And Then There Were Four ...

I'm back - and with a brand new itty bitty souvenir! Eva Elizabeth ripped through a gaping hole in my uterus at 9:55 a.m., Monday, Feb. 11, and boy, was she was ticked.

As I lay on the operating table, I overheard my doctor remark at Eva's head of thick, black hair, followed by, "Watch it! She's got your scissors!" Eva obviously didn't want to leave the familiarity of her baby cave. With free rent and warm weather every day of the year, I can't say I blame her. Still, I was not prepared for the wrath of Ms. Eva E. and the wreckage she left behind. But the juice was so worth the squeeze.

The conversation in the room went from shots of tequila to cries of pain fairly quickly after Eva was born. Someone was ripping apart my organs from the inside, and it hurt to breathe. Where was my tequila, dagnamit?! Oh that's right...that's what got us into this mess. I didn't want to call my husband away from the baby, because she needed him more than I did. And at that moment, I didn't have the slightest clue that anything was wrong. My ob is apparently very good at playing it cool under pressure. If they had a cool guy class in med school, I would bet my lunch money that she aced that stuff.

I'm no sissy, but that was by far the WORST pain I've ever experienced in my life. I looked at the anesthesiologist, my new best friend, and begged him to show me mercy. Or morphine. Or for the love of God, whatever would just make the vultures stop ripping apart my insides. I recall this generous man tinkering with my IV line and offering me an oxygen mask. It must've been the good stuff, because it was good night world before I even closed my eyes.

When I woke up, my husband was standing across the room, saying, "You lost blood." Then a few seconds, or minutes, or maybe an hour later, the doctor was standing in the exact same spot, across the room, repeating the same words and adding a few extra - uterus, lucky, maybe, transfusion, lucky, hysterectomy, lucky, and no water til 5 p.m.

My husband later shared that I had tried multiple times throughout the afternoon, unsuccessfully, to barter with the nurses: a newly patched uterus in exchange for one styrofoam cup of ice water.

I had a great time a few days later scrolling through some old text messages I had sent in between bouts of unconsciousness. One was sent to a friend, telling her that the doctor couldn't "get my uterus back in." In my drug-induced stupor, I thought what my doctor had explained as a severe hemorrhage was actually a subborn uterus. Or maybe an angry uterus, badly beaten from a 7 lb. 6 oz. dark-haired diva who wasn't ready to give up her vacation home. My doctor decided not to do a transfusion since my blood levels were borderline, and kept my rabid uterus intact. That woman is my hero.

The only thing that I regret about Eva's birth is that I don't remember nursing her that first day. My husband held her while she breastfed since I would randomly nod off in the middle of conversations like a college girl who partied a little too hard. But Eva was delivered healthy and feisty, and though I wasn't exactly in the best shape, I would eventually be okay too. After a few weeks of the granny shuffle, iron therapy and a few exploding toilets, I'm home, doing the mom thing, loving on my big boy, my baby girl and the man who has taken such amazing care of of the three of us.

I have much to add about our adventures home with two under two. But I'll save it for another post on another day. This is just the beginning of many adventures between the four of us...

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