THE START OF A JOURNEY

It was Sunday, January 1, 2012.  It was at 5pm.  I remember that specifically because I was making spaghetti for dinner, meat sauce simmering as it awaited the boiling noodles to soften. 

And the phone rang. 

The caller ID said it was Borgess Hospital.  Didn’t really think it was a big deal.  I knew I had an appointment for that Monday, and the automated system always called the day before to remind me not to miss my appointment.  I never expected a real voice to be on the other end of the phone. 

But it was a real voice.  I don’t remember the name now, don’t know if I even remembered the name as I listened with a pounding heart, but it was a woman telling me that I needed to get into the hospital as soon as possible. 

The thing was, I was RH negative, and my 22 week old fetus was now in danger because the titers (the numbers that indicate the fetus is in danger of becoming anemic) were elevated.  Not just a little, but astronomically.  The kind of numbers that NO ONE had ever seen before.  And at 22 weeks, there was a chance they would have to deliver. 

At the time, we weren’t even sure what we were going to name our little girl, but Sienna Christine was the only name we had discussed. 

Now it seemed that Sienna’s little life was in danger. 

As the nurse explained that I shouldn’t eat anything, couldn’t even drink, my heart was no longer pounding.

It was crumbling. 

My three year old and husband ate quickly as I got the diaper bag ready  – books, pajamas, snacks, something to drink.  Keeping my mind busy.  Keeping the tears at bay, a smile on my face.  Don’t scare your daughter – the voice kept playing over and over in my mind.  And the weight on my chest kept getting heavier. 

Of course, January 1, 2012 was also the date of snowstorm 2012.  It was coming down something horrible, and our little Saturn was slipping and sliding around the road as my husband made the twenty minute drive from our house in Plainwell to Gull Road in Kalamazoo.  In the safety and privacy of the dark, I held my daughter's hand in the back seat as tightly as I dared, stared into the falling white flakes that passed under the faint glow of the passing street lights as the tears fell down my face.  The only phone call I made was for my husband to his sister to request prayers for Sienna.  My sister-in-law made me so angry when she said to stay strong and that Sienna was going to be okay. To this day, I honestly don’t know why, because I know – and I knew then – that she was trying to be encouraging.  But at the time, it didn’t sound encouraging.  It sounded – insensitive.  At least to me. 

I hung up as soon as I could.

We made it up to the fifth floor where they were expecting us, and had a room waiting.  My husband finished checking me in and they took me to the room to hook me up to the fetal monitor to watch the baby’s movements and heartbeat.  The nurses were trying to make me feel better, and it really wasn’t working.  All I could think of was the little one inside of me that they may have to deliver and her chance of survival.  But I put on a brave face for my daughter, and waited with a pounding pulse as they wrapped the nylon straps around my stomach. 

The monitor came alive with the steady beat of a little heart at 165 beats a minute.  Healthy.  Strong.  Praise the  Lord.  We stayed at the hospital for a couple of more hours, monitoring the heartbeats and movements.  Then the doctor came in, and the verdict was given – we could go home.  Sienna was doing well for the moment, but I had to contact the specialists at Bronson Methodist Hospital the next day.  Bronson Fetal Medicine.  And we would go from there. 

That was the start of the new year.  That was the start of a six month journey that made every day an uncertainty.  A journey that broke my heart and put it back together a thousand times.