurse’s face went a little pale. Apparently, my bp had dropped to 55/40 and so they flipped me upside down (no… seriously, they turned my bed head down like I was in a circus) and I just chilled there for a while. Thank God for drugs, ya know.
And then I was rolled back into an empty room, with an empty, sewn up belly but no baby in sight. And as with everything else, I waited. I didn’t get to meet my baby until almost 12 hours after he. was born. I had pumped three times before I even. touched my baby. It was such a surreal experience.
