M y labor was quick. Three and half hours later I had given birth. Great. The only problem was that those three and a half hours were a blur. My labor was unusual and my memory of it was like a hazy dream. I had to give birth in an Emergency room usually reserved for C-Sections births. I remember that there seemed to be a hell of a lot of people in there. Four or five other people were in the room. Let's see, there was Patrick, the doctor, the nurse, the anesthesiologist and the guy who had taught us child CPR, which was odd as I couldn't really understand what he was doing there. I wasn't sure that I really wanted so many people seeing me in this highly undignified position, legs apart, sweaty and unkempt.

I was wearing an oxygen mask, something which had never been mentioned in any of my birthing books. I remember being told to push for the count of ten. I cheated. I could hold my breath only for three, so I pretended to do it for ten but instead took sneaky short intakes of breath to keep it going. Patrick remembered that I yelled that I couldn't breathe but no-one seemed to be listening to me.

And that was it. How did I feel when my baby came out? Exhausted. Did my husband cry? No idea. Did I hold her to my breast to suckle her? No. I did cuddle her, but she was clothed, which I thought was funny; as if she'd emerged into this world and donned a cute outfit and a hat.

This was not how I'd imagined giving birth. I'd imagined pain, joy, tears and then blissful peace with a little baby, not hazy, foggy crowded labor with no chance to regain composure before being rushed to another Emergency room.

Whilst I was giving birth, the doctors realized that the shortness of breath was something much more serious than just pregnancy induced fatigue. As I pushed, my oxygen levels were dipping down; the medical term for this is de-satting. It was as if the air around me was disappearing, like I was drowning on land. It was a weird situation to be in; whilst I was helping give life to Kali, I was slowly losing my own ability to live. When she was born, Kali weighed three pounds nine ounces and the moment she emerged she was whisked off to the incubator and I was rushed to another hospital where specialists would spend the next four weeks poking and prodding me trying to determine my illness.

Because I had been taken to a new hospital and Kali was a preemie, we could not be together. She needed to stay where she was and I needed specialist care in the new place. I saw my baby for just five minutes and from then on only through a video camera screen that my parents brought to me, without fail, every day of the month that we were apart. I couldn't do all the new mom things like breast feed or change diapers or marvel at her little fingers and feet. I wanted to be with her so badly that I felt sick with fear that I may never see her I was stuck in a hospital trying to remain logical and calm but all the time worrying that maybe that first five minute cuddle would be the only cuddle I'd ever give her. The only thing that kept me going was a small Polaroid of her, taken on her first day, before she was clothed, which I gripped tightly in my hand when I was asleep as if it was a talisman to ward off evil.

The seriousness of my illness didn't hit me at first. My only thoughts were about the baby and the tragedy of not being able to breastfeed. Looking back, I would have been thankful if my only worry had been about not breast feeding. The enormity of my illness hit me when I was informed that I would go through a trial of different drugs to help maintain and stabilize my breathing. First they would put me on Viagra - yes I did say Viagra, a drug that helps men keep it up and women, with Pulmonary Hypertension, stay alive. If that didn't work I would have a drug that could only be administered by IV as the immediacy of this drug was vital to keep me breathing and finally Šif that didn't work I'd be put on an emergency lung transplant list. It was a Saturday afternoon and the idea that a lung would be available was slim, despite Patrick trying to offer one of his, which the doctor refused. I was lucky. The combination of both Viagra and the IV proved to be a life saver.

I'm not a dramatic person. I don't like to fuss over my illness. I find it difficult to explain the severity of Pulmonary Hypertension. It's not cancer. It's not a popular illness that everyone knows about and donates willingly to charities, to try to cure. As far as I know, it doesn't have a celebrity sufferer to help raise awareness. It doesn't have a cure. I tend to brush it off with jokes about feeling horny on Viagra. What I hate the most is the trappings that come with the illness. I am embarrassed to have a disability card hanging in my car or having to request a wheel chair to take me from one airport terminal to another. I battle with the fact that two minutes of dancing on a dance floor would lead to virtual collapse. I had lost control of my life to Pulmonary Hypertension.

And to make me feel even more powerless I was not allowed to have anymore children. Not a problem. Well according to the rest of the world it is. For some reason as soon as you have one kid, the whole world seems in a rush to push you to have another. This particular day at the blood lab where I have to get a weekly test to ensure cholesterol level and liver are in order, the nurse asked me the dreaded question, "So when are you having another kid?" It was a perfectly innocent question and I didn't have the heart to say, "I can't have anymore" as I'd had to say to all the others who asked me before her. I just didn't want to see her discomfort. I didn't want to explain that the one I have is a miracle, that to have another would kill me.

I simply smiled. "Maybe one's enough", I said. But she told me once again, as I had been told by the gardener, the hairdresser, the stranger at the supermarket how unfair it would be to Kali if I didn't give her a little brother or sister. As I listened I smiled but inside I was seething with anger. I wanted to shout, "Shut up! I can't have anymore kids, and yes it's unfair, but let me enjoy what I have without the guilt. Please?" Instead I finally agreed that she was right and that maybe next year I'd have another.

Discovering you have a lifelong illness means that you have to grow up. It's hard having a problem that no one can solve for you. There are days when I just want someone to tell me that everything will be ok like my parents did when I was a kid, but unfortunately my Pulmonary Hypertension was not going to disappear like measles or a bout of flu. It was here to stay and not only that, every day could be my last.

Life changes for everyone when they have a child and mine has too. Now I take blood thinners to ensure that I don't have strokes, having already had one. I go for blood tests to ensure that my blood isn't too thin and that my liver doesn't collapse due to the drugs I take to keep me alive and breathing. If you shook me up and down you'd probably hear all the tablets I take rattling in me as they do their work to keep me around as long as possible. By my bed is a huge electronic oxygen tank that I use on a regular basis . I'm still working on looking sexy while wearing an oxygen mask. Still, I think my story is a success story. Kali, my daughter, saved my life by coming out early. Through all the turmoil, frustrations and depression the one constant that calms me is Kali, and especially at bedtime - her bedtime. Sitting in my rocking chair in the nursery I hold my nine month old daughter. She usually lies on my chest, her arms spread around me as if she's hugging me, and I am at peace.

Kali's a pretty noisy sleeper. She snores soft, feminine, milk satisfied snores that begin loudly and diminish to a whisper. She whimpers as she moves her head and snuggles into a curled up ball, lying on her stomach, her legs tucked into her chin, a baby yoga pose, her head slightly angled. She looks like a giant comma. She drifts into a dreamland I can only imagine. Maybe she's surrounded by thousands of bubbles that pop as they land, or she's the baby version of Cleopatra, sitting in her own formula milk bath. Who knows what goes on in baby dreamland? As I sit rocking slowly, singing nursery rhymes from my own childhood, making up words to the ones I can't remember, I daydream about Kali as an older little girl. What will her voice sound like? What will her first words be? Will her hair ever grow? Will I be around to witness all of this?

I look at this beautiful, rosy cheeked baby sleeping so peacefully and realize that if I had to do it all over again, knowing what I know, I would, just to spend whatever time I have with my miracle, Kali.

Priya Balachandran - Born in Barbados in 1972, and then brought up in England. Priya is of Indian descent (from India). A first time writer of non-fiction, Priya has been working as a TV producer for over 8 years and started her career writing short PR articles. She currently works and lives in LA writing TV show ideas for Granada America as a development producer. In the past year she has discovered that she has a rare, incurable illness called Pulmonary Hypertension which has led to her writing non-fiction. Email her at priyainla@hotmail.com.

Originally published by Moondance.org (wINTER 2005)

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