Here is another post written pre-public announcement of our pregnancy.
Well, our new baby is due January 2, 2017! As of the day I am writing this (May 9, 2016), I am exactly six weeks pregnant. My ob/gyn decided he wanted to see me early, around 7 weeks, as he wants to keep a closer eye on this pregnancy. His amazing staff scheduled an ultrasound at the MFM's office and a follow-up with him after. One perk of having the ultrasounds with the MFM is that the doctor is present during the ultrasound. The suite my ob/gyn uses is in a separate office and is only ultrasound techs. Nothing against technicians, but given my history, I am glad to have a doctor who specializes in high risk pregnancies looking at the ultrasounds too.
That's right...he wanted to see me at 7 weeks, we went today, and I said that I'm six weeks pregnant. Using traditional dating methods, I would be 7 weeks and 1 day pregnant. However, the ultrasound revealed that the baby was not as big as we thought, so the due date was pushed back to 1/2/17, putting us at 6 weeks pregnant. That happened with M too, except her due date was pushed back two weeks! She was born three days ahead of the later due date, so it was definitely right. Other than that, though, the MFM said everything looked great. No signs of subchorionic hemorrhage (Bunny's cause of death)! And best of all, we got to see and hear the baby's heartbeat!!! Heart rate is 124, which both doctors agreed is a good sign. MFM said that my progesterone should be good, based on the ultrasound, but ordered labs just to be sure. My ob/gyn put me on a dose of progesterone as soon as we got the positive test, but the MFM said he would increase it if he needed to. However, the labs came back and my levels were great.
It was super comforting when, in the follow-up with him, my ob/gyn started talking about expectations for labor and delivery based on my experience with M, about getting a TDAP shot at 32 weeks, etc. Hearing him talk about the future of this pregnancy with such certainty really drove it home. There is no reason why this pregnancy shouldn't get that far. There are no indications at this point that there is anything wrong. All the signs point to a healthy pregnancy and baby...and definitely to a happy Mama, Daddy, and Big Sister! Both doctors and their staffs were supportive, caring, and all-around fantastic. We couldn't ask for better care. Both doctors, independent of each other, agreed that I should come back in four weeks for another ultrasound and follow-up. They want to keep a close eye on this pregnancy, given our history. Technically, I haven't been classified as "high risk" at this point, but since the MFM's office will be doing my ultrasounds, he wanted to stay involved. I'm not sure how involved he will be in the long run. I don't know if they will want to continue doing more frequent ultrasounds just to be sure or if the next one will be the last until the gender/anatomy scan around 20 weeks. We will have to wait and see.
But tonight, my steps down the road are a little lighter and the path seems a little brighter. Even if it is just for this moment, even if the darkness closes in again soon (as I know all too well that it can), I am going to enjoy this moment. Tonight, as we travel down our path, we skip, we run, we sing, and we dance. Tonight is a night for joy.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Monday, June 13, 2016
Gratitude and Comfort
I am writing this blog on April 20th, 2016. I'm noting that because this post won't be published for a while. I don't yet know how long it will be, but there are things that need to be done before I can publish it.
WE'RE PREGNANT!! We found out on April 18th. I'd been having some symptoms, but I tend to be a symptom-seeker, so I try not to get my hopes up. All the signs pointed to it, though, so after a faint if-I-turn-it-just-the-right-way-in-just-the-right-light-it-is-maybe-positive test that morning, I took another test in the afternoon and got a definite positive. I am, on April 20th, 4 weeks and 2 days pregnant. (UPDATE: I was actually only about 3 weeks and 1 day pregnant, baby's scan showed that it is a bit behind. More on that in a later post, but it is nothing to worry about) My doctor has started me on progesterone (which, from what I can tell, may or may not help but won't hurt). I will not see him until the second week in May, when I will be 7 weeks. I don't have an appointment date yet, as scheduling is difficult. My ob/gyn and the MFM who did our testing have agreed (at my request) that I can do my ultrasounds at the MFMs office. The ultrasound suite my ob/gyn uses is where it was confirmed to me that Puff had died, where we learned that something was wrong with the pregnancy with Bunny, and where it was confirmed that the pregnancy with Bunny was not viable. I have strong feelings associated with that office and I am not sure how I would react going back. Both doctors agree that the stress is not worth it, especially since the MFM's office and my ob/gyn's office are both located at the same hospital. I can walk from one to the other...not quickly, but I can. I will remain under the care of my ob/gyn unless complications arise that would necessitate moving to the MFM. So scheduling the ultrasound at the MFM's and the appointment with my ob/gyn has proven tricky.
WE'RE PREGNANT!! We found out on April 18th. I'd been having some symptoms, but I tend to be a symptom-seeker, so I try not to get my hopes up. All the signs pointed to it, though, so after a faint if-I-turn-it-just-the-right-way-in-just-the-right-light-it-is-maybe-positive test that morning, I took another test in the afternoon and got a definite positive. I am, on April 20th, 4 weeks and 2 days pregnant. (UPDATE: I was actually only about 3 weeks and 1 day pregnant, baby's scan showed that it is a bit behind. More on that in a later post, but it is nothing to worry about) My doctor has started me on progesterone (which, from what I can tell, may or may not help but won't hurt). I will not see him until the second week in May, when I will be 7 weeks. I don't have an appointment date yet, as scheduling is difficult. My ob/gyn and the MFM who did our testing have agreed (at my request) that I can do my ultrasounds at the MFMs office. The ultrasound suite my ob/gyn uses is where it was confirmed to me that Puff had died, where we learned that something was wrong with the pregnancy with Bunny, and where it was confirmed that the pregnancy with Bunny was not viable. I have strong feelings associated with that office and I am not sure how I would react going back. Both doctors agree that the stress is not worth it, especially since the MFM's office and my ob/gyn's office are both located at the same hospital. I can walk from one to the other...not quickly, but I can. I will remain under the care of my ob/gyn unless complications arise that would necessitate moving to the MFM. So scheduling the ultrasound at the MFM's and the appointment with my ob/gyn has proven tricky.
Those are the nitty gritty details that people will want to know. They are up-to-date as of the day I'm writing this and I will only edit critical details before I post this. The main reason I'm writing this is because I want to chronicle this part of the journey. J and I don't know when we'll make this baby public. Some family members and close friends know already, but not many. It is still so new. It isn't that we're scared of a loss, though we are. J always says that if people want to rejoice with us, they can mourn with us. If they can't be with us through both, they don't need to be part of our lives. We're just relaxing as much as we can and enjoying this.
Honestly, I have felt more relaxed and calm in the days immediately before and after the positive test than I have since the early days of my pregnancy with Puff. Even before we had a loss of our own, there was always the first trimester angst. It wasn't as intense, but it was there. Anyway, I have caught myself daydreaming about being hugely pregnant and feeling this baby move, or about being home with the baby on maternity leave. It has been comforting to feel more calm. I am having some symptoms, which is the bulk of what I wanted to talk about.
I've had some nausea throughout the day, some sensitivity to smells, some aversions/cravings (similar to the ones I had with Puff...I want spicy food, lol), frequent urination, forgetfulness (my typical tell) and some ligament pain. These are all normal, blessedly, wonderfully normal. I make sure to talk to J about them, to update him throughout the day with how I'm feeling. Mostly, I do this because I find immense comfort in the symptoms, especially the nausea and ligament pain. I know those are there because of higher-than-normal hormone levels. Every time a wave of nausea hits, every time a ligament protests when I move too quickly, every time I have to stop what I'm doing to pee, or try to remember something simple, I say a quick "thank you" prayer. I am so grateful for these symptoms. They bring comfort because they help me remember and rest in the knowledge that I'm still pregnant. Even if this goes wrong later, right now, I'm pregnant and I can enjoy this baby for every minute that it is with me. That is the outlook I want to have.
Throughout this pregnancy, I am going to try to keep this outlook. I am going to try to be grateful for every inconvenience, pain, and sickness. I am going to try to use as many minutes of lost sleep as possible praying for this baby, for my friends and family, and for myself. I am going to try to remember to say "thank you" when each little thing hits. I know how quickly it can go away and how heartbreaking that can be. I've been the woman listening to a thoughtless comment, reading a post complaining about a pregnancy symptoms, etc. and feeling the invisible knife cut my heart, just a little bit deeper because I would give anything except another life to have those symptoms, to have that ignorance of the shattering grief of child loss.
So as we walk this new path on our road, please walk with us. Please hold me accountable to my gratitude, but be sensitive about it. Please understand that, no matter how grateful we are, grief is still a part of our lives and always will be. No baby will replace Puff, Luke, and Bunny nor make me stop longing for them. We walk, hoping for light, straining to glimpse it up ahead, catching it and holding on for dear life whenever we can. Resting in the knowledge that right here, right now, we're pregnant!
Monday, February 29, 2016
Entropy and Loss
I've been avoiding this post. Heck, I've even had this written for several days and left it unpublished. More on that in a minute. Two and a half weeks ago, we went to see the MFM and start testing. Let me start out by saying that the appointment was wonderful. We saw a female doctor in the practice. She was very empathetic, never making us feel rushed while thoroughly answering every question we threw at her (and there were quite a few). She agreed to a test I asked about (TSH) and then suggested another on my list (structural exam) before I had a chance to even bring it up. We were placed in a consultation room that had a comfortable couch and chair, television, lamps, and bookshelves. With the exception of the obstetric and gynecological journals and textbooks on the shelves, there was no indication that we were in an ob/gyn/MFM office. No smiling/sleeping babies, no belly shots of pregnant women, no magazines telling you how to have your perfect pregnancy now. It was neutral and refreshing.
I think that, as a whole, we humans don't do well with entropy. We seem to constantly try to reign in the chaos, to make sense of the world around us and place things into categories. I think we all like some degree of order, structure, guidelines, predictability, etc. Often, we assign reasons or backstory to a situation so that it makes sense to us. Randomness scares us. Chaos is the stuff of nightmares. So, we assign people to categories or roles so that they fit our notions of structure. We invent scenarios to make sense out of what may seem random. Sadly, we don't always do this in the nicest way. That guy who tailgated me, cut me off, and zoomed off way over the speed limit is an impatient jerk rather than someone who might be on his way to his first or last time seeing a loved one. The mother with the screaming kid at the store is someone who doesn't discipline her child effectively, rather than someone who didn't get a lot of sleep because her child has night terrors...and the child is a spoiled brat rather than a kid who is tired and anxious because of terrifying dreams. Losing my job was really only the catalyst to finding my dream job and, in retrospect, was the best thing that could have happened. It was worth the scary, shitty, anxious time of having no job and very little money to find the happiness I have now. Categories, roles, backstory...even imagined or assigned, these things help us make sense of the world around us and help us assign meaning.
How does these two paragraphs relate? Well, those of you who know me know that I have a touch of Obsessive/Compulsive Personality Disorder. Not enough to be diagnosed, but enough to be a bit crazier than most people. As much as humans love order, I REALLY love order. Chaos makes me
I think that, as a whole, we humans don't do well with entropy. We seem to constantly try to reign in the chaos, to make sense of the world around us and place things into categories. I think we all like some degree of order, structure, guidelines, predictability, etc. Often, we assign reasons or backstory to a situation so that it makes sense to us. Randomness scares us. Chaos is the stuff of nightmares. So, we assign people to categories or roles so that they fit our notions of structure. We invent scenarios to make sense out of what may seem random. Sadly, we don't always do this in the nicest way. That guy who tailgated me, cut me off, and zoomed off way over the speed limit is an impatient jerk rather than someone who might be on his way to his first or last time seeing a loved one. The mother with the screaming kid at the store is someone who doesn't discipline her child effectively, rather than someone who didn't get a lot of sleep because her child has night terrors...and the child is a spoiled brat rather than a kid who is tired and anxious because of terrifying dreams. Losing my job was really only the catalyst to finding my dream job and, in retrospect, was the best thing that could have happened. It was worth the scary, shitty, anxious time of having no job and very little money to find the happiness I have now. Categories, roles, backstory...even imagined or assigned, these things help us make sense of the world around us and help us assign meaning.
How does these two paragraphs relate? Well, those of you who know me know that I have a touch of Obsessive/Compulsive Personality Disorder. Not enough to be diagnosed, but enough to be a bit crazier than most people. As much as humans love order, I REALLY love order. Chaos makes me
anxious. I like things in neat rows (not literally...I don't line up pencils...usually). I like categories and data and numbers. I like it when things make sense. I like predictability, stability, and routine. I try to avoid the categorizations I talked about in the previous paragraph, but I do it, too. We all do. So here's my first confession...I'm scared senseless that my losses don't have order, don't fit into neat categories, that the data won't match up. I'm scared because not finding a reason for the losses leaves them without a category, makes them random. I don't do well with random. In a way, I don't believe in random. But if there isn't a reason medical science can find, then I don't know what to do. I don't know how to assign meaning to my losses, to my babies, if the only category for their deaths is "random" or "bad luck."
Here is confession number two. All of the blood tests with the exception of the genetic tests have come back. All of them are within normal ranges, so far as I can tell. We haven't talked to the doctor yet, but through the miracle of electronic health records, I have seen every test result. While this means there isn't anything "unfixable" wrong with me, it also means that our only chance of finding a "reason" for the losses is if there is something genetic or structural wrong. Those are much more serious and more likely to be "unfixable" (though some things are avoidable or can be worked around). So while there was a sense of relief every time I would look at the results and see them within normal ranges or "no mutation found," there was a sense of disappointment, too.
Here is confession number two. All of the blood tests with the exception of the genetic tests have come back. All of them are within normal ranges, so far as I can tell. We haven't talked to the doctor yet, but through the miracle of electronic health records, I have seen every test result. While this means there isn't anything "unfixable" wrong with me, it also means that our only chance of finding a "reason" for the losses is if there is something genetic or structural wrong. Those are much more serious and more likely to be "unfixable" (though some things are avoidable or can be worked around). So while there was a sense of relief every time I would look at the results and see them within normal ranges or "no mutation found," there was a sense of disappointment, too.
It seems beyond fathomable that 75% of my pregnancies have ended in death, but there is no medical reason. I can't understand how I'm supposed to find hope enough to keep trying, hope that I'll ever hold another biological child if 75% of my pregnancies end in unexplained death. Those are really, really terrible odds. Not the worst, but pretty darn bad. Knowing that there is a 75% chance that a future pregnancy will end in death, is it irresponsible to keep trying? Is it cruel to subject babies to those kinds of odds if I get pregnant again? I don't worry about myself or J. We want to keep trying. We are not at the point that we cannot take having the hope dashed again, that the risk is not worth the reward. But I wonder still. I don't have good answers to the questions. There aren't any. All I can say to anyone else facing them is that you have to do the best you can with what you have. Right now, if there is no "reason," we are willing to take the chance on another pregnancy. If that baby dies, I don't know what we'll do, if we'll keep trying. Eventually, there comes a point where people simply cannot keep trying. We'll know when we get there and that choice isn't one anyone else can, or should, make for us. Thankfully, we are surrounded by loving people who support us and our choices.
This part of the road is particularly agonizing as we try to find order and meaning in the midst of unyielding chaos and questions. But still, we stay on the path. Sometimes staggering beneath the weight of it all, sometimes bearing it with more grace and dignity, but always forward. Even when we seem to be taking a step back, it is still a step that influences our journey forward.
Monday, February 1, 2016
What to Expect When You're Testing
One week from now, I will (hopefully) be back at the high risk doctor with J for our testing. While this is not the topic of the blog post, a few people have asked, so I thought I'd share what tests the doctor plans to order. We'll both be doing a genetic karyotype to ensure neither of us is carrying a genetic disorder that could cause miscarriages. The rest of the tests are just for me, lucky girl that I am. They'll run an Antinuclear Antibody test to check for autoimmune disorders; MTHFR, which is a genetic mutation that leads to clotting disorders; Factor V Leiden thrombophilia, another genetic disorder that leads to problems with clotting; Proteins S and C levels, which are associated with excessive clotting; prothrombin/INR time tests, which look at how long it takes my blood to clot; and finally, homocysteine levels, which is associated with B12/Folic Acid deficiencies and clotting problems. I am also going to ask for a thyroid panel while we are there...as well as anything else they can/will do. Notice a trend? Lots of clotting disorder tests on the books.
We know Bunny died due to two large subchorionic hemorrhages. We know we had a threatened miscarriage with Luke before the actual miscarriage, but we don't know why. We know Puff was born with a tight nuchal cord, but we don't know why. Nuchal cord at his gestational age is incredibly rare. My research put the statistics at under a 6% likelihood, with NO statistics available about nuchal cord causing death at that gestational age. We also know that with *only* three miscarriages, the tests are unlikely to reveal anything. I have been on a prenatal vitamin since June of 2014 and took extra folic acid with at least Luke and Bunny, so a deficiency isn't likely as treatment is taking extra folic acid. I have been on an 81mg aspirin regimen since my early 20s due to my history of hemisensory migraines and family history of heart problems. According to my ob/gyn, that is the typical first line treatment for clotting problems, so that is unlikely also. Neither J, M, or I have any symptoms of genetic abnormalities, so that, too, is unlikely. I also started progesterone right after we got the positive test with Bunny.
So yeah, there are lots of things that are unlikely, but possible. The losses were all so different and I know that both my ob/gyn and MFM think that they are probably not related. However, J and I agree that we can't wait for another loss to do testing. I know the doctors think we are likely to go on to have a healthy pregnancy. We simply aren't willing to risk the life of yet another of our children. Insurance will pay for testing after three miscarriages, we're getting the testing after three miscarriages. If nothing comes of it, we'll at least have that knowledge. If something does, then we'll either be able to do something to improve our odds of a healthy pregnancy or we won't but we'll know what we're up against. No matter what, we want as much information as possible to make the best, most well-informed decision possible. From here, we can work with my ob/gyn and MFM to make a plan for the next pregnancy.
In several different conversations with friends about the testing, the same awkward moment comes up. People don't know if they should hope the tests find something or not. I can understand both viewpoints. On one hand, finding something means that there is something wrong with (most likely) me and my friends are likely afraid I might blame myself. On the other hand, finding nothing means that we have no idea why we lost 75% of our pregnancies and those stats don't forecast happy days ahead, no matter what the doctors say. So here's my hope. I hope we find something. Even if it is something that can't be compensated for, fixed, or eradicated, at least I'll have a reason. At least then, the losses won't be random, "bad luck," etc. Maybe I'll blame myself a bit, but I have a cognitive understanding that I didn't know about the problem and couldn't possibly have done anything about it. I understand that I did as much as I could as soon as I could and I honored my babies by getting the testing so that we could do as much as possible for a better ending next time. To me, the worse of the two options is not knowing, having to face the possibility of trying again and again just to end up in the same dark hole until we finally have to stop. I know that is the most likely outcome, not finding anything, and it is the scariest for me. But regardless, I have to try. I have to give any biological children we might go on to have the best chance I can, even though it means facing down and likely living through, one of my worst fears.
While hope isn't exactly is strong supply at this moment, it comes and goes. But hope is always there or we wouldn't go for testing at all, we wouldn't keep trying, we wouldn't keep fighting. Maybe it is more accurate to say that my hope is more hard-fought than ever before in my life. It isn't that it isn't there, but rather that I've been able to take it for granted in the past. Now that I have to fight for every scrap of hope for a healthy baby, I feel the loss of that innocence, of the free and limitless supply of hope I used to have. But hope remains, and so we walk down the path that will lead to our redemption, not knowing what the road holds, but trusting in the One who holds us.
We know Bunny died due to two large subchorionic hemorrhages. We know we had a threatened miscarriage with Luke before the actual miscarriage, but we don't know why. We know Puff was born with a tight nuchal cord, but we don't know why. Nuchal cord at his gestational age is incredibly rare. My research put the statistics at under a 6% likelihood, with NO statistics available about nuchal cord causing death at that gestational age. We also know that with *only* three miscarriages, the tests are unlikely to reveal anything. I have been on a prenatal vitamin since June of 2014 and took extra folic acid with at least Luke and Bunny, so a deficiency isn't likely as treatment is taking extra folic acid. I have been on an 81mg aspirin regimen since my early 20s due to my history of hemisensory migraines and family history of heart problems. According to my ob/gyn, that is the typical first line treatment for clotting problems, so that is unlikely also. Neither J, M, or I have any symptoms of genetic abnormalities, so that, too, is unlikely. I also started progesterone right after we got the positive test with Bunny.
So yeah, there are lots of things that are unlikely, but possible. The losses were all so different and I know that both my ob/gyn and MFM think that they are probably not related. However, J and I agree that we can't wait for another loss to do testing. I know the doctors think we are likely to go on to have a healthy pregnancy. We simply aren't willing to risk the life of yet another of our children. Insurance will pay for testing after three miscarriages, we're getting the testing after three miscarriages. If nothing comes of it, we'll at least have that knowledge. If something does, then we'll either be able to do something to improve our odds of a healthy pregnancy or we won't but we'll know what we're up against. No matter what, we want as much information as possible to make the best, most well-informed decision possible. From here, we can work with my ob/gyn and MFM to make a plan for the next pregnancy.
In several different conversations with friends about the testing, the same awkward moment comes up. People don't know if they should hope the tests find something or not. I can understand both viewpoints. On one hand, finding something means that there is something wrong with (most likely) me and my friends are likely afraid I might blame myself. On the other hand, finding nothing means that we have no idea why we lost 75% of our pregnancies and those stats don't forecast happy days ahead, no matter what the doctors say. So here's my hope. I hope we find something. Even if it is something that can't be compensated for, fixed, or eradicated, at least I'll have a reason. At least then, the losses won't be random, "bad luck," etc. Maybe I'll blame myself a bit, but I have a cognitive understanding that I didn't know about the problem and couldn't possibly have done anything about it. I understand that I did as much as I could as soon as I could and I honored my babies by getting the testing so that we could do as much as possible for a better ending next time. To me, the worse of the two options is not knowing, having to face the possibility of trying again and again just to end up in the same dark hole until we finally have to stop. I know that is the most likely outcome, not finding anything, and it is the scariest for me. But regardless, I have to try. I have to give any biological children we might go on to have the best chance I can, even though it means facing down and likely living through, one of my worst fears.
While hope isn't exactly is strong supply at this moment, it comes and goes. But hope is always there or we wouldn't go for testing at all, we wouldn't keep trying, we wouldn't keep fighting. Maybe it is more accurate to say that my hope is more hard-fought than ever before in my life. It isn't that it isn't there, but rather that I've been able to take it for granted in the past. Now that I have to fight for every scrap of hope for a healthy baby, I feel the loss of that innocence, of the free and limitless supply of hope I used to have. But hope remains, and so we walk down the path that will lead to our redemption, not knowing what the road holds, but trusting in the One who holds us.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Gone
So this post is going to be REALLY hard to write. Please know that and be generous with me. It may also be hard to read, as it is the long-overdue story of Puff's birthday. Puff's first birthday was 12/10/15. I wrote a post on 12/8, which was the one year anniversary of finding out he had died, but 12/10 was the day he was born. I will never forget that day.
J and I drove up to the hospital with my mom. J's mom stayed with M all day, until my mom came back to get her ready for bed. We checked in on the exact same floor in the same hospital where M was born. We were just a few rooms down, at the end of the hall in a corner. We later learned that the nurses often put loss families there because it is quieter and more secluded. A paper with a purple heart and a tear was placed on our door so everyone who came in would know what was going on. We had two nurses on day shift. They were wonderful. We couldn't have asked for better care. They loved us and Puff so well that day. They administered the first round induction meds at 9:00 am. J read to Mom and me throughout the day from a Jim Gaffigan book to help keep our minds occupied and bring some much needed laughter to a horrible day. Our nurses came in and out, giving us pieces of information in small doses so we could process, think, and (when needed) decide at our own pace. They brought us choices of clothing for our baby, choosing more gender neutral items, since we didn't know the sex. They told us what the hospital had to offer us, which was so much more than most families get. They laughed and even cried with us throughout the day.
At around 3:30, we thought labor was starting. My ob/gyn's office is attached to the hospital, so he rushed down to deliver our baby. Turns out, it was a false start. I remember getting two rounds of pain meds throughout the process, though I had a drug-free labor and delivery with M. As the nurses, J, and my mom kept telling me, there was no need to be a hero. I still wonder about that. He was gone, yes, but I pushed through the pain with M and not with him. No sense dwelling on it, though. I made the best choice at the time and I think I would do the same thing again. As the day wore on, we began discussing when Mom should head home to put M to bed. She was going to take my car, which had been sitting in a parking garage on the other side of the hospital complex since J took me home from the doctor's after finding out Puff had died. She didn't know how to get to the other garage, though. We asked the nurses, who volunteered to come back after they got off shift at 7pm and changed to pick Mom up and walk her to my car. It was close to where they parked, but still...this extra level of care meant the world to us. After Mom and our nurses left, we got another extraordinary nurse. She hadn't been with us long when I felt Puff coming. After all day of nothing, once he was coming, there was no stopping it. There wasn't even time for the on-call doctor to make it to the hospital, so the doctor in-residence delivered our firstborn son. He told us it was a boy, then looked me in the eyes and said,"I want you to know...I truly believe your son is in Heaven right now." Then, he called J down. "You need to see this," he said as he showed J the tight nuchal cord that likely took our son from us. We will probably never know exactly why Puff died, but that is the most likely culprit at this point.
Our nurse gave him to us. I'll be honest, it was hard. He'd been gone for a few days, so deterioration had started. But he was my baby and I held him as long as I was allowed. I was and am so proud of him. I'll never forget his perfect fingers, his tiny feet and toes, his eyes, his mouth. We weren't sure if we wanted pictures, but our nurse insisted. "You can always put them away and never look at them, but if we don't take them now, you'll never get this chance again." God bless her...she was so right. She worked so hard, making sure we had pictures, a beautiful outfit, a memory box, a teddy bear, a duplicate of the blanket they gave him, and even handprints and footprints. She let J give him a bath, which has been his job with M until recently. Our priest came and prayed a blessing over us and Puff. We had a few more moments with him before the hospital staff had to take him away. I cherish the memory of those moments with him and the pictures we have. My love for him is every bit as all-encompassing as my love for M.
That is a big reason why walking this road has been so hard. Every step is a step closer to seeing him again, but every step is a step away from him also. Every step feels wrong because it is without him. My sweet baby should be 8 months old. Cutting teeth, sitting up, crawling, working on walking and talking. We should be introducing new solid food and having bedtime nursing snuggles. Instead, we are still waiting for a baby who will come home, waiting for testing, for the unlikely possibility of answers. As I said to a friend earlier today, it is a tough place to be, but it is the only place I have. So sometimes, I stop, stand still for a moment, and remember with joy and pain. And sometimes, I walk, slowly, down the path. Time moves inexorably onward, and so we move ever farther down the road.
J and I drove up to the hospital with my mom. J's mom stayed with M all day, until my mom came back to get her ready for bed. We checked in on the exact same floor in the same hospital where M was born. We were just a few rooms down, at the end of the hall in a corner. We later learned that the nurses often put loss families there because it is quieter and more secluded. A paper with a purple heart and a tear was placed on our door so everyone who came in would know what was going on. We had two nurses on day shift. They were wonderful. We couldn't have asked for better care. They loved us and Puff so well that day. They administered the first round induction meds at 9:00 am. J read to Mom and me throughout the day from a Jim Gaffigan book to help keep our minds occupied and bring some much needed laughter to a horrible day. Our nurses came in and out, giving us pieces of information in small doses so we could process, think, and (when needed) decide at our own pace. They brought us choices of clothing for our baby, choosing more gender neutral items, since we didn't know the sex. They told us what the hospital had to offer us, which was so much more than most families get. They laughed and even cried with us throughout the day.
At around 3:30, we thought labor was starting. My ob/gyn's office is attached to the hospital, so he rushed down to deliver our baby. Turns out, it was a false start. I remember getting two rounds of pain meds throughout the process, though I had a drug-free labor and delivery with M. As the nurses, J, and my mom kept telling me, there was no need to be a hero. I still wonder about that. He was gone, yes, but I pushed through the pain with M and not with him. No sense dwelling on it, though. I made the best choice at the time and I think I would do the same thing again. As the day wore on, we began discussing when Mom should head home to put M to bed. She was going to take my car, which had been sitting in a parking garage on the other side of the hospital complex since J took me home from the doctor's after finding out Puff had died. She didn't know how to get to the other garage, though. We asked the nurses, who volunteered to come back after they got off shift at 7pm and changed to pick Mom up and walk her to my car. It was close to where they parked, but still...this extra level of care meant the world to us. After Mom and our nurses left, we got another extraordinary nurse. She hadn't been with us long when I felt Puff coming. After all day of nothing, once he was coming, there was no stopping it. There wasn't even time for the on-call doctor to make it to the hospital, so the doctor in-residence delivered our firstborn son. He told us it was a boy, then looked me in the eyes and said,"I want you to know...I truly believe your son is in Heaven right now." Then, he called J down. "You need to see this," he said as he showed J the tight nuchal cord that likely took our son from us. We will probably never know exactly why Puff died, but that is the most likely culprit at this point.
Our nurse gave him to us. I'll be honest, it was hard. He'd been gone for a few days, so deterioration had started. But he was my baby and I held him as long as I was allowed. I was and am so proud of him. I'll never forget his perfect fingers, his tiny feet and toes, his eyes, his mouth. We weren't sure if we wanted pictures, but our nurse insisted. "You can always put them away and never look at them, but if we don't take them now, you'll never get this chance again." God bless her...she was so right. She worked so hard, making sure we had pictures, a beautiful outfit, a memory box, a teddy bear, a duplicate of the blanket they gave him, and even handprints and footprints. She let J give him a bath, which has been his job with M until recently. Our priest came and prayed a blessing over us and Puff. We had a few more moments with him before the hospital staff had to take him away. I cherish the memory of those moments with him and the pictures we have. My love for him is every bit as all-encompassing as my love for M.
That is a big reason why walking this road has been so hard. Every step is a step closer to seeing him again, but every step is a step away from him also. Every step feels wrong because it is without him. My sweet baby should be 8 months old. Cutting teeth, sitting up, crawling, working on walking and talking. We should be introducing new solid food and having bedtime nursing snuggles. Instead, we are still waiting for a baby who will come home, waiting for testing, for the unlikely possibility of answers. As I said to a friend earlier today, it is a tough place to be, but it is the only place I have. So sometimes, I stop, stand still for a moment, and remember with joy and pain. And sometimes, I walk, slowly, down the path. Time moves inexorably onward, and so we move ever farther down the road.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Fitting In
I know I've been absent for a while. I wanted to take a bit of time today to write about something seasonal, sort of. I've always thought "We Three Kings" was an odd song. The strangely haunting melody seems somewhat out of place with the rest of the Christmas carols we sing. Plus, you often only sing the first and last, sometimes second, verses. However, in the year plus since Puff died, I've come to really appreciate this song and how little I understood about it growing up.
I think the true power in this song is only revealed when you sing all the verses. So why don't we? Let's be honest, that fourth verse is kinda creepy.
Myrrh is mine: it's bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom.
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Sealed in a stone-cold tomb.
Not exactly what we like to think about at Christmas. Call me morbid, but having lost three children, I have a much greater appreciation for this verse. It calls us to remember that this baby isn't just a cute, cuddly baby. This baby is the King of kings. But that doesn't mean He won't face hardship. This baby brings about our "happily ever after," but the story certainly has it's dark plot points. We can't look at this baby and forget the cross. This verse speaks to me in a way it didn't before. I feel like I can relate to the "sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying" bits...it resonates strongly with how I felt after the deaths of Puff, Luke, and Bunny. I've felt the "gathering gloom" waiting for the doctor to confirm the losses of Luke and Bunny. I've stood graveside and lowered an urn with Puff's ashes and his and Luke's memorial blankets. There is a stone-cold marker commemorating my babies in a grave in Georgia. I still have days that seem scented with a bitter perfume.
The fifth verse soars into a glorious statement of the "happily ever after," but it means so much more coming after the third verse.
Glorious now behold Him arise,
King and God and Sacrifice
Alleluia, Alleluia!
Sounds through the earth and skies.
Even this verse speaks to the fact that this baby is a King, this baby is God...but this baby is a Sacrifice, born to die. This baby, though, rises. This King gives Himself on behalf of His beloved. This sacrifice fully atones for the sins of the whole world. Because of the truths in these two verses, I remember that I have a God who truly understands the fourth verse. I remember that He sees me and loves me as I am, enough to send His Son so that pain of sin and loss may be temporary, so that I can have hope to see all of my children again.
The holidays have been hard, I won't lie. This Christmas was easier than last year, but not by much. I am so grateful to the friends who took time out to ask me how I was and wanted an honest answer. I am grateful to the people who didn't ignore, didn't forget, didn't give platitudes or gloss over how much this season hurts. I am grateful to those who saw me going ever so slightly insane this year and rode it out. "We Three Kings" may not seem to quite fit in with the other, often more popular, kids on the Christmas Carol playground. This year, I didn't feel like I quite fit in during the holidays either. But there is hope.
And so we move down the path, remembering our babies who died, remembering a baby born to die and live again. One step at a time.
I think the true power in this song is only revealed when you sing all the verses. So why don't we? Let's be honest, that fourth verse is kinda creepy.
Myrrh is mine: it's bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom.
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Sealed in a stone-cold tomb.
Not exactly what we like to think about at Christmas. Call me morbid, but having lost three children, I have a much greater appreciation for this verse. It calls us to remember that this baby isn't just a cute, cuddly baby. This baby is the King of kings. But that doesn't mean He won't face hardship. This baby brings about our "happily ever after," but the story certainly has it's dark plot points. We can't look at this baby and forget the cross. This verse speaks to me in a way it didn't before. I feel like I can relate to the "sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying" bits...it resonates strongly with how I felt after the deaths of Puff, Luke, and Bunny. I've felt the "gathering gloom" waiting for the doctor to confirm the losses of Luke and Bunny. I've stood graveside and lowered an urn with Puff's ashes and his and Luke's memorial blankets. There is a stone-cold marker commemorating my babies in a grave in Georgia. I still have days that seem scented with a bitter perfume.
The fifth verse soars into a glorious statement of the "happily ever after," but it means so much more coming after the third verse.
Glorious now behold Him arise,
King and God and Sacrifice
Alleluia, Alleluia!
Sounds through the earth and skies.
Even this verse speaks to the fact that this baby is a King, this baby is God...but this baby is a Sacrifice, born to die. This baby, though, rises. This King gives Himself on behalf of His beloved. This sacrifice fully atones for the sins of the whole world. Because of the truths in these two verses, I remember that I have a God who truly understands the fourth verse. I remember that He sees me and loves me as I am, enough to send His Son so that pain of sin and loss may be temporary, so that I can have hope to see all of my children again.
The holidays have been hard, I won't lie. This Christmas was easier than last year, but not by much. I am so grateful to the friends who took time out to ask me how I was and wanted an honest answer. I am grateful to the people who didn't ignore, didn't forget, didn't give platitudes or gloss over how much this season hurts. I am grateful to those who saw me going ever so slightly insane this year and rode it out. "We Three Kings" may not seem to quite fit in with the other, often more popular, kids on the Christmas Carol playground. This year, I didn't feel like I quite fit in during the holidays either. But there is hope.
And so we move down the path, remembering our babies who died, remembering a baby born to die and live again. One step at a time.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
A Shadowed Place
My pregnancy with M couldn't have been less eventful. No major complications, some heartburn, minor ligament pain and cravings, and that was about it. Labor and delivery was practically textbook. My water broke at home 3 days before her due date and M was born in the hospital 9 1/2 hours later. We were sent home on our 2 year anniversary. We had always intended for our family to grow. We wanted at least one more biological child. So we were thrilled to find out we were pregnant again just days after M's 3rd birthday. Our new baby was due April 30, 2015, right between J's and my mothers' birthdays. What a joy-filled spring we had planned. I was more nauseous than with M, but still, the pregnancy was going smoothly. At 9 weeks, J and I went for the first ultrasound. There was our sweet baby, strong heartbeat. J looked at me and said "The baby is waving its arms like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters." And so, we nicknamed the baby "Puff." We told my parents when we went down to visit for my grandmother's funeral. The news brought so much hope as we grieved.
But...one year ago today, my world stopped and then shattered. It was supposed to be a routine visit, 19 weeks. The gender/anatomy scan was supposed to be just over a week later, when my parents would be in town for Christmas. But the nurse couldn't find a heartbeat. Then the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat. Then the ultrasound technician confirmed my nightmare. I heard the words no Mama should ever hear..."I'm so sorry...there is no heartbeat. Your baby is gone." I will never forget seeing his perfect face, those chubby cheeks on the ultrasound. I will never forget sitting in the chairs while various people tried to find my baby's heartbeat, tears rolling down my face, fear gripping my heart. I will never forget calling my husband and mother, to tell them that our sweet baby had died. I will never forget sitting in a room at my doctor's office (yes, the room with the scratchy tissues, for those who know the story) waiting for J to arrive. I will never forget sitting there, wondering how on earth to tell M that her sibling we all already loved so much had died. I will never forget the kindness of our friends, who had us over so we wouldn't be alone that evening. I will never put the pieces of my life back together because some of them are missing. I may never be whole, but I don't want to be.
That may sound strange, but the holes that should be filled by my sweet baby are holes I never want filled. Nothing in my life, no matter how good, and beautiful, and wonderful, can ever fill them. I want them there as a (sometimes bitter) sweet reminder of the joy and hope we felt, of our innocence. I will never stop loving my baby. I will never forget, and as long as I remember, I will long for what could have, should have, been. As long as I remember, the holes will always be there. In the past year, the grief has lost a good deal of its sharpness and edge. It doesn't cut as often, but it still cuts just as deeply. Not a day goes by that I don't think of all my babies, miss them, and wonder what life would be like. Nothing, not even a new baby, will fill the holes. While that is what we want and are working towards, we are under no illusions that all will be well and healed when we have a new baby.
So we walk this road and today, the road is a bit darker, a bit more shadowed, a bit more protected and sheltered. Today, I walk a little slower, a little more bent over. But still, I walk, ever forwards. Ever one day closer to seeing my beautiful children and holding them in my arms
But...one year ago today, my world stopped and then shattered. It was supposed to be a routine visit, 19 weeks. The gender/anatomy scan was supposed to be just over a week later, when my parents would be in town for Christmas. But the nurse couldn't find a heartbeat. Then the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat. Then the ultrasound technician confirmed my nightmare. I heard the words no Mama should ever hear..."I'm so sorry...there is no heartbeat. Your baby is gone." I will never forget seeing his perfect face, those chubby cheeks on the ultrasound. I will never forget sitting in the chairs while various people tried to find my baby's heartbeat, tears rolling down my face, fear gripping my heart. I will never forget calling my husband and mother, to tell them that our sweet baby had died. I will never forget sitting in a room at my doctor's office (yes, the room with the scratchy tissues, for those who know the story) waiting for J to arrive. I will never forget sitting there, wondering how on earth to tell M that her sibling we all already loved so much had died. I will never forget the kindness of our friends, who had us over so we wouldn't be alone that evening. I will never put the pieces of my life back together because some of them are missing. I may never be whole, but I don't want to be.
That may sound strange, but the holes that should be filled by my sweet baby are holes I never want filled. Nothing in my life, no matter how good, and beautiful, and wonderful, can ever fill them. I want them there as a (sometimes bitter) sweet reminder of the joy and hope we felt, of our innocence. I will never stop loving my baby. I will never forget, and as long as I remember, I will long for what could have, should have, been. As long as I remember, the holes will always be there. In the past year, the grief has lost a good deal of its sharpness and edge. It doesn't cut as often, but it still cuts just as deeply. Not a day goes by that I don't think of all my babies, miss them, and wonder what life would be like. Nothing, not even a new baby, will fill the holes. While that is what we want and are working towards, we are under no illusions that all will be well and healed when we have a new baby.
So we walk this road and today, the road is a bit darker, a bit more shadowed, a bit more protected and sheltered. Today, I walk a little slower, a little more bent over. But still, I walk, ever forwards. Ever one day closer to seeing my beautiful children and holding them in my arms
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