A Routine Checkup That Changed Everything
More than sixteen years have passed since that day. I still remember every single moment. That morning, I arrived for my routine gynecological checkup. I was in my 20th week, my first pregnancy, happy, and a little tired after a long wait in the waiting room. I remember so clearly when the nurse measured my blood pressure, a standard part of the checkup, and said, "Hmm, 150/100. Why is your blood pressure so high?"
My gaze was blank - I didn't know why. I had never had high blood pressure. On the contrary, it had always been lower than normal. I had no weight issues, no diabetes, no blood sugar imbalances. I didn't smoke. I was always mindful of my diet, especially during pregnancy. Why was this happening? The test confirmed protein in my urine. As a doctor, I understood immediately. It was preeclampsia (read to find out about preeclampsia here).
In the blink of an eye, everything changed - from the carefree joy and happiness of my first pregnancy, to an uncertainty filled with fear and endless questions.
Admitted to the Women's Clinic
I remember being admitted to the women’s clinic. My heart hammering in my chest. The countless blood pressure readings. The pills, the ultrasounds, and the grave looks from the doctors. I, who had always been active and loved working out, could now barely walk seven meters down the hallway, or climb the seven steps up to the room where my husband visited me every day. I remember the look in his eyes, the worried smile he tried to maintain to encourage me, even though I knew he was even more terrified himself. I remember the long phone calls with my best friend, who cried on the other end because she didn't know what to say about all the poor prognoses. I remember my mother trying to stay strong, and my brother, who kept asking, "How is your blood pressure now?"
Amidst all this chaos, I remember the other women on the ward. They were there for various reasons. One woman, in particular, lingers in my memory: a young woman, pregnant for the fourth time after several miscarriages. I remember her long, lively, black hair that kept falling into her smiling face. She would often walk into my room with a smile and say, "Hang in there, you are lucky to have made it to week 30." She would have given anything to be where I was. I never saw her again afterwards. With all my heart, I hope she made it safe through the end of the pregnancy.
Our Son
Then came Easter. On Good Friday, I was rushed into an emergency C-section.
Our little boy was born in week 31, weighing 1,400 grams and measuring 41 centimeters long. Due to my poor condition, I didn't see him until four days later in the intensive care unit. Weak and exhausted, I was wheeled in a wheelchair into the neonatal ward, where the incubators stood lined up. Only later did I learn that I had lost a lot of blood because my uterus refused to contract after the C-section.
My husband asked if I could try and recognize our baby. I looked at the incubators, at all the tiny bodies with clenched fists, so alike in their struggle for life. Through tear-filled eyes, my vision was blurred. I couldn't distinguish him from the others. He led me over to one incubator and smiled: "There he is."
I saw him for the first time through the glass. So small, with thin arms and legs, his skin almost translucent with blue veins showing beneath. He was slight, carrying no soft buffers of fat like other babies. His body hadn't had the time to build it. I remember looking at his unnaturally mature hands, clenched into fists, as if fate were offering him one last chance to grasp this life with all his strength.
The diaper was far too big, reaching almost up to his armpits.
"Are these the smallest diapers?" I asked.
"Yes, it's size one. I asked if they had size zero."
We laughed. Bitterly.
I looked at that tiny face with the slender tubes in his nose. He was sleeping, but it was not a peaceful sleep. His face bore the marks of pain. Tears streamed down my face, my heart pounded. Guilt washed over me. It was my fault. I had done this to him. Had he had a different mother, he would be healthy now. Even though, as a doctor, I knew that no woman is to blame for getting preeclampsia, my pain did not listen to reason.
Months went by, and I recovered slowly. Our little boy was discharged, weighing just over two kilograms. He had his own dietary regimen, medications, and everything demanded strength. It felt overwhelming to stand in it all alone. No one around us had a similar experience. The women I knew recovered quickly, without complications. Their babies followed the standard growth curves, had normal regular checkups, and all the common problems. It became increasingly difficult for me to ask for advice or compare notes. I had no one to ask. I felt infinitely alone.
Hope
One day during a hematological follow-up, as I lay with my arm stretched for a blood sample, I heard a voice in the hallway:
"Where is she? Where is my colleague?"
A tall woman walked in, with straight, shoulder-length hair. She walked quickly over to me and took my hand. Her bracelets jingled. She looked at me intently with her bright blue eyes, and smiled.
"So, you’re the one! Don't be afraid. This will pass. I had preeclampsia too. In fact, eclampsia - even worse. My baby died. But, you see, yours is alive. I later had two more children, both by C-section. Everything went well. You will be okay. Give yourself time."
I looked at her in disbelief. Tears welled up. I was crying and smiling at the same time. I wanted to throw my arms around her, this unknown women with her precious words, but the needle in my arm stopped me. Still, I managed to whisper a thank you through my tears. She understood. She looked at my test results and said I just needed time. We talked about my results for a while, she was a hematologist. Then she smiled again, slightly squeezed my hand in support, and left.
She had answered all my questions before I even had the chance to ask them. She knew exactly what I needed to hear. She knew the feeling of fear and isolation.
Until then, I had felt as though my life, and that of our little family, had ground to a halt in that room full of incubators. Sick and fragile, I was unable to look any further ahead. But her words breathed a sense of hope, and lifted a veil. Suddenly, I could now picture it: my son growing up, running, starting school. Myself, strong again, full of energy and plans. Because, now it is possible - If she had made it through, why couldn't I?
The challenges of having a premature baby did not lessen, but I grew stronger. Her hand, together with the hands of my family and friends, wove a safety net that carried me when everything felt too heavy.
Today, our son has two brothers, born after normal pregnancies.
I know that many veils still hang before the future, for many. But if my story can lift just one of them for another woman, it was worth telling.
