Birth story: Talitha A. Williams
I know the status I posted yesterday caught a lot of people off guard. It caught us off guard. We weren’t expecting it. For me, it was a nightmare. Yesterday, I almost lost my wife and my child. I’m grateful that they’re both doing okay. My wife is currently recovering from the surgery and I’m laying on the futon thing on the side of her. Talking about what happened is still a sore spot for me. I still have difficulty processing it. I can’t do so without crying. There’s just so much to child birth that both men and women, in general, do not know. After going through two traumatic births, the first in which my son John Butler passed away, I have more of an appreciation for women as mothers.
At the time of Tali’s birth, my wife was only 24 weeks pregnant. We hadn’t had any major complications, but she had placenta previa to deal with, which, in the first trimester caused hemorrhaging. We just happened to be visiting her doctor that day and we suspected the worst. She was told to take it easy. No heavy lifting. Partial bed rest. No sex. Nothing that would endanger the baby. After that initial scare, everything else seemed to be going just fine for months. But the day before yesterday seemed to come out of nowhere. We were preparing to go back to the doctor for our scheduled visit and 15 minutes before we were about to leave, my wife started hemorrhaging again. This time, it was significantly worse. I was sleep at the time and I just remember her calling my name over and over. I was drowsy and didn’t know what was going on. Lack of sleep, anxiety, plus a Xanax is not the best combination. I went to the bathroom and there was blood everywhere and it was still gushing out. I completely panicked at this time. I didn’t know what to do, so I called a friend to walk me through a thought process that I couldn’t get through. I was having a meltdown. I didn’t know whether I should get her in the car or call 911. In hindsight, it was like “yea, call 911 you idiot!” But instead, I froze.
The paramedics took my wife to the hospital were she was stabilized. I showed up shortly afterwards but had to wait in the lobby until they moved her from OB ER to Labor & Delivery. Once we were in another room, the doctors came by and explained everything to us and what they’d need to do if it was a “worst case scenario”. They had my wife to sign some papers, gave her a couple of shots for the baby just in case, and they kept her under observation. The bleeding had stopped for the most part and we were trying to rest a bit. While I was laying there, my wife called for the nurse because she said she could feel blood. They’re supposed to check every four hours and it had only been an hour since they last checked. As soon as the nurse came in, I woke up. My wife had lost a pound of blood already and it just kept gushing out. Something ruptured. Before you know it, it went from one person being in the room to ten.
By the time the resident doctor made it to the room, my wife was fading. They were doing their best to keep her conscious and so much was happening all at the same time. They were trying to get her vitals, keep track of the amount of blood she lost, determine what was happening, keeping an eye on her blood pressure, monitor the baby’s heart rate, explain to her what they needed to do, get me to pack up our belongings, explain to me what was going on, etc. Before you know it, the doctor was like “we need to get her to the OR now! We need to move move move move!” Her blood pressure had plummeted and her heart rate was getting weak. She needed to be stabilized. If her blood pressure remained okay, I would be allowed to be in the room when Tali is delivered. But this was emergency mode. I’ve never seen cords snatched out of a wall so fast. Before you knew it, we were running down the hall full stride. They stopped me at the OR and asked me to just sit in the waiting area. One of the nurses came and spoke to me and asked me if I knew what was going on. She offered to pray with me. Tried to comfort me as much as possible. And assured me they would keep me up to date as things happened.
By this time, I’m trying not to cry. My head is hurting and tears are streaming down my face. Two other nurses take my belongings and put them in the recovery room. I would soon get word that Tali was delivered and was doing okay and I would see her pass by shortly and when she comes out, I’ll be accompanying her. But there was no update on my wife. Tali came out and I followed her to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She’s in an incubator. The doctor on staff explains everything to me as much as I can comprehend at the time. I had papers I needed to sign. I needed to learn the rules on NICU. I needed to understand what would be happening from here on. And then the doctor gets to the risk of being premature and what they will be monitoring. I never really recovered from crying the first time. My eyes are red. Tears are still streaming down my face and I’m just trying to process it all. It’s too much, too fast and I can’t keep up. I take a few pictures of Tali and then leave the nurses to what they’re doing and I’m escorted to the recovery room.
I’m sitting there and it seems like forever. I still didn’t have an update on my wife and I’m just waiting in this big, empty room — alone. They tell me that she’s on her way and before you know it, she’s being brought in on a bed and she’s just waking up from anesthesia. She’s telling me that she’s glad she wasn’t taken from us and that she kept telling them that they had to save our baby. That she kept saying the shahadatayn over and over because she thought she was dying. That she begged God to let us keep our child. That she kept supplicating to let our child be one who worships God and helps the people and be compassionate to the people. I told her that the baby was doing well and I sat there and held her hand…
My wife is resting now. We both were finally able to get some sleep last night. I’ve been up since I prayed Fajr and I’m getting ready to go see Tali again. I haven’t touched her yet. I have to wait 72 hours. She’s tiny. My wife hasn’t been able to see her yet, but hopefully she will be able to soon. We appreciate everyone’s prayers. To those who reached out we are immensely grateful. Barak Allaahu Feekum. If I haven’t responded to you, I’ll try to do so soon, but no promises. There’s still a lot on my plate. I pray that you all understand that this has been very traumatic for both of us. It doesn’t minimize the joy that we feel. It’s just a lot.
Several people have asked if there’s anything they can do. I’m the wrong person to ask. Inherently, my answer is always no. We’ve done so much on our own that it’s natural for us to continue doing so. But in all honestly, I really have no idea what we need. If you wish to do something, no matter what it is, you have our blessing. We won’t block your blessings. If you write or call and I can’t get back to you, just know that I have a lot to do. Accept my apologies in advance, please. Health insurance, speaking to doctors, checking on my wife, feeding and tending to her, going back to the house to clean, visiting the baby, filling out paperwork, etc. I have a full plate and even now, I’ve managed to get 7 hours of sleep in the last 52 hours.
For the time being, we’re at the hospital until Sunday and then she’ll be on bed rest. I’ve been in contact with people on her behalf. Tali will not be coming home with us for at least four months. Both of us will be at the hospital daily to check on our little girl, change her, delivering milk, etc.
If you’re interested in her name, its roots are based in Aramaic, a semitic language on which Arabic, Hebrew, and Amharic are derived. The Aramaic word ṭalyā, feminine ṭlīṯā is an adjective meaning “young”, and then a noun meaning “boy/girl” and “servant”. It is etymologically related to Hebrew ṭāle, Arabic ṭalā, which mean “young animal” and specifically “lamb”. Translated, it means “little girl”. It is reported that Isa (Jesus), peace be upon him, said to a dead girl in the Injeel (Gospel) according to Mark, “Talitha cumi” which translates to, “little girl, I say to you, arise”. Bonus: In Amharic, tal itha cumi means: “my sister arise.” Both of us are nerds and we love history.