Super Scar
I’ve put off having a baby as LONG as possible, so when my husband, Seth and I decide it’s time, I am 36- already a geriatric mother according to my OB. Seth always wanted to be a father and I always wanted to be… famous. But seriously, becoming a mom meant I would have to prioritize my kids and not my ambitions and I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of my dreams of becoming the next Lucille Ball. Fortunately, we get pregnant very quickly and my pregnancy (overall) is easy. At 30 weeks, I finally feel ready to post my pregnancy pictures on Instagram.
But, then I start having terrible gas pains. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. There is no position that doesn’t feel like someone is stabbing me in the gut. My prenatal doctor examines me, does an ultrasound and quickly sees fluid in my stomach. That fluid is blood. Oh no…. what does that mean? Oh, so it isn’t just gas? Am I going to be ok? She calls for an ambulance, which I don’t think is necessary as we are a block away from Cedars Sinai Hospital. Then, all of a sudden, three hunky paramedics walk in. My adrenaline is pumping and all I can say is, “You guys are really strippers, right?” (to Seth) “Babe, do you have any singles?”
I’m raced to the ER and there are teams of doctors to greet us. Doctors for me, doctors for my baby, doctors in training. A Lot of doctors. But none of them knows what’s wrong with me. I get a cat scan. NOW I’m freaking out. Am I going to die? Is my baby going to die? The doctors think maybe my appendix burst or maybe it was my liver or gall bladder. They don’t know.
I go in for exploratory surgery. I’m in a room of 20 doctors all milling about in white masks talking to each other and suddenly, I declare from my bed, “Can we just take a moment? To focus and come together.” They all stop and look at me and take a moment. They finish the surgery and I have a brand new scar that looks like a railroad track from my belly button down to my bikini line, but we are OK. The baby is still safe inside.
Moments later, I wake up and the doctor’s hands are on my pregnant belly and she’s rocking me from side to side saying, “I don’t like this, Lauren, we have to go back in, the baby’s heart rate is erratic.” I keep trying to talk, but I can’t because I just had a tube down my throat. I just keep thinking, “Just wait. Just wait. One second. One second.” They perform a c-section, through the same scar they just closed. My baby immediately is sent to the NICU because of his prematurity.
The doctors come to my hospital room to explain that they think a fibroid had attached to my bowel and had ruptured, which is why I had a liter of blood in my stomach. A liter of blood. Why did this happen? What did I do? Did I work out too much? Did I breathe too hard doing breathwork that morning? I can’t get up. I can’t move without help. I’m in so much pain.
Finally, a few days after he is born, I get to visit my son in the NICU. I scrub in with soap all the way up to my elbows. Seth wheelchairs me over to our baby boy’s isolette. There are wires going into his nose, his arms, and the one that scares me the most, goes from his wrist directly to his heart. Afterwards, they take us to a library where parents are supposed to relax and eat snacks. There are yellow stars on the ceiling with babies’ names that didn’t make it and I’m looking up at the stars hoping my baby doesn’t become one.
But the doctors are really confident about Abraham. That’s what we decide to name him. After my grandfather. It’s a large name for such a small baby. So, Abie seems more fitting for now. Baby Abie. All the doctors keep saying, “He’s going to be ok.”
About a month of our new life going to and from the NICU, I’m at home finally getting ready for a baby to come into it, and the phone rings. It’s a doctor I’ve never met before. “Your daughter is very sick,” she says. “I don’t have a daughter.” “That’s not important, you need to come to the NICU now.”
We arrive, and I’m yelling and screaming and unaware of anyone around me. The doctor that called comes in to talk to us.
She says, “Abraham had a seizure.”
I don’t understand much else she says after that… I just keep thinking about my poor baby, helpless and gray. And then the Doctor says, I guess in the hopes of making a connection, “I lost my son.” I look at her and she’s crying. I can’t believe she just told us her son passed, and she has tears in her eyes and I look up at her from my wheelchair, and from the depths of my soul, I say “Go in there and SAVE MY SON…. SAVE MY SON…”
The excruciating waiting begins. I can barely walk. Talk. I try to eat a power bar and can’t. I am trying to find an answer to take control of the situation. But, there is none. I have no control. I just sit, staring. Praying.
Aveenu malkeinu, Aveenu malkeinu. Through tears my husband says, “I would give my life for him.” “Oh no,” I say, “No you can’t. I need you.”
Aveenu malkeinu.
We might have to get the crash cart,” the nurse tells us. Hours later we are still told it could go either way.
Finally in the morning they know what is making him so sick. Sepsis, a blood infection. The antibiotics seem to be making a difference, but they hope it hasn’t spread to his brain because that would mean meningitis, which could lead to a series of serious problems.
We go in to see him. It looks like the set of an episode of ER except, it’s my baby. There are still wires everywhere and two huge monitors watching his brain to make sure he doesn’t have a seizure again.
We don’t sleep at all that night and at 3am the doctor tells us that he does have meningitis.
But there is an inkling of hope. Maybe they caught it in time. Maybe he won’t have permanent damage.
The next day, I’m in the pump room at the NICU, cleaning pump parts, and I hear Seth shout through the door, “Abie’s MRI is totally normal! He’s going to be okay.” OH, my god! OH, my god. Oh my god.
Through tears I eat an entire pizza.
As the months go on, Abraham gets off oxygen and the honeymoon phase finally arrives. Our baby is home! The day they test his eyes and ears and they are OK, I cry tears of joy. I wish I could feel the sense of gratitude I feel in this moment, always.
I start getting back to life little by little. One day, after a workout, I’m undressing in the locker room and am immediately embarrassed by my scar and hide it with my towel. I look longingly at the two naked girls with unscarred perfect bodies heading to the shower.
But then something comes over me. Enough of this Hollywood shit. Stop hiding! I’ve been through hell and I need to stop being my own worst enemy. I open up my towel and scream, “I am a warrior!” But the hot girls are already in the steam room, and can’t hear me, so it was more of a moment for myself.
A few weeks later, a doctor tells me he can remove my scar and rejoin it with normal skin. But I decide to keep it, as a reminder when self-doubt and comparison return, of what truly matters.
This experience stripped me down to my core and I found there … at my center… I am stronger, wiser and more capable than I ever imagined.
And I have the scar to prove it.
~Lauren Aboulafia
