The morning of December 28, 1998 was filled with anticipation.  I had spent the previous five weeks on complete bedrest in the hospital, and now the day had arrived for our daughter, Karina, to be born.  I’d spent both Thanksgiving and Christmas on the high-risk pregnancy floor at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle and was really looking forward to resuming a normal life with my husband, Tom, my two-year-old son, Giancarlo and our new baby.

 

I looked around at the bare walls and empty windowsill.  Just the day before, Tom had taken down the Christmas tree, the lights, the wreath and the stockings.  He had packed up the poinsettias that had covered my windowsill.  The nurses had joked with us that if there had been a contest for “most festive room,” we would have won hands down.

 

At about 9:00 in the morning, my obstetrician performed an amniocentesis on me to check whether Karina’s lungs were mature.  Thanks to the steroid injections given to me at the beginning of my hospital stay, her lungs had fully matured, although it was still five weeks before her due date.  We prepared for the C-section to be performed later in the day.

 

After hours of waiting, we were finally sent to the operating room where I was prepped and draped.  The only anxiety I had was about the spinal block.  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think distracting thoughts—I was only partially successful in blocking out the pain of the big needle going into my lower back.  But once I was numb, we were ready to get the show on the road.

 

A scheduled C-section doesn’t have all the drama of a “natural childbirth,” but for medical reasons, it’s the only birth experience I’ve had and I’ve never felt like I missed out.  In fact, I appreciated the fact that I was calm and pain-free through both of my deliveries.  After Karina was delivered, Tom brought her up to my head and my eyes took in her beauty for the first time.  I at once felt love and admiration for this little baby, and relief that our ordeal was finally over.

 

After I was stitched up, I was wheeled to the recovery room.  I had been in there for about 45 minutes when suddenly, I started gasping for breath.  “Tom, I can’t breathe!”

 

“Calm down, just try to take deep breaths…”

 

“I can’t!  I can’t!  Help me!”

 

One of the doctors came in and started massaging my abdomen, causing me to wince in pain.  Then I was out.

 

I remember waking up again, and this time there appeared to be more people in the room.  The person who was massaging my abdomen was really hurting me, and I recall trying to hit him and push his hands away.  I also vaguely remember someone trying to put a needle in my neck.  I was terrified.  Then I was out again.  Or at least I have no recollection of what happened next.

 

 

Tom:  “Something’s wrong!” I yelled to the nurse and the anesthesiologist.  One of them took her blood pressure and discovered it was dropping quickly.  It was my worst nightmare--she had gone into cardiac arrest.  A code was called. Doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, pharmacists and other support people rushed to the small room on the Labor and Delivery floor.  Fortunately, the anesthesiologist had intubated Meg right away so that oxygen could continue getting to her brain.  Another doctor was massaging her abdomen to try to get her uterus to clamp down and stop bleeding.  It wasn't working--blood was pouring out of her.  As soon as her heart stopped they began doing CPR, first with chest compressions, then a defibrillator.  For 45 minutes, I watched from where I sat on the gurney just outside the door.  With every chest compression and every electric shock, I could see her feet flopping up and down as the doctors desperately tried to save her life.  There were multiple IV’s in place, unit after unit of blood was being transfused into her, and at one point, someone came running down the hall with blood from Spokane--Meg had wiped out the Puget Sound Blood Center.  To say I was in shock would be an understatement.

 

I literally saw my life changing at that moment.  Things were looking grim--she had undergone resuscitation for 45 minutes with no success.  The elation I had felt after the birth of our daughter just an hour earlier was replaced by unspeakable fear and dread.  I thought about what my life would be like without Meg.  I thought about being a single father with a two-year-old and a newborn.  I thought about selling the house, or maybe getting a roommate to help with the payments.  I immediately called my brother, Christopher, and my dad, Fred.  They rushed to the hospital to be with me.

 

After about 45 minutes of CPR, someone came up to me and gently asked, “Would you like some spiritual support?”

 

 "Absolutely."  Things were not looking good.  I wondered how long the doctors would keep trying before giving up.

 

"Does it matter what religion?"  

 

"No, just get me anyone."  A few moments later, Christine, one of the chaplains, appeared in the hallway.  She began praying with me--it was the most beautiful prayer I had ever heard in my life.  I remember feeling that she somehow had a “direct line” to God.

 

Two minutes later, from inside the room, I heard the words, "We've got a heartbeat!"  Our prayers had been answered—I couldn’t help but think that we had just witnessed a miracle.  When Dad and Christopher arrived, all four of us went down to the chapel and continued to pray to God that Meg's life would be spared.

 

We weren't out of the woods yet.  Meg was stabilized, and then brought down to the Intensive Care Unit.  At this point, no one knew what had caused the cardiac arrest.  All they knew was that she was bleeding uncontrollably and was having coagulation problems (Disseminated Intravascular Coagulopathy, also known as DIC).  They had to pack her nostrils with gauze because blood was streaming out of her nose and they feared she would bleed to death.  A risky decision was made to bring her to Interventional Radiology to embolize the bleeding suspects.  That decision was another lifesaving one, because at that point, she would have probably died within the hour.

 

Over the next several days, she required massive fluid resuscitation requiring approximately 50 liters of fluid.  This resulted in the swelling of her entire body.  She had about 100 extra pounds of fluid in her and was unrecognizable.  Her face had swollen so much that her features looked like they were flat against her face.  Her neck, mouth and nose were one big blob and her eyes were swollen shut.  Her sides had ripped open because her skin had been stretched beyond the breaking point.

 

On December 31st, three days after the cardiac arrest, exploratory surgery was performed.  Several liters of clot were removed, but no active sites of bleeding could be found.  A decision was made to terminate the operation.  The doctors told me she had 24 hours.  The chaplain was called and the Sacrament of Healing was administered (formerly known as Last Rites).  Miraculously, she made it through the night, and continued to fight the battle of her life.

 

In addition to her bleeding problems, she suffered kidney failure, liver failure and ARDS (acute respiratory distress syndrome).  She was on kidney dialysis for four hours every day to get the extra fluids and toxins out of her system.  Her liver was in total distress trying to deal with all the toxins, medications and leftover blood products.  She was still intubated and on a ventilator.  Things were not looking good.

 

 

Meg:  The first time I became aware that I was in Intensive Care was six days after I had given birth, on January 3rd.  I was trying to open my eyes and I couldn't.  Oh no, I must have left my contacts in my eyes when I had the C-section and now they're stuck to my eyeballs.  Great.  Now what am I going to do?

 

Suddenly, I heard Tom's voice.  "Meg, Meg can you hear me?"  I nodded my head.  "Meg, you're okay.  You're in the ICU on a ventilator and it's January 3rd.  Don't worry, I'll be right here with you.  Now try and get some rest."  I slowly became aware of something in my mouth and a tight strap starting at the corners of my mouth and going around the back of my neck.  I was mortified.

 

Being on a ventilator was the single most traumatic thing I experienced during my whole ordeal.  I couldn't talk because I had a bite block in my mouth, which was held on by the neck strap.  The strap was so tight that it caused indentations in my jaw line.  The bite block held the endotracheal tube--a tube that went down my airway and into my lungs.  Several times a day, fluid would accumulate in my lungs, causing my breathing to be labored.  The only solution was to be suctioned.  Anyone who has been on a ventilator knows that suctioning is one of the most dreaded procedures one can experience.  A small suctioning tube is placed in the endotracheal tube and pushed down into the lungs.  Saline is then put into the suctioning tube and when you feel it in your lungs, you're supposed to start trying to cough.  This allows the fluid to be suctioned out of the lungs and you can breathe better.  I always dreaded suctioning, but I also felt better after it was done.  So I got used to it, but I never liked it.

 

What I remember from my early days in the ICU was being woken up on a daily basis very early in the morning to be weighed and have a chest x-ray done.  I’d go through four hours of dialysis every day and try to sleep through it. Sometimes Tom would come to the hospital first thing in the morning, other days he would be there at lunchtime.  As soon as he’d leave, I’d become enveloped in an anxiety that was almost suffocating.  I’d immediately call for a nurse to come to my room just so I wouldn’t be alone.  They’d try to get me to relax and go to sleep, but it was so difficult.  And when I did sleep, there were the dreams.

 

One very vivid dream I had was that a beautiful dark-haired woman came to my room and said the most wonderful prayer.  It was as if an angel had come to me, and I literally heard harps playing in the background.  She asked me if I wanted to go to the chapel with her.  She made me feel so warm and comforted.  In my dreamlike state, I floated through the hallways of Swedish Medical Center until I got to the chapel, but then I couldn't find her.  The hallways were dark, in fact, they were more like tunnels.  But I wasn't scared, and I felt like everything was going to be okay.  I just waited and waited at the chapel doors, and then somehow I ended up back in my hospital bed.  Later, I told Tom of my dream and I described the woman I saw.  He told me that I was describing Christine, the chaplain who had said the prayer the night of the cardiac arrest.  This is one of many dreams that I had while unconscious, but after doing some reading, I believe this dream may have represented a near-death experience.

 

Through this entire ordeal, my husband was by my side every step of the way.  I was terrified and depressed but he did everything he could to keep my spirits up.  Had he not been there for me, I don’t think I would have made it.

 

 

Tom:  Fortunately, I had a very understanding employer who made it clear to me that Meg was to take priority over my work.  I went to the hospital everyday and became very much a presence in the ICU.  Since Meg was unable to communicate, I felt I needed to be her advocate.  I wanted to make sure that the doctors and nurses saw her as a person, not just another poor soul on a ventilator.  I brought pictures of our family into the room so that the staff could see how she really looked.  Meg had also done quite a bit of work as an on-camera spokesperson, so I found a video in which she was confidently explaining bone marrow transplant procedures to potential transplant recipients.  I wanted the doctors and nurses to hear her voice.  I wanted them to become emotionally connected to her.  They did connect with her, so much so that one of the nurses actually had to request not to work with Meg anymore.  Meg was suffering so many setbacks that they began to take an emotional toll on this particular nurse, who had come to care for Meg very deeply.

 

I was given permission by the nursing supervisor to look at Meg’s daily lab results on the computer.  I became very familiar with what “normal” levels were for different chemicals in the body and would have daily discussions with the doctors and nurses about Meg’s progress.  A couple of times, I arrived at the hospital to find that the doctors were about to start a procedure that I knew nothing about.  I would insist that they hold off until I was given a thorough explanation of the procedure and understood the risks as well as the benefits.  

 

I wanted to support Meg in every way I could because she was really struggling with keeping her spirits up.  I went to the hospital every day, often twice a day.  When I was at the office, I would fax her little notes of encouragement.   I urged her to look at every small achievement as a victory, and to continue to look forward rather than dwelling upon what had happened.  Her mom had given me a prayer for healing, which I brought to the hospital and said with her twice a day.  I also said the rosary every day during my half-hour commute to and from Seattle.  An acting buddy of hers from the Bay Area had given her a little chrome “meg” that he’d taken off an old Oldsmobile Omega.  I put it on my dashboard in front of the speedometer so that all my energy was constantly focused on her and her healing.  

 

Thanks to the Internet, I was able to keep friends and relatives updated on Meg’s condition via e-mail.  There were about 85 people who received these e-mails, and they in turn forwarded the e-mails to hundreds of others.  Meg’s name appeared on practically every prayer list in the Seattle area.  Hundreds of people were praying for Meg in places as far away as the Philippines, Iceland, Indonesia and Singapore.  Old college friends and theatre buddies of Meg’s heard about her situation and e-mailed their support.  One was a vascular surgeon on Maui who actually ended up giving me a lot of guidance on some of Meg’s medical issues.  Many of Meg’s friends worked in the medical field, either as doctors, nurses or pharmacists.  These friends, who I referred to as “Meg’s Medical Team,” consulted with their own colleagues about Meg’s condition.  Everyone seemed to agree that it was miraculous that Meg was still alive.

 

The entire first month was a roller coaster ride.  Her pulmonologist tried taking her off of the ventilator on Day 12, but had to put her back on.  We were also waiting for her kidneys to begin producing urine.  She needed to be at an output of 1000 cc's before dialysis wouldn't be needed.  Unfortunately, her best day was 300 cc's and a couple of days it was less than 50 cc's.  I told everyone on the e-mail list to pray for her kidneys to start working.  Or, as my brother Christopher put it, "PEE MEG!"

 

She showed signs of improvement up until Day 14, and her blood came close enough to normal that her hematologist said he'd be signing off.  Then on Day 15, she began oozing blood from her C-section incision.  Her abdomen became more and more swollen--and the surgeons performed emergency surgery to try and find the problem.  Three liters of fluid and old liquefied blood were evacuated from her abdominal cavity.  Again there was no evidence of a bleeding site, so her condition could not be corrected.  They again had to give her lots of blood and blood factors and other fluids just to keep her pressure up.  Her body was in a septic condition.  After the surgery, we watched her sink lower and lower.  Her surgeon grimly informed us that she again only had 24 hours to live.  We stood by as the chaplain again performed the Sacrament of Healing.

 

Miraculously, with the help of God, the angels watching over her and all the other positive energy she received, she woke up overnight with her blood pressure close to normal!  It was fun watching the doctors try to figure out what had happened overnight!  When her surgeon came to visit her, his jaw dropped.  He knew that there was no medical explanation for Meg's survival.  

 

In the middle of the first month, Meg’s friend and colleague, Diane Landsinger of Boeing decided she wanted to do something to help.  Whenever people asked me what they could do to help, I would answer, “Give blood.”  Meg had been working with Diane as a contract diversity trainer just prior to entering the hospital, and had also done prejudice reduction training with her for the Anti-Defamation League A World of Difference Institute.  Diane wrote an article for the Boeing Lifeline, the company’s online health newsletter, explaining Meg's situation, the fact that Meg had already gone through 70 units of blood in just a few days and how the Puget Sound Blood Center was in desperate need of blood.  She coordinated a blood drive and 127 Boeing employees who did not know Meg donated blood in her name.  Those blood donations combined with blood donations from friends, my co-workers and Meg's co-workers totaled almost 200 units!  Diane delivered three posters full of signatures to me and I posted them in Meg's hospital room where she could see them everyday and realize how much people cared.  

 

 

Meg:  Everyday, when I felt depressed and hopeless, I would look at those posters.  I was so moved at the caring and generosity of all the donors, and felt that the least I could do was fight the good fight.  Those donors gave the gift of life--what better gift could one ask for?

 

 

Tom:  A couple more setbacks at the end of the first month made me realize that we had a long road ahead of us.  In addition to suffering another bleeding episode, Meg ruptured an artery in her abdomen while trying to sit up for the first time, resulting in a massive hematoma in her abdominal wall.  The hematoma pushed up into her diaphragm and her lungs and caused further breathing problems.  The doctors had never seen a hematoma that huge which explained their reluctance to give us a prognosis on it.  They decided to monitor it with the hopes that it would reabsorb on its own.

 

Meg and I had made the decision not to let Giancarlo come into the room while she was intubated.  We thought it would frighten him too much.  I did, however, bring Karina in to see Meg several times.  I would hold her close to her mommy and Meg would smile and cry.  It was difficult for Meg to go so long without seeing Giancarlo, but we thought it was the best decision at the time.  We did not want to further traumatize Giancarlo, who was already having problems dealing with no mommy, a new sister, and full-time day care.

 

Because it was determined that Meg would probably be on the ventilator for many more weeks, it was decided that she would undergo a tracheotomy, during which an incision would be made in her neck and a breathing tube placed into her trachea.  She had been intubated for four weeks.  Her bleeding had finally stabilized enough; at this point the trach would be more comfortable for her.  Of course, her doctor was required to inform me of the risks involved.  He did not paint a very pretty picture, and as a result I was extremely agitated during the surgery, which took longer than they had said it would take.  I breathed a sigh of relief when I was informed, three hours later, that the surgery was a success.

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Meg:  Once the trach was in place, we allowed Giancarlo to come and visit me.  It had been four weeks since I’d seen him and I missed him so much.  I hoped that he would realize that inside this person with tubes coming out from everywhere, who couldn't talk, who could barely move, and was yellow from jaundice, was the mommy who loved him more than anything.  I think he did know that, but I also know that whenever he hears us talking about the hospital, he becomes very quiet and he puts his hands over his ears.  He does not want to relive that horror and hates being reminded of it.

 

Being able to see my children was one of the things that kept me going.  If not for them and Tom, I might have given up.

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