“I think my water bag just broke.”
My wife, Aires, mumbled, shortly after midnight of 26 July, Saturday.
Clear fluid gushed out from Aires, trickling down her legs. Clinically, this is called a rupture. To us, it was simply unexpected. We just came from the hospital a day earlier following a treatment and consultation with our reproductive immunologist, Dr. Ed Lim, and were told to get ready for our baby’s arrival in the first week of August. Our Heaven Czar was only 31 weeks and 6 days old. We were hoping to welcome him on his 33rd week.
In 2006, Aires was diagnosed with exhibiting an anti-phospolipid antibody syndrome (APAS), a condition common to women who often miscarry or have difficulty getting pregnant. This condition is characterized by the hyperactivity of anti-bodies that make the placenta, the baby’s life support system, incapable of sustaining a full-term pregnancy.
Since January --- when Aires and I first learnt that she was finally pregnant (after six long years), we have been on a rollercoaster ride --- replete with syringes and needles, tons of tablets, and bucketful of blood, sweat, and tears.
We were plotting out our next steps when the rupture came. We tried valiantly to stay calm as we scrambled for our stuff and hit the road en route to the Manila Doctors’ Hospital. We live in the outskirts of Metro Manila and the drive to the hospital seemed long and endless. At 1 am, Aires was wheeled into the delivery room. An early rupture of the amniotic fluid bag would mean possible infection for Aires and the baby. Hence, pregnancy books recommend delivery of the baby within at least eight hours after the rupture. Aires was given antibiotics to prevent any infection.
But Aires could not deliver just yet. She needed transfusion of “freshly squeezed” human plasma, platelets, and red blood cells to counter the anti-coagulant medicine, Heparin, which was in her system for the last eight months. This drug helped prevent blood clotting to ensure that Heaven would get a steady supply of nutrients through Aires’ cardiovascular system.
We had been planning our strategy for selecting ten Type O blood donors all week long and requesting them to donate a few bags of their blood, maybe on August 2. Our doctors preferred fresh human blood over frozen stock.
But at 1 am, our plan went down the drain. Where on earth could we get at least eight donors in the next eight hours?
The next eight hours became a tactical drill. At 5 am, I started calling up friends and loved ones, waking them up from their fitful slumber. “Hi. Sorry to call this early but Aires and I need your blood. Please go to the National Blood Center at 8 am for the blood screening. Blood letting will be done at around 1 pm.” The blood center of the Philippine National Red Cross, about 10 minutes away from the Manila Doctors’ Hospital, performs a more efficient blood letting system called Apheresis, which leads to higher yield from fewer donors.
My brother, Jay, a topnotch UP professor, was at a party with former students that Friday night. He came to the center with four potential donors at tow. My cousin, Ramir who was already on our list, rushed all the way from Cainta to Manila with two other potential donors. My brother-in-law, Kuya Archie, requested his wife’s uncle, Tito Roland, to give his fair share. My high school bud, Adam, made several calls and asked an office colleague, Richard, to proceed to the center. Melissa, another high school friend, promised to drop by before going to her 10 am presentation. My parents came with two potential donors, Greg and Wendell.
My other brother-in-law, Kuya Lon, called up two friends. Another cousin-in-law, Minmin, was on her way. My friend, Osmond, asked his brother to rush to the center. But these four potential donors could not make it in time for the 10 am cut off.
So, before the screening cut-off time of 10 am, we had 12 potential blood donors, good enough considering the frantic turn of events. We needed six donors who should pass the rigorous blood screening test. But the pre-screening test of donor viability whittled down the list from 12 to six. We had to cross our fingers that all these six viable donors would eventually pass the test.
Waiting for the results of the test was a test of patience. Every hour, I would call the delivery room to check on Aires and the baby. How uncomfortable it must have been for Aires to be lying down there at the pre-labor room for such a long time, not knowing what was happening with the blood letting ordeal.
At 2 pm, I was asked to go back to the hospital and stay outside the delivery room. Our ob gyn, Dr. Gigi Martinez, informed me that she would open up Aires at around 6 pm. The next few hours were all about “Where is the blood?”
I waited outside the delivery room for any word about Aires’ condition and any update from the blood center. Keeping me company were Osmond, his wife, Bing, and their daughter and my godchild, Nina.
Aires’ mom and brother were saying the rosary at the private room we reserved for our stay in the hospital.
At 4:20 pm, Kuya Archie delivered the “freshly squeezed human plasma, platelets, and red blood cells” to the hospital. I waited outside the delivery room, with my digital camera. We expected a nurse or an orderly to summon for us to give the camera so that the most awaited moment would be captured on digital memory --- our Canon moment!
True enough, at 4:50, a nurse called out for me. My heart leapt. This is it! Our Canon moment is finally here. The nurse ushered me in to the delivery room’s reception area only to be told to rush to the newborn viewing area across the hall because our Heaven Czar was already born and was being attended to by our neonatologist, UNICEF breastfeeding advocacy partner, Dr. Meann Silvestre.
He’s here? I was stunned in disbelief. He’s really here. There went our most awaited Canon moment. But who was I to complain. All that we could say was “Thank you, God!” We finally made it --- Aires, Heaven Czar, and me --- with the help and prayers of all our loved-ones, friends, and newfound friends who willingly shared with us their gift of life.
Our ob gyn said that Heaven was a tiny big boy. For a pre-term baby, he looked big, with an Apgar score of 9.9. She said that Aires is okay and needed to stay at the recovery room for four more hours.
At the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), we saw Dr. Silvestre prepping up Heaven. An hour later, Heaven was placed inside an incubator, his “space pod”, where he would stay at least for one week until he is ready to breathe on his own. Dr. Silvestre informed me that Heaven’s lungs have liquid that needed to be suctioned out in the next few days. Other than this, Heaven is well on his way to becoming a healthier baby, especially with Aires’ breast milk.
Aires and I visited Heaven at the NICU on his “day-sary” to celebrate his first 24 hours. He was asleep, and would occasionally let out a grunt. We talked to him and waited till he opened his eyes. He did after several cooing. We finally got our Canon moment!
