ANDREW’S FIRST ALARM

May 4, 2014

 ANDREW’S FIRST ALARM

Andrew rang the first alarm that all was not well with him on a fall evening in 1980. I had been in for an ultra sound that day. My enlarged uterus was term size and I was only about 30 weeks pregnant. So the  ultra sound, an imaging study, was done to confirm twins. My mind was spinning around that possibility. My daughters kept me busy. Marnie was four and Eileen had just had her first birthday. I was getting used to the idea that I would have three kids under four—now the possibility of twins brought me to my knees. John was out of town and the kids were in bed when I checked my answering machine for messages. There was a call from my OB-GYN’s office asking me to come in to the office the following day to discuss my ultrasound.

I remember wondering what the heck do they want to talk about— what else could my enlarged uterus mean except multiple birth. I called my friend from nursing school, Eileen, to ask her. She and I both drew a blank. 

Sitting across from the doctor, I listened to him tell me that the baby was swollen and they would need to do some tests to see what the incompatibility was. I flashed back to my maternity nursing text to a picture of a baby in utero with hydrops fetalis from Rh incompatibility. The baby was Rh + and the mother was Rh-. The mother did not share the Rh factor.  I also heard the doctor say that he wanted to hospitalize me immediately. Hey wait a minute I have two other children and my husband is out of town. He said, “I will drive you to the hospital”. This cannot be happening.  I cannot go to the hospital, who will take care of my kids?”

One phone call really took care of the details. My sister Jane got on a train from DC, I took the kids to the neighbors, and I went downtown to meet Jane’s train and to head to HUP, Hospital of the University Pennsylvania. John would be home that night. When I reached him by phone¸ he was concerned¸ in his quiet way¸ and wondering what was going on, was it serious?

Turns out it was.  My first stop was at the high-risk obstetrician’s (perinatologist) office, who, after a brief visit, wanted to admit me to the hospital.  My diagnosis was Maternal-Fetal Rejection Syndrome, MFRS —that mouthful literally means that my body was rejecting Andrew’s body because I was allergic to something in the fetal environment. This new doctor was not reassuring and said that it did not look good for the baby.

I had gained over 65 pounds and was a lumbering, exhausted mess. I listened to the clerk who insisted upon calling me by my first name. My fury at this unwanted intimacy was an example of where my energy would go over the next 28 years, circumventing my fear, my pain and my sadness. I was not discriminating with my rage--anyone could be and was my target. The unhelpful sales clerk, the aggravating customer service rep with a very special rage saved for John. We both used each other to act out all things bad in our lives, me, as a screamer and John as a passive–aggressive. The rage of impatience, coupled with a hair trigger, worsened by chronic sleep deprivation was a continuous feature in my mothering style. This same poor clerk, still calling me Margaret, led Jane and I to the postpartum unit in the old hospital.

More tomorrow