The Hardest Day of My Life
The deepest definition of youth is life as yet untouched by tragedy.
- Alfred North Whitehead
I had contemplated titling this post, “The Worst Day of My Life”, but realized that tribulations such as what we’ve been through are not always negative. I hope that classifying it as a challenge will help in personal, family, and spiritual growth. It is with these things, that I want to remember Jeremy by.
Some brief background is necessary to put this into its proper context. Our family plan included one more pitter-patter to the household so that we could raise a well-rounded family and avoid the single-child issues that we often see today. Try as we may, we didn’t have the same luck that we had with Johnathan several years ago. After many, many months of no success, we did finally conceive our second child and begin a new chapter in our family.
The first trimester seemed to breeze by (for me anyways) without trouble. Shae didn’t experience too much sickness, and everything was as it should be. At about the 16th week though, she noticed some spotting and decided it was worth being checked out by our doctor. We were assured that this was pretty normal, especially during a second pregnancy. I put it in the back of my mind. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it and it was about as far from normal as you can get. Between our doctor, an OB specialist, ER staff, and our own research, nobody could tell us what the problem was. For that matter, to this day don’t have a clue as to what the ultimate cause was.
A few weeks ago it was extremely frightening to come home to Shae from a business trip, pale faced and on the brink of passing out. At that point, we became even more vigorous in our search for the answer to this problem. Always the ultrasounds came back with great reports on baby’s health, and we continued to receive shrugs as to what to do other than resume normal activities and to refrain from strenuous ones. Not much to go off of.
My Mom cam into town for a week and things actually seemed to be getting better. The severe bleeding had slowed down, the pain wasn’t quite so bad, and things were carrying on. After my Mom left, Shae’s Granny also came into town for an indefinite stay to help out and keep Shae off of her feet as much as possible.
Friday evening the smooth ride stopped. The bleeding and pain ramped up and she was having regular contractions at short intervals (something that happened before but not for an extended period of time). Saturday morning we were on our toes and Shae was monitoring her contractions very carefully. At 20 weeks and 4 days, these things were by no means normal or welcome. As the morning progressed and everything continued, we called a nurse and she advised us to get to the nearest hospital with a birthing center. This was the absolute last place in the world that anybody wants to be at 20 weeks and 4 days into their pregnancy.
We gathered some comfort items since we know that even a short visit to a hospital constitutes a 6-hour turnaround, and we headed down to Southwest Washington Medical Center. Southwest ran another ultrasound, checked the heartbeat of our baby, and determined that he was still very healthy and fine. What Shae’s body was doing was not explained to us however. The OB specialist wasn’t able to tell us much, and after a short time of looking at the ultrasounds, he decided to send Shae to the Oregon Health & Science University that has a much better facility for taking on these types of situations.
Grandma Carolyn happened to show up just in the nick of time before the ambulance arrived so I was able to arrange to leave a vehicle at home and ride with her to Portland. Seeing the paramedics arrive and dominate the ward as they prepared to move Shae onto their stretcher was the first of many events that I wasn’t prepared for. It forced me to realize the severity of the situation that I’ve tried so hard not to look at. It forced me to realize that my greatest fear, the worst-case scenario, might be manifesting itself before my very eyes. Losing a pregnancy in some abstract and impersonal way hurts, but it does not devastate. That was as far as I would let my mind go.
Shae had me feel the baby tossing and turning on a few occasions. Since the complications first started and I had to face the remote possibility that we might lose this baby, I have had thoughts of how I could best not become too attached to this new life. These were only thoughts, but they were mine and I am foolish. I briefly averted my eyes before looking at the ultrasound images. I was reluctant to feel him move and acknowledge him. I forced myself past these thoughts, ashamed that they even crossed me, but were mine nonetheless. I would laugh afterwards and imagine myself telling this young boy how many gray hairs he gave his mother and father.
As I drove home to make the vehicle switch I was having a hard time not shaking. Shae was in labor.
The facility at OHSU was very impressive indeed. We had known beforehand that of the three hospitals within driving distance that this was the only place that would attempt to sustain a 25 week old premature baby. We also knew that we were 3 weeks and 3 days short of this mark. These facts are insignificant when placed in such a dire situation. It’s as if they don’t exist and we are assuredly the exception.
The doctor told us that the goal was to keep Shae pregnant as long as possible. Reading between the lines told me that this was an either/or situation, and if it did not normalize that we were faced with an extremely difficult decision. She told us that as long as Shae’s health was not compromised that it was our decision to assist the labor and have the baby quickly, but if either one of them took a downturn that they would have to intervene.
The doctor also clarified that the results of the ultrasound confirmed that Shae had an abruption. Furthermore, for them to even see an abruption in an ultrasound meant that her placenta was 50% torn away from the uterine wall. I knew that if that continued that the growing baby would be unable to get the nutrients needed for proper development. I felt myself going weak at this point and I was afraid I might drop to the floor. Thankfully, leaning on the counter behind me was just enough support to keep a straight face and nod. What does one do when faced with this? I crossed my fingers and silently prayed.
The magnitude of pain that Shae was in was incomprehensible. They had given her medication before the transfer, as well as morphine afterwards. She was pale, vomiting, and still appeared to be in excruciating pain. An epidural was ordered. It took them quite a while to get everything setup, but it was eventually in as Shae appeared to be in continually increased pain at each passing minute. As she lay back down for them to administer the medication, the nurse looked down and yelled the worst possible words that I could imagine, “Baby’s out! I need staff in here NOW!”, as she scrambled around her table to hit an alarm on the wall.
Having no idea how the floor was going to react to this type of call, I slipped out the door in between a mad rush of nurses and doctors. I stood perfectly still against the wall outside, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. There was a small amount of peace that I was able to hold onto inside my head for those short few minutes that I was outside — a separation from reality if you will. I needed to be by Shae though, so when the rush came to a close I slipped back in and walked to the bed.
Tunnel vision is the only way to describe the next few moments for me. The room was apparently full of people, but I don’t remember any of their faces. Shae’s grandmother was standing next to the bed looking down, but she was a blur. I only saw Shae. I followed what she was looking at and found myself staring at the tiniest child that you could imagine, wrapped up in a blanket and with his hands brought up under his chin. This is Jeremy Logan Cecka. Eyes closed, but his mouth was moving. I might have thought that I was preparing myself for this moment, but in reality you can’t. This child, this boy, our Jeremy, was born alive, and in a matter of minutes would no longer be. Emotional outbursts are not characteristic of me, but I threw myself over them and wept — sobbed.
One month ago I didn’t want to become attached to this child, five minutes ago I didn’t want to see him, and ten seconds ago I didn’t want to hold him. I still hesitated, but when offered I took him into my hands and held him as carefully and closely as I possibly could. As I caressed Jeremy’s back I told him that I loved him — I told him how sorry I was. What else does one say? During his extremely short time outside of the womb he was held closely, fiercely loved, and intensely mourned. Except for not being able to hold him again, this will not change.