In the Hands of a Great Big God
It’s like awakening from the dead. I can barely open my eyes for a few seconds before some unseen lead-like quality forces them closed again. Florescent lights blaze harshly above me as I’m jostled down a long hallway. Phones are ringing, and people are talking all around me, shouting, it seems. I open my eyes here and there, but I can’t make much sense out of what I see. Everything around me is a blur. Suddenly I hear my husband beside me. He says something about the baby, and I am relieved, but then, instantly, I can’t remember why. All I can remember is his saying, “Your mom went home.” I have no idea how long time has elapsed since I was abruptly whisked into the OR nor where they are taking me now. I am shuttled into a cavernously dark room, where the effects of anesthesia tackle my consciousness back into desperate sleep again.
Moments later I am awakened by voices calling out next to me, “Brian, wake up! Can you hear me? If you can hear what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” I briefly pry my eyelids open to survey my surroundings. The room is pitch black, lit only partially by the open bathroom door. There is a curtain on my left, and the voices continue from the other side of the curtain. “No, no, no. Stop thrashing about. Stop pulling at your tubes, Brian! Wake up!!” Ultimately convinced I am not the one being yelled at, I try to find sleep again. My body will not allow me to will myself awake; I am heavily exhausted. The powerful anesthesia being pumped into my veins is overtaking my consciousness. But the shouting continues in the bed next to me every half hour or so, and there is the loud clicking sound coming from some machine just above my head on the right, with the occasional beep at the end that jars the stillness every few seconds. I cannot see the offender, but I wish I could reach it so I can shove it against the wall. The door to our room is wide open, and the nurses’ station must only be inches away; it sounds like some wild party is being crashed. Even now, after major surgery and trauma, I cannot shut out the interruptions enough to find sleep. I look around for the call button, but it’s too dark to see anything. I poke around with my left hand, the one without the restrictive IV, looking for the elusive call button. Nothing.
Finally I call out, “Excuse me. Help. Help.” A small, raspy version of my voice escapes my throat, and I wonder if I can even be heard.
Soon the nurse is beside me, “What do you need?”
“Can you please find my husband and tell him I need my earplugs.”
I can’t make out his face, but I can tell he’s wearing a smirk, “Well, I don’t know if I can find your husband, but I’ll try to find you some earplugs.”
He’s off, and I wait. I'm very aware of a large bandage across my lower abdomen. I think about last night’s events and wonder how my little Caleb’s doing. Who could have known that anything was going to go wrong.
The labor was progressing fine. I had been given an epidural, which didn’t take, so after several hours of waiting, it had to be readministered. The wait was well worth it, however -- sweet relief for a time, until the peace was broken. We were sitting down, watching “American Idol,” when suddenly half the floor came rushing into my room in a panic. Dr. Sawyer’s face was dark with concern. “What’s wrong, little guy? Why is your heartbeat dropping?” she muttered under her breath. I became suddenly very aware of every movement, hanging on every word. How had we not noticed his heartbeat drop? Dr. Sawyer flattened out my bed and lowered the bottom half. “I know I told you we were going to wait, let you labor down before beginning the pushing phase, but I was wrong. You’re going to push right now.” She reached in to check me. I was dilated to 9 centimeters. “You’re not fully dilated, but we’re going to go for this. Baby needs to come out now.”
The nurses pulled my legs back, and the doctor instructed me to push. My heart was racing as I sucked in a deep breath of air and began the uphill climb of pushing. Everyone was fervently yelling at me to push, “Harder. Hold your breath until the count of ten. Push, push, push, push, push. Okay. Deep breath again. Hold it, and push, push, push, push, push.” I began to think back to when I delivered Esther, frantically trying to employ Nurse Marla’s tactics for pushing. Breath in. Hold your breath for the count of ten, and push down the center of your body, on top of your uterus. Aim toward the point where the wall and ceiling come together. “Again, take a deep breath and hold it. Push, push, push, push, push, push.”
Dr. Sawyer reached in to check his station. He hadn’t budged. I watched as she balanced on the fence of her decision.
“We’ve got to get him out. Get the OR ready,” she ordered.
“No!” I groaned; I did not want another c-section.
Immediately I began confessing the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I ate earlier in the day. I knew if an emergency c-section was called for, they would have to put me under general anesthesia, and I shouldn’t have eaten, but I had been so depleted of energy just a few hours ago and thought I needed to eat something to maintain some reserves for the pushing phase. No one seemed to hear me or care that I had eaten. They were frantically disconnecting all the wires and heaving my bed quickly out of the room. Dr. Sawyer and a nurse stumbled over the gurney wheels and hit the floor as I was quickly rushed through the corridors of the hospital toward the operating room. Their panic elevated my fears, and I began to hyperventilate. One of the nurses could see my terror and tried to calm my fears, “Everything’s going to be just fine. Calm down, Sara. It’s going to be okay.” I knew she was just trying to make me relax; it had little effect on me.
As we reached the OR, everyone was darting around the room in preparation for surgery. In an effort to move me to the operating table, some of the staff were madly trying to untangle the heap of cords apparently connected to various parts of my body. After a few frustrated failures, they finally asked me if I could move myself from the gurney to the table, numb legs and all. With a bit of assistance, I managed to make my way across. I closed my eyes and listened to the bustle of the medical staff around me. And prayed.
“Arms out to your side, Sara.” I obeyed. An oxygen mask covered my face next, and I waited for the moment when all would go black. Seconds ticked away, a seeming eternity. All I could do was silently cry out, “Jesus, keep Caleb safe. Keep Caleb safe, Lord,” laying my little son’s life in the hands of my great big God.
Blackness.
And now, as I wake up again in the ICU, hearing the shouting going on with the man in the bed next to mine, I keep wondering what’s happened to my little boy. The nurse returns with earplugs. Without even cracking my eyes open, I take his hand in mine and say, “Thank you so much.” With the earplugs, I’m once again plunged into desperate sleep.
Soon I am awakened by the voices to my left. “Brian, wake up. Can you hear me? Brian. Brian.” I listen and can’t help but wonder what’s happened to Brian. I say a prayer for him. I squint at the clock across the wall from me in the dimly lit room. I can barely make out 5:30.
“Excuse me. Nurse?” I call out.
“Yes? How can I help you?” is the reply.
“Is my baby okay?” I can’t remember the events of last night. I don’t recall now anything Eric said to me.
“I think so, but I don’t know for sure. We don’t deal with the patients on that floor. I only work with ICU patients.”
This is frightening to me. He thinks so? I wait patiently for word from Eric, drifting in and out of fitful sleep.
The nurse breaks my slumber. “Sara. Sara. Your husband is coming. He’ll be here soon, and he’s bringing your son. He can’t stay long; they don’t usually let people bring babies into the ICU, but you can see him for a few m
inutes.” Relief floods over me. Caleb is okay. The Lord protected my little one.
Seconds tick off the clock like hours. It seems an eternity until Eric’s smiling face rounds the corner into my room; I can tell he is tired, but his eyes are brimming with wordless joy. In his arms is a little burrito. Caleb is wrapped snugly in a hospital-issue receiving blanket. His face is red, his eyes closed. He is the picture of perfect tranquility. As Eric sets him in my arms, hot tears sting the edges of my eyes and spill liberally down my cheeks. I am so thankful for his life, that his little heart is beating normally again, that he sleeps so serenely in my arms. Eric explains that the umbilical cord was tied in a true knot and that every time he inched his way down the birth canal, it cinched the cord and cut off his oxygen supply; that if he had been born vaginally, we probably would have lost him.
It’s unfathomable knowing what we could have lost; I dare not even allow my mind to think it. I kiss his soft, round cheek and rub my hand across the top of his head, squeezing him closer to my heart. “Thank you, Lord” is all I can manage.
We later found out that Brian was a young man who had been in a horrific motorcycle accident and was left paralyzed and in a coma. My mom, who later visited me in the ICU, asked the staff if she could lay her hands on him and pray for him. I remember her face as she walked over to his side of the curtain, her forehead creased with vivid concern. I never had the chance to lay my eyes on him, but I didn’t need to; I could tell from her expression that it was tragic. This man was on his way
out of this world as my newborn son was entering it; my little boy was given the second chance that this man perhaps would not be given. As relief spilled over us for our little Caleb, prayers for Brian were being offered up. I’ll never know what happened to Brian, only that he is in the hands of a great big God.
Moments later I am awakened by voices calling out next to me, “Brian, wake up! Can you hear me? If you can hear what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” I briefly pry my eyelids open to survey my surroundings. The room is pitch black, lit only partially by the open bathroom door. There is a curtain on my left, and the voices continue from the other side of the curtain. “No, no, no. Stop thrashing about. Stop pulling at your tubes, Brian! Wake up!!” Ultimately convinced I am not the one being yelled at, I try to find sleep again. My body will not allow me to will myself awake; I am heavily exhausted. The powerful anesthesia being pumped into my veins is overtaking my consciousness. But the shouting continues in the bed next to me every half hour or so, and there is the loud clicking sound coming from some machine just above my head on the right, with the occasional beep at the end that jars the stillness every few seconds. I cannot see the offender, but I wish I could reach it so I can shove it against the wall. The door to our room is wide open, and the nurses’ station must only be inches away; it sounds like some wild party is being crashed. Even now, after major surgery and trauma, I cannot shut out the interruptions enough to find sleep. I look around for the call button, but it’s too dark to see anything. I poke around with my left hand, the one without the restrictive IV, looking for the elusive call button. Nothing.
Finally I call out, “Excuse me. Help. Help.” A small, raspy version of my voice escapes my throat, and I wonder if I can even be heard.
Soon the nurse is beside me, “What do you need?”
“Can you please find my husband and tell him I need my earplugs.”
I can’t make out his face, but I can tell he’s wearing a smirk, “Well, I don’t know if I can find your husband, but I’ll try to find you some earplugs.”
He’s off, and I wait. I'm very aware of a large bandage across my lower abdomen. I think about last night’s events and wonder how my little Caleb’s doing. Who could have known that anything was going to go wrong.
The labor was progressing fine. I had been given an epidural, which didn’t take, so after several hours of waiting, it had to be readministered. The wait was well worth it, however -- sweet relief for a time, until the peace was broken. We were sitting down, watching “American Idol,” when suddenly half the floor came rushing into my room in a panic. Dr. Sawyer’s face was dark with concern. “What’s wrong, little guy? Why is your heartbeat dropping?” she muttered under her breath. I became suddenly very aware of every movement, hanging on every word. How had we not noticed his heartbeat drop? Dr. Sawyer flattened out my bed and lowered the bottom half. “I know I told you we were going to wait, let you labor down before beginning the pushing phase, but I was wrong. You’re going to push right now.” She reached in to check me. I was dilated to 9 centimeters. “You’re not fully dilated, but we’re going to go for this. Baby needs to come out now.”
The nurses pulled my legs back, and the doctor instructed me to push. My heart was racing as I sucked in a deep breath of air and began the uphill climb of pushing. Everyone was fervently yelling at me to push, “Harder. Hold your breath until the count of ten. Push, push, push, push, push. Okay. Deep breath again. Hold it, and push, push, push, push, push.” I began to think back to when I delivered Esther, frantically trying to employ Nurse Marla’s tactics for pushing. Breath in. Hold your breath for the count of ten, and push down the center of your body, on top of your uterus. Aim toward the point where the wall and ceiling come together. “Again, take a deep breath and hold it. Push, push, push, push, push, push.”
Dr. Sawyer reached in to check his station. He hadn’t budged. I watched as she balanced on the fence of her decision.
“We’ve got to get him out. Get the OR ready,” she ordered.
“No!” I groaned; I did not want another c-section.
Immediately I began confessing the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I ate earlier in the day. I knew if an emergency c-section was called for, they would have to put me under general anesthesia, and I shouldn’t have eaten, but I had been so depleted of energy just a few hours ago and thought I needed to eat something to maintain some reserves for the pushing phase. No one seemed to hear me or care that I had eaten. They were frantically disconnecting all the wires and heaving my bed quickly out of the room. Dr. Sawyer and a nurse stumbled over the gurney wheels and hit the floor as I was quickly rushed through the corridors of the hospital toward the operating room. Their panic elevated my fears, and I began to hyperventilate. One of the nurses could see my terror and tried to calm my fears, “Everything’s going to be just fine. Calm down, Sara. It’s going to be okay.” I knew she was just trying to make me relax; it had little effect on me.
As we reached the OR, everyone was darting around the room in preparation for surgery. In an effort to move me to the operating table, some of the staff were madly trying to untangle the heap of cords apparently connected to various parts of my body. After a few frustrated failures, they finally asked me if I could move myself from the gurney to the table, numb legs and all. With a bit of assistance, I managed to make my way across. I closed my eyes and listened to the bustle of the medical staff around me. And prayed.
“Arms out to your side, Sara.” I obeyed. An oxygen mask covered my face next, and I waited for the moment when all would go black. Seconds ticked away, a seeming eternity. All I could do was silently cry out, “Jesus, keep Caleb safe. Keep Caleb safe, Lord,” laying my little son’s life in the hands of my great big God.
Blackness.
And now, as I wake up again in the ICU, hearing the shouting going on with the man in the bed next to mine, I keep wondering what’s happened to my little boy. The nurse returns with earplugs. Without even cracking my eyes open, I take his hand in mine and say, “Thank you so much.” With the earplugs, I’m once again plunged into desperate sleep.
Soon I am awakened by the voices to my left. “Brian, wake up. Can you hear me? Brian. Brian.” I listen and can’t help but wonder what’s happened to Brian. I say a prayer for him. I squint at the clock across the wall from me in the dimly lit room. I can barely make out 5:30.
“Excuse me. Nurse?” I call out.
“Yes? How can I help you?” is the reply.
“Is my baby okay?” I can’t remember the events of last night. I don’t recall now anything Eric said to me.
“I think so, but I don’t know for sure. We don’t deal with the patients on that floor. I only work with ICU patients.”
This is frightening to me. He thinks so? I wait patiently for word from Eric, drifting in and out of fitful sleep.
The nurse breaks my slumber. “Sara. Sara. Your husband is coming. He’ll be here soon, and he’s bringing your son. He can’t stay long; they don’t usually let people bring babies into the ICU, but you can see him for a few m
inutes.” Relief floods over me. Caleb is okay. The Lord protected my little one.Seconds tick off the clock like hours. It seems an eternity until Eric’s smiling face rounds the corner into my room; I can tell he is tired, but his eyes are brimming with wordless joy. In his arms is a little burrito. Caleb is wrapped snugly in a hospital-issue receiving blanket. His face is red, his eyes closed. He is the picture of perfect tranquility. As Eric sets him in my arms, hot tears sting the edges of my eyes and spill liberally down my cheeks. I am so thankful for his life, that his little heart is beating normally again, that he sleeps so serenely in my arms. Eric explains that the umbilical cord was tied in a true knot and that every time he inched his way down the birth canal, it cinched the cord and cut off his oxygen supply; that if he had been born vaginally, we probably would have lost him.
It’s unfathomable knowing what we could have lost; I dare not even allow my mind to think it. I kiss his soft, round cheek and rub my hand across the top of his head, squeezing him closer to my heart. “Thank you, Lord” is all I can manage.
We later found out that Brian was a young man who had been in a horrific motorcycle accident and was left paralyzed and in a coma. My mom, who later visited me in the ICU, asked the staff if she could lay her hands on him and pray for him. I remember her face as she walked over to his side of the curtain, her forehead creased with vivid concern. I never had the chance to lay my eyes on him, but I didn’t need to; I could tell from her expression that it was tragic. This man was on his way
out of this world as my newborn son was entering it; my little boy was given the second chance that this man perhaps would not be given. As relief spilled over us for our little Caleb, prayers for Brian were being offered up. I’ll never know what happened to Brian, only that he is in the hands of a great big God.
Comments
Powerful.
Such heavy-hearted joy.
~ Leah