I remember clearly the day I discovered I was pregnant. I hadn’t felt well for a few weeks but I had put it down to the early miscarriage I’d experienced the previous month. My period hadn’t arrived but I assumed it was my body adjusting. It wasn’t until I began to feel nausea at the smell of coffee (something I usually loved) that I suspected I could be pregnant again. I had a home pregnancy test kit in the bathroom cupboard and for a couple of days I kept looking at it and wondering whether to use it. I wanted to use the test, but I needed so much for it to be positive that I was afraid I would be disappointed.
When I got up the nerve to test two bold blue lines appeared in the boxes. I was pregnant again. Of course now I was filled with fear. What if I lost this baby also? Could my heart cope with another loss so soon after the first? Telling myself to get a grip, and my husband that I had to drink decaffeinated coffee for a while, the idea of finally having a much desired baby sank in.
We had a scare during week 9 as we returned from celebrating Christmas with family in the UK. An ambulance rushed me from the airport to the local hospital because of some unexpected bleeding. With no cause apparent, I was soon cleared to continue the journey home with instructions to contact my Obstetrician as soon as possible. Three days later I was examined and discovered that the baby wasn’t in the right position. My Obstetrician told me that Placenta Previa was a very real possibility. I left her office determined to follow her advice of no lifting, bending, carrying or sex until the baby either moved into the right position or was born! I was determined that nothing within my control was going to hurt this baby.
I became the poster child for complications during that pregnancy. From painful swollen ankles to gestational diabetes, I seemed destined to experience a vast array of pregnancy ailments. It didn’t matter. I was still pregnant, my baby was thriving and I was happy beyond belief. I spent my days taking insulin, soaking my feet in cool water laced with a few drops of rose oil to alleviate the swelling, and talking to my unborn child.
During the pregnancy, and as each new complication appeared, I would cheerfully tell my mother over the phone that it was OK, things could be worse. Then, in week 32, came the darkest day of all. My weekly routine pre-natal check-up revealed that the baby hadn’t grown for the second consecutive week. An ultrasound showed that the baby was in no immediate danger but I was hospitalized so my medical team could keep a closer watch on the situation.
As the baby didn’t grow again during the following week, my Obstetrician advised that the baby’s chances of survival were now better on the outside than they were if he remained in my stomach. I was terrified. After a lengthy discussion of our options and possible outcomes, my husband and I agreed that things were now beyond my control, and to a c-section being performed the following morning.
At 9am on 14th July 2000, my son was born via c-section under general anaesthetic. The baby had been in 99% Placenta Previa, normal delivery would have been impossible, and a later examination of the umbilical cord revealed that there was only one feeding channel into the baby, instead of two – he was slowly starving. Having stopped growing in week 30 of the pregnancy, he weighed in at a tiny 3lb and 21cm. The c-section had been the right decision.
Soon to turn 14 years old, Jake’s now a healthy, intelligent boy of average height who shows no outward signs of his premature birth.
Katie-Anne G.
Sweden