Six degrees of separation

Sharpie in hand, I sat carefully labeling little tags in adorable little borrowed baby girl clothes.  Ruth's little Autumn has outgrown them, and though Baby Gabe won't require pink tights any time soon, Ruth would like them back.  That's not to say she is planning another child.  It's not to say she isn't.  Who knows?  It's not about the future, it's about the past, and all the memories that those little clothes hold.

I totally get it.  I have a little box of clothes that I can't part with. There have been other clothes that have moved along, but to get to the point when they finally move along they must go through a process.  The levels or degrees, if you will.  Degrees of separation.

They are as follows:

First degree - I push them to the back of the drawer.  This degree is one delusion short of denial.  Maybe my baby will shrink and need them!

Second degree - I put them in a tote in the garage.  This gives the illusion that I have taken care of them.  I like illusions.  I have built my fragile grip on sanity out of them.  There is a subset of this degree I have stumbled upon.  Instead of a garage tote, a few of these items are filling my emotional needs as the outerwear on his stuffed animals, because fur on a fake dog is not enough, he needs a cute little monkey shirt as well.

Third degree - I loan them to a good friend, but I might want them back (this is the degree wherein lie Ruth's baby girl clothes).  The idea of the loan is that I am storing them AT YOUR HOUSE.  Now I feel really good, because I am keeping them, but I have freed up garage space for other important things like the broken washer and the two unused filing cabinets.

Fourth degree - I give them to a really good friend, someone I like; nay, love.  Not any ol' pal will do.  This has to be a woman I know will take care of the darling duds (I was really proud of myself when I got to this degree with Jonah's old clothes, but I will admit some stayed in Second Degree, subset dog shirt.)

Fifth degree - I give them to someone I know.  Now we are getting down to the stuff my kid never really looked cute in.  Well, lets face it, my kid looked cute in everything, but there are those items that lost their sparkle, figuratively and, well, literally.  All those shiny bits tend to come off in the wash.  I'm not saying they're crap or anything, but I probably don't have a cute "I remember when" story attached to them.

Sixth degree - I give them to charity.  My favorite charity, of course.  Because somehow we can micromanage even the things we give away.  Unlike most people, I have been known to repair items before they go into the donation bag; tack a hem, sew on a button.  I try to get stains out of little collars, and then I get sucked back in to the viscous power they hold, as I imagine myself feeding a wee-one who sits on a round bottom and with a gummy-grin, lets strained carrots spill from little pink lips onto the collar of that very outfit (in my vision I am a size six and my hair blows gently, even though we are indoors.  Also, the part of me is played by Sandra Bullock and probably includes a catchy pop song sing-along where I dance around the kitchen.  Aaaaaaaanyway...).  Now I have a fab, albeit fabricated memory with the stained, 1992 hand-me-down-from-my-sister, sailor suit! How can I possibly give it away?!?!

Back to a tote in the Second Degree.  That's okay.  It's in good company.



 

Just for Giggles

The illusive baby smile.  They are coming more often, now.

 

Giggle, chuckle, snicker...

chortle, titter, guffaw...

 

Laugh!

 

 That's what she did.

Just once, on Friday,

but Heaven heard it,

and it made my heart sing.

 

Who ever said it was a bell

that gave out angel wings,

well, they were all wrong.
It was a baby's laugh, of course.

 

Oh, she is so darling.

 

*****

 

My mind is a highway, bumper to bumper with posts.

The exits are blocked with

laundry

dishes

messes

 never ending diapers,

and Miss Fussy-pants.

 

This weekend we are to celebrate Natalie's safe arrival.  I have had this day in my mind since February 20th when the first blood clot reared its ugly red-head.  Not the date, per-se, but certainly the day.  I imagined being surrounded by every soul who helped us along the way, so that I could stand up on a table top and thank them all. 

 

It turns out we may have picked a bad day, as only a sparse handful of folks have Rizvipped that they can come.  Of course, you can't control that, especially in late summer when everyone is hurrying to get in a last camping trip or a quick weekend away.

 

I hope they all know

how very, very much I appreciate them. 

Every one of them.

Move Over, Bellagio

In the past 24 hours

 I have been covered in:

poop

pee

milk

muddy grass clippings

crying children (3 at once)

hamster blood

vomit

Certainly the hamster blood was the most exotic of the messes I have had to clean up, but by far the most exciting has been... the vomit.  You know the look on the coach's face when the team sneaks up from behind and dumps a cooler of ice laden Gatorade over his head?  Yeah, that's the reaction I have, every time. 

I used to have this sixth sense with both Tessa and Jonah, where I could just tell when they were about to spew.  It was a gift.  I would actually have time to reach for the burp cloth before the geyser would gush.  I had people applaud my amazing gag-snag.  It was, I must admit, burgeoning on legendary. 

But this little gal is sneaky.  She just lets you pat her as she fusses, and you pat and she fusses and you pat and she fusses and WHAM!  Exorcist.  Puke pajamas, drenched clear to my upchuck-soaked-undies and hurled upon hair.  She has put my over-sized cups to good use by hoarking straight down my cleavage and filling my bra.  Indeed, my cups runeth over.  In fact, at this very moment, I smell like the inside of an old milk carton on a warm day.  It's a lovely aroma to conjure, you're welcome (and anyone who is feeling "holier-than" can come on over and hold the child while I shower.  Oh, you don't want to hold the little cookie-tosser?  I rest my  case).  I guess I lost my mojo, the magic that I once had for avoiding the fountain of yuck.  I must be getting old.

We are working on a fix for the situation.  I went off dairy a week ago, and have abandoned gluten, eggs, nuts, soy and my sanity this week.  It was an easy choice, but a challenging commitment.  When I did it with Jonah, you may recall, if I cheated the results showed up in Technicolor spots on the poor kid's head and chest.  With Natalie, it is more subtle.  I am not even sure it is food related, all I know is that about 4 times a day she displays the entire contents of her belly in a spray that would make the Bellagio jealous.  It is nice to see I am making gallons of milk, not so nice to see it in reverse.  Somehow she is keeping enough down to have gained weight; she is almost the size of a sack of flour, but her screams and wails are heart breaking, and her flatulence would impress a long-haul trucker.

When she isn't crying or asleep, we have a wonderful 45 seconds together.  I really adore her, spinning head and all.  If you see the lights on at 4am, come on over.  I am singing my way through the 80's this week for our nighttime tear-tour, but I was never very good with the hair bands. 

Bring a rain slicker.

Raindrops on Roses....

The glorious unification of dubious DNA,
 captured by talented friend and photographer Robin Leach
 (check out her blog and hire her here!)

 

 Oh! I forgot how fun this is!!! 

There is so much about having a newborn that is so fleeting.  I wish I could bottle it.  And, though a 7+ pounder is a respectable arm-load, you may recall that my last babe in arms was toddler-sized at birth.  Being a seasoned (read here "Old") mama, I know enough to not be frantic when we have a fussy day and to be able to sit back and see the humor in being soaked in vomit or staying up half the night with a fuss-bucket.

So, as we are well overdue for a list (knowing as you do, my propensity for list making), here goes:

1.  Tai chi moves, jazz hands and flared toes

2.  A booty so tiny you can change the diaper on your lap.

3.  Projectile poop (rather a bummer when combined with #2)

4.  Crossed eyes and Oooooooo lips

5.  Shadow boxing

6.  Saggy-Baggy Elephant skin.

7.  Fuzzy shoulders and itty bitty buns.

8.  Looking down to find her staring into my eyes (like right now).

9.  Staring back endlessly, like when you first fell in love.

10.  Poo that smells like buttered popcorn.

11.  Two AM, and not having to wait till morning to see her again.

12.  4AM... 6AM...

13.  Counting life in days and ounces.

14.  Slings, and having a buffer between unwashed hands and her delicate immune system.

15.  Bright, warm smiles from women in their 50's

16.  .Bath time in the sink.

17.  Saying "thank you" when people say she's soooo cute,
as if we had any control over it.

18.  Clothes so small you could use them as mittens... or sock puppets.

19.  An excuse to not pay attention to anyone or anything else for 6 solid weeks.

20.   Figuring out who she looks like.

21.  Making milk, and not even knowing the recipe

22.  Having a whole person fit right under my chin.

23.  Seeing my sweetheart in love with someone else,
and being totally okay with it.

24.  Being grateful every minute from now till forever. 
(Okay, that one I get to enjoy a lot longer than 6 weeks.)

A negative

 

 

There is so much happening, and I promise when I am able to think more clearly, and stay awake for more than 5 seconds I will begin writing out

all that has taken place this week,

but I realized that while I had posted on Facebook that baby Natalie is well,

I didn't explain here that she is home and did not need to spend a week in the NICU. 

In fact, we had a sweet miracle that we still don't quite understand. 

 

After Natalie was placed in the NICU, several standard tests were run.  In a few hours it was discovered that Natalie has the same blood type as I do.

The A part,

the negative part

and the dangerous antigen part...

which means that

somehow, though we don't understand it,

she was safe inside me.

 

We still don't understand why my titers we rising, and we are trying to find someone who can explain it to us, but in the mean time, we are just so grateful. 

That we got to hold her and have her after just 10 hours in the NICU

instead of 4 days or a week or more...

 

And we were able to bring her home with us after just four days.

She is such a joy.

 

 

 

Natalie, hours after birth

 

The man who is getting me through

First kiss.

Happy Birthday Tessa (and Baby Update)

 

Seven years ago a little girl entered the world.

She took her time.  She made her mama wait.  She was soooooo worth it.

 

I went into labor with Tessa in the morning, which I had never done before.  It was strange to labor in the sunlight, but I love sunlight, and I loved being in labor with her.  It was a Saturday and we had planned to go to the amazing Russian marionette puppet show that day.  I was sad I would miss it.  Then I decided, why miss it?  So we went.  We sat in the back row of the library, Guy on one side of me, Francine on the other, and I rode the waves of the contractions as the ripples of children's laughter cascaded over me.  It was joyous.  On the way out I told our Children's Librarian "Hey, guess what?  I'm in labor."  He blanched white and said, "I am not a taxi driver!  I don't deliver babies!!!"

 

We came home to eat and then would have headed to the river, but I was overcome with a shift in my labor, so the kids were shuffled off to friend's houses and we got to work.

 

I remember at one point kneeling in the labor tub, sunlight bouncing gloriously around the room.  The contractions were strong but I was able to visit and laugh in between, even at 8 centimeters dilation.  I looked around me and smiled and said, "This is how I always pictured it.  This is JUST what I wanted." 

 

At some point Guy and I snuggled and even smooched a little.  I sang during the hard contractions and the pain was lessened by my concentration on deep breathing and the familiarity of the songs.  The night wore on and finally Tessa came.  I watched her being born and I was astounded.  I reached to catch her but my hands trembled too much.  Claudette lifted her up to me and I don't think I let go of her for the next four months.

 

Tessa is a dear.  She is serious and smart and helpful.  She is kind and imaginative.  She loves life, and laughing, and loves her siblings.  She is gentle and refined.

 

I always feel sad when my kiddos hit age seven.  There is a bend in the road this year that takes them away from pudgy baby faces and dimpled knees.  They start to wake up to the great big world and it's possibilities.  They begin to care about friends more than cuddles, and they start really gettin' their sassy on.  But here she is, such a big girl.  And in years to come I will look back at this post and think she looked so tiny.

 

Big or small, I love this girl.

 

Daddy took over cake duty and did a smashing job.  I had luckily prepped the dairy free frosting a while back and had it stored, and amazingly Guy and I had happened to do the birthday shopping the week before I went into the hospital for our first date night since the last hospital stay.  I couldn't stay up long enough to do one of my elaborate cakes, so I let the girls plan and decorate the cake.  They did a great job.

 

See the yellow flash? 

 That is a flying Cinderella doll. 

 The boys were fascinated by her and kept picking her up, and I would grab the camera but never quite catch them in action playing with the doll.  That doll hit the floor no less than six times, poor thing!

 

***

Baby Update:

 

Baby was a little uncooperative at the last NST, and the nurse didn't accept my input that baby was asleep.  Cuz, like, what could I possibly know?  I only house the tiny human IN MY BODY, so what would I know?  They did that awful zappy-noise thing to it to stimulate it and get it to move.  Poor baby jumped so hard.  Finally, baby woke up and started behaving just as perfectly as it always has in previous NSTs.

 

As of today I am 32 weeks.  This means that a cesarean is no longer required to keep the baby from having a cranial bleed when being born.

 

So one of the many reasons for a cesarean;

fetal distress,

red blood cell damage,

clots on the placenta,

abruption, and

extreme prematurity...

 

has been checked off the list.

 

And if baby waits at least 3 more weeks, we can have a birth at the hospital we want where they have labor tubs.

 

It may seem strange that I have hopes for any particular comforts for our birth experience, but we have lost so much already, that if there are things we don't have to throw out, we won't.

 

But that is another post.

 

 

Acceptance



 

(Baby update at the bottom)

 



Guy sat beside me  after dinner last night, the serving bowls around us looking like the floor after Christmas gift giving.  We chatted and enjoyed the lovely late glow of daylight-savings that poured through the window.  Guy had made a his Should-Be-World-Famous slow-roasted glazed corned beef, with lightly sauteed cabbage and herb roasted potatoes.  Leprechauns had struck, and the lemonade sparkled green in the bottoms of the glasses.  We switched back and forth between serious low-voiced conversation about risks and interventions to lighthearted chatting about runny kid-noses and leprechaun traps.  It has become both easy and necessary to talk about the difficult things in small doses, blended with the slices of our day to day.

Just then, a familiar face bounded up the walk.  Brother Bair, at church that morning, had been showing me pictures on his phone of his newly planted garden.  I had made fun of the current state of affairs in my yard in sad comparison; tulips and daffodils popping their lovely but disappointed heads up above the dead leaves and foot-high weeds, wishing they had been born that spring in some other garden.  Now, here he was at our messy kitchen table extending an offer to come and help with the yard. 

"It's what I can do." he said, and I think more than anything, those words touched me.  Not everyone has every talent, but everyone has something they can give.  His vast mechanical skills won't come in handy for my blood clot since it is not lodged in my fuel line.  He can't take away what we are going through, but he can make our burden lighter.

We took Brother Bair through our my dreaded studio to the yard.  On a good day my studio is organized chaos, but after we unloaded a good portion of our garage into it for our solar retrofit in January, it looked rather like the aftermath of a very shabby rummage sale, and that was before a month of kids knocking over boxes and digging through it all.  Beyond that was a ransacked playroom and a yard the kids have tuned into a war zone.

I have no shame anymore.  When you have had to show your unshaven legs and girly bits to every one in a lab coat East of Berkley, need help with certain unmentionable hygienics,  and when a trip to the bathroom is your big excitement for the day, you loose the pride that once drove you to turn a whole Saturday into a clean-a-thon, only to lie later to dinner guests saying you had "only tidied up a little".  Thus, the dozen or so people who have been here in the past few weeks have seen our dark underbelly, and though I apparently haven't a fiber of shame left, it has been hard on Guy. 

We are all having to accept things; changes in plans and hopes and schedules, new workloads, and now - a lot of help.  Accepting prayers and kindness and plates of cookies for the kids is so much easier.  It is harder to accept the things we wish and imagine we could do for ourselves, or the things that reveal our weaknesses. 

Then there are the harder things to accept, like the diagnoses and risks.  One in particular; God's will for us, has been the hardest of all, simply because we have no idea what His will for us will be.  We can pray for what we want the outcome to be, but faith means more than believing you will get what you pray for.  I am coming to understand that faith is learning to align your heart with the will of God, even if you don't know what that will is, what ever the outcome. 

*****

 

Baby Update:

 

I spoke to a Neo-natologist yesterday for about an hour.  Though I didn't know him, he attends our church and learned of me through a friend.  I was worried about stepping over that professional boundary, but his first words after I said hello were,

 "Oh, I am so glad you called, I was hoping I would hear from you today." 

 It put me instantly at ease.

 

As we spoke I had been hoping that he would say, "Well, all those risks are true, but I think they have been overstated," or something like that.

 

He didn't.

 

He confirmed our many concerns and those of our doctor. 

 It is serious. 

 

He did, however, also speak to me as one of my own faith, and in that way was able to speak of spiritual matters and how they relate to the medical concerns in a way that no practitioner had been able to.  Overall, he eased my heart a little.

 

One thing he said that helped is that very often, surprisingly so, in fact, when a placenta separates in a catastrophic way, they do a crash cesarean and recover a white, floppy, dead looking baby.  The amazing thing, he said, is how often, within minutes, that baby is pink and crying and doing great.

 

Today we had a visit with a new OB.  I will admit this appointment was not for baby, but for me.  Our High Risk OB is not someone I can talk to at all.  This new OB, while not my main provider, gave me the kind of support and tenderness that comes from one mother's heart to another.  Here are two nuggets that I came away with from her that made my heart lighter:

 

She said that while there is a 10% chance of and abruption, many of those are not catastrophic, and and among those that are, there are many babies who survive.  So 10% does not mean there is a 10% chance of death, which is actually much lower.  Another way she put it, well over a 90% chance that the baby will survive.

 

She also said, "It's actually kind of a good thing you got a blood clot."  If you were going to have a clotting problem, she explained, getting a clot in your leg is much better than having silent clots coating the placenta and smothering the baby little by little until you find out because the baby stops growing.  Our baby, so far, seems to have been untouched by this whole thing. 

 I couldn't have wished it to be any other way.

 

Three more appointments this week, including a look at the clot and a full scan of the baby.

We are hoping the baby is obliviously happy.

 

Thank you for your prayers.

Daffodils in the Morning

 

Someone brought daffodils. 

I would say they were my favorite flowers, if the rest of the flowers weren't each as amazing in their own way.  But these were closed tight, their heads covered with a tissue-thin, brown casing that might have disguised them as spent blooms, if it weren't for the bulge of fresh, smooth yellow that peeked out from the parchment cracks.  Guy had put them in the bathroom on the counter.  It is one of the places I get to regularly these days. 

I tried to sleep that night, but when my eyes closed it seemed like somewhere a crack opened and behind it the tears I had been holding found their way out.  The day had been wearying, with contractions and pain and uncertainty.  Guy held me sweetly until I fell asleep.

The next morning I made my way to the bathroom and stopped at the door.  Those daffodils had opened in the night.  There, glowing and ready for the day, they had no idea they weren't holding their heads up to the sun.  I smiled.  It was a new day.

*****



The day that Guy and I went to get the procedure done to remove the blood clot from my leg, the clot that had impossibly disappeared (though with God nothing is impossible, right?), we sat in the empty waiting room at 7AM and held hands.

"Pray with me?" I asked Guy, and in the quiet, I whispered a prayer.  At some point, as I prayed for the doctor, the nurses, and especially our baby, I was filled with a warming light that made the walls of my heart seem to expand until they reached my skin, and everything in me was at rest.  It was so much like the day, when pregnant with Jonah, we had been told Jonah might be outside of my uterus requiring he be killed to save my life.  On that day that felt too horrible to bear, on the way to the hospital, I had been filled with that same amazing peace and calm.  And, too, so much like the day when I had prayed to know if I should marry Guy.  Peace.  Utter, unwavering, doubt extinguishing peace.

In that waiting room, our heads close, all the fear dissipated and it was like someone had pushed a fast forward button, showing me the end of a movie, not enough to know what would happen, but just enough to know that whatever happened, it was happy and good.  I thought it meant that the surgery would go well.  I thought it meant the baby would tolerate the process and be okay.  I never would have imagined that there was to be no procedure, the baby would not be put in any risk, and that in a few minutes my doctor would be standing in front of me smiling and taking off his face mask, patting me on the head. 

I didn't need to know the end, to know things were going to be alright somehow. 

Some days are going to be hard.  Really hard.  And even having the faith that things will be alright doesn't mean they will be easy, or that grief and loss may not still touch our lives.  Sometimes I am in a place of open daffodils in the morning, and sometimes I am in the place of tears at night.  And I can feel faith in both places.

Good Measure

 

We headed out into rush hour traffic tonight for yet another appointment.  Bladder full, I thought we were having a scan of my leg to determine the status of "Cleo", (my nickname for the blood clot).  Surprisingly, when we got there the radiologist, Susan, told us we were there to check on the baby.  After my scary talk yesterday with the High Risk OB, the baby's growth and development had been paramount on my mind.  Anyone who has seen me pregnant before knows that I am much smaller than in previous pregnancies.  At the first mention that there may have been clots forming on the placenta for weeks now, possibly limiting the baby's growth, I couldn't stop imagining the baby shrinking inside me.

 

"Do you know what you are having?" the radiologist asked.

We told her no, but just last night we had been thinking about finding out.

"Maybe it would help to know," I had told Guy.  "All this talk of blood clots and pulmonary embolism and placental abruption... I feel like everyone has forgotten about the baby.  It might help us to connect to the baby a little more if we knew what it was."

 

"Do you want to know?" she asked, and I realized that in just moments I could actually know something about this baby that was happy.  Guy and I talked about it a moment. 

 He said, "What ever you want",

and I said, "Let's do it". 

 

As soon as I said it, though, I didn't feel as excited as I thought I would.  I went into the bathroom a moment to empty the 4 gallons of water they had made me drink for the scan, and realized I wasn't ready to know yet.  So much has changed.  We can't have a homebirth anymore.  We can't wait for labor to come and calmly bring our baby to our arms here in our home.  We won't have anything we are familiar with, and we may end up with a cesarean.  One by one, each of the elements of our hoped-for birth has been erased from safe possibility.

 

But not this. 

 

When our other babies have been born at home, either Guy or I was the first to announce their gender.  There have been laughter and surprise and thrill in those words, "Its a boy!"  "Oh, a girl!".  And always, in our voices, not a stranger's.

 

I came out of the bathroom.

"I changed my mind, I don't want to know yet." 

 I didn't want this to be the association I have with finding out, all because of the crisis.  I didn't want that special moment to be hijacked as a bandaid for our hurt hearts.  There are still a few things we can hold on to in the traditions we hold dear. 

We will wait, and when our baby comes, Guy or I, or both together, will look

and tell each other.

 

We had good news anyway.  The baby measured perfectly in every way.  It's organs are healthy.  The blood that nourishes it pumps safely to it through a placenta that, for now, is doing its job.  In four weeks, the baby will be checked again.  I have faith that it will be just as perfect then.

 

The radiologist couldn't contain her curiosity.  She peeked at my vein while she was scanning.  Sure enough, just as I knew it would be, the clot is still there in my pelvis.  I don't know how long it will be there, but I believe if it had been a threat, God would have resolved it along with the section of clot that threatened my leg with permanent disability.  It was comforting not to have to wait until a scan days from now to know what I am dealing with.  I am okay with knowing it is there.

 

She printed us a dozen pictures of the baby.

A healthy

chubby

baby.

 

Today was a great day.

 

The Days After the Day After

 Jonah sidles up close to me.  His face is pink, and so angelic.  His eyes sparkle with little flecks of gold and sky blue, and there is a comical spray of chocolate freckles across his nose and cheek from a stolen "hi-bar" (granola bar) that he somehow managed to sneak.  I smile at him and he tells me he loves me, and all feels well with the world. 

After we were released from  "the procedure that never happened" Friday, Guy took me upstairs in a wheelchair to visit my sweet nurses and tell them the good news.  They were overjoyed.  They hugged me and smiled and hugged me again.  Nurses nearby who didn't even know what was going on had smiles on their faces.  We hugged goodbye and said we would see each other in a few months when I gave birth. 

We spent the rest of that day glowing with smiles and sharing the good news.  Hours of phone calls and emails occupied our day, and that night that Guy helped me into bed and we gratefully fell asleep in each other's arms.

The next morning before my eyes were even open, a crushing feeling settled on my heart.  I was disoriented and confused, and couldn't understand what we had been through the day before.  My heart was racing, my blood sugars soaring.  I spent the day mostly immobilized on the couch.  Threads of doubt wove their way into my thoughts.  Could there have been a mistake?  Could they have been looking at the wrong vein?  Of course not, I reasoned, there is only one vein that large in my leg.  What if they had scanned the artery rather than the vein?  No, the contrast dye would have headed down, not up, if they had been in an artery. The same doctor that diagnosed me gave me the scan.  There was no mistake: my vein was proclaimed clear.  I felt like an Israelite lagging behind at the side of the Red Sea, already questioning if I had really come across it.  Am I a doubting Thomas even after having seen the evidence for myself?

As evening drew to a close, my thoughts began to clear.  I realized that the Prednisone had been playing with my mind throughout most of the day, as well as my heart rate and blood sugar.  I settled into a peaceful place somewhere in my heart, and calmed down.  Not much later I began to realize that my leg was beginning to swell and hurt.  They had warned me that a clot could return, that we weren't out of the woods entirely.  I began to panic.  If you doubt in the miracle, does it go away?

It dawned on me then, that I had been sitting motionless for hours and that the weight of the baby was pressing on my vein, causing it to be even more restricted than it already is.  I went to bed and stayed there all day yesterday.  As the swelling went down, I began to understand what a very long process this is going to be.  I will need to be careful how I even sit so that I don't make things worse or cause a new blood clot.  Today I woke up feeling even better, knowing that I have the support of my family and the comfort of loving friends. We can do this.

Today the high risk OB called...

Without skipping a beat he unfurled a laundry list of all of the things that could possibly go wrong with this pregnancy over the next three months.  At any point in time the placenta could detach from the uterus, necessitating an emergency delivery to save our baby's life.  "10% chance, very high," he said.  I may have inherited this disorder from my mother who had a history of blood clots.  My aunt had blood clots in pregnancy too, lending more evidence supporting his genetic theory.  Because I am on blood thinners they won't be able to test me to see if I am lacking that clotting factor genetically until after the baby is born.  If it is genetic, my body may be trying to create blood clots that will cling to the back of the placenta and inhibit the baby's growth.  I will need to receive ultrasounds every four weeks to check to see if the baby is growing, checking its kidneys and liver and heart to make sure that they are still developing.  If baby is not growing right, it will be safer outside of my body than in, and I will have to have a very early delivery.  The goal is to make it to 35 weeks, the doctor said. My goal is still to make it to 40 weeks, I thought. The doctor is still very concerned about a pulmonary embolism and reviewed with me all the symptoms.  We realized I have had symptoms of small fragments of blood clots entering my lungs over the past week.  If the symptoms persist for more than 10 minutes next time he wants me to go to the hospital. 

Like a cherry on top, the doctor ended the phone call with one last word of caution;  if I get a uterine infection during labor, a "balloon of bacteria" could enter my bloodstream as the placenta detaches and infect the blood clot in my pelvis, putting me at risk for a massive blood infection.  You know, just in case I didn't have enough on my mind.

A few minutes after hanging up the phone with the OB, Mary, a sweet nurse I have only met over the phone, called me.  I started to cry when I heard her voice and told her everything that I had just learned.  She had called to tell me that the midwife was not comfortable seeing me as a patient because of all of my risks.  We talked for over an hour.  By the end of it I was in better spirits and Mary was excited to help me.  She would talk to the midwife about following my care.  I need someone who sees me as a pregnant woman, not a woman ready to give birth to a blood clot, I told her.  I am being followed by every other doctor on the planet for my leg, for the blood clot, and for the high risk nature of this pregnancy.  But I need someone who will still tend to my mama heart.  I need someone who will still listen to the little details that are important to a woman who is getting ready to welcome a baby into the world.  Mary said she would do whatever she could to help me find that safe place in all this chaos.

 

There is literally nothing I can do. 

 I can't eat better, I can't exercise, and I can't take more vitamins. 

This is completely in God's hands. 

At some point in time over the past two weeks, a nurse said to me,

 "God hasn't gotten you this far to leave you alone now". 

 I cling to those words every day.

 

 

A Thousand times a bunch...

Jonah is snuggled at my hip.

 

"Miss you, mama.  Dove you, mama."

 

"I love you too, sweetie."

 

He says this a lot now.  Every day since I came home from the hospital.  That first day he said "miss you" about 25 times.  I missed him, too.

 

*****

If you are beginning this story today, go down to read the previous post first.  You definitely need to get caught up.

 

I was given a shot.  It was to stop my blood from clotting and to keep the clot from growing.  Donna said I would learn to give myself this shot and would do so every 12 hours from now on (later told it would be for 10 months,  but by the time we were clear on details, we learned it would be only till the baby comes, then I will go on pills.).

 

We were taken to Postpartum, where we were settled in a room right out in front of the nurse's station.  Over the next several hours many doctors came in.  The first, we call him Dr. Roto-Rooter, came in like a whirlwind.  He stood at the doorway and told us that the clot was very dangerous.  It could break off and go to my lung, causing a pulmonary embolism, which could be fatal.  The treatment for a PE was very dangerous for baby.  He said a surgery could be done, right away if we wanted it, where they would use an ex ray for 2-3 hours to insert a catheter up into the length of the blood clot while I lay on my belly.  They would then place me in ICU over night while they sprayed a chemical called TPA into the clot for 10 hours.  Next morning they would remove the cath and suction out the blood clot.  If I didn't do it, the damage to my leg would be permanent.  The blood clot, we were told, was not affected by the blood thinner, and may or may not go away on its own, but not for months and not in time to save me from damage.  If we wanted to do the procedure, it would only be effective if done in the first 14 days. 

 

 Oh, and by the way the clot extends from mid calf all the way up to the area in the pelvis behind the baby.

"What about the risk to the baby?" I asked.

 

Yes, he stated rather nonchalantly, the risks of ex ray include cancer and tissue damage, and the risk of the medicine to the baby and to me was internal bleeding.  I told him that all sounded out of the question.  I pictured the baby, it's tiny brain happily developing, with a sudden uncontrolled bleed, damaging it forever.  And cancer?  In our little child, all so that my leg wouldn't be damaged?  We asked questions that the doctor kept deferring, "This isn't really my area of specialty.  You'll have to ask the Radiologist"

 

He left.  I told Guy that I felt like he had just come in and dumped a wheelbarrow full of barn-droppings at the foot of the bed and left.

 

15 minutes later, Dr. P reappeared to explain that I needed a filter put into the vein below my heart to keep chunks of the blood clot from going to my heart and lungs.  There were risks, 10 minutes or so of direct radiation to the baby.  We had questions, he said he would find out the answers from the radiologist.

 

Our nurses came and went, tending to us carefully and sweetly.  Lori, who stayed and listened to what the docs were saying, tried to comfort us.  They had seen blood clots before, "but like this," Nurse Kim said, holding up her fingers like she was holding a bean.  "None of us can even remember hearing about one this big back in nursing school."

 

A while, a century later, a new doctor came in.  He was the Interventional Radiologist.  He let us know he had trained at Stanford under the "Guru of this field of medicine".  He re-explained both the filter and clot procedures, and fielded our very concerned questions.  He understood that I wouldn't expose the baby to such extreme risks.  He said that, looking at my leg, he felt like there was a good chance my leg could fair pretty well if we just left the clot and hoped for the best.  But if the leg didn't respond to the blood thinner he said I could loose it, and the surgery would save it.  "Are you a praying man?" I teased.  "If you two are, then I don't have to be."  He said.

"Oh, even more so!" I smiled

 

He stayed a while and answered more questions.  The filter, he felt, was redundant with the blood thinners now started.  He said it was old school to do both.  It was a comfort to know that he heard my concerns and was not pushing the procedures.

 

That day is a blur.  Sweet angel nurses focused heavily on my lungs, making sure I didn't have a pulmonary embolism.  They each brought some new comfort and kindness that was needed at each moment.   Guy had to leave to tend to the kids who had been alone all day.  I cried as I watched him step behind the curtain, allowing myself to think for just a moment about what could happen while he was gone.   Kathy came with flowers and listening ears.  Calls came.  I learned to deal with mother nature's calls without moving my leg. 

 

Later that night, the Stake President (the person in charge of the group of eight local congregations of our church), his counselor and our bishop came to administer to me.  President Fisher uttered a sweet blessing on my behalf, calling on miracles, and blessing my doctors and nurses.  The room was filled with peace and beautiful warmth, and tears, of course.

 

We knew that something huge and potentially life threatening was happening, but something even bigger was happening in the four walls of that little room. 

There was a peace that said, "all is well".

 

Guy and I sat in the alone in the dark that night and spoke words of gratitude and held each other.  This is the biggest thing that has ever happened to us.  I am so glad God is the one in charge.  This is way too big for tiny mortals like us.

 

I went to sleep.

 

*****

 

We would learn a lot more about the risks of not addressing the clot in the next few days.  For that reason (as many of you already know) this story comes a little out of order here.  Tomorrow morning (March 1st at 7:30 AM)  I am going in for a procedure on my vein.  It is a "mini" version of the first one offered.  There will be no ex ray near the baby.  It will be 1 1/2 hours as opposed to 14 hours.  They will only do the thigh, and leave the clot in the pelvis till after baby is born.  They will use a teeny dose of the medication only in the clot, which does not cross the placenta, and then manually remove the clot.  If you pray, pray for us tomorrow.  If you don't pray, go ahead and send one up anyway, for me, please :)

One in a Thousand

It is with immense gratitude that I lay here in my bed at home writing on my blog once more. 

Last Tuesday I noticed while exercising that one of my legs was really tired.  I sat down several times to rest, got back up to continue, and finally teased Kathy that I would just watch her jump around and benefit vicariously.

Later that night I sat on the couch writing the last post.  I got up for dinner and felt a strange sensation.  My thigh, my whole leg even, felt like it was wrapped in a band or a cast.  It was like my muscles were seized up and it was hard to bend my knee.  I figured I had some how strained a muscle, or many of them, but strangely, there was no muscle pain.

A call to Guru Ellen, expert masseuse, for muscle advice led me to actually look at my leg.  It was swollen, a little purple and blotchy.  "Call" she said, so I did.  My midwife asked lots of questions about lumps, hot spots, pain, vericose veins - but I had none.  She said some women have cirulation problems in pregnancy, to gently stretch and elevate, and call if needed. 

I went online... there were references to blood clots, with a long list of symptoms, but I had none of them besides the swelling.  Anyway, the info said that the chances of a blood clot in pregnancy were one in a thousand.  One in a thousand.  Certainly not me.  I elevated my leg and wrote a post on my blog.  The theme of it now seems ironic in retrospect.  I went to bed.

At about 4AM I woke moaning.  My back was killing me.  I was feeling strong cervical pain, and then I had a contraction.  I headed to the bathroom, and upon standing a small but sharp twinge of pain shot through my leg.  I woke Guy, "You need to take me to the hospital.  Something is wrong"

We got in the car and he asked where to go.  Roseville was the newer, more modern hospital, but South was 10 minutes closer.  I figured closer was better, so I said South.  It would come to make all the difference.

When we arrived at the hospital I had Guy take me to Labor and Delivery (L&D).  "We can skip the ER," I said.  I knew that at 25 weeks I was finally to the point in my pregnancy where they would try to save my baby. 

In triage I was checked by nurses and then an OB, all with smiles and calm voices.  My pulses in both feet matched, and I turned to Guy and said, "Well, looks like we're going home".  The OB came back and said she was just going to send me over for an ultrasound of my leg "to be on the safe side". 

The radiologist, Jane, was sweet and careful.  Soon I was realizing that this scan was taking a long time.  After having had four miscarriages, one learns the body language of a radiolgist, and I could tell she was finding something.  She called in a woman in a white coat.  Jane asked her vague and carefully worded questions.  A finger point to the screen and a nod.  Back to the calf, back to the thigh, back to the groin, now to the lungs... something was clearly not right.

The specialist left.  "I know you can't tell me anything, but I think you found something." I said with the lilt of a question.  Jane smiled gently and said, "You're right, I can't.  Let's just say there is a reason you are here.  It was a good thing you came in tonight."

I was glad she said it.  I guess it echoed in my mama heart that somehow I had listened to a voice from somewhere deep within; one I had always wondered if I would hear in the time of a "real emergency".  But honestly, this didn't feel like one.

Back in L&D they tucked me into a bed.  One sure sign you ain't goin' anywhere is when they tuck you into clean sheets... if you are going home, you stay on paper. 

I don't really remember what happened next.  Guy says Dr. P came in and told us that I had an "extensive blood clot".  I remember trying to ask what that meant, but not getting a clear answer.  My nurse, Donna, was sweet and kind and smiled at me.  She retold me about the medication I would be given soon, but I don't know how much I understood at the moment.  It was confusing, and it was about to get worse.

(continued here)

By any other name...

 

I was named after my mother, Sharon.

Not many people know this, because from the very first day I was called by my middle name, Laine (pronounced Lane).  My mom always hated her name, Sharon, and I always knew that.  She had told me that it was dad who wanted to name me after her, though she protested.    There is a strange feeling that comes in being named after someone who hates their own name. 

So I always felt funny about my name.  Like it wasn't quite mine.  It felt like a hand-me-down dress that someone gave me because they never really liked it. 

Then one day, about two years ago, my dad told me a new story.  Sort of an addendum.  I said something about dad having named me, and he said, "Well, truth be told you sort of named yourself."

He told me that they had called me "Lane" from the day one (which begs the question, what is up with a totally unused FIRST name? but as usual, I digress...).  As it goes with fuzzy-headed little beings, a baby-fied version of my name began to be used; "Lainie". 

"One day when you were about four," he told me, "you announced that you would no longer answer to "Lane", that your name was Lainie, and that was that."

It was only a story, and it didn't really change a single concrete thing in my world.  It is still hard to order a pizza ("Um, how do you spell that?"... com'mon, kid, it's pizza, not my birth certificate, spell however the heck you want!).  I still can't sit in a doctor's waiting room without wondering where the heck that Sharon-woman went and why she isn't answering the dang nurse... oh, wait, that's me.  I still don't really know how to sign my name... S. L.?  Sharon L.? S. Laine?

But there is a sort of magic in knowing that, before I was even old enough for the outside world to have gotten in, as a small child I knew who I was.  I have always liked my name, but since learning that story, somehow I liked it more because I had some say in the matter.

I have always thought it was strange that people who just barely met us get to name us.  Some folks even name their babies before they ever meet them!  I know, I know, you say you KNOW them, yada yada.  OK for you, I suppose.  I don't feel like I know my kids till they have at least puked on me a few dozen times, and that is just the "pleased to meet'cha" phase.  Who they are, who they will be for years, for decades, for a lifetime???  That is a big, hairy deal.  What is in a name? A universe.

I read in a book called Dare Dream Do by Whitney Johnson, that in one hospital it was found that one surgeon had a 35% lower rate of complications and fatalities in his operating room than the rest of the surgeons.  The reason?  Before surgery, he insisted that everyone in the operating room know everyone else by name.  Introductions were made.  People, that before were just a green mask and scrubs, were now individuals.  It is believed that by voicing their own names, they later felt confident to speak up if they saw something that didn't seem quite right.  Lives were saved.  Somebody out there is playing ball with their kid today because a resident named Joe knew that the nurse next to him was named Carol.

I met a man named Shamus once.  What were his parents thinking?  Shame Us.  That was his name. "We are already disappointed in you son, just thought you should know".  It was like the character Willie Loman from Death of a Salesman.  The author named him Willie (Will he?) Low-man, to show us a man who may never amount to anything.  Names are important.  Our names are a huge part of who we are.  Just remember back to a time when someone called you by the wrong name and you know what I mean. 

I have been on the phone a lot lately with nurses.  To them I am Sharon, but to the nurse I spoke to yesterday, I was Laine.  She made it a point to remember that and call me by it, though her computer screen told her otherwise.  I felt like a real person to her, and she helped me more in one phone call than I had been helped in the past two dozen phone calls.  By the way, her name was Mary.

I have to choose a name for a small person soon, for them to use their whole lives! Not an easy task when you are married to a school teacher.  Guy has had at least one annoying student in his classes over the years with every one of the names I like. 

Wouldn't it be easier of we all just named ourselves?
If you could have chosen,
 what would you have named yourself?
 

What if this baby would just pop out
with a little name tag stuck to it's chest..

"Hello!  My name is..."

 

is...

 

 

is...

 

 

?

Good thing we have till June.

In With the New

 Welcome 2013!!!

I have an old tradition.  

Well, it was my mom's, really...

  

When it comes time to ring in The New Year, as the clock strikes Twelve, I grab out my trusty yellow broom and sweep The Old Year out of the door.  Some years are easily swept out, depending on the preceding calender of chaos.  Sometimes I am happy to watch the dust of our Yesteryear fall between the cracks of the front porch steps.  

And then, after ceremoniously ushering out our bygone days, I welcome in The Year That Will Be.  But just before, for one brief moment, broom in hand, New Year awaiting her welcome, I stand on the cold porch, the children around me banging their pot-lids and spoons,

my bare feet straddling the gap between two years.  In that timeless moment, I feel like I was just here, broom in hand, only moments ago.  But the faces around me betray the thought.  Faces that suddenly look a little leaner, a little longer, a little wiser than last year.  

The Year That Leaves looks over her shoulder as she crosses the lawn.  She takes with her our April showers, which this year were more like a monsoon.  I am not sad to see those clouds fade.  She totes away the thrills of May, which taught so much.  One by one, she packs away the months into loose pockets and carries them off into memory. 

She steps off the curb and nods to The Coming Year, 

and I think I see them exchange a smile.  

Oh, yes.  I know what that smile is.  

Last Year brought us something unexpected around about August.  

Our family will be growing, and not just taller.

Certainly not richer,

unless you count your wealth in noses.

Last Year's wily grin did not reflect the stress of the past few months, with the waiting and worrying that comes when you are the owner of a fickle uterus, but seemed almost like a smirk.  But I have one on her.  I saw the look on This Year's face as she stepped onto our front walk, turning her back boldly on Last Year.  Her own peaceful expression lit the way ahead, and her smile 

as she stepped through my door was genuine and warm.

She assures me;

she is bringing wonderful things with her, This Year.

 

 Our Baby New Year, pondering the mysteries of a still tiny universe.  

All parts operational and still under factory warranty.

********

 If you feed them, they will come...

 Jensens sippin' cider

 Slaughters making our furniture look classy

 Ethan and baby Ryan in heaven. 

 I don't know who was enjoying themselves more, big boy or baby.

"Go to sleep, little creep..."

I am often asked the question, "How is Jonah sleeping?" I usually answer, "Pretty well." but a better answer would be, "Pretty well in my arms, or not at all."

.

That's how his naps are, anyway. I have never been the mama who beat up the mailman for rustling the mail too loudly while baby is napping.  I think that sometimes a light sleeper is created by the hiper-vigilance of well meaning parents who defend the sleep space like it was the Hope diamond. So we vacuum, talk on the phone, and play musical instruments while our babies sleep right in the same room.  Mostly it works out great, and our babies sleep soundly while search helicopters circle the neighborhood after several rounds of gunfire.  But Jonah is like Adam was. When Addy boy was younger and I would slip into his room to do my nightly rounds, just the sound of my pants swishing would wake him up, and I don't even wear corduroy.

I hear the sleep gurus out there who have their babies sleeping through the night by six weeks. Yes, you are right, if I let him cry it out, eventually he would fall asleep. Sorry, ladies, but I just ain't that kinda' mama. My kids all sleep in my bed with me until they are about two, and guess what? Contrary to what popular myth would project for my cramped nocturnal future, not a single one of them is still sleeping in my bed.

But somehow Jonah has a radar detector that senses when I am thinking of putting him down so I can visit the little girl's room.  Unassisted, Jonah sleeps for...count 'em... five whopping minutes.  The other day I decided to slip away as he drifted off.  In five minutes he was up, and he stayed up for the next 8 hours.   By the time fatigue finally put him into a coma, we were all fried.

So he sleeps. 

In my arms. 

And I am so OK with that. 

Because he is my last baby. 

This is the last time I get to do all of this, so do it I will, and with quiet gusto.  Amazingly, he saws logs while I nibble his ears, snores while I toodle my fingers through his hair, and even stays in dreamland while I clip his nails and clean out his ears (and other crusty parts).  It's actually nice to have a while every day when I can just love on him, appreciate the miracle that he is, and remember to stop and smell the roses. 

I mean, the toeses. 

Hold a sleeping baby? 

Twist my arm.

*****

"Go to Sleep, Little Creep" (sing to the tune of Lullaby and Goodnight)

Go to sleep, little creep

or I'll punch you in the melon

sleep snugly little ugly

or I'll poke you in the eye

Nighty-night or I'll bite

off the end of your nose

go to sleep, little creep

or I'll snap off your toes.