`Miracles do happen' as mother, daughter survive touch-and-go delivery

By LEE HILL KAVANAUGH The Kansas City Star

Sara looked down at the baby in her lap.

Avery Noelle Almost 6 weeks old, with blue eyes and red downy hair.

But Sara didn't say a word. She couldn't talk. She couldn't walk. For weeks she was in a coma; her eyes only this day, a few days before Thanksgiving, began focusing on her world.

"Sara, this is your baby," Rob said, holding back tears and speaking as gently as he could. "You gave birth to her. ...Remember?"

Sara's eyes showed confusion at her husband's words. Her memory of the past two years was stripped away when she had a cardiac arrest during labor Sept. 20.

Still, she leaned down and kissed the baby girl's forehead -- a moment Rob will never forget.

"I knew she was on her way back," he says now. "Her mothering instinct was kicking in right before me. That was a great day."

III

Six weeks earlier, on Sept. 20, Rob was driving fast through the rainy streets to Olathe Medical Center, Sara's phone message still ringing in his ears.

Her voice was happy as she rushed the words together: Her water broke. The baby was coming.

This baby was their first miracle. She was the baby that doctors told Sara she had little chance of conceiving. Sara has polycystic ovarian disease. One ovary does not function at all.

When doctors told the couple early in the pregnancy not to get their hopes too high because Sara was spotting, the couple hoped anyway.

After a few months, that crisis disappeared. Now, after nine months of dreaming about their newest family member, she was about to arrive.

But at the hospital labor room, joy soon dissolved into fear.

Sara wasn't breathing well. Nurses pushed Rob and his mother-in-law, Suzann, to the waiting area. Less than a minute later, an emergency was announced for Sara's room.

Sara, 23, a nurse at Olathe Medical Center, was loved by the other nurses. The third-floor staff had lived Sara's pregnancy along with her. They couldn't wait to hold this baby.

III

Rob's world was crumbling.

His parents, Joan and Bob, wrapped their arms around him in the waiting room. Suzann collapsed on a couch, sobbing that they were going to lose both Sara and Avery. Jerry, Sara's father, began to pray. He dropped to his knees as his tears fell.

A nurse stepped into the room.

"I'm so sorry to tell you this," she said, holding back tears. "We have no heartbeat for Sara and none for Avery. They're doing an emergency Caesarean right now. They have one minute to get the baby out."

Five minutes passed, or perhaps 10. Another nurse appeared.

Avery was born, she said. She weighed 8 pounds, 1 ounce and measured 193/4 inches. Her heartbeat was erratic. A team prepared to rush her to the neonatal unit at KU Med.

"And Sara's still in trouble," the nurse said.

Rob made his first agonizing decision as a father: He would stay with Sara, and the new grandparents would be with Avery.

"I was hoping that maybe Sara had dodged a bullet since they got her back," he said. "Maybe she'd be OK after all."

He watched as a gurney passed with Sara, and then another with Avery. Both were surrounded by tubes, wires and monitors. He glimpsed Avery.

You look just like your mother, he whispered. Then he sobbed.

III

The hours turned into days waiting for Sara's eyes to open.

Doctors prepared Rob for the possibility that Sara might live in a vegetative state.

Finally, they gave their grimmest predictions: Her chances for waking up were just 10 percent.

"Each day was like living a death," Rob remembered. "I dreaded going to the hospital and hearing what else was happening, what more bad news they were going to tell me. Praying was something we could do."

Sara was lifeless, except for the blipping and whirring of the life support machines.

Word spread quickly through the hospital about what happened. Streams of nurses, doctors and staff headed to the intensive care unit, just steps from the nurses station where Sara had worked.

After six days, Avery was released from KU Med. Although pediatric nurses had planned to slowly wean her from the ventilator, Avery pushed it away one morning.

"She has that fighting instinct, just like her mom," Rob said.

But Avery had a detour to make before Rob took her home. There was someone she needed to meet.

Pushing aside the wires on Sara's unconscious body, nurses helped Rob create a space on her stomach for a skin-to-skin connection between mother and child.

Avery Noelle snuggled up to her mother, falling asleep.

She was home.

III

Nurses who worked with Sara began the donations first.

Colleagues with PTOs -- paid time off -- asked whether they could give their time to Sara.

The donated PTOs quickly multiplied. Some people could give only a few hours. Others had three-week vacations to give.

Although policy limits how many PTOs can be given to one employee, the hospital's president, Frank Devocelle, waived it.

"It was a very easy sell," said Elaine Patton, a nursing supervisor. "There were hundreds of employees that wanted to give. It was like a scene from `It's A Wonderful Life.' "

Sara's family recorded Avery's coos and cries. They videotaped special moments so Sara could watch them later. After four weeks Sara was transferred to Mid-America Rehabilitation Hospital. She was still in a coma.

The family refused to lose hope and kept praying.

They arranged schedules with military precision: baby-sitting times, home cleanings, cooking and freezing meals. Rob was freed to care for Avery in the mornings and sit with his wife afternoons and evenings.

But there were dark days. He feared Sara might be forever gone. The worst usually hit around midnight, after visiting Sara and tucking Avery into her crib.

One night he noticed Sara's side of their bathroom sink, usually a tumble of brushes, makeup and lotions. Now it was neatly straightened by his sisters-in-law. He missed its messiness, its reflection of Sara's life.

When he felt worst, he played one specially saved message on the answering machine: "Hi Honey! Where are you? My water broke and you need to get to the hospital. I'll try your cell phone. I hope you left it on. Love ya!"

Sometimes he played it dozens of times.

III

Sara defied all medical predictions.

Six weeks from the day of her near death, her eyes began to focus. Before, they were unseeing. But this day she reached out to hug her father.

She could sit up. She focused on people. She smiled. She tried to talk. Within days her arms stopped flailing randomly. Her hands relaxed from clenching. Days later, her feeding tube was removed, and she drank a glass of water.

"Oh, she was there, all there, back with us again," said Elaine Patton. "She asked me if I was keeping her job open, and I just cried."

Two weeks later, Sara began talking. It was just mumbles at first, and then clear words. Within days, sentences began to form.

"He...is...my...hero," she said one night, her lips trembling before each word tumbled out. "He...visits...at noon...till night." Then she smiled at Rob.

"No," he said, "You're my hero. I have no doubt that if you were in my place you would be doing the exact same thing."

Thursday afternoon she returned to Olathe Medical Center for a visit. The staff threw her an impromptu birthday party, where 40 nurses and doctors watched with tears, laughter then applause as Sara gave them a very special gift: She walked.

Friday she went home, the first step in what the family knows will be an arduous journey back to normalcy. Doctors aren't how long it will take for her to recover fully. She has months of therapy ahead but she will be at home..

"I'm...happy...today," she said. "Prayer...is good. This...," she said pointing to herself, "is...a...miracle."

Rob smiled as he and her parents gathered the balloons and cards to take home.

"One day we'll be telling Avery about this, and she won't believe it. But miracles do happen."

-------------------------------------------

To reach Lee Hill Kavanaugh, call (816) 234-4420 or send e-mail to lkavanaugh@kcstar.com.

(article edited by Cassie. I've taken out last names)