The Intuition that Saved my Daughter’s Life

I just knew it wasn’t right. My inner wisdom rang an alarm bell. That strident voice that tells you something is off. This was one occasion in which it was literally a life saver.

My eldest daughter, Chemda, was due to give birth. Her two previous births had started naturally and both ended with emergency caesareans. Her gynecologist insisted that this time she would give birth by a scheduled caesarean. Dr. R. was emphatic that when planned they were far safer and the recuperation would be faster.

I sat alongside my son-in-law in the room as they prepped my daughter for the operation. The doctor’s confident words as they wheeled her out were, “We won’t be long. You’ll see how much better it is when not an emergency.”

A short time later they wheeled my daughter into the recovery room. Groggy, but with a lopsided smile she fought to open her eyes and whisper, “Mazal tov.” The next few minutes were spent in congratulations, peeking at the baby before they whizzed her off to the nursery, and watching my daughter try to fight off the effects of the anesthesia.

The nurses checked her blood pressure, iron count, stitches and  brought her a drink of tea. Chemda looked like she could use a good rest. The birth was behind her.  A while later she was pronounced ready to be transferred to the ward.  

As we were led to the ward Dr. R once again appeared. Above the clanging of the wheels Dr. R. reiterated, “It was quick, simple, no hitches. So much better when it is planned rather than an emergency.” At the end of the hall we turned right, Dr. R veered left. The tension was over.

Or so we thought.

A friendly nurse helped transfer my daughter from the gurney onto the bed. A fresh pillow and sheets might tempt her to give into her exhaustion and sleep. I encouraged my son in law to go home and assured him that I would stay with Chemda to help her.

Within moments, the crisp pillow case had a large, wet spot under Chemda’s head.

Trying to find a comfortable position Chemda attempted to move, but wasn’t able to muster the strength to lift her body. Leaning over to assist her, I felt her hospital gown was damp from perspiration. 

“Chemda, are  you alright?”

In a barely audible voice Chemda whispered, “I think so.”

My heart wasn’t quiet. I went out to the hall to call back the nurse.

“My daughter is sweating and she is very weak.”

“Of course she’s weak. She just had an operation.”

“This isn’t her first cesarean. I saw her twice before after cesareans. She never looked like this. Something isn’t right.”

To placate me the nurse followed me back to my daughter’s room. She checked her blood pressure and said to no one in particular, “It is a bit low.”

She asked Chemda if she wanted a drink. With an almost imperceptible nod she acquiesced. But lifting her head to the cup was beyond her limit.

“Something is not right,” I told the nurse. She was never this weak. Even in the recovery room she had more strength.

The nurse looked at my daughter’s wan face and said she would check with the doctor on call.

The doctor gave instructions to administer something to help improve the blood pressure and have it closely monitored.

Something was added to the saline solution. The nurse flitted in and out of the room, checking the blood pressure. I stood my vigil and my heart’s monitor was registering louder and louder.

Ten minutes had elapsed and when the nurse came in to check the blood pressure I began in earnest.

“There’s something wrong! She is sweating profusely. Her clothes, the sheets, they’re soaked. This isn’t normal. Something isn’t right!”

By now, the nurse’s equanimity was compromised. “I’ll call the doctor again.”

The doctor ordered a blood count. In the recovery room it was 10.4. Now it was 7.2.

The doctor on call asked, “Who did the surgery?”

“Dr. R. He went home right after the surgery,” I informed him. My daughter was incapable of speaking.

“I’m going to call him right away.”

My reaction was a mixture of relief that they realized that something was wrong and deep concern that this something was very serious.

Just moments later the doctor on call returned with the update, “Dr. R. is on his way back and he suspects internal bleeding. He asked that we prepare an operating room.”

Now my  heart was racing to the sound of my inner alarm bells. Another operation. Internal bleeding.

With a clean cloth I wiped Chemda’s sweaty forehead. Her eyes closed and she tried to concentrate all her energy in murmuring, “I don’t want another operation.”

I called my son in law to apprise him of the situation; he said he was coming back immediately.

My son in law got there first. Minutes later Dr. R appeared.

“Dr. R. can’t we wait a little while longer? Chemda is so weak, I can’t see her go through another operation,” my son in law bargained.

“If we go in now, it will be as if it is the same operation. It probably is a loose stitch that opened up. We will be in and out in no time. If we wait longer, the skin will begin to heal and it will be two incisions and a much harder recovery. No, we aren’t going to wait.”

With that he turned to prepare for surgery.

My son in law and I, armed with Tehillims, took up vigil in the waiting room outside the operating theatre. Fifteen minutes, twenty, half an hour, forty five minutes. Nothing. Not a word. No one came out.

My son in law and I, armed with Tehillims, took up vigil in the waiting room outside the operating theatre.

Fifteen minutes, twenty, half an hour, forty five minutes. Nothing. Not a word. No one came out. After about an hour a nurse appeared.

“Excuse me. It’s over?”

As she rushed past she said, “No. Not yet. They’re still working on her.” And with that she was gone.

I thought the tension couldn’t get any worse, but when the nurse came back trailing another doctor suited up for surgery, my heart began doing flip flops.

This was not a loose stitch that opened up!

My fervent recital of Tehillim kept my mind from going down the dark path of my imagination. Every now and then my son in law and I exchanged heavy sighs, but we didn’t allow ourselves to enunciate the fervent fears that gripped our souls.

Two hours and a bit after the surgery began, a weary Dr. R. emerged together with other doctors and nurses from the operating room.

“When we opened up the incision there was a pool of blood. Every time I tried to clean the area to see from where it was emanating, a fresh spurt of blood covered the area. I called in Dr. P. who is a top level surgeon and together we were able to ascertain that in the original surgery I inadvertently had cut a blood vessel. In over thirty years of practice, this is the first time it has ever happened.”

“What would have happened if we had waited until the morning?”

“She wouldn’t have made it to the morning.”

Hashem blessed women with bina, an inner wisdom. We just need to listen to it when it speaks.