Rock'n Rock (A Baby Photo Album)

Guy had perfect timing.  He hunted down a rocker-recliner on craigslist and picked it up yesterday, and none too soon. 

We had spent the evening movie-watching out in the yard with the kids, popcorn and all (dairy free for Tess and I).  Guy had set up a projector and a sheet, and we enjoyed the evening as it slowly cooled off.  Natalie slept contentedly in my arms through the whole movie.

When we later settled into bed and turned out the lights, Natalie began fussing.  Then she decided to see how far she could project her vomit in our bed.  It was awesome, epic even, and I was drenched.  Who could have imagined the capacity of that tiny tummy? 

I took her out to the new-to-us rocker, and we communed with the night.  Thank heavens for craigslist, old rockers and kind hubbies.  I sang a soft-rock selection from the late 70's, and sometime around 2am she collapsed into my neck and gave in to sleep. 

We did an encore performance at 7am, minus the vomit. 

Except that I was so very sleepy today at church, I honestly didn't mind our chair-dance in the wee hours.  I kind of can't get enough of her, and so hanging out with her in the middle of the night is nice, tears and all. 

***********

Here are some of my favorite pix since Little Girl came to live with us...

Day 1

I love the story in this picture. 

A sweet nurse brought food for Guy. 

It was hard to get him to take care of himself while he took care of me.

Poor little heal, and that was just one.

 

 

Biggest brother, littlest sis.

 

Joyful faces, reflections of love.

 

Tired papa.

 

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 

Her head is so tiny.

 

 

Ice packs...

 I didn't know air bubbles could enter a person's system during an operation and then float up between the organs into the shoulders.  Ice packs were the only relief for the stabbing pains.

 

The first of what will be many times

 that Ethan sneaks off with her to nap.

 

Home from camp, Adam finally meets Natalie.

 

Date night in our room.  Bishop and Kathy

 brought dinner to share, and we ate around the bed

 

My darling girl.

 

My technicolor IV site... third blown vein.

 

A little Joey in my pouch.

 

So precious

 

"This little piggy stayed home..."

 

We started calling Natalie "glow worm" after the tests with Radio Active Isotopes.
Ruth made her a glow worm bunting.  It will be perfect at Halloween.

 

Cute papa.

 

Welcome Baby...

our family tradition of welcoming our babies in a flower bath. 

Every family member welcomes the baby with special words.

 

 

#29 for Grandpa James (#32 if you count great grand babies!)

Going in for the filter retrieval and 25 cms of stent placement.

Our dear Dr. F. who has done so much to keep baby and I safe. 

He will always have a very tender place in my heart.

 

Because of Dr. F., Natalie got to go to term 

and not be delivered at 32 weeks

 

After the procedure, patch on my neck, baby drinking pumped milk

 through an SNS device due to the drugs in my system.

 

Tiny angel.

 

 

Doin' what she does best (except at 2 am).

 

 

 

Toddler-Vision and Woman-ing Up

 

This is what happens

when you leave a camera within a toddler's reach...

 

I particularly love the "Duhd- duys" (good guys).  There were about 5 pix of these guys. 

I wonder what he was thinking.

 

*********

 

Folks have been asking how we are doing.  My rote answer is "the baby is great", partly because I imagine that if I say anything else, judgments would fall swift and hard.  The real answer is that I feel like Indiana Jones, machete in hand, whacking my way through the twisted vines of the jungle. 

 

 The darling that lays intermittently squalling in my left arm is sensitive to dairy, so I have axed that from my diet.  I may need to give the old heave-ho to gluten as well, time will tell.  She is also super sweet when she is not fussing and has gained a pound. 

 

I am slowly recovering.  I don't use the wheelchair anymore.   I shuffle. 

My innards feel like a lava lamp; blobs of me shifting around in there.

I am weak and unsteady on my feet.  I am rather trembly. 

No, that's not a real word, but it works.

 

The postpartum battle simmers on in the day, and boils over in quiet hours.  I'll never quite understand how, through the ages, the survival of the species was left to tearful, barely rational beings with sore bodies and milk supply issues. I have only NOT fought it with one out of my 6 babes.    I think if I had been able to speak freely about it 6 babies ago, I would have had a much easier time with it. 

 

For me, "it" is waking up each day feeling like someone died, only you don't know who.  It also includes frequent trips on one or more hamster wheels in my head; thoughts that run round and round, always drawing to the same irrational conclusions, accompanied by feelings of failure and guilt.  There is mental fog, like someone hit the mute button on my feelings.

 

My sweet husband takes this ride with me each time.  He has gotten skilled at knowing how to help me through the jungle.  We count the blessings over and over, and he helps me get off of the hamster wheels by seeing the flaws in my thinking.  Sometimes the only thing that helps is being held.

 

I imagine some folks will think this is something I should be able to control, especially after all of the blessings we have been given in the past several months.  It just doesn't work that way.  I wish it did.

 

A lot of people have said I have been brave through
the trials we have experienced. 

For me, that was the easier part.
 Now is the time when I really have to Woman Up.

 

 



Natalie's Birth Story (part 3)

Getting to know you, 15 hours old.

 

Little Natalie,

I went to sleep.

And while I was sleeping you were born.

 

I wish it could have been some other way.  There is a place in my heart that feels empty for not having heard your first cry, not knowing what happened in those first minutes, that first hour of your life.  Instead, I have a different kind of memory of meeting you for the first time.

 

I remember a woman's voice reaching through the fog. 

She said, "Has she seen her yet?"

and your daddy said, "No, she's still asleep."

It was then that I knew you were a girl.

 

The fog lifted a little and though I don't remember the first moment I saw you, soon you were in my arms.  I remember you looked so small.  I remember I wished I had known your name right away so that I could call you by it.  I put you to my breast and you nursed as though you had been doing it for weeks.  I was so glad you knew what to do.  I laid there in awe and you nursed away.

 

The time we had together was so short, though daddy tells me it was over a half-hour.  They came and took you away to the NICU, and Daddy went with you.

 

I was taken to a room, and there were blood tests and ice packs and pills. 

All I wanted was you. 

I pumped milk for you and was told that the 11 mls I made for you was pretty impressive for a first time.  Daddy took the milk to you and fed you through a tube attached to his finger.  He told me that you were under bili-lights and that it was hard to look at you because of the glare.  As the day wore on, daddy took you more of my milk, and I tried very hard to come and see you, but my nurse wouldn't let me go to you.  She was afraid I would faint, and made me get back in bed.  The doctor wanted to protect you from needing formula because the lights can be very dehydrating, and told us he wanted to give you an IV.  I didn't want you to have it, but I didn't want you to have to deal with formula either.  Some decisions seem so simple until you are the one who has to make them.

 

In a while we got a call from the doctor in the NICU.  He said that they had gotten your blood test results back and as a surprise to us all, your blood type was a match to mine.  You even had the most dangerous antigen, the one they were worried could be destroying your red blood cells, and by having it you were kept safe while inside of me.  He told us that they still needed to check a few more things in your blood, but that if all went well, you could probably leave the NICU and come and be with us.

 

It was yet another little miracle in this amazing journey. 

 

I was very motivated to come and see you, but my nurse still didn't want me to go.  She told me that I couldn't go without a nurse, and she was not willing to take me.  I was determined to see my baby!  I said, "I appreciate your concern, but I disagree, and I want to talk to a nurse manager."  She left to get one, and I turned to your dad and said, "I don't think they're going to let me go, it's up to you."  He went down to the NICU to talk to the doctor.

 

When daddy got there, he found that your IV had blown the vein, and they had been forced to remove it.  Knowing the results of your blood tests were good, they had taken you out of the bili-lights, and not started a new IV yet.  Daddy saw you and told that doctor that because you were not receiving any treatment anymore, he didn't see any reason for you to be kept from your mama.  He told the doctor, "She needs her mother and her mother needs her!" 

 

When Daddy came back from the NICU, he had you with him!  I was so grateful and so happy to finally see you.  While I don't remember much from the first moments I saw you in the recovery room, I remember so much about having you with me at last.  We stripped you down so that I could see every little bit of you.  Your downy hair stood off your head in every direction.  Your poor little hand was swollen all the way up past your elbow from when the IV blew, and your fingers were blanched white and couldn't even bend.

 

 

You stared into my eyes, and never fussed. 

You knew my voice and seemed to almost know my face.

I kissed you all over.  I rubbed arnica on your sore little hand. 

I nursed you and kissed you some more.

 

They told me they would be testing your bilirubin at 4AM, and that they may have to take you back to the NICU if you didn't do well.  I'd like to have seen them try to pry you from my arms!

You were finally with me, and my world had found a new axis.

 

The days that followed were, have been, very hard, but I remind myself each day of how grateful I am that you are here, safe and sound.  We stayed in the hospital for 3 days, and they let you come home on Sunday.  I think my favorite part of that day was sitting beside you in the car on our way home as you took everything in.  You didn't cry, you just reached your hands and feet out into space, with such dark, knowing eyes, like you were exploring the universe already.  I was so glad that you were finally ours, and that there would be no more interruptions, voices, machines, or scary tests with scary answers.  Just us, our family, and no one else.

 

 

So much more happened in those days, but since this is your birth story, you don't need to know about any of that.  You just need to know how loved and wanted you are, and have been, from the beginning.  I am so amazed that God decided to send you to us the way he did.  How could I begin to imagine our life without you in it?  We thought we were too old. 

We thought everyone in our family was already here. 

We were so wrong.

 

If you ever doubt for a moment in your life that you are special, that you are cherished and wanted and loved, I hope you will come back to this place and read about the journey we all took to bring you here.  I hope you will read of all the prayers and kindnesses of the hundreds of people
who petitioned the angels for you. 

 

It was like the earth cried out to heaven and said,

"Let her come, let her stay!"

 and heaven listened.

 

Welcome, my little one.

I'm so glad you came.

                                                          

                                                                Love, Mom



 

June 15th

Leg, picnic and milk.

 

It's June 15th.

 

For months I have been saying, "I will just be glad when we make it to June 15th."

because that will have meant that this was all behind us.

The clot

the birth

the procedures...

 

And today was that day.

 

Guy fixed us a lovely little picnic dinner.

He knew nothing about my June 15th thing,

 he was just being Guy.

 

We left the kids with the big boys

 (which means the girls watched non-stop My Little Pony

while the boys played X-Box).

 

We went to a nearby park.

We watched the sunset

and the ducks

and the people.

We ate yummy curry chicken salad with pecans and dried cranberries.

I gave Guy an early Father's Day gift; camp chairs. 

 Normal ol' camp chairs.

 

Dinner was mostly quiet. 

 I propped my leg on the baby's car seat

and we enjoyed the new chairs.

 

We went to the grocery store for a few things. 

I had used up all my umph at the park,

and so Guy pushed me through the store in the wheelchair with one hand,

 the other pushing the grocery cart.

 

Much as he has taken care of everything in our lives for months.

 

 We sat in the driveway after we got home

and talked until the ice cream was melted.

We talked about the last few months, and being past them to where we are now.  We talked about how it doesn't really feel like anything is "over", and how tired we are.  About how it doesn't feel like we will ever care about anything mundane and normal again, like making cupcakes for a party, or doing dishes, or, well,

 anything. 

 

We talked about how our family needed time for healing, and how and where our time would be best spent this summer.  We need to remember what normal feels like, to help the kids regain a sense of security, and to get the balance back in our marriage. 

 

It's June 15th.  We're here.

(Where  the heck is here?)

 

Love on a plate.

 

Watching the sunset with papa.

Dessert...yum.  Nibble nibble.

What is an answer to prayer?

My IVC Filter... bigger than I had imagined.

 

Before I finish telling about Natalie's birth, I should tell you about the procedure...

 

*****

On Monday after getting my staples removed from my belly, we drove to South Sac for an ultrasound of my leg.  The sonographer was a quiet lady who didn't easily engage in conversation, so I didn't even try to get information out of her like I can with some of the techs who scan me. 

 

 

That afternoon Dr. F. texted and asked if I had been told the results.  "No, they're funny that way." I wrote back.  "Well I have a feeling a lot of people have been praying for you," he wrote back.  We spoke on the phone and he told me that the scan of my leg looked clear, and that the blood flow out of my leg appeared normal.  He said no clot could be seen in my pelvis and that though there was some residual clot in my groin, he didn't anticipate needing to place any stents at all, just remove my chest filter.  I was glad for the good news.

 

 

Wednesday we went in for the procedure at two.  Dr. F. was so kind, and happily let me have Natalie with me in pre-op to nurse before having to go in.  Guy kissed me good luck and took Natalie out to wait for the half hour procedure.  Once I had a chance to talk to Dr. F. I didn't feel too nervous anymore.  I chatted with the prep team as they worked and was happy to see Velma, the nurse I had for my last two procedures, was there as well.  Music from the 20's played, and my head and neck were draped, meds started, and finally, my neck was scrubbed.

 

"A little bee sting..." Dr. F. warned, and we began.  A needle in your neck feels much less like a bee sting and more what I imagine an Amazonian blow dart might feel like.  Dr. F. sent his tools into my neck, through my heart and down to where the filter lay waiting.   

 

At one point, my heart suddenly began to race out of my chest, and I could not breathe.  The pressure I felt in my chest, face and hands was so immense that I could barely utter a sound.  My voice grew instantly hoarse, and I could only force out a word at a time, "something... wrong... pressure...can't... breath... lights..."  My vision filled with bright little lights that swam in circles like tiny tadpoles.  Velma held my face in her cool hands and stroked my hair, talking to me and encouraging me to breathe.  The pressure built and I thought for a moment that I was going into anaphylactic shock, or that perhaps this was a heart attack.  In several minutes things began to settle down, I could breathe again, and eventually all but a deep pressure in my face and chest lifted.  "I think your heart responded to the tools touching it."  Dr. F. said, I haven't given you any contrast yet".  He seemed calm, but I can't imagine it hadn't frightened him.  By the speed that Velma stroked my hair, I could tell she had been rattled.

 

Guided by fluoroscopy, he located the tiny loop at the top of the filter and secured it.  An intense pulling sensation deep inside my chest finally gave way with a pop, to the sliding feeling of the catheter coming back through my chest and neck.  "Here's your filter," Dr. F. told me as he held out the small metal umbrella form on the end of the catheter.  It was actually bigger than I had imagined. 

  

 Dr. F. went back to work to scope out the leg vein from the same entry point in my jugular vein.  The tools were placed and dye was released, but soon Dr. F. said, "Laine, looks like I am going to have to go up through your leg."  For some reason, he was not being able to get the images he needed.  My neck was patched up and now laying almost on my belly, the team prepped the back of my knee.  A half and hour and a "bee sting" later, and tools were being inserted into my leg vein.  Contrast dye was injected and this time a clear picture told a totally different story than any of us had anticipated. 

 

The dye flowed up my thigh through the femoral vein, but suddenly took a detour, splitting off into about 5 collateral veins that crossed my pelvis and entered the femoral vein of my right leg.  The entire vein in my pelvis, running from my groin to the Inferior Vena Cava up near my chest was 100% blocked, and to save my leg, my body had created bypasses that made my right side do all of the work for my entire lower body.

 

"I'm afraid we're going to have to place stents after all."  Dr. F. said.  "I'm sorry."  I wondered why he was sorry, except that perhaps he felt like he had misled me.  Honestly, though I am nervous about having metal parts in me for the rest of my life, and hopeful that they last, I was relieved that I hadn't been crazy.  I had felt so many sensations in my leg these last few months and been so careful, that Monday's news there had been no clot had made me feel as though I was imagining things, and even as though I, in my unwarranted caution, had caused the baby to become poorly positioned resulting in the cesarean, all because I had been fearful.  This new scan proved it had not all been in my head.

 

The process for placing the stents was long and painful.  A wire was first forced through the blood clot and up the vein.  It touched the bottom of my heart and my pulse shot up again to 140, but without the drama of the first event.  Once it was pulled back, my pulse settled down.  Next a series of balloons were guided by catheters through the clot, and then inflated.  The inflation was intense and very painful.  As Dr. F. worked I was given fentanyl a few times, and I will admit to yelling out when he inflated the balloon that lay between my spine and my artery.  The searing pain and pressure was akin to the worst part of a labor contraction.  Even now, as I write this, the majority of my pain now is right where those balloons were placed. 

 

Finally, the area was ready for stenting, and one by one three long stents were placed to line the walls of the vein from my groin up to the IVC (Inferior Vena Cava).  All in all, I was being worked on for over 3 hours placing 25 centimeters of vein length.  I learned later that Guy was not told what was taking so long.  After the first hour someone came out to tell him that it was taking a little longer than planned and would be another half hour, but no one went out again for another hour and a half.  In that time my poor sweetheart had imagined a terrible accident having taken place with the filter removal, and, not knowing they were placing stents after all, thought that all that time they were working on keeping me alive.

 

I was finally wheeled into the recovery room, all patched up, sore and pretty tired.  Seeing Guy again brought tears to my eyes.  We were finally done with all that had begun back on February 20th.  He kissed me and asked how it was.  I tend to lose my fortitude when Guy is near, and suddenly the difficulty of the procedure surfaced in tears. 

 

Dr. F. brought cake to us that his wife had made.  I thought it was funny that after not eating for a whole day my doctor gave me cake, but there was the feeling in that moment that we had something to celebrate.  I reserve cautious optimism as I move forward from here.  I deeply hope I never need to revisit that room for another clot, though my risk of future clots is about 30% for the rest of my life.  But you never know what life is going to bring. 

 

And you know, even though Dr. F. might have felt that he had been wrong about all those people praying for us -since there was a clot after all-  that is not how I feel.  After the clot came, I asked our loved ones to pray for the health of my leg, and the health of my baby.  The very first time we faced this crisis we were told that if my vein completely blocked up, I would have no choice but to undergo this stenting procedure in order to save my leg from amputation, exposing the baby to 3 hours of radiation.  Instead, God provided answers to prayer in the form of all of those collateral veins that both saved my leg and protected the baby. 

 

Perhaps some would say that in a real answer to prayer God could have kept all this from happening.  Or that if he were going to heal me it would look different than it has.  I have stopped trying to dictate to God what an answer to my prayers should look like.  I still struggle with some aspects of all of this experience, because the part of me that wanted certain things to be within my control that ultimately were not.  My postpartum brain is working hard to undermine my sanity and the many comforts that have been extended to me. 

 

But as I sit here on the couch, a bandage on my neck and leg,

 a scar on my belly, and a beautiful, healthy baby girl at my breast,

 I look back and see the answers to so many prayers.

 

Natalie's Birth Story (part two)

Natalie in the NICU

 

Sweetie Girl,

As I write this so many feelings fill my heart.  Tomorrow I will go in to get my filter removed, and see if stents will need to be placed in my pelvis.  I am nervous, but I think I need to do the procedure without the sedation again.  I don't want to be asleep when you need me, but it was scary when they punched that hole in my neck the first time, and it really hurt.  There is time to decide now.  When you were born, things were happening so fast that there was not time to think, only act. 

 So we did.

 

*****

 

The moments after we left the triage room and left your daddy behind were a blur.  I have a faint memory of hearing my doula Willow's voice saying "I'm here, darlin'," but I never saw her.  I don't really remember seeing anything until we got to the operating room.  The midwife, kind Erin, told me she would stay with me, and she stood close to my head and looked into my eyes.  I climbed on the operating table.  I remember being prepped, but mostly I remember contractions.  They were huge, and coming about a minute apart.  We waited and waited for an antibiotic that was ordered, but was not coming.  An anesthesiology nurse put an oxygen mask over my face and it blocked most of my view of the room.  All I could see were her hands as she talked to the anesthesiologist about some other woman and some other birth from earlier that day.  I began to feel like a spectator.  I pushed at the mask, "Can you move your hands so that I can see Erin's face?" I asked.  Suddenly, I was back in the room with them.  Erin stepped close and held my hand tightly.  Her phone range and she answered, "I promised this patient I would stay with her, " she said into the phone.  "I'll be there in a while."  More insane contractions came.  I tried to breath and moan through them.  I felt so lost.

 

The OB, Dr. H. was truly kind, and was talking to me, but the contractions were too strong for me to concentrate on her.  Strangely, and typical of me (still trying to maintain some sense of control)  I asked her to do a nice job closing me up; my last cesarean was a lumpy mess.  She assured me she would.  

 

Then she asked,  "Laine, would you like me to check you to see if the baby has maybe moved down into place?" I guess I only partly understood what that meant.  I really mostly felt confused, not sure why the plan was changing.  I think I said I didn't care, or didn't know, as a contraction built.  I later learned that she had stepped out and told my husband she was going to try to move the baby down to the outlet into position for vaginal birth. She wanted me to have what I had really wanted; she was still trying to let my body do this, if there was any possible way.  She reached in to check, and said "Big bulging bag... 8 to 9..." and then there was a sudden gush as she said, "I did not mean to do that,".  A torrent of water left me, pouring onto the floor and causing a bit of a ruckus as towels were placed to prevent everyone from slipping and falling. 

 

"Okay," Dr. H. said, calling our attention back, "I have cord and fingers."  I suppose in that moment I should have been disappointed, and I would have been if I had realized this sweet doctor was trying to help me to salvage my natural birth, and that the opportunity was now passed.  I should have been scared for you, knowing as I do what it means to have cord coming first with nothing to protect it from being compressed except her hand.  But all I heard was that this doctor was holding your tiny hand, and that it was your first contact with the outside world.  I actually felt a little burst of joy.

 

Time passed, and the antibiotics still didn't come, but I realized that the next contraction had not come either.  More time passed, and nothing.  Everything felt a little calmer.  I began to get more of a sense of my surroundings.  I heard them check your heart rate, "Is the baby okay?" I asked.  You were fine, I was told.  I began to drift to you, wondering about what you were feeling, thinking about what we were missing.  I didn't have time to really think about the specifics, I just suddenly felt the heaviness of all of the things I love about birth as they slipped past us, you and I.

 

So I started to sing.

 

  I sang to you, softly behind my oxygen mask, "Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave your worries far behind you..." I knew you could hear me.  That despite all that was happening around us, you were still inside me, hearing my heart beat. That my voice surrounded you, wrapped around you, bathed you in the love I felt so much for you.  I couldn't give you everything I wished I could, but just as I had with your brother and sister, I was still in labor, and I could sing to you.  We were still one, together in that moment, regardless of whatever came next.  "But in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me..."

 

 My voice trailed off and I looked at Erin, "When I wake up, I will see my baby?"  I don't know why I felt like stating the obvious.  I think I needed someone to tell it to me, but since no one did, I had to speak those words out loud.  She smiled, "Yes, you will."

 

"Okay, Laine, you're going to feel sleepy."  A voice said.  A green screen went up in front of my face.

"How long will it take?" I asked, suddenly nervous, even though it didn't really matter whether it was  four seconds or twenty. 

"Very fast, just a few moments..." a voice said.  I felt a burning sensation run up my arm, and a strange icy heat pass through my lungs.  I started to tell them something was wrong, but I didn't get the words out.  That is the last thing I remember.

 

 

Waiting to see my girl

Natalie's Birth Story



The first time I ever saw her; Natalie Faith, one hour old.

 

Dear, Sweet Natalie,
Usually I write thoughts here for other people, but this is your story, so I am writing it to you, and I will share it with the many people who prayed you here. 

Sweet girl, in the days leading up to your arrival, I had been having lots of contractions, and a few other signs that indicated labor might actually start before our newly scheduled induction date of Friday, May 31st.  Things got a little wild on Tuesday but calmed down Wednesday.  I was bummed because I wanted to meet you, but I kept trying to focus on the fact that up till then we had openly trusted in God's time frames, and this time we needed to as well.  That night, we got to bed late, and as contractions had spaced out, I went ahead and gave myself my heparin shot.  Unfortunately, I had gotten behind on my timing with the shot, so at 1am, it was much later than usual. 

A half hour after climbing into bed, and after the contractions had picked up a bit, my water suddenly broke.  We were glad, because we knew that this meant you and God had chosen the date of the birth, not an arbitrary selection based on doctors schedules or even my own preference.  Your daddy packed up our stuff and I took a shower and welcomed the contractions, figuring that it would be many, many hours before we would meet you.  I sang to you with each contraction, "Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave your worries far behind you...,"  I felt you moving and welcomed the waves that would bring you to my arms.

We arrived at the hospital at about 4am, and though the contractions had been getting stronger at home, in the car they totally slowed down.  We headed to triage.  There was no sending me home with broken water regardless of how little the dilation might be.  I asked for a midwife, and Midwife Erin came with a very kind OB I had met last month when I was hospitalized.  She checked to see how far along I was, and though I was surprised to be 6-7 centimeters dilated, the doctor could not feel your head, or anything for that matter, which is never a good sign.

Ultrasound confirmed our fears... you were not quite head down.  Though we learned that only the fore bag had broken and I still had an intact bag (sometimes a bag will separate layers and a bubble of fluid will form and even burst, apart from the main bag, which remains intact), your dear little head was settled in my hip, and your umbilical cord had positioned itself right at the opening. 

I knew what that meant.  Ethan had been turned sideways.  Babies don't come out that way.  But even if you could be turned, there was no way of keeping you safe when your cord, your little lifeline between us, was leading the way.  No baby survives that type of birth.

Something in my head simply understood.  I have been helping women in recovery from disappointing births for 15 years.  There are certain things that can happen in birth that have no wiggle room.  Many interventions in hospitals are not necessary, but this was one of those times that it would be life saving.

"I have to have a cesarean." I said.  Yes, the OB said.  The only chance to get the baby lined up was to try to turn it, but on blood thinner, risk of a hemorrhage was too great.  What was worse, the medicine to reverse the blood thinner would take about 2 hours to be fully effective.  But by now, contractions were a minute apart and very long.  We weren't going to have two hours, and without the medicine, an epidural for the cesarean would cause spinal cord bleeding and could cause permanent paralysis.  I would have to be knocked out for your birth.  I get a lump in my throat when I think of that.  It was my greatest fear beyond loosing you, but in that moment, all that mattered to me was keeping you safe.

Things got wild as they rushed to get an IV line.  Francine arrived and her face fell in fear as she saw me.  I told her what was happening and rode the wild contractions on the tiny triage bed, your daddy holding my hand.  I still sang when I could, but coping was hard without space and quiet and my usual comfort measures.   I was prepped and moved into the OR, but without my sweetheart.  I am sad that your Daddy couldn't be there, but because of the general, he had to wait outside.

Daddy kissed me goodbye and told me he loved me, and they wheeled me into the operating room.

(continued...)

Other Glasses

 

Years ago, a woman sat in my living room during a birth support group and gave some of the clearest wisdom that I have ever heard.

 

She said "Everyone thinks I am looking at the glass as half empty instead of half full.  They just don't understand that there are two glasses.  One is full and overflowing with my love for my baby, and the other is  about my experience."

 

Over the past week I have experienced many emotions around all the events of the past several months and days.  Part of that struggle includes taming recurrent post partum depression and the crazy way it makes my brain work for a while after my babies are born.  Yet another part, the part that relates to my work as a birth doula, my years of helping women heal from traumatic births, my own traumatic cesarean with Ethan, and my history of natural home births created a complex set of feelings that I am and will be processing for a little while. 

 

Understanding the concept of the many glasses as I do, I am simultaneously able to bask in the joy of our sweet little girl, to revel in the miracles that we have witnessed, and explore my gratitude both to God and to loved ones who have taken care of us. I have been so blessed to have the most amazing support from Guy, who listens and wipes tears, reminds me of what is true and real, and also points out when I am straying into dark and unproductive pathways of thought.

 

Another way he helps me is through blessings.  In our religious practices, men who have received the priesthood give blessings of health and comfort by the laying on of hands to those in need.  I asked Guy for a blessing yesterday, and was so comforted by his words of comfort and council.

 

At one point in the blessing he mentioned something that I was surprised by.  He said that very soon I would come to understand why Natalie was sent to our family at this time, even though it was not a part of our plans.  I thought it was an odd thing to mention, since I haven't lamented her pending arrival since the initial shock of the positive test came back; not for a moment.

 

Then today I got a call from my brother that made Guy's words suddenly make sense.  My brother got tested for a genetic clotting disorder called Factor 5 that may explain why I have had problems clotting, a test I was told I am not able to take while on my meds. 

Results were positive.

 

There are 23 people in just my family alone who may be affected by this news, including Natalie's own brothers and sisters.  Dozens more with cousins and their children.

 

Perhaps this little girl's mission has already begun.

And learning about her and the way she has touched the lives of so many

 others is giving me many other glasses to look at.

 

 

 

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.

She's Here

Our baby girl is here.

 

We named her

Natalie Faith.

 

She weighed 7 pounds, 7 ounces

and is itty bitty cute, healthy and strong.

 

In a nutshell:

She was born on May 30 by her own choosing after my water broke.  It was a rapid labor that led to an emergency cesarean because she was turned diagonally (oblique) and the water broke with baby's cord and hand presenting at the opening. I was given a general because I had just taken my blood thinner shot 30 minutes before my water broke, and the labor was flying so fast there wasn't time to get us both safe.  We came home yesterday.

I am having a very slow and rough recovery.

 Continued prayers are much appreciated.

So relieved our baby is here safe in our arms.

 

 

 I will give a more detailed account in coming days.