On Continuity...

Continuity.

It's a word used to describe the type of care we give to some of our patients.Sometimes we adopt certain patients and really give them all their care. Some are because we need the experience, and some we adopt because they need us. We come in for every prenatal visit, and we spend weeks glued to our cell phones, just waiting to hear that they're in labor. And the last 8 days have been rather... well....

Crazy.
 
They told me I was when I took 4 continuity patients in the middle of September. But either I needed them, or they needed me. Maybe both.  And although their due dates spanned 19 days, they all gave birth within 8. I'll have to tell you the stories over the course of 2 posts, because it'll get rather long. First, let me tell you about Claire, the cute little girl in the picture above. 

 

Long.

That's how her labor was.... really, really long.  She had a good attitude, and we spent a lot of time walking, swaying, and sitting on an exercise ball. Finally, after 12 hours of hard work on both of our parts, she had to be transported. Her body was just not progressing as quickly as it needed to, and she was now outside of the normal time limits for giving birth. The hospital was now a better option for her, as they could handle out-of-normal births.




Sad. 

The feeling rushed over me as I prepared papers for transport. As I crawled into bed around 4 am, I prayed that God would watch over her and her baby.  I slept deeply, only to wake up to a text at 11am. "Maam, my panubigan is out na. I think paglabor ko".

Upset.

Because her bag of waters had already ruptured, she was on a 12 hour timeline to give birth at our clinic.  Since she hadn't texted me right away, we only had 6 of those hours left. For a first baby, that's pretty fast. I knew her chances of getting transported were pretty high. Just 8 hours after my last patient as transported, I was prepared to feel devastated. But the shift was busy. Crazy busy. And one of the babies was born with some of its organs in the umbilical cord. Like the one in the illustration here. My supervisor let the mother kiss the baby, then she and I jumped into the ambulance within seconds of the birth and rushed her to the hospital, praying for all we were worth. She hung on for 4 days and one surgery, but she's gone now, leaving her family with a gaping wound.
Determined.

Both of us were. I rushed back into the clinic and my patient was still there, dancing with her husband. Slow dancing. He turned on music for them. Tenderly, he swept the hair back off her forehead and kissed her gently, murmuring in her ear. I recall the day she came into prenatals and giggled as she smoothed out a paper on the bed next to where I was writing. Her marriage certificate. "This past July, ma'am." She was shy, but so happy. And I knew I just LOVED her!

Loving.


It was the feeling in the cubicle. Between her husband, the other midwives and I, the woman was well cared for.  The supervisor gave her more grace with the time than expected. Her husband held her, pushed with her, and encouraged her after every contraction. We told her she could, and then a look of confidence would come over her face, and she would try again. And as her baby was born, the whole room erupted in praise to God, congratulations, and cheering. The baby took a bit to start crying, and again, cheers as the first sweet cries were heard. The dad held his cell phone up to let the caller hear the baby.

Intense.

That's how  the whole shift was. Intensely happy, intensely sad, intensely fearful, intensely loving. It was intensely busy, intensely tiring. And all in all, it was intensely wonderful.