Rees' story

Today would have been Rees' fifth birthday. The last couple of years I have wanted to write a post telling Rees' story, but I haven't. Sometimes because I'm not sure I want to put everything out there to be read...sometimes because I don't want anyone to feel sad or sorry for me when they read it. This year, I decided that I was ready to post his story.

I got pregnant with Rees when Carter was just over a year old. If you know Matt and I very well, you will know that we don't really do well in picking out baby names. Usually we don't even start talking about names until about a month before the baby is born--and then we just come up with a list of 5-10 names that could work--then we don't talk about them again until the baby is here and we are in the hospital...then we decide.

With Rees, the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew that if it was a boy I wanted to name him Rees after my Grandpa Olsen. I told Matt and he agreed. It was odd that we were even talking about it, but I knew that is what I wanted to name him.

At about 13 weeks I started having complications. None of them affected Rees (We found out we were having a boy when they sent me for a high level ultrasound because of the problems I was having just before the 13 week mark). But they were serious enough to warrant a lot of ultrasounds, a lot of doctor visits, and several trips to the ER.

Despite all the worry I had, I loved the ultrasounds. Rees was always so active. I remember the ultrasound technicians--every single one of them--would talk about how active he was and how I would have my hands full with him. He wouldn't stay still for anyone--he moved around so much they had a hard time getting measurements on him. I also loved the ultrasounds because every time they showed a strong, healthy boy. He was growing perfectly and despite all of my problems, he was terrific.

At 17 weeks things were largely unchanged--Rees was still great, my other problems weren't going away--but not getting worse or better either. I was on modified bed rest--or "as much bed rest as you can while taking care of your kids (3 and 16 months)". Matt, had to go to New York for a month for a trial. The trial was supposed to last until the first week of February. The last week of January he told me there was a chance he would come home early, and he did. Matt came home Friday, January 28th, just before a big ice storm hit Atlanta.

I was just about to 21 weeks and I was more hopeful than ever that everything would be fine. My ob and the specialist I was seeing were debating hospital bed rest at 24 weeks, I was feeling the same as I had been for the last 8 weeks and Rees was growing a couple of weeks ahead of schedule. Plus, Matt was now home and had reasonable hours and things seemed great.

I went into Labor on January 30th. I didn't even realize what it was at first--as much as you are waiting for it by the end of your pregnancy, it was the last thing that occurred to me at that point.

By the time I got to the hospital my OB was waiting for me. We talked about different things to stop labor and what my options were. While we were discussing this they were running the standard hospital tests and everything seemed to be fine. I was sick, but I attributed that to the labor.

My OB came back to my room and told me that the routine blood work they had done showed that I had contracted a blood infection--I was septic and would die within 24 hours if left untreated. He also told me that I couldn't stay pregnant--they needed to deliver my baby and at only 21 weeks, he wouldn't be able to survive. I had to decide if I would deliver my baby, knowing he wouldn't survive, or not deliver him and likely die myself. Even though the choice seems obvious, it was an impossible choice. I was given the night to see what happened, on as strong of antibiotics as they could give me. It was probably the worst night of my life. I was so sick and having extremely strong contractions and the only pain medicine I could have was in the IV and I had to push a button to activate it, and it never seemed to help. And all during the night I could feel my baby kick and I knew he would have to die in the morning.

About 4 am the nurse came to check our vitals and they couldn't find Rees' heartbeat. Another nurse tried and then my ob came to do an ultrasound. I knew before the second nurse came that Rees had died. The ultrasound confirmed it. My blood infection had spread to him and he couldn't fight it. Rees was born at 10:57 am on January 31, 2005. An image that will stay with me forever is seeing Rees laying in the bassinet all alone while everyone worked on helping me--I knew no one needed to be by him, but it was so hard to see him left there.

Once I was back in my room, they brought him to me. He was wrapped in a little hand crocheted cape and had a matching blanket. He was so tiny. Here was his card from the hospital--they put his hand and feet prints on it for me. His footprint is small enough that half of my index finger completely covers his footprint.

I held him as long as I could. He was so precious--my little baby Rees.

Today is a day I celebrate. I celebrate Rees and the gift he has been to me--the change he made in my life, and that he will always be a part of my family--regardless of how little time he spent on this earth.