Three years ago I gave birth to my daughter. I would love to say it was a magical moment. It was hell. The doctor had to induce labor because, once again, my baby didn’t want to come out. She probably thought “This bitch is crazy. I’m staying right here.” I can’t blame her.
Suddenly I felt a gush of warm fluid on the bed. TMI? “Did my water break,” I asked my husband. When he lifted the sheet it was covered in blood. I panicked, “Get the nurse!” My husband took a few steps in each direction like he was doing the Electric Slide. He frantically looked around the room before asking, “Where is the call button?” The call button? “That is for f-ing popsicles. Run and get the damn nurse,” I said, in a less than loving tone. Really? This is the same man who was recommended for a Medal of Honor for his heroism in Iraq? He made life and death decisions in a war zone, but is wasting time looking for a call button when his wife is bleeding to death?
It became an episode of Grey’s Anatomy minus the steamy sex scenes, girl drama and attractive doctors. I guess it was nothing like Grey’s Anatomy. As the surgical team wheeled me to the operating room I was screaming, “Am I going to die?” My husband whispered in my ear, “It’s okay. They deal with this stuff all the time.” At that same moment I overheard a rookie nurse say, “I’ve never seen this before!” I kept repeating over and over, “Please God. I don’t want to die!” All I could think about was my boys at home. I had what was called Placental Abruption. My daughter was delivered via emergency C-section. Miraculously, she was 100% healthy. She is happy (most of the time). I could never have imagined the joy that comes from having a girl. She is smart, funny and rocks a hair bow like nobody else can. Happy Birthday!