On the morning of Wednesday, Feb. 4, I got up, ate breakfast and went to work, a rehearsal of
Il Trovatore. Afterward I had an appointment with my midwife. I had a high blood pressure reading the previous week and, because Paul and I were planning to leave for Rome in two days—one last trip before we became parents—she had suggested I come back to get it checked one last time. I had spent the week attempting to somehow lower my blood pressure: by eating low-sodium, getting more exercise and trying to breathe deeply as often as possible. I was determined not to be foiled in my attempt to re-experience Italy, having spent a portion of our one and only trip there (our honeymoon!) in the hospital. Italy and me, we don't mix. Anyhow, I was certain my efforts would not go unrewarded, but, alas, my pressure was just as high as it had been the week before. My midwife suggested I go to the hospital to have it monitored further.
Fast forward 5 days. I am still in the hospital, enjoying the food, of course (especially the red pepper ravioli with basil coulis—yikes!) and the view from my room on the 14th floor: I can see my workplace, the Metropolitan Opera House, from my bed. The irony is too great to comment on: I'm supposed to be taking my one vacation of the season, and instead I'm sitting in a hospital room with a view of my office! Peering at this photo (left) may be a bit like playing "Where's Waldo," but if you look closely, you can see the famous Swarovski crystal chandaliers in the Met's lobby.
In late morning, a nurse came and took me down for an NST (hospital lingo for a non-stress test), which is supposed to monitor the baby's heart rate. While I was having that done, my doctors saw the baby's heart rate drop a few times. This caused them to keep me on the monitor for several more hours. During this time, my blood pressure steadily rose to the point that they decided it was no longer safe for me to remain pregnant. I was told they would have to deliver my baby within the hour. Someone came in and had me sign a paper stating I understood the risks of my C-section (the most appealing of which was death). The anesthesiologist also came in and had me sign a paper stating I understood the risk of the anesthesia (also death). Then the neonatologist came in and described to my husband and me the kinds of treatmensts our baby would receive as soon as he was born. This was all very scary, and I could barely absorb what she was saying. Then they whisked me off to the delivery room, prepped me, and began the operation.
Thirty minutes later, we heard a faint cry and a doctor told us we were the parents of a baby boy (later that night, we'd name him Eli). The doctors called Paul over to take a fast look at our son. Then they whisked him off to the neonatal ICU. I could see only the soles of his feet as he was being wheeled away.
I wasn't able to meet Eli right away because I had to be on magnesium, through an IV, for 24 hours to control my blood pressure, but here is a picture (below) of Daddy and Eli's first meeting.
Eli will be two weeks old tomorrow and he's making lots of progress. He's regained his birth weight as of today. He's clearly inherited his parents' love of food!
Another good day for the little guy. He's not as little anymore, having gained 30 grams yesterday!! (That's over 3.5% of his previous body weight) He's now 845 grams. Also, he came down again on his ventilator settings and, so far, is tolerating it. He is up to 13 cc's on his feedings.
