A good morning
“Placenta previa grade 4 with massive bleeding and possibility of IUFD, we’re wheeling her in now”
That was all I could get from the doctor on call as he sped past me with a pile of scans as I walked into the OR by 9am. I was resuming my obstetric posting that morning and it really proved to be quite a first day. Coffee in my system and a heavy breakfast, I guess I was ready for the day.
Not very unusual to see a patient bawling her eyes out, but I wouldn’t say it wasn’t for good reason. Being told you’ve lost your child in the womb isn’t necessarily the first and best news any mother wants to hear. It’s worse considering she has lost one prior and she was nearing the end of her fertile years. We spend what I’d call a lifetime trying to console her and prepare for going under the knife. Her vitals were terrible, how she was conscious and with enough energy to cry was beyond me. But a mother always has energy for her child, even when that child isn’t one yet. This work really doesn’t pay me enough for this, I murmured to myself.
Getting the lifeless body out was the physically easy part, not so much for my emotional wellbeing. But the worst was still on the way. The proverbial “shit” hit the fan as he left the warm confines of the mother. It started like a pipe in the wall had just exploded and its content pouring on everything within a feet radius. She was bleeding more than we planned, the blood being transfused couldn’t comfortably compensate for the loss. She was deteriorating and fast.
“inject the oxytocin now!”
“Her uterus needs to contract or we’ll have another body on her hands”
“why haven’t you given her oxytocin?”
“we have, we’ve given everything we have, all the vials”
“oh God”
“we’re losing her, she’s going into shock”
“dear God”
Situation was spiraling out of control like a fighter jet gunned down.
“call the consultant!”
“which one?”
“all three!”
Like a summon straight out of Naruto, they were all there as the imaginary smoke cleared, geared up and ready to intervene if need be.
The outcome seemed bleak. I wasn’t even sure what to expect ta this point.
But then it all stopped, the bleeding, the insane beeping of the machines monitoring her vitals. Almost ethereal.
Her vitals were normalizing, we all stood in silent wonder.
I was sure this was the end, what changed? God?
We stitched her up, all the while wrapping up the tiny corpse and breaking the news to the father. Talk about division of labor.
It was time to wake her from her sleep, I wasn’t anticipating this part either. Every part of me wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. But I was in training, this was just a reflection of the years to come for me.
“can you hear me? Raise your hand if you can”
“blink twice if you can hear me”
Almost as though her mind travelled back to the moment before going under, tears trickled from her eyes as she clutched her abdomen shaking her head as though in some trance, trying to feel for what wasn’t there.
“Omo mi, ah omo mi”
The words were never uttered but could be heard in her movements.
The theatre was silent, and the silence was heavy. Weighing heavily on each one of us.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to scenes like this.
Placenta previa- medical emergency that can cost the life of a mother and child
IUFD- intrauterine fetal death
OR- operating room
Omo mi- my child (language spoken in south western Nigeria, Yoruba)
