Head First, Then Foot, Then Heart Sets Sail

Three weeks ago at this time in the afternoon, I was passed out cold on the floor. My descent into oblivion began about an hour earlier as I watched Casey and Henri struggle to make the miraculous, but harrowing, transition from womb to earth.

It was almost 4 weeks before Henri's due date, but he had been experiencing a decelerated heart rate with Casey's occasional contractions. Casey's doctor decided that the risks of continuing the pregnancy were more than the risks of early birth. Casey and I were nervous, but the extensive monitoring of Henri in the prior weeks gave us confidence that he was healthy. Casey stayed in the hospital overnight on Tuesday, September 22, and was scheduled to have labor induced in the morning.



Wednesday, September 23, started early for us, and everything seemed to be going as planned, labor was progressing and Henri was handling the strain. By early afternoon, however, labor had stalled and Henri was showing signs of stress. Casey and I knew the situation was becoming serious, and the nurse said she was bringing the doctor back. I whispered to Casey that we would know how serious this was by how quickly the doctor arrived. It seemed like she arrived immediately, and our concern grew even more when the doctor had the room cleared of the trays and stands that have the baby equipment. It seemed that Henri was probably not going to be born in this room.

Knowing my propensity for getting light-headed with trauma, I had eaten healthy and sufficiently all day. I even had a bottle of Mountain Dew close by to amp my blood sugar when needed. As my fear for Henri mounted, despite my planning, I began to get light-headed. When Henri's heartbeat could not be located for a second and then third time, my vision began to gray and I thought it best to sit in the chair next to Casey's bed and not stand. Unable to see anything, as the flurry of voices and activity grew, it took every ounce of concentration I had to stay conscious. I was concentrating on only the voice of the doctor, and listening to every word. When she said, "We're going!" and I knew Casey would be wheeled to the O.R., I stood up. The nurses told me my head bounced off the wall before I hit the floor. The noise caused more of a concern than needed, because the glance off the wall probably helped my head by slowing the fall.

I regained consciousness on the chair-bed, with a doctor and nurses huddled around me. I was pretty agitated and anxious to get to the O.R., but I knew I would be a liability if I moved so I stayed lying down, distraught and in disbelief that I would miss what was happening.

As they wheeled Casey down the hall, they said she needed to have her nose piercing out. No one was able to do it for her, so Casey pulled it out. No one was able to take it from her, so she threw it. They had also said she needed her wedding ring off, but when she got that off, they yelled, "Don't throw it! Just put it back on!" In the O.R., Casey's doctor knew Casey had received an epidural, but did not know there had not been enough time for it to work. As the C-Section started, Casey felt the slice. The anesthesiologist used a fast-acting, general anesthetic to put Casey out. At 2:42 p.m., Henri David VanDyke was born, and both of his parents missed it.

As I was regaining my senses, I was keeping tabs, through the medical staff, on what was happening with Casey and Henri. I knew moments before Henri would be wheeled by the door and managed to get up and make it out to see him. My first moments of seeing Henri...



The first reports on Henri were very positive. His weight was good (5 lbs 9 oz), he had cried after birth, things generally looked good. He was going to the Intensive Care Nursery, but the Neonatologist sounded very positive. I was told I couldn't see Casey for an hour, so I followed Henri into the ICN.

It didn't take long in the ICN to see that Henri was having trouble breathing and would need help. Henri's Respiratory Therapist gave calm, detailed information on exactly what was going on inside Henri and what they were doing about it. There was an intense helplessness in watching the skin suck under Henri's ribs as he breathed, so understanding what was happening brought a (desperately) needed sense of security.



Over the next hour, more help was added for Henri and more monitors. It was an interesting mix of feelings about the tubes and monitors. These efforts were saving Henri's life, so mixed with the helplessness, fear and sadness was a sense of gratefulness. And at times I could see right through the mechanics and see only the precious baby boy.



The next few days, we saw improvements that would exhilarate and declines that would devastate. I spent hours turning from Henri to the monitors, and back. I can tell you where every lead went, what the purpose was of every monitor, and what the numbers indicated. It's an exhausting way to exist, but the small sense of purpose or control probably stabilized me in some way.



After four days, on Sunday afternoon, Casey went home. That's more her story than mine or Henri's, so I feel inadequate to explain how difficult that was, other than to say it went against Casey's every biological and emotional instinct.

The good news was that from Sunday on, Henri steadily (though slowly) improved. He breathed with a tube instead of the ventilator, then room air. Then he ate on his own and the feeding tube was removed. Then the final hurdle of maintaining his own body temperature. On Thursday afternoon, October 1, after 8 days in the ICN, Henri came home.



This is the story as bare as I can tell it. Each of Henri's first 8 days could be a chapter. I could go on about the 2 boys at home and how amazingly well they handled it, and also the unique situations the stress brought for us and them. As usual, I can't imagine how I would have survived without my friends, especially Casey's mom and my sister. With Casey's mom taking care of the boys and the house, I was able to spend 4 nights at the hospital and most of those first 4 days. Late night proved many times to be a valuable time to be in the ICN; I first held Henri at Midnight Friday. My sister was there through that first day and I am extremely grateful. She was who Casey called for when I went down (a nurse came in asking "What's Laurie's last name?!" and in my poor condition I hollered "VanDyke!"). She was there right after I regained consciousness. She was there as I reeled from news and as I wept in my few moments away from the action. I felt comforted and grateful for her.

I am also keenly aware of the positive reality of Henri's situation. Living in the ICN for 8 days gave me accurate perspective on what other babies and their parents have endured, and some of them still are.

This is simply how Henri arrived. And my heart sails.