The Day Arden was Born

*Note: This post talks about one of the most intense, emotional days that our family has, and quite possibly, will ever, experience. There is trauma as well as joy embedded here, but it is an important part of our story. One day, when our sweet Arden is old enough to read this, I hope he knows that his entrance into our world has been the single greatest gift I have ever known. Being Arden’s mother has made me a better person, and a stronger woman. Every day, I am so grateful.

The Day Arden was Born…

The day I had Arden I wasn’t afraid. Our “birth plan” had obviously changed, but to be perfectly honest, we never really had one to begin with. I laughed at women who had a birth plan. I always felt that giving birth to a healthy baby was the most important part, regardless of how that looked on paper. Originally I had been referred to a doctor in Grande Prairie who would perform the C-section at QE2 hospital. Of course, that quickly changed once we arrived in Edmonton.

I met the doctor who performed my c-section once in person before the day of surgery.

When Brodi and I arrived at Royal Alexandra Hospital, I smiled. I was unconcerned about the actual surgery. Of course I hadn’t originally wanted a c-section. But I didn’t care at that point. I knew that our baby would likely be admitted to the NICU after birth, but I was hopeful. I had no idea what that would look like and I was naïve. I wasn’t fearful about the surgery at all. Sure, I hadn’t had surgery since I was six when I had my tonsils and adenoids removed, but whatever. Brodi and I smiled for pictures in our hospital room. Our baby would be born today. We were excited!

When we readied ourselves to leave my room, Brodi and I had to wear masks. Covid-19 protocols were now in full swing in Edmonton, and face masks in the hospital were mandatory. We also had to be escorted to the operating room. That was another protocol. Anyone walking around the hospital needed to be escorted by a hospital staff member.

When we arrived in surgery, they immediately handed us head coverings. I think they gave Brodi covers for his shoes. I was wearing knitted penguin slippers that my mother had lent me. We went over some paperwork, and then it was time to go in. I was scheduled to deliver our baby at 9:30AM.

The operating room was cold. I remember feeling slightly nervous about receiving the spinal anesthetic. Everyone told me that it would be the most painful part. The team prepared me for surgery by sitting me on the edge of the bed. I was told to lean over as they sanitized my back and prepared to administer the medicine that would make my caesarean section pain free. Afterwards, I was laid down, while a team of doctors and nurses stared. I knew that the neonatal intensive care unit team waited in the next room. But this was in my subconscious. I felt exposed and vulnerable, but I was still so excited. When this was over, our baby would be here.

When they were ready to begin, a nurse ushered Brodi into the room to sit at my side. He was given a metal stool, and was told that he could sit next to my head and hold my hand.

When the surgery began, I briefly thought, this does not feel the way that people described to me. As soon as the obstetrician began to make her incision, I could feel it. I was told that I would feel pressure. I was told that there would be discomfort. But I felt pain. As the procedure progressed, everything became more intense. Every push, every pull, every manipulation. I felt. As I laid there, probably crushing Brodi’s fingers, I endured. Over and over I told myself that it would get better. This will end. This is temporary. I’m strong, and I can do this. Childbirth is never pain free. My pain was deafening, but occasionally I could tell that the doctors were having a difficult time extracting our baby. He/she was not making an easy exit. I attributed my agony to this fact. I told myself that it would change. Once the baby is out, the pain will subside. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I remember so clearly the moment that Arden made his way into the world. At 8:19AM, the nurse peaked her head around the curtain and announced, “It’s a boy! What is his name?” I instantly replied, “His name is Arden.” I hold that brief moment close to my heart, because it was one of the only moments of sheer joy that I would feel for the next few days. I was not able to see our baby when he was born. The NICU immediately moved him into the next room, and I mouthed to Brodi, “Go with the baby, I will be fine.”

I wish I could say that my birth story ends there. I have seen so many photos of mothers and fathers in the operating room. A healthcare professional holds the baby next to them. Sure, their little one arrived through the sunroof, but that’s no big deal. Mom will recover for 48 hours, and they will make the trip home. For some time, I wished over and over that we could have lived that same story. But it isn’t ours.

After Brodi and Arden left, our obstetrician was tasked with closing the incision in my uterus and my abdomen. Of course, parts of my anatomy had been moved in order to remove our baby, and some rearranging was in order. If I had ever had a caesarean section before this, I would have known that feeling these steps was not normal. Most mothers can not pinpoint each agonizing incision, stitch or manipulation during their baby’s c-section birth. But I could. As the procedure continued, my pain became unbearable. The anesthesiologist next to me kept checking in with me. I assumed that I was expressing myself clearly as I was writhing in pain, but apparently saying, “something doesn’t feel right,” doesn’t cut it in the medical world. At one point I remember him saying, “Rayel, what are you feeling?” and as I beat my fist against the bed, all I could muster was to mouth, “Pain. I feel pain.” It was at that point that the anesthesiologist decided to give me gas to make me calm. It was too late; my body was already shocked beyond what humans can tolerate, and I had become unconscious.

When Brodi returned, I vaguely remember him showing me pictures of Arden. He said, “Are you okay? This could be shocking. Do you want to see them all?” and I said, “yes.” Through my haze of pain and medication, I could see that Arden was not well. Our baby boy was blue. He was squished. His right foot was nearly pointing backwards. Brodi explained that Arden had to be resuscitated and intubated immediately after birth. I encouraged him to go. To be with Arden. They were about to take me to a recovery room.

The “recovery room” turned out to be a semi-curtained alcove in the hallway where two nurses were completing paperwork on their computers. They didn’t expect me to be there. I was shocked, in pain, weak, and sad. The nurse nearest to me asked me questions about everything under the sun. Bless her soul. That woman saved me from my own thoughts, and she probably will never know how important her incessant small talk was during those moments that felt like an eternity. Finally, after waiting for hours…or maybe it was minutes…Brodi came to see me. He asked if I would like to see the baby, and of course I said yes.

The first time I met Arden, he was intubated, ventilated, and on nitric oxide in an effort to keep his lungs expanded. He was so tiny. Because I had gestational diabetes during my pregnancy, everyone warned me that our baby would likely be large. Arden was anything but. Our little miracle was 5 pounds, 3 ounces at birth. I remember holding his left hand. It didn’t open, and I held the outside of his tiny knuckles. I smiled, and cried, and for less than a minute, my baby and I were still one.

Arden quickly had to be taken to the NICU, where they could monitor his status and maintain his care. I was taken back to my room in the labour and delivery ward. Again, I encouraged, if not demanded, that Brodi remain with Arden. If I couldn’t be with him, I wanted his dad to be there.

The next hours were the slowest of my life. I was told to rest, sleep, recover. I tried. I dozed here and there, but it was certainly one of the most emotionally charged days of my life. Due to covid-19 protocols, we had encouraged our family to stay home. None of our family was in Edmonton, as it wouldn’t have made a difference. No one was allowed to enter the hospital with us. No one could visit me during my recovery. I sat alone, I dozed, and when I woke, I called my mother simply so I could have someone to sit on the other end of the phone, and perhaps I wouldn’t feel so alone.

Brodi found it really difficult to navigate between the NICU and the labour and delivery ward during that time. Each time he wanted to cross the hospital, he had to wait for a staff member to escort him. I remember that he returned to my room once around noon, and although I needed him there with me, I needed him to be with our baby more. Again, I told him to go to the NICU.

That day was long, and full of emotion. I felt like a part of me had been taken away. Yes, I was in physical pain from the surgery, but the hurt that I felt from the separation of my baby and I was unbearable. I was told that in order to go see Arden, I would need to be able to stand on my own. Of course, the anesthetic that had not prevented my pain, still prevented me from using my legs for a number of hours. During this time, a nurse came who encouraged me to pump. Pumping immediately became a duty. It gave me a sense of purpose and the feeling that I was at least doing something to nurture my little boy. I would soon discover that my body was a great producer. This would become one of my accomplishments, and also a burden at times, but more on that later.

Later in the afternoon, when it was determined that my legs had regained sensation and mobility, two nurses removed the catheter that I had used to urinate. A few hours after that, I still could not pee, and the catheter had to be reinserted. Which I’ll admit was now quite uncomfortable without the anesthetic that I had received the first time it was placed.

At around 8:30PM I begged to be allowed to go see Arden. It was determined that I would have to prove that I could walk, but that Brodi and I could take a wheelchair in case I became tired. Again, we had to mask up and wait for someone to escort us to the NICU. We waited for what seemed like hours.

When we arrived in the “A pod” of the NICU, where Arden was located, it was overwhelming to say the least. Arden was in an isolette, and hooked up to a wall of intravenous medications. He was intubated, ventilated, and being provided nitric oxide to aerate his lungs and help them oxygenate. At that time, all of these things were foreign to me. I had never seen oxygen saturation, heart rate, and blood pressure monitored so closely. They were already going down on doses of certain meds, what I would later learn is called weaning, but I wasn’t even sure what half of those medications were really doing for him. Brodi helped explain some of the medical terminology to me, but that night, my focus was on seeing my baby. I was able to touch his little hand and stroke his little head. He was purple, squished, bent, and absolutely perfect.

We stayed in the NICU until almost midnight, when I was nearly too tired to remain upright in a chair, and Brodi insisted it was time for me to rest. Leaving Arden again was heart wrenching. No mother should ever have to leave her newborn in the care of strangers. I knew that these strangers were the best carers Arden could possibly have, but maternal instinct takes over immediately. Not being able to care for your own baby in the first hours and days of their life is something I would not want anyone to experience.

When we were about to leave, I felt as if I were leaking. My legs felt warm and tingly. To be honest, I thought that I had peed myself. Having nothing to cover myself but a hospital gown and some slippers, I panicked. I soon realized that I was bleeding. The nurses quickly ran to get me a towel, and Brodi wrapped me up in the wheelchair. I was embarrassed, scared, and heartbroken to be leaving Arden. And from there we wheeled back to my room in the labour and delivery ward.

Unfortunately, Arden had to be sedated for most of the first week of his life. But we quickly learned that he responded to our voices and our touch, and I spent hours and hours holding him, touching him, and reading aloud to him. While I was at the hospital there wasn’t a moment I didn’t spend talking, singing, and touching our little boy. I didn’t know much, but I knew in my heart that the bond Arden had with myself and Brodi would carry him through this journey. 

Over the coming months our sweet boy would show us what strength and resilience really looks like, time and time again. He led the way, and we became his advocates. This day gave us our greatest gift and our biggest adventure. We love you, Arden! 

XO, Rayel