Double Trouble

"Intense love does not measure, it just gives."--Mother Teresa

In August of 1992, days into my third trimester with my first child, I was walking down the stairs to go look at new cars with my husband when I felt liquid leaking from me. I knew I hadn't peed myself, so I stood there wracking my brain at what it could be and trying not to panic. My husband came up to where I stood. "What's wrong?" he asked. "I'm leaking," I said. "Let's go call the doctor," he told me, then helped me back up the stairs and into our apartment. I sat on a kitchen chair while he phoned Dr. Bammel. When he hung up, he said, "Come on. Let's go to the hospital. Dr. Bammel is going to meet us there." I knew this was bad and rode to the ER in stoic silence. In the ER, I didn't have to wait long. An ER doctor immediately examined me, checking the baby and testing the fluid. When he pulled the specs out of me, my water broke completely, gushing onto the floor. My mind shouted, "It's too early! This can't be happening!" My doctor came in. "You're in labor but we're going to do everything we can to stop it," he calmly assured me. "It's too early," I said, nearly hysterical, my eyes filling with tears. He leaned in close and said, "Listen to me. It's my job to do the worrying and your job to take care of you. I promise, I will tell you when it's time to worry. Okay?" I nodded. The powerful drugs they gave me to stop the labor made my heartbeat irregular and my entire body shake, but I didn't care about any of that as long as they saved my baby. Late into the second night, a hospital chaplain came to speak with me. "How can I help?" he asked. "Pray," I whispered. He took my hands and we prayed together. Once the danger had passed, I was moved up to the ward for problem pregnancies where I remained for twelve days, unable to get out of bed for any reason, unable to do much of anything but think, wonder, and worry.

On the day little Hannah Marie was born, I only got to touch her for a moment before she was whisked away by teams of specialists to the NICU for the fight of her life. The first time I got to hold her she was so tiny she didn't look real. Leaving her at the hospital for a month was agony. I would go home after visiting her and cry myself to sleep. When she was finally able to come home, I was overjoyed. By then she was 4 lbs. 7 ozs. of cutie and I could not get enough of holding her, smelling her, touching her soft skin, or just watching her sleep. The doctors were confident that she was going to be O.K., but even they were amazed at her progress as she thrived. When she was eight weeks old, I found out I was pregnant again!

I told myself not to be afraid of having another baby, but I didn't want to get attached to it, get my hopes up that all would be well the second time, in case it wasn't. On a snowy night in January of 1993, I began leaking again. My husband left our little one with a neighbor and rushed me to the ER, where the news was grim. "You have bulging membranes, Mrs. Schaefer (I had no idea what that meant)," the ER doc told us. "You'll probably miscarry the baby in the next 24 hours." I hugged my husband and told him to go home and be with our Hannah. I knew he didn't want to leave me to face the next hours alone, but he did it anyway to reassure me he was watching over our little preemie. They moved me back up to the problem pregnancy floor and I waited for the unthinkable to come. The nurse told me to try and sleep, but that was impossible. At 2 am I called my father. I stood at the window in the dark watching big, fat flakes of snow falling and asked him, "Why is this happening to me, Daddy?" "I don't know, honey, but it's going to be ok," he promised. "How do you know?" I wanted to know. "I just do," he said. "Okay," I responded and took a deep breath. "Okay," I repeated, allowing myself a sliver of hope. We hung up and for a little while, I slept. Early in the morning, Dr. Bammel showed up. "You just want to be difficult, young lady," he said, smiling. "Let's go have a look at that baby," he told me. I nodded and we went to the sonogram room. There she was safe and sound in my womb (although we didn't know it was a she at the time). "See," he said, "this baby is just fine." I couldn't take my eyes off of her as we watched her calmly sucking her little thumb. I feel utterly in love with her that day. Sarah Arden not only went to term, she was born a week late and I was so happy to see her little pink, healthy self, I didn't let her out of my sight for long.

Twenty-something years of mothering those girls has been a joy, even when it was difficult. Being a mother is the single most important thing I've done, will ever do in my life. My girls are a gift to the world and I hope they know what an honor it is for me to be their mom.

*Image from brewercoinc.com

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