Me: "Who has the best seat in the house, me or daddy?"

Adam: "Well, Daddy's is nice, but yours is best. Your's is squishier."

Friday, March 29, 2013


"He says it's time
to let go. Everyhing is going to be alright."
"How do you know? How do you know something bad isn't going to happen?"
"I don't." 
                                                                 ~Dory and Merlin, from Finding Nemo
The nice thing about going through a trial when you have little kids is that having fun remains a priority for them no matter how difficult things are.  So tonight we watched Finding Nemo.  I am glad.  It is always good to be reminded.
When we headed out for our appointment with Dr. M. this morning, I didn't even feel nervous.  It wasn't because I knew everything was going to turn out the way I hoped, but because at this point, surrender has become the standard protocol here.
On the way we discussed the worse case scenario for the day: Baby might have increased blood flow to the brain, would be scanned again in a few days or a week, and ultimately it would be decided to transfuse the baby or deliver early.  But it wouldn't be today.  We would have, at the very least, a few days to prepare, if not two weeks. 
When we got to our appointment, a nice nurse named Chris did a scan of baby's amniotic fluid levels and said they were great, at about 18.  We also learned baby was breech.  But though Dr. M. had said in the hospital he would be scanning the baby's brain to check for blood flow problems due to my RH sensitization, they didn't have us on the schedule.  That was remedied quickly, and soon we were checking on baby with Dr. M. 
His hands moved like lightning, and he assessed the baby, which by that time had managed to turn sideways.  He measured little bones and belly, head size and then the blood flow.  It was amazing to actually see the blood pumping through the baby's tiny brain like a blue and red neon seagull, pulsing and throbbing, glowing with health.
"This looks great to me," the doctor said, saying he would crunch the numbers with his computer program based on gestational age to get exact ranges.
Back in his office, everything checked out.  Baby measured even a few days ahead of it's age, and the baby's blood flow in the brain was absolutely perfect.  "Normal", he kept saying.
We reveled in smiles and celebration.  Dr. M., who I have taken a while to warm up to due to his propensity to deliver a lot of intense news in a very short time, has really fought for us.  I hugged him, and he happily accepted.  I told Dr. M. that with this news, I have moved into the 2% category.
"Oh, no.  You're still my 1%," he smiled with a raised eyebrow.  Still, we have had little good news lately that did not have to battle it's way through the dark clouds of despair, risk and heart wrenching choices into the light.  Being rare and unusual, as he calls me, hasn't felt good.
Normal, that feels amazing.
Just as we have learned to take the blows of recent weeks one at a time without asking why, we settled into the peace of the moments after the appointment with warmth and instant gratitude, which lately has been so easy to find in tiny doses.  Though spring petals have not yet begun to fall, our pathway home was scattered with them like the confetti of a parade.
We will be going twice a week for Non-Stress Tests on the baby's heart, and every two weeks we will take another look at the brain.  Tests of my blood thinner levels will be every week to two weeks as well. 
I look forward to more, very boring, ultra-ordinary

Dr. M, Baby and 1%.

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