Chelsea

Milo's Story

Jul 30, 2019 5 years ago

I don't think I ever felt so strong while feeling so incredibly vulnerable. I tried to hold back the tears behind a forced smile. I couldn't allow myself to break down. I had to be strong for him. He needed me. They needed me. I needed to be their rock. Being away from my oldest son tore at my heart, but I knew I was where I needed to be. I knew he was safe with my parents. Seeing my youngest in an incubator cage hooked up to wires and tubes made me sick. I did everything I could to keep him safe. I was supposed to provide him with a warm and safe place to grow without worries for 9 months, but my body wouldn't let me. My body failed me and it almost failed him. I honestly try not to think about it. Whenever I picture it, I get nauseous and start to cry. It took me days before I could really talk about it. The pain. The blood. The lights. Watching the nurses rush to prep themselves and me for surgery. Being strapped down. Doctors and nurses calling out directions in loud and rushed tones. The pain. Wishing they would just put me under. Wishing it was over. Then came the reassurance from a nurse's comforting hand and I was out. The pain was gone. Or, at least I thought it was. Suddenly, I felt everything again. The cold table underneath me. The straps on my arms and legs. The doctor pushing on my stomach. The gas mask against my face. I could hear those rushed conversations and the beeping of the alarms. I could hear and feel everything but I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. They were about to cut me open and I could feel everything and I couldn't let them know. I was told I stayed pretty calm as I told the nurse it was time. I don't remember calm. I remember panic and pain. I could see the fear in my husband's eyes. The worry that he may never see his wife again or meet his son. I could hear the hesitation in his voice when he was clarifying my wish of “baby comes first. If it comes down to it, save the baby first.” I said this during our first pregnancy as well, and he agreed, but being in the situation where he might actually need to make that decision was a different story, one he was having a difficult time wrapping his head around. He tried to stay calm and not let me see him worry. He went through the checklist. “You want to be cremated, right?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And allow family and friends to say goodbye first?” “Yes, and the baby comes first.” “And then planted with a tree?” “Yes, and Milo comes first.” He looked at me in a way I could never put words to. It was as if by agreeing to my request out loud he was damning me to death, that he was closing the book to my life himself. He eyes screamed while his voice calmly agreed, “and Milo comes first.” His green eyes sparkling from the tears he was trying to hold back. Swollen and red around the edges. Stinging. With a sudden jerk, I hear the words “here we go” as the nurses roll my bed out of the room. He walked with me until he was told he couldn't go any further and our hands pulled apart as I was wheeled in for surgery. The meds had seemed to be helping but part of me knew it wouldn't last. “What if as soon as these meds are done, it starts again?” The nurse reassured me that shouldn't be the case, but it was. Within a few hours after that last drop of magnesium, the pain started again in full force. Then came the blood. A lot of blood. The nurses seemed to stay calm, at least in front of us. But I knew. I knew there was no stopping it. I knew it was time. I needed to call my mom.

Read