Shock

They couldn’t find his heartbeat.

She held the doppler on my heaving belly while my back arched, muscles contracting painfully, involuntarily. I was, I think, screaming.

Where is it? Where is he? Henry! Where is he? Oh, where is it? You can’t find it!

My face was hot and wet. My lungs ached from trying to expand. The oxygen mask fell out of my nose and hands were on my head, in my hair, on my shoulders, many sets of hands.

Shhh, lie back, you have to relax, Amy! Lie back sweetie! Shhhh, it’s OK, you’re OK, you’re breathing.

I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating. The room is going dark. I look at my obscenely dancing legs and there is blood running from a gash in my left thigh. The first epi pen pierced my skin, but my flexing muscles pushed it out again, body struggling against the impending darkness. The second dose took, but only after what felt like breathless hours.

They said I never stopped breathing completely.

***

Just before they sent me to the other side of the room, the surgical side, my midwife told me that they would do a test dose.

It’s just iron, I thought to myself. Iron for my poor, weak blood. What could happen? But I asked her.

She hesitated, her pixie haircut and elfin form a stark contrast to her white coat. Shock, she said. Anaphylactic shock.

***

I have small veins. They roll around and try to escape the tyranny of the needle. Three sticks in my left arm; finally, success in my right.

The medicine, to make me strong for the birth, dark and brown and thick.

This might sting, the nurse said.

She pushed the plunger and I looked away, not wanting to watch my own body being infiltrated. I was crabby, resentful, angry that I had to do it, angry that my body is an inadequate host for this baby boy trying hard to grow.

Suddenly I was hot. So hot.

Too hot.

Something’s not right, I muttered. Lungs seized up. Hot, so hot!

Hurry! Hurry! Something’s wrong!

Gasping, black spots in front of my eyes. I’m getting out of the chair. The IV pulls.

Too hard to breathe! Can’t breathe! It’s dark!

The nurse knocks over a tray. More feet, running. The midwife’s hand in mine, me squeezing, squeezing, back arching from the eipinepherine.

Can’t breathe! Julie! I can’t breathe!

You’re talking, you’re breathing. Calm down. You have to calm down! The medicine is working.

She calls for the doppler, small and white in her hand.

Static.

Static.

Long minutes tick by.

Henry! Henry! Baby! My baby!

The tech fetches the ultrasound machine, fetal monitor follows on a cart behind. Hands pushing me back. Pink strap on my middle.

They are all looking at each other. No sound no sound NO SOUND!

Where is it? WHERE IS IT! I’m still screaming.

On the screen a jagged line.

It beats. His heart beats.

Mine beats in tandem, too fast, too fast. First too slow, now too fast.

Tick-tock, the frightening clock.

Slowing, slowing …

The clock stops as I watch the lines, one on a screen and one on paper, tears falling in a waterfall of fear and sorrow and anger at the betrayal of this body of mine. My collar is wet, hands on mine, soothing, shushing.

I want my husband, I cry out. I want my mom! I’m so sorry!

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

***

I was there for another hour. They wheeled me into the ultrasound room for a bio scan. I saw him, my baby, my Henry, my heart. He was breathing and moving.

He looked fine.

He is fine. I am not.

***

I harbored fear that I wasn’t going to be able to love this baby enough. Today, that fear was replaced with another; that I love him too much.

My body has been an inhospitable home for him. I have half-joked that I want him out, that I want my body back. But today when I almost stopped breathing, my only thoughts were for him. Watching the faces of the nurses and the midwives as they waited for that whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, I knew.

We share one heart.