Here is a picture from yesterday, showing that she really will eat just about anything. (Including Mommy's yummy Economist.)
Monday, September 10, 2007
Little A Keeps on Getting Bigger!
Just back from the pediatrician's office from a well-baby visit. Little A now weighs 19 and a half pounds! That puts her in the 70th percentile for her age, unadjusted for her prematurity. Her doctor says that adjusting her age is silly at this point, given the rate of her growth.
Here is a picture from yesterday, showing that she really will eat just about anything. (Including Mommy's yummy Economist.)
Here is a picture from yesterday, showing that she really will eat just about anything. (Including Mommy's yummy Economist.)
Friday, September 7, 2007
A Suburban Thing
When DH and I moved across the Bay to a ranch house built in 1950, there were some mental adjustments to be made. We'd spent the previous nine years living in San Francisco, light years away in lifestyle from our little suburban slice of Oakland. For a long time we couldn't help remark on things here that most people probably take for granted. For instance, we have a yard big enough to require a mower, and that seemed bizarre and exotic after living surrounded by concrete for so long in SF. And our Oakland house is totally plain, yet it still has a second bathroom, something rare as unicorns in most SF flats. But the thing that floored me the most about moving here was the parking situation. Because not only does our house have a two-car garage, but a wide driveway leading up to it.
That meant no more hunting for street spots or honing parallel parking skills on hills with a 14 percent grade. For months after we bought the house, every time DH and I were out late or came back home during a rainstorm (always bad times to hunt for street spots in a big city) we would revel in our good fortune at having the garage and driveway.
But time passed and now I have lost my gee-shucks newbie instincts about our street. I realized I had officially morphed into a real suburbanite the other day when I got annoyed at my neighbor because he parked his car in front of my house.
When we first moved, being mad over this never would have occurred to me. The rule in SF is that any open curb space is up for grabs by anyone at any hour of the day. And of course, that's still technically the law over in Oakland, too. But over time I came to notice that the custom here is different. It doesn't matter if you've got a huge garage and driveway with your house. A homeowner gets dibs on the curb space directly in front of their own home, too. It's for their cars or their guest's cars. All around the neighborhood, people park their cars directly in front of their houses. It is acceptable to park in front of your neighbor's house, but only if the space in front of your own home is taken by another car for some reason.
Everyone I see does this. Everyone, that is, except for my next-door neighbors. They have two cars. One gets parked in their single-stall garage, the other in front of my house. Always. There are two parking spots in front of their own house that remain empty while the space in front of my house is taken by their car. Once I started noticing what they did, it began to bug me. And now I can't stopped being bugged about it.
I know it's ridiculous. These are nice folks who keep their house and yard in much prettier condition than certain other people in the neighborhood do (cough, cough, ahem). They are quiet and friendly. Hell, they even brought me home-made cookies after Little A came home from the hospital. But I find myself wanting to yell "GO PARK IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN HOUSE!" every time they pull in front of mine.
Either I'm totally crazy, or it's just a suburban thing. Maybe both?
That meant no more hunting for street spots or honing parallel parking skills on hills with a 14 percent grade. For months after we bought the house, every time DH and I were out late or came back home during a rainstorm (always bad times to hunt for street spots in a big city) we would revel in our good fortune at having the garage and driveway.
But time passed and now I have lost my gee-shucks newbie instincts about our street. I realized I had officially morphed into a real suburbanite the other day when I got annoyed at my neighbor because he parked his car in front of my house.
When we first moved, being mad over this never would have occurred to me. The rule in SF is that any open curb space is up for grabs by anyone at any hour of the day. And of course, that's still technically the law over in Oakland, too. But over time I came to notice that the custom here is different. It doesn't matter if you've got a huge garage and driveway with your house. A homeowner gets dibs on the curb space directly in front of their own home, too. It's for their cars or their guest's cars. All around the neighborhood, people park their cars directly in front of their houses. It is acceptable to park in front of your neighbor's house, but only if the space in front of your own home is taken by another car for some reason.
Everyone I see does this. Everyone, that is, except for my next-door neighbors. They have two cars. One gets parked in their single-stall garage, the other in front of my house. Always. There are two parking spots in front of their own house that remain empty while the space in front of my house is taken by their car. Once I started noticing what they did, it began to bug me. And now I can't stopped being bugged about it.
I know it's ridiculous. These are nice folks who keep their house and yard in much prettier condition than certain other people in the neighborhood do (cough, cough, ahem). They are quiet and friendly. Hell, they even brought me home-made cookies after Little A came home from the hospital. But I find myself wanting to yell "GO PARK IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN HOUSE!" every time they pull in front of mine.
Either I'm totally crazy, or it's just a suburban thing. Maybe both?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
It's Friday So This Must Be ... Crap, Where's My Day Planner?
I thought working part time until Little A turns one would down shift the pace of family life nicely. In some ways, it works great. I get lots of time with my girls and don't feel the same kind of guilt for working that I did when I worked full time during Big A's infancy. But the childcare situation with two kids is an ever-dizzying spiral of complexity.
Back when I worked full time and had one child, daycare was simple. I had a full-time babysitter and Big A got dropped off and picked up at her house the same times Monday through Friday. Then after Little A was six months old, I went back to work part time. At this point I started dropping off both girls at the babysitter two days a week. Not as consistent as before, in terms of my work routine, but still familiar and easy to keep track of.
Things got more complicated when I realized that two days a week without the kids was simply not enough time to adequately finish my freelance projects. I needed at least another day of babysitting each week. But due to the high cost of childcare, another day per week at my regular sitter would actually put me in the hole at the end of the month unless I opted to go full time. A friend of mine was in a similar predicament and after ranting to each other about how the cost of daycare for two kids makes part time work practically impossible, it suddenly dawned on us that we could defray childcare costs by swapping babysitting services with each other.
So for awhile, on Mondays and Wednesdays I had my girls at the regular sitter's house. On Tuesdays I babysat my friend's two boys so she could work, and on Thursdays my friend took my girls so I could work. It was definitely more complicated, but still something I could easily remember after I got into the rhythm. And I got an extra day of work without paying any more for daycare. It was great!
Enter preschool. Big A's program is only in the afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I wanted Big A to go to her old babysitter in the mornings on Mondays and Wednesdays (along with Little A) so I could work more hours those days. But the babysitter said she was going to charge me the same $60 per-day, per-child rate whether Big A was at her house for 3 hours in the morning or the whole freaking day, which made that option completely unaffordable.
But, my friend's eldest son was also going to preschool at the same place Big A was. They were originally going on different days, but we switched them to the same program so their time there synched. That allowed us to further the swap and get a few more hours of additional childcare per week from each other. But this is when I also lost ability to keep track of my kids' whereabouts without writing it down. Here is the new schedule:
Monday: Little A goes to the "real" baby sitter's house at 9 a.m. Big A gets dropped off next at my friend's house at 9:15. My friend serves Big A lunch and drops her off at preschool for me at 1 along with her eldest son. That means I get to work from 9:30ish until 4, at which point I pick up Big A from preschool. I pick up Little A from her sitter no later than 5.
Tuesday: I stay home with my 2 girls and my friend's 2 boys. My friend works 9:30-5.
Wednesday: The same deal as Monday, except this time after Little A goes to her babysitter at 9, I rush home so my friend can drop off her oldest boy at my house by 9:15 so she can work for the day. I watch the two big kids, serve lunch, and then drop them off at preschool by 1. Then I have three kid-free hours to work until preschool is over at 4. Once again, Little A gets picked up from the regular babysitter by 5.
Thursday: Both girls go to my friend's house between nine and five. I work 9:30-5.
Friday: Little A stays home with me all day, but Big A is only home in the morning and has preschool 1-4. Sometimes I manage to get some work done while Little A is napping and Big A is away, sometimes not. It's a crap shoot.
Adding to the complications is the fact that my friend and I originally met through my old babysitter, back when we each had only one child, still worked full time, and both had our kids there five days a week. Even though it is the baby sitter's own rate policies that led my friend and I to get creative with our childcare, we still know that the baby sitter would be miffed if she heard what two of her formerly full-time clients were doing. Since I still send Little A to her house, we opted to just not tell the baby sitter about what we are doing on the side. But I always feel a little awkward when I got to pick up the baby from the sitter's house on Monday and Wednesdays, because Big A is with me and has turned into quite the chatty girl. I fear she's going to innocently rat me out about the other childcare arrangement one of these days.
Who knew that child care could have so much intrigue?
Back when I worked full time and had one child, daycare was simple. I had a full-time babysitter and Big A got dropped off and picked up at her house the same times Monday through Friday. Then after Little A was six months old, I went back to work part time. At this point I started dropping off both girls at the babysitter two days a week. Not as consistent as before, in terms of my work routine, but still familiar and easy to keep track of.
Things got more complicated when I realized that two days a week without the kids was simply not enough time to adequately finish my freelance projects. I needed at least another day of babysitting each week. But due to the high cost of childcare, another day per week at my regular sitter would actually put me in the hole at the end of the month unless I opted to go full time. A friend of mine was in a similar predicament and after ranting to each other about how the cost of daycare for two kids makes part time work practically impossible, it suddenly dawned on us that we could defray childcare costs by swapping babysitting services with each other.
So for awhile, on Mondays and Wednesdays I had my girls at the regular sitter's house. On Tuesdays I babysat my friend's two boys so she could work, and on Thursdays my friend took my girls so I could work. It was definitely more complicated, but still something I could easily remember after I got into the rhythm. And I got an extra day of work without paying any more for daycare. It was great!
Enter preschool. Big A's program is only in the afternoons on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I wanted Big A to go to her old babysitter in the mornings on Mondays and Wednesdays (along with Little A) so I could work more hours those days. But the babysitter said she was going to charge me the same $60 per-day, per-child rate whether Big A was at her house for 3 hours in the morning or the whole freaking day, which made that option completely unaffordable.
But, my friend's eldest son was also going to preschool at the same place Big A was. They were originally going on different days, but we switched them to the same program so their time there synched. That allowed us to further the swap and get a few more hours of additional childcare per week from each other. But this is when I also lost ability to keep track of my kids' whereabouts without writing it down. Here is the new schedule:
Monday: Little A goes to the "real" baby sitter's house at 9 a.m. Big A gets dropped off next at my friend's house at 9:15. My friend serves Big A lunch and drops her off at preschool for me at 1 along with her eldest son. That means I get to work from 9:30ish until 4, at which point I pick up Big A from preschool. I pick up Little A from her sitter no later than 5.
Tuesday: I stay home with my 2 girls and my friend's 2 boys. My friend works 9:30-5.
Wednesday: The same deal as Monday, except this time after Little A goes to her babysitter at 9, I rush home so my friend can drop off her oldest boy at my house by 9:15 so she can work for the day. I watch the two big kids, serve lunch, and then drop them off at preschool by 1. Then I have three kid-free hours to work until preschool is over at 4. Once again, Little A gets picked up from the regular babysitter by 5.
Thursday: Both girls go to my friend's house between nine and five. I work 9:30-5.
Friday: Little A stays home with me all day, but Big A is only home in the morning and has preschool 1-4. Sometimes I manage to get some work done while Little A is napping and Big A is away, sometimes not. It's a crap shoot.
Adding to the complications is the fact that my friend and I originally met through my old babysitter, back when we each had only one child, still worked full time, and both had our kids there five days a week. Even though it is the baby sitter's own rate policies that led my friend and I to get creative with our childcare, we still know that the baby sitter would be miffed if she heard what two of her formerly full-time clients were doing. Since I still send Little A to her house, we opted to just not tell the baby sitter about what we are doing on the side. But I always feel a little awkward when I got to pick up the baby from the sitter's house on Monday and Wednesdays, because Big A is with me and has turned into quite the chatty girl. I fear she's going to innocently rat me out about the other childcare arrangement one of these days.
Who knew that child care could have so much intrigue?
Friday, August 31, 2007
Backstory 7: Stat C Section and Little A's Arrival
DH and I were both clinging to some sense of normalcy, so instead of going through the emergency room, DH dropped me off at the regular hospital entrance while he parked the car in the garage across the street. I trudged inside by myself, gritting my teeth and stopping every few steps to catch my breath. Surrealy, people milling in the halls smiled, assuming I was in regular labor. DH caught up with me while I was getting set up in L&D triage. A few minutes into monitoring they decided we were in trouble, and what had been a very quiet room exploded with activity as half a dozen nurses and doctors descended on my curtain area. An IV was inserted, medical history taken, consent forms signed. They feared rupture or possibly placental abruption and wanted to do a stat c section. Amazingly, despite the grimness of what they suspected, they said DH could be present in the OR. He kissed me hastily as we separated so DH could get dressed in scrubs.
"What did you say your name was again?" I sputtered to the on-call OB as she steered the gurney around several tight corners into the OR. (I'll call her Delivery Doc here.) I at least wanted to know her name, considering what she was about to do.
Delivery Doc reintroduced herself and apologized for the rush while simultaneously continuing to move rapidly around the OR, moving trays and equipment into place. Several nurses were doing the same thing. One of them helped me crouch over my big belly and hold still while anesthesiologist administered the spinal block. Soon the warm, fuzzy numbness spread up and down from the needle in my back. It felt so good to not be in pain anymore!
The anesthesiologist complimented me on being so calm under the circumstances. But I wasn't calm. Everything was happening so quickly I felt stunned and several steps behind the action. They put up a sterile drape and judging by the tugging, I knew the surgery had already begun, and that they were not waiting for DH to arrive. Then I heard Delivery Doc say, "It's a rupture. The baby's feet extrude through the top of the uterus into the abdomen. Membranes are broken."
That's when I lost it. The room spun as I craned my neck in an effort to somehow see what was going on beyond the drape. "What? What is happening??"
The anesthesiologist tried to quiet me down. He stood up from his stool near my head and looked over the drape. "Yes, I can see the baby's feet sticking through the top of the uterus. I'll have to order some blood as a precaution in case you need a transfusion," he said. "But I'm hoping we won't need to use it. The bleeding doesn't look so heavy right now, which is a good sign."
I realized DH was now at my side. "They said my scar ruptured, " I blubbered. "Can you look and tell me what's happening?"
Ever the trooper, poor DH peeked over the drape as requested. But after a few moments he turned back to me. "I have no idea what I'm looking at," he confessed.
Then, voice thick with relief, Delivery Doc announced, "Wabi your baby is kicking and screaming at me as I'm taking her out!" Suddenly there was a thin, high-pitched mew, like the littlest kitten. And a nurse popped around the edge of the drape holding a baby -- my baby!
She was red-faced and crying in perturbed little bleats. She seemed so annoyed and bewildered at being wet and naked in that cold, bright room. I instantly felt she might be all right.
"Just look at her," said DH, astounded.
The nurse took the baby across the room for cleaning and observation. After a few minutes she was deemed healthy and stable enough to be handed off to DH. In her tightly wrapped blanket, she looked tiny to me -- several pounds lighter and almost five inches shorter than Big A was at birth. But then again, Big A came into the world ten days past her due date, not five weeks early. I reminded myself that for her age, she was actually pretty big.
Since I couldn't put my arms around the baby while lying on the table, DH held her cheek to cheek with me. Her eyes were shut and she kept pursing her sweet little lips like she was trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.
"Me too," I thought, "Me too."
Delivery Doc was still working hard on the other side of the drape, trying to stop the bleeding and repair my uterus. Occasionally I'd catch part of the discussion regarding suction, irrigation, or sutures. But in a room full of strangers where I was cut down the middle and naked everywhere else save for a few drapes, I now felt like it was just me, DH, and our baby in the world. I could feel DH's hands pressed up against my shoulder as he helped me cuddle up to our little girl. Our three faces formed an intimate circle. I knew that the hell that had just broken loose would have some long-term physical and emotional costs. But I would take the costs. At that moment all I felt was elation at seeing my little girl for the first time. It was awesome to be alive and amazing to see our baby. It was the world's best day ever, as far as I was concerned.
"Let's name her A____," I said. And DH agreed.
After awhile they took Little A to the nursery for a few more tests and DH tagged along, saying he'd see me later. Things were calmer in the OR now. People began to chat. I stared up into the blue void of the sterile drape and suddenly felt kind of bored. I wondered how long it would be until I could see Little A again. I tuned back into what the nurses and the doctors were saying.
"... walked herself into the hospital with a ruptured uterus," one of them said. Another responded, "Patient must have an extremely high pain tolerance." To which I piped up with, "Oh no, it really hurt a lot." And that made Delivery Doc laugh.
.........................................................................................................................................................................
After everything we'd gone through, DH and I both felt my postpartum stay in the hospital seemed like a vacation. Sure, we were getting up every two hours around the clock for pumping and finger feedings. But in between those feedings, we could really rest for the first time in eons. The worry that stalked us for so long was gone, and in its place was the cutest little baby we'd ever seen, plus chocolate treats and baby gifts from visitors. Really, it was better than a vacation in the sense that you usually don't get handfuls of percocet every six hours on the Love Boat. Little A did have trouble breast feeding and regulating her body temperature at first, as well as some jaundice. But these were completely surmountable problems. Also, it turned out that recuperating from the c section was a lot easier than the last month of the pregnancy had been. (Thanks again, percocet!)
Still, some comments we received in the hospital left DH and I rattled. Doctors and nurses involved in our c section would stop by my room and seem so happy to see how we were doing. "I'm so glad you came in when you did," everyone said. That was nice. But quite a few also added, "Not to freak you out, but people die from what you had." Which is something that can only going to freak you out quite a lot, especially when person after person keeps saying it.
I mentioned what was happening to our beloved family pediatrician when she stopped by to see the baby one day. "This is making me a little paranoid," I admitted.
My kids' pediatrician and I have a very informal report. (For example, her reaction when she found out about my uterine rupture was "Fucking SHIT, dude!") I count on her to give me the straight story. She rolled her eyes.
"What is wrong with people? Obviously you don't need to hear that over and over," She said. "But look, to be honest, what they are saying isn't an exaggeration. I was talking to my husband about your case the other day, too. He's also a pediatrician, and we both were saying that usually the outcome is not nearly so good." She smiled at Little A and me. "But I don't think anyone wants to freak you out. People are just marveling at how lucky you are."
Lucky. Ever since we suspected something was wrong with our Trisomy 18 pregnancy the year before, nothing made me feel remotely lucky. If anything, I felt like probability's bitch, so rare and strange were the problems that kept arising as we tried to have another baby. If someone would have told me that just one week shy of my D&E anniversary (51 weeks to the day) I would again come so close to losing what is surely my last baby, in addition to nearly dying myself ... Well, I might have believed them, such was the funk I was in. But I would not have believed that both the baby and I would end up ok despite all that. Never.
This is but one of the many gifts my little daughter came bearing. The gift of lightness, the gift of hope. The gift of being lucky once again. Because I truly do feel lucky and so incredibly grateful. I really needed some sweet to go with my bitter, and now I've got it.
"What did you say your name was again?" I sputtered to the on-call OB as she steered the gurney around several tight corners into the OR. (I'll call her Delivery Doc here.) I at least wanted to know her name, considering what she was about to do.
Delivery Doc reintroduced herself and apologized for the rush while simultaneously continuing to move rapidly around the OR, moving trays and equipment into place. Several nurses were doing the same thing. One of them helped me crouch over my big belly and hold still while anesthesiologist administered the spinal block. Soon the warm, fuzzy numbness spread up and down from the needle in my back. It felt so good to not be in pain anymore!
The anesthesiologist complimented me on being so calm under the circumstances. But I wasn't calm. Everything was happening so quickly I felt stunned and several steps behind the action. They put up a sterile drape and judging by the tugging, I knew the surgery had already begun, and that they were not waiting for DH to arrive. Then I heard Delivery Doc say, "It's a rupture. The baby's feet extrude through the top of the uterus into the abdomen. Membranes are broken."
That's when I lost it. The room spun as I craned my neck in an effort to somehow see what was going on beyond the drape. "What? What is happening??"
The anesthesiologist tried to quiet me down. He stood up from his stool near my head and looked over the drape. "Yes, I can see the baby's feet sticking through the top of the uterus. I'll have to order some blood as a precaution in case you need a transfusion," he said. "But I'm hoping we won't need to use it. The bleeding doesn't look so heavy right now, which is a good sign."
I realized DH was now at my side. "They said my scar ruptured, " I blubbered. "Can you look and tell me what's happening?"
Ever the trooper, poor DH peeked over the drape as requested. But after a few moments he turned back to me. "I have no idea what I'm looking at," he confessed.
Then, voice thick with relief, Delivery Doc announced, "Wabi your baby is kicking and screaming at me as I'm taking her out!" Suddenly there was a thin, high-pitched mew, like the littlest kitten. And a nurse popped around the edge of the drape holding a baby -- my baby!
She was red-faced and crying in perturbed little bleats. She seemed so annoyed and bewildered at being wet and naked in that cold, bright room. I instantly felt she might be all right.
"Just look at her," said DH, astounded.
The nurse took the baby across the room for cleaning and observation. After a few minutes she was deemed healthy and stable enough to be handed off to DH. In her tightly wrapped blanket, she looked tiny to me -- several pounds lighter and almost five inches shorter than Big A was at birth. But then again, Big A came into the world ten days past her due date, not five weeks early. I reminded myself that for her age, she was actually pretty big.
Since I couldn't put my arms around the baby while lying on the table, DH held her cheek to cheek with me. Her eyes were shut and she kept pursing her sweet little lips like she was trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.
"Me too," I thought, "Me too."
Delivery Doc was still working hard on the other side of the drape, trying to stop the bleeding and repair my uterus. Occasionally I'd catch part of the discussion regarding suction, irrigation, or sutures. But in a room full of strangers where I was cut down the middle and naked everywhere else save for a few drapes, I now felt like it was just me, DH, and our baby in the world. I could feel DH's hands pressed up against my shoulder as he helped me cuddle up to our little girl. Our three faces formed an intimate circle. I knew that the hell that had just broken loose would have some long-term physical and emotional costs. But I would take the costs. At that moment all I felt was elation at seeing my little girl for the first time. It was awesome to be alive and amazing to see our baby. It was the world's best day ever, as far as I was concerned.
"Let's name her A____," I said. And DH agreed.
After awhile they took Little A to the nursery for a few more tests and DH tagged along, saying he'd see me later. Things were calmer in the OR now. People began to chat. I stared up into the blue void of the sterile drape and suddenly felt kind of bored. I wondered how long it would be until I could see Little A again. I tuned back into what the nurses and the doctors were saying.
"... walked herself into the hospital with a ruptured uterus," one of them said. Another responded, "Patient must have an extremely high pain tolerance." To which I piped up with, "Oh no, it really hurt a lot." And that made Delivery Doc laugh.
.........................................................................................................................................................................
After everything we'd gone through, DH and I both felt my postpartum stay in the hospital seemed like a vacation. Sure, we were getting up every two hours around the clock for pumping and finger feedings. But in between those feedings, we could really rest for the first time in eons. The worry that stalked us for so long was gone, and in its place was the cutest little baby we'd ever seen, plus chocolate treats and baby gifts from visitors. Really, it was better than a vacation in the sense that you usually don't get handfuls of percocet every six hours on the Love Boat. Little A did have trouble breast feeding and regulating her body temperature at first, as well as some jaundice. But these were completely surmountable problems. Also, it turned out that recuperating from the c section was a lot easier than the last month of the pregnancy had been. (Thanks again, percocet!)
Still, some comments we received in the hospital left DH and I rattled. Doctors and nurses involved in our c section would stop by my room and seem so happy to see how we were doing. "I'm so glad you came in when you did," everyone said. That was nice. But quite a few also added, "Not to freak you out, but people die from what you had." Which is something that can only going to freak you out quite a lot, especially when person after person keeps saying it.
I mentioned what was happening to our beloved family pediatrician when she stopped by to see the baby one day. "This is making me a little paranoid," I admitted.
My kids' pediatrician and I have a very informal report. (For example, her reaction when she found out about my uterine rupture was "Fucking SHIT, dude!") I count on her to give me the straight story. She rolled her eyes.
"What is wrong with people? Obviously you don't need to hear that over and over," She said. "But look, to be honest, what they are saying isn't an exaggeration. I was talking to my husband about your case the other day, too. He's also a pediatrician, and we both were saying that usually the outcome is not nearly so good." She smiled at Little A and me. "But I don't think anyone wants to freak you out. People are just marveling at how lucky you are."
Lucky. Ever since we suspected something was wrong with our Trisomy 18 pregnancy the year before, nothing made me feel remotely lucky. If anything, I felt like probability's bitch, so rare and strange were the problems that kept arising as we tried to have another baby. If someone would have told me that just one week shy of my D&E anniversary (51 weeks to the day) I would again come so close to losing what is surely my last baby, in addition to nearly dying myself ... Well, I might have believed them, such was the funk I was in. But I would not have believed that both the baby and I would end up ok despite all that. Never.
This is but one of the many gifts my little daughter came bearing. The gift of lightness, the gift of hope. The gift of being lucky once again. Because I truly do feel lucky and so incredibly grateful. I really needed some sweet to go with my bitter, and now I've got it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Backstory 6: Scars, Denial, and Instinct
People are supposed to honor instinct, to listen to their little voices. But the problem with instinct is that in bad times it can come off as chicken little, wings flapping and eyes bulging as it shrieks again and again of danger. In contrast, denial can seem so polite, quiet and reasonable. During crazy times, it is easy to decide that denial is your very best friend, while instincts are just plain annoying. That's what I did in Little A's pregnancy. I mixed up which voice was the right one to listen to.
For several weeks, I lived with my scar hurting in secret and waited for it to go away. When it stubbornly stayed there, I eventually blurted out the news to my OB. My doctor felt the spot. Most likely nothing, she said. But she'd consult with the perinatologist and see what he thought. Maybe we ought to have me go in for a scan or something later in the week.
I left the office kicking myself and wondering why I had to be such a drama queen. Yet while I was thinking elaborate thoughts about how I'd just blown things out of proportion, I found myself driving straight from the doctor to a toy store rather than going directly to work. Big A's birthday was a week away and suddenly it felt urgently important to get her a present right then. The doctor called me on my cell phone as I left the store. The perinatologist she consulted with wanted me to go straight back to the hospital for monitoring.
So in week 29 of the pregnancy I entered the schizoid existence that many women who struggle with infertility know too well. It was the everything is wonderful right now (but could go to shit any second!) stage. The good news: ultrasound scans and biophysical profiles showed the baby was healthy. The bad news: nobody knew if things would stay fine. Ultrasound could show if my scar was still intact or had catastrophically failed. But ultrasound couldn't tell me if the currently intact scar was holding together well or about to shred. The thing that could do that was a CT scan. Except CT scans are many Xrays layered together. Since Xraying a gravid uterus was a no no, we were flying blind. Several perinatologists debated whether an MRI might be the best course, but eventually that idea was dropped. There were no studies to fall back on regarding treatment, so everyone was making it up as they went along.
We settled into watchful waiting, a weekly regimen of extra doctor appointments, nonstress tests, and scans. DH and I told our friends about our dilemma in a very "oh, this is one of those annoying worries that will turn out to be nothing" sort of way. At first I was very worried -- my gut told me this was serious. But after the first couple weeks of living with the pain and the uncertainty , I began to ignore my freaked out feelings. It's not as though I wanted to fret. I was so busy trying to cajole contractors into finishing a kitchen renovation that had dragged on for months. I needed to finish up piles of work before I went on maternity leave in January. And God, here was Christmas looming. By the time bouts of preterm labor started in November, the whole scar issue had slid onto the back burner.
From this point on, the pregnancy really went in the crapper. I had a few bouts of strong contractions that sent me into the hospital for medication and monitoring until they could be quieted down. I was diagnosed with a sudden onset of polyhydraminos, too. They thought that the extra amniotic fluid from that probably made my uterus irritable and kept triggering contractions. As for why I suddenly had so much fluid -- well, nobody was willing to guess about that. After each episode of strong contractions, I would spend the next day on the couch, so sore and worn out I could barely move.
If I were at 36 or 37 weeks, they would likely have done a c section to get the baby out and stop the downward spiral. But in weeks 32 and 33, the best course of action for the mother and baby is not so clear cut. The baby seemed altogether happy in there, and while I was supremely ill, it didn't seem to be life threatening -- no infections or blood loss as far as we could tell. So we opted to try to leave the baby in and avoid a NICU stay if we could. I started on anti-contraction medications at home, quit work, and tried to stay off my feet. I just wanted to get past week 34, at which point most babies have mature lungs.
In retrospect I can pick out the thread of what happened each step of the way when my uterus finally gave out. The sharp jolt that woke me up one morning in the 35th week was the baby kicking through the overstretched perforation scar. I know the contractions started up right after that because my uterus was rightfully miffed about Little A poking through alien style. And that stabbing pain I felt after the contractions? It was a symptom of internal bleeding, as fluids were pooling where they ought not be. It all makes sense. It seems ludicrous that I didn't immediately call 911 and go the the hospital in an ambulance.
But when I was living through it none of these issues clearly came together in my head as related. DH and I had been side tracked by the other contraction episodes, which no one thought were related to the scar issue. I thought this was more of the same thing. And although the contractions after the rupture were much, much worse than any others I'd felt -- even full-blown labor with Big A had not felt so bad -- the preterm labor episodes with Little A had been getting progressively more painful each time I had them, so it's not like what I felt that last time didn't fit the overall pattern. Also, I saw no blood or fluid to clue me in that there was a big problem. All of that was emptying into my belly rather than draining out my cervix.
All this is my way of explaining that rather than go straight to the hospital, I stuck around my house. I popped an anti contraction pill and tried to wait it out. For several hours, I sweated, winced and shook through the pain. DH kept asking if we should go to the hospital, but I was in the crazy zone. I didn't want to go through the trouble of getting to triage only to be sent home again like I had been the other times. I wanted to wait it out.
Eventually contractions started to come back despite the medication I took. It was only then I realized this wasn't the same as before. Plus, I couldn't tell what the baby was doing anymore. She might have stopped moving entirely, or could have been tap dancing, for all I knew. There was too much agony to comprehend what was happening anymore.
I finally said I thought I needed to go to the hospital. The first people we called to take care of Big A were out enjoying their Saturday. They asked if we could wait another hour before going into the hospital so they could return from their day trip and pick up Big A. DH asked me the question, and I stared at him, unable to think, unable to decide. "No," he finally said. "We need to go now." He dropped off Big A with our neighbors and within minutes we were speeding toward the hospital.
For several weeks, I lived with my scar hurting in secret and waited for it to go away. When it stubbornly stayed there, I eventually blurted out the news to my OB. My doctor felt the spot. Most likely nothing, she said. But she'd consult with the perinatologist and see what he thought. Maybe we ought to have me go in for a scan or something later in the week.
I left the office kicking myself and wondering why I had to be such a drama queen. Yet while I was thinking elaborate thoughts about how I'd just blown things out of proportion, I found myself driving straight from the doctor to a toy store rather than going directly to work. Big A's birthday was a week away and suddenly it felt urgently important to get her a present right then. The doctor called me on my cell phone as I left the store. The perinatologist she consulted with wanted me to go straight back to the hospital for monitoring.
So in week 29 of the pregnancy I entered the schizoid existence that many women who struggle with infertility know too well. It was the everything is wonderful right now (but could go to shit any second!) stage. The good news: ultrasound scans and biophysical profiles showed the baby was healthy. The bad news: nobody knew if things would stay fine. Ultrasound could show if my scar was still intact or had catastrophically failed. But ultrasound couldn't tell me if the currently intact scar was holding together well or about to shred. The thing that could do that was a CT scan. Except CT scans are many Xrays layered together. Since Xraying a gravid uterus was a no no, we were flying blind. Several perinatologists debated whether an MRI might be the best course, but eventually that idea was dropped. There were no studies to fall back on regarding treatment, so everyone was making it up as they went along.
We settled into watchful waiting, a weekly regimen of extra doctor appointments, nonstress tests, and scans. DH and I told our friends about our dilemma in a very "oh, this is one of those annoying worries that will turn out to be nothing" sort of way. At first I was very worried -- my gut told me this was serious. But after the first couple weeks of living with the pain and the uncertainty , I began to ignore my freaked out feelings. It's not as though I wanted to fret. I was so busy trying to cajole contractors into finishing a kitchen renovation that had dragged on for months. I needed to finish up piles of work before I went on maternity leave in January. And God, here was Christmas looming. By the time bouts of preterm labor started in November, the whole scar issue had slid onto the back burner.
From this point on, the pregnancy really went in the crapper. I had a few bouts of strong contractions that sent me into the hospital for medication and monitoring until they could be quieted down. I was diagnosed with a sudden onset of polyhydraminos, too. They thought that the extra amniotic fluid from that probably made my uterus irritable and kept triggering contractions. As for why I suddenly had so much fluid -- well, nobody was willing to guess about that. After each episode of strong contractions, I would spend the next day on the couch, so sore and worn out I could barely move.
If I were at 36 or 37 weeks, they would likely have done a c section to get the baby out and stop the downward spiral. But in weeks 32 and 33, the best course of action for the mother and baby is not so clear cut. The baby seemed altogether happy in there, and while I was supremely ill, it didn't seem to be life threatening -- no infections or blood loss as far as we could tell. So we opted to try to leave the baby in and avoid a NICU stay if we could. I started on anti-contraction medications at home, quit work, and tried to stay off my feet. I just wanted to get past week 34, at which point most babies have mature lungs.
In retrospect I can pick out the thread of what happened each step of the way when my uterus finally gave out. The sharp jolt that woke me up one morning in the 35th week was the baby kicking through the overstretched perforation scar. I know the contractions started up right after that because my uterus was rightfully miffed about Little A poking through alien style. And that stabbing pain I felt after the contractions? It was a symptom of internal bleeding, as fluids were pooling where they ought not be. It all makes sense. It seems ludicrous that I didn't immediately call 911 and go the the hospital in an ambulance.
But when I was living through it none of these issues clearly came together in my head as related. DH and I had been side tracked by the other contraction episodes, which no one thought were related to the scar issue. I thought this was more of the same thing. And although the contractions after the rupture were much, much worse than any others I'd felt -- even full-blown labor with Big A had not felt so bad -- the preterm labor episodes with Little A had been getting progressively more painful each time I had them, so it's not like what I felt that last time didn't fit the overall pattern. Also, I saw no blood or fluid to clue me in that there was a big problem. All of that was emptying into my belly rather than draining out my cervix.
All this is my way of explaining that rather than go straight to the hospital, I stuck around my house. I popped an anti contraction pill and tried to wait it out. For several hours, I sweated, winced and shook through the pain. DH kept asking if we should go to the hospital, but I was in the crazy zone. I didn't want to go through the trouble of getting to triage only to be sent home again like I had been the other times. I wanted to wait it out.
Eventually contractions started to come back despite the medication I took. It was only then I realized this wasn't the same as before. Plus, I couldn't tell what the baby was doing anymore. She might have stopped moving entirely, or could have been tap dancing, for all I knew. There was too much agony to comprehend what was happening anymore.
I finally said I thought I needed to go to the hospital. The first people we called to take care of Big A were out enjoying their Saturday. They asked if we could wait another hour before going into the hospital so they could return from their day trip and pick up Big A. DH asked me the question, and I stared at him, unable to think, unable to decide. "No," he finally said. "We need to go now." He dropped off Big A with our neighbors and within minutes we were speeding toward the hospital.
Backstory 5: Tunnel of Pregnancy
I snapped this photo of Big A not long ago. She's running through a pedestrian tunnel at a bike path entrance screaming, "ECHO ... ECHO ... ECHO ... NO MORE PICTURES, MOMMY!" I was laughing when I took it. But later when it downloaded to the computer and I saw it on a bigger screen, I felt uneasy. The photo reminded me of ... something. Some other time. It was later on that I realized it brought me back to being pregnant with Little A last year.
Lots of people feel poorly in routine pregnancies. Hell, I felt shitty during Big A's ever-so-normal gestation due to nausea in the first 20 weeks and killer heartburn and leg swelling in the second 21. While not pleasant, it paled in comparison to what I experienced while carrying Little A. With her there was bronchitis that hung on for several months in the first and second trimesters. I would hack, hack, hack, and that would trigger my gag reflux so I would puke, puke, puke. And I discovered that even if you kegel like nobody's business, once you push a baby out then your pelvic floor, she ain't what she used to be. Subsequent pregnancy + violent coughing - virginal nether regions = pee on the floor (and serious mortification).
But, it was more than just a bad cough and peeing accidents. I felt so incredibly exhausted and ill even after the bronchitis finally cleared and everything was supposedly going well in the second trimester. I could hardly get dressed and take Big A to the babysitter most mornings without feeling like I needed a 48-hour nap by the time I got to work. Nights were even worse -- wrestling Big A into the car seat would expend the remainder of my daily energy reserves. I couldn't carry her upstairs from the garage when we got home, which upset Big A's toddler sensibilities greatly. She'd scream and fuss while I fought the urge to pass out as I nuked her something prepackaged for dinner. And then I would have to lie down. No choice about it, just had to. I would turn on the TV to occupy my little girl and pray for DH to come home as soon as possible. I knew I was being a terrible parent. Like in the picture, Big A was a blur of energy, of wants and needs, and she was pulling away from me so fast. I could not catch up.
I was failing her, and it pained me to see the failure so clearly yet not be able to change it.
Plus, there was another pain. It began near the end of the second trimester without any particular event having caused it. Once it began, it never went away. Still, it was not a terrible sensation. Just an ache. If there had been round ligaments or ribs near the location to blame for it, it wouldn't have even rated a blip on my pregnancy crap-o-meter. But there was only one thing the site of the pain corresponded to, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck whenever I thought about it.
It was my scar. The place where the surgeon had accidentally punctured my uterus during my botched termination surgery. Something was happening to my scar.
(Continued soon ....)
Monday, August 27, 2007
Marriage Pictures
So the shoes I wrote about falling in love with awhile back arrived in the mail, and they were as pretty and twinkly as I remembered from the actual store. Wheeee! The first time I took them out of the box Big A's eyes widened and she sighed like she was inhaling jasmine. "Oh. Marriage shoes! Are you getting married, Mommy?"
I explained to Big A that her father and I were already married for quite a long time now. Her little forehead knotted up as she tried to recall the wedding, and got even more creased when I said it happened years before she existed. Before Big A? Incomprehensible! She wanted to see pictures as proof, so I dragged the album out.
"This is mommy," I said, pointing at a shot of me in my wedding dress.
"You are NOT supposed to wear that on your head," she admonished as she pointed to my cloche. "No hats! You are supposed to wear ... " She struggled to come up with the word. "Like THAT," she said, pointing toward the sheer curtains.
"Well, I didn't want to wear a veil because it was a pretty casual wedding. See, my wedding dress isn't really a gown, so a hat was ok to wear with it. Plus, at the time my hair was only a half inch long all over, so the only way a veil would have stayed on was with staples or a headband. And I was very anti-headband when I got married."
Big A stared like I was a lunatic. She glanced at the next photo and shook her head again.
"No! That lady is NOT supposed to be with daddy here!"
"Oh, that's just daddy with his arm around his sister, baby. It's Aunt SIL. Don't you recognize her?"
"No! Only you and daddy are supposed to be together in the marriage pictures."
"Well, here I am without Daddy but with my brothers. See? At weddings, everyone takes pictures together." I turned the page and tried to change the subject. "Oh look, here's one of Daddy and Mommy kissing during the ceremony."
"No, no kissing!" She looked horrified. "Mommy, you are doing it ALL WRONG!"
I explained to Big A that her father and I were already married for quite a long time now. Her little forehead knotted up as she tried to recall the wedding, and got even more creased when I said it happened years before she existed. Before Big A? Incomprehensible! She wanted to see pictures as proof, so I dragged the album out.
"This is mommy," I said, pointing at a shot of me in my wedding dress.
"You are NOT supposed to wear that on your head," she admonished as she pointed to my cloche. "No hats! You are supposed to wear ... " She struggled to come up with the word. "Like THAT," she said, pointing toward the sheer curtains.
"Well, I didn't want to wear a veil because it was a pretty casual wedding. See, my wedding dress isn't really a gown, so a hat was ok to wear with it. Plus, at the time my hair was only a half inch long all over, so the only way a veil would have stayed on was with staples or a headband. And I was very anti-headband when I got married."
Big A stared like I was a lunatic. She glanced at the next photo and shook her head again.
"No! That lady is NOT supposed to be with daddy here!"
"Oh, that's just daddy with his arm around his sister, baby. It's Aunt SIL. Don't you recognize her?"
"No! Only you and daddy are supposed to be together in the marriage pictures."
"Well, here I am without Daddy but with my brothers. See? At weddings, everyone takes pictures together." I turned the page and tried to change the subject. "Oh look, here's one of Daddy and Mommy kissing during the ceremony."
"No, no kissing!" She looked horrified. "Mommy, you are doing it ALL WRONG!"
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