It has been a pleasant November so far, yet I keep finding my jaw clenched when I wake up each morning. I can't shake the feeling I'm forgetting something ominous and hugely important.
My mind seems to work like the oil refineries that dot the northeast corner of the Bay. On a sparkling, clear day, smokestacks blaze to burn off pollution collected from production on smoggier days. I'm told refineries pick the cleanest air days to outgas because it prevents them from running afoul of the environmental laws. Bad ass particles that would have resulted in penalties if they were released on smoggy days are just fine when released on the clean-air days.
This always struck me as sneaky of refineries -- sort of an end-run around the clean air mandates. Still, it is practical. And now my psyche is doing the same thing.
Little A was due in mid-January 2007. She was born five weeks early, so last year at this time I was nearing the end of my pregnancy but didn't know it. Crisis mode is not the time for constructing big pictures and waxing philosophical. So last November I ricocheted between the hospital L&D triage room and my home with preterm labor and tried not to go completely loony from the terbutaline. I also tried not to go crazy over the fact my kitchen renovation ran late. Nothing like the grit, noise, and power and water interruptions from construction to make working in your home office peaceful and productive!
And that was about it, in terms of conscious thought from me. I was more tired and uncomfortable than I will be until I (hopefully) reach my nineties and have worn out entirely. My body felt like someone turned it inside out, whipped me all over, and then yanked me rightside out again. Even though nobody could see it, my uterus was about to go boom.
I know people say that when you look back on pregnancy later, you forget all the annoying parts and focus on the sweet parts. Well, maybe if you're talking about a case of hemorrhoids or stretch marks that's true. But would you say "Someday you'll look back on this and laugh!" to someone right after a hostage crisis? Because that's what Little A's pregnancy was like. I'm thrilled to be where I am now, but I'm not particularly fond of the scene of the crime, and don't think I ever will be.
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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 ....)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Awkward in the Neighborhood
I was volunteering recently in the local park, pulling ivy from long-neglected paths, when I ran into a woman from one street down. My neighbor gazed at Little A, who was waving her arms and bah-bah-bah-ing in the stroller while Big A spun circles around us.
"She's almost eight months old," I said, even though the woman had not asked the question I was answering. I tried to look her in the eye, but she stared at her feet and then left a few minutes later.
I don't need to be told how old her children are. Her daughter is just a few months older than Big A. Her son is just a few months older than my baby with trisomy 18 would have been, if the baby had been born on time. This neighbor and I were pregnant at the same time in 2005. We'd casually exchanged pregnancy info that fall at a block party, both of us innocent and hopeful about what lay in store for us at that moment in time.
The next time I met her was Halloween, 2006. She stood at my door, costumed baby and older daughter happily clamoring for candy. I was home alone, too ill to go out trick or treating with DH and Big A. Little A's pregnancy was kicking my ass. It was the beginning of the third trimester and I was round as a pumpkin -- exhausted, haggard, obviously pregnant.
I had not seen this neighbor in awhile. Yet I assumed she'd heard about my dead baby. It was ten months since the loss and I was no longer guarded when I ran into people on the street. Nobody offered condolences or stared at me anymore.
"Where is your little one?" The neighbor asked lightly.
I froze. God, she didn't know about the dead baby. The only words that sprang to mind were completely inappropriate to say in front of her kids. Like, can't you COUNT? If I'm very pregnant this Oct. AND was pregnant last Oct., how could that be, unless I'd lost the first baby? Are you an IDIOT?
"Oh ... Big A is out with her father trick or treating," I finally stammered.
"Yes, we just saw them. But where is the BABY?" she asked again, clearly not catching my drift.
What the fuck? Do I just look fat? Or does she think this is some kind of a costume -- tired suburban pregnant lady is now a character you dress up as?! Exasperated, I pointed at my belly. "I'm not due until January," I said firmly.
It was too dark to see if she blushed, but she finally got it. She thanked me quickly for the candy and hurried away. I leaned against the door, bowl of M&Ms propped up on my belly, feeling a whole new level of bad that night. In fact, I think that I switched off the porch light and stopped giving out candy after that.
I wonder if she'll ever actually be able to look me in the eye again?
"She's almost eight months old," I said, even though the woman had not asked the question I was answering. I tried to look her in the eye, but she stared at her feet and then left a few minutes later.
I don't need to be told how old her children are. Her daughter is just a few months older than Big A. Her son is just a few months older than my baby with trisomy 18 would have been, if the baby had been born on time. This neighbor and I were pregnant at the same time in 2005. We'd casually exchanged pregnancy info that fall at a block party, both of us innocent and hopeful about what lay in store for us at that moment in time.
The next time I met her was Halloween, 2006. She stood at my door, costumed baby and older daughter happily clamoring for candy. I was home alone, too ill to go out trick or treating with DH and Big A. Little A's pregnancy was kicking my ass. It was the beginning of the third trimester and I was round as a pumpkin -- exhausted, haggard, obviously pregnant.
I had not seen this neighbor in awhile. Yet I assumed she'd heard about my dead baby. It was ten months since the loss and I was no longer guarded when I ran into people on the street. Nobody offered condolences or stared at me anymore.
"Where is your little one?" The neighbor asked lightly.
I froze. God, she didn't know about the dead baby. The only words that sprang to mind were completely inappropriate to say in front of her kids. Like, can't you COUNT? If I'm very pregnant this Oct. AND was pregnant last Oct., how could that be, unless I'd lost the first baby? Are you an IDIOT?
"Oh ... Big A is out with her father trick or treating," I finally stammered.
"Yes, we just saw them. But where is the BABY?" she asked again, clearly not catching my drift.
What the fuck? Do I just look fat? Or does she think this is some kind of a costume -- tired suburban pregnant lady is now a character you dress up as?! Exasperated, I pointed at my belly. "I'm not due until January," I said firmly.
It was too dark to see if she blushed, but she finally got it. She thanked me quickly for the candy and hurried away. I leaned against the door, bowl of M&Ms propped up on my belly, feeling a whole new level of bad that night. In fact, I think that I switched off the porch light and stopped giving out candy after that.
I wonder if she'll ever actually be able to look me in the eye again?
Done, Part 2
This weekend SIL brought the nieces down to our house for a sleepover. Despite the fact everyone is mega tired today, it's always fun to gather the girls together. Between the two of us, SIL and I birthed four kids in three years. And that is just the successful pregnancies, as SIL miscarried once and I ended one pregnancy for medical reasons in those same years. Needless to say, SIL and I have been in the same phase of life: gestating, lactating, and trying to juggle a little bit of work with a whole lot of nose and butt wiping for the under-three set. So we usually can understand what the other one is feeling.
I told SIL how strange and sad it is for me to be done with having children. She sympathized, but when I asked her if she thought she would like another baby too, she looked horrified. Adding a second kid had really kicked her ass, she said. She hadn't expected how difficult the juggling would be, and since her first kid was easy going, she'd been shocked to learn how different the baby stage can be when you have a more demanding baby. All in all, it was a bumpy family adjustment after the second birth.
The good news is that now that niece #2 is 18 months old, life is much better for SIL. She likes that the girls are older and a smidge less dependent on a moment-to-moment basis. And she loves that she is now back to work three full days a week, in a job she enjoys, with the kids in preschool/daycare part time.
"If I had another I think I would lose myself," she said. "So I'm definitely done."
All of this made a lot of sense to me, and also jolted me out of my "no more babies" funk a little bit. It is good to be reminded of the positive things that come with being done. It's good to see SIL clearing out her old spit-up-upon clothes and trading up for modern styles that -- GASP -- sometimes might actually not be wash and wear!
Of course, I'm a long way off from being able to wear nonsensible clothing. Little A spits up if she's even in the same room as a dry-clean-only tag. But, someday I'll get there. And it'll be nice.
I told SIL how strange and sad it is for me to be done with having children. She sympathized, but when I asked her if she thought she would like another baby too, she looked horrified. Adding a second kid had really kicked her ass, she said. She hadn't expected how difficult the juggling would be, and since her first kid was easy going, she'd been shocked to learn how different the baby stage can be when you have a more demanding baby. All in all, it was a bumpy family adjustment after the second birth.
The good news is that now that niece #2 is 18 months old, life is much better for SIL. She likes that the girls are older and a smidge less dependent on a moment-to-moment basis. And she loves that she is now back to work three full days a week, in a job she enjoys, with the kids in preschool/daycare part time.
"If I had another I think I would lose myself," she said. "So I'm definitely done."
All of this made a lot of sense to me, and also jolted me out of my "no more babies" funk a little bit. It is good to be reminded of the positive things that come with being done. It's good to see SIL clearing out her old spit-up-upon clothes and trading up for modern styles that -- GASP -- sometimes might actually not be wash and wear!
Of course, I'm a long way off from being able to wear nonsensible clothing. Little A spits up if she's even in the same room as a dry-clean-only tag. But, someday I'll get there. And it'll be nice.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Done
While I harbor definite neatnik tendencies, having two children requires a laser-focused diligence to keep the clothing, toys, and paraphernalia down to manageable levels. The baby stage is especially difficult to remain uncluttered in, because the little buggers outgrow things so rapidly that every corner of the house tends to store something recently indispensable but now obsolete. This wouldn't be a big deal if baby items were small and cute, or if I lived in a mcmansion the size of Walmart. But the gear tends to be over sized and designed by the same people responsible for casino carpets. And we are keeping it real here in Oakland, living in a tiny two-bedroom 1950s-era house that doesn't have space for extra crap.
In the past few months I have been reasonably good about dragging unused items down to the basement and garage, but quite bad about getting them completely out of the house. At first I chalked it up to lack of time -- going to Goodwill with a carload of boxes is a pain when you've got two kids to cart along. But the other day a friend said she was trying to conceive again, and I know that in her first pregnancy most of her maternity clothes were borrowed from a sister who took back her things when she recently got pregnant again herself. So here is an obvious situation where my friend could use some free maternity clothes, and hey, I've got boxes of them in the basement. While I'm at it, I should also give her the infant stuff Little A has outgrown so far. Yet in the basement everything remains. I just haven't been able to utter the words, "come pick them up" yet.
So, I guess the clutter in the basement is about lack of time, but not in the way I originally thought. I'm just not ready to let go of pregnancy and babydom. Not yet. I only just started down this path in life three and a half years ago, and now I'm done. How did that happen?
With Big A, when I finished a big stage all the related physical items that went with the era got carefully packed away. Sure, I might have felt a little misty at how fast she grew while I did it, but there wasn't anything truly sad about putting stuff away. I knew pregnancy and infant care were cycles I'd loop through again in the future. That bouncy seat was still needed someday. So were those stretchy pants. Saving everything was an affirmation of the dream of a bigger family. Saving things was fun.
But now every time a onesie is outgrown or the baby loses interest in a toy, it just reminds me that there is absolutely no need to keep those things. There will be no more babies for us, ever. Saving things under these circumstances is stupid, and yet that's what I've been doing.
Probably we would have stopped at two kids even if pursuing the second one hadn't turned into such hell. We are out of bedrooms in the house and out of money for raising more. But the fact that my uterus ruptured in Little A's pregnancy just makes accepting this more difficult. Because there isn't a choice anymore. We were told by several doctors and too many nurses to count that my rupturing at home was an amazing case of bad luck/good luck: Terrible for it to actually occur, but freakishly fortunate that Little A wasn't brain damaged from lack of oxygen, and that I didn't bleed to death. In light of that, it's just too dangerous to ever try again. In fact, DH got a vasectomy recently. Because we knew that if we accidentally got pregnant, we would want to try to keep the baby. All rational reasons regarding safety and fairness to "The As" (who deserve to keep a mom) would go out the window in a real pregnancy situation. So best to avoid all chance of it ever happening, we decided.
Oh, the heart is a greedy, irrational thing. It always wants more.
In the past few months I have been reasonably good about dragging unused items down to the basement and garage, but quite bad about getting them completely out of the house. At first I chalked it up to lack of time -- going to Goodwill with a carload of boxes is a pain when you've got two kids to cart along. But the other day a friend said she was trying to conceive again, and I know that in her first pregnancy most of her maternity clothes were borrowed from a sister who took back her things when she recently got pregnant again herself. So here is an obvious situation where my friend could use some free maternity clothes, and hey, I've got boxes of them in the basement. While I'm at it, I should also give her the infant stuff Little A has outgrown so far. Yet in the basement everything remains. I just haven't been able to utter the words, "come pick them up" yet.
So, I guess the clutter in the basement is about lack of time, but not in the way I originally thought. I'm just not ready to let go of pregnancy and babydom. Not yet. I only just started down this path in life three and a half years ago, and now I'm done. How did that happen?
With Big A, when I finished a big stage all the related physical items that went with the era got carefully packed away. Sure, I might have felt a little misty at how fast she grew while I did it, but there wasn't anything truly sad about putting stuff away. I knew pregnancy and infant care were cycles I'd loop through again in the future. That bouncy seat was still needed someday. So were those stretchy pants. Saving everything was an affirmation of the dream of a bigger family. Saving things was fun.
But now every time a onesie is outgrown or the baby loses interest in a toy, it just reminds me that there is absolutely no need to keep those things. There will be no more babies for us, ever. Saving things under these circumstances is stupid, and yet that's what I've been doing.
Probably we would have stopped at two kids even if pursuing the second one hadn't turned into such hell. We are out of bedrooms in the house and out of money for raising more. But the fact that my uterus ruptured in Little A's pregnancy just makes accepting this more difficult. Because there isn't a choice anymore. We were told by several doctors and too many nurses to count that my rupturing at home was an amazing case of bad luck/good luck: Terrible for it to actually occur, but freakishly fortunate that Little A wasn't brain damaged from lack of oxygen, and that I didn't bleed to death. In light of that, it's just too dangerous to ever try again. In fact, DH got a vasectomy recently. Because we knew that if we accidentally got pregnant, we would want to try to keep the baby. All rational reasons regarding safety and fairness to "The As" (who deserve to keep a mom) would go out the window in a real pregnancy situation. So best to avoid all chance of it ever happening, we decided.
Oh, the heart is a greedy, irrational thing. It always wants more.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Backstory 1: The Beginning of the Bad
When DH and I decided to try to start a family, we both worried. I grew up hearing about my mother's multiple miscarriages and her heartbreaking stillbirth, so unlike many who naively jump into trying to conceive who figure that they'll be hatching a cute little baby bump in no time, I didn't think the sperm and egg would automatically get together post-haste.
So, when got knocked up the very first month we tried, I was happily shocked, but still nervous that my mother's infertility history was something she'd passed along. The first trimester every time I went to the bathroom, I was sure that I'd find blood in my underwear. But despite a terrible morning sickness that lasted for 20 weeks and then terrible leg swelling that lasted the rest of the pregnancy, things kept chugging along. Ten days past her due date Big A made her entrance into the world. While it wasn't a "textbook" perfect delivery, I had pushed her out by myself, and she was ok in the end, so despite the liberal oozing of both Big A's and my bodily fluids, I was pretty enthusiastic about the birthing process. I remember telling a delivery nurse "Oh, that was ... FUN!" after it was all over and she was cleaning me up. Labor had hurt like hell, but it was also so amazing and interesting that the only word I could come up with to describe it was "fun." While poor DH was fairly shell shocked and told me that he would understand if I never wanted to go through that again, I was certain that I wanted to have another baby at some point, even just hours after grunting through the marathon of contractions.
When we decided to try to get pregnant a second time, the whole issue of whether sperm and egg could get together wasn't something we dwelled on. In fact, DH and I were pretty blase about everything to do with the second pregnancy: we told people we were expecting before I was showing, and made lots of plans for the impending birth well before I was out of the first trimester.
I only had one nagging, quiet worry in the next pregnancy. There was no morning sickness. How could that be, I sometimes wondered. How could I be so sick for so long with Big A, but not have any illness to speak of the second time around? But it was easy to laugh off the worry, or ignore it. At least until my nuchal translucency and maternal serum screening test came back positive for Trisomy 18. We got the results when I was past the window for a CVS test, so we had to wait until I was further into the second trimester to get an amniocentesis to confirm or deny the findings of the screening test.
People throw around words like agony and torture cavalierly. But the agony DH and I felt during the three weeks between screening positive for T18 and confirming that diagnosis via amnio were agonizing and tortuous is an old school, biblical sort of way. The first time I read about Trisomy 18 online I nearly vomited and had to lie down for awhile. The phrase not compatible with life seared my brain. The description of the defects associated with the disorder were overwhelmingly serious and numerous. I had never felt so bleak.
Our friends and family did not grasp the depths of DH's and my desperation at first. They meant well. Really. But, they didn't understand that advising us to "just not think about it" until we had the amnio results was impossible. They thought sharing stories of neighbors and cousins and coworkers who'd gone through similar worrisome scenarios that had turned out just fine would give us hope, rather than alienate us. Every pregnancy has a scare, they'd say. Everyone made it really clear that they would be there to cheer for us when we got good news.
Nobody, not even my OB, brought up what the options would be for the pregnancy if it didn't turn out to be good news. No one at all felt we needed to talk about that right now.
In the center of that cloud of positivity and good intentions DH and I sat alone, frightened, bewildered. We had to figure out what to do next. We had to consider all the options, not just the good ones. Because whenever I had the courage to sit quietly with my thoughts about our situation, my instincts blew through me like an icy draft. I was fairly certain my baby was not ok.
Three days before Christmas the genetic counselor called us with the amnio results. She was jittery and stammered when announcing the news. I told her I wasn't surprised.
Everyone else was extremely shocked and horrified at the idea that the baby had a terminal disease. Nobody really knew what to say. Me, I had precooked Christmas dinner and wrapped all the gifts for Big A early, knowing that in all likelihood, her parents were not going to be up for last-minute shopping or party planning once they found out their baby was going to die.
So, when got knocked up the very first month we tried, I was happily shocked, but still nervous that my mother's infertility history was something she'd passed along. The first trimester every time I went to the bathroom, I was sure that I'd find blood in my underwear. But despite a terrible morning sickness that lasted for 20 weeks and then terrible leg swelling that lasted the rest of the pregnancy, things kept chugging along. Ten days past her due date Big A made her entrance into the world. While it wasn't a "textbook" perfect delivery, I had pushed her out by myself, and she was ok in the end, so despite the liberal oozing of both Big A's and my bodily fluids, I was pretty enthusiastic about the birthing process. I remember telling a delivery nurse "Oh, that was ... FUN!" after it was all over and she was cleaning me up. Labor had hurt like hell, but it was also so amazing and interesting that the only word I could come up with to describe it was "fun." While poor DH was fairly shell shocked and told me that he would understand if I never wanted to go through that again, I was certain that I wanted to have another baby at some point, even just hours after grunting through the marathon of contractions.
When we decided to try to get pregnant a second time, the whole issue of whether sperm and egg could get together wasn't something we dwelled on. In fact, DH and I were pretty blase about everything to do with the second pregnancy: we told people we were expecting before I was showing, and made lots of plans for the impending birth well before I was out of the first trimester.
I only had one nagging, quiet worry in the next pregnancy. There was no morning sickness. How could that be, I sometimes wondered. How could I be so sick for so long with Big A, but not have any illness to speak of the second time around? But it was easy to laugh off the worry, or ignore it. At least until my nuchal translucency and maternal serum screening test came back positive for Trisomy 18. We got the results when I was past the window for a CVS test, so we had to wait until I was further into the second trimester to get an amniocentesis to confirm or deny the findings of the screening test.
People throw around words like agony and torture cavalierly. But the agony DH and I felt during the three weeks between screening positive for T18 and confirming that diagnosis via amnio were agonizing and tortuous is an old school, biblical sort of way. The first time I read about Trisomy 18 online I nearly vomited and had to lie down for awhile. The phrase not compatible with life seared my brain. The description of the defects associated with the disorder were overwhelmingly serious and numerous. I had never felt so bleak.
Our friends and family did not grasp the depths of DH's and my desperation at first. They meant well. Really. But, they didn't understand that advising us to "just not think about it" until we had the amnio results was impossible. They thought sharing stories of neighbors and cousins and coworkers who'd gone through similar worrisome scenarios that had turned out just fine would give us hope, rather than alienate us. Every pregnancy has a scare, they'd say. Everyone made it really clear that they would be there to cheer for us when we got good news.
Nobody, not even my OB, brought up what the options would be for the pregnancy if it didn't turn out to be good news. No one at all felt we needed to talk about that right now.
In the center of that cloud of positivity and good intentions DH and I sat alone, frightened, bewildered. We had to figure out what to do next. We had to consider all the options, not just the good ones. Because whenever I had the courage to sit quietly with my thoughts about our situation, my instincts blew through me like an icy draft. I was fairly certain my baby was not ok.
Three days before Christmas the genetic counselor called us with the amnio results. She was jittery and stammered when announcing the news. I told her I wasn't surprised.
Everyone else was extremely shocked and horrified at the idea that the baby had a terminal disease. Nobody really knew what to say. Me, I had precooked Christmas dinner and wrapped all the gifts for Big A early, knowing that in all likelihood, her parents were not going to be up for last-minute shopping or party planning once they found out their baby was going to die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
