The Lord has given me a strange early warning system. I start crying for no really good reason.
On Mother's Day, May 13th, 1990, I woke up feeling a little odd. Then I realized what had happened. For the first time in at least a couple of months, I hadn't been woken up in the middle of the night by the stirrings of the child within me.
As the day progressed, I became more and more worried as I could not feel any movement inside of me. I slapped my midsection, I ordered the child to move. I took a walk, hoping that my movement would cause the baby to move. Then, I laid down thinking that that might help. Nothing.
I called the nursing station in the maternity ward of the hospital and asked the nurse if I should come in to get checked as it had been almost 24 hours since I had felt any movement. She gave me an ambiguous, "Well, if you want to, you can."
In the middle of eating the chicken and dumplings that I had prepared for dinner, I started crying. The early warning signal that something was wrong!
I called my sister, Faye, who was about to go out the door with her ex-husband for dinner. I told her that I needed to go to the hospital and get checked out. She reluctantly agreed to come and drive me there.
On the drive over to hospital, I was pretty quiet. My sister was thinking that the baby had moved toward my back and that I just couldn't feel the baby moving. At the same time, I was hoping that that was the problem.
A few minutes after I arrived, I was in a hospital gown and hooked up to a fetal monitor. The signs were not encouraging. The baby's heartbeat was up and down and all around. At one point, there was no heartbeat.
I was told that I was going to have my child that night. The baby was in too much distress to remain in the womb. Blood tests were taken and I was given something to induce labor.
A doctor asked me what drugs I had taken. I told him none. He said, "Come on and tell me. Your babies' life is at stake."
Somehow I managed not to hurl the words of anger that lept into my mind and told him: "I haven't taken any drugs. I haven't even taken an aspirin or Tylenol since I found out I was pregnant!"
I would not go into labor. An ultrasound was performed. I was told that I had to have an emergency Cesaerian. Papers were shoved in front of me to sign. The doctor was warning me to never try to have another child--that it was just plain too dangerous.
I don't remember whether or not I had been praying before, but, I do remember praying as I was being wheeled into an operating room.
The anesthesist had a mask over my face and a few minutes after I had been wheeled into the room, the surgical team was in place.
The anesthesist asked the doctor, "Are you ready?" I felt the scapel cut me open as the anesthesist yelled: "She's not under, yet!!" While I was thinking, "I HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS AWAKE!?!" I passed out. I had been looking at the clock. It was 10:45 PM.
When I came to, my sister Faye had gone home and my sister, Frances was in the recovery room with me. She told me that I had a boy.
I remember being placed into a bed, but, not much more of that night.
The next morning, I learned more. My son was two months early and weighed a mere 3lb. and 5 oz. at birth. He was 17" long. And if I had come in as much as one hour later, he would have been a stillborn child.
As soon as I could--about 11 hours after having that operation, I made my way to the NICU.
I looked down at my infant son with a tube running into his navel from a bottle of nutrients, a ventilator tube coming out of his mouth, IV's in his feet and monitoring discs seemingly everywhere. His mouth was open as if he were screaming, and I could see that he was crying even though no sound escaped from his mouth. And I cried.
I also prayed. I put my hand on part of his body that was free from intrusive medical devices and prayed something like this: "Lord, this child is yours. I give him back to you. If you let him live, I promise to teach him about you and about Jesus. But, if you are going to take him, please do it quickly, because I don't think I could take it if he dies later."
Then I named him John because John was Jesus' cousin and was called beloved. And Paul because Paul is sometimes known as the Great Lion of God.
Then there was the long wait for him to get big enough to come home. While he was in the hospital he got a staph infection which developed into bacterial meningitis.
Today, John is a healthy seven year old. He's slightly small for his age and he is in some special education classes as his speech, reading and writing are not quite up to grade level yet. From the books that I read while waiting for him to get out of the hospital, I learned that this is not unusal and that he will probably catch up to his peers within the next two years.
It has been rather painful to remember this period. I lived through it and I hope that it might someday help someone to know that it can be lived through. And that prayers can be answered.
Comprehensive Index on the Premature Baby
Cover Story
People magazine's coverage of the premature
birth of Melissa Gilbert's son
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