The Princess and the Pee Stick

Mommy and Me Yoga

2012-03-06T00:19:00.000-05:00

Ian and I had our first Mommy and Me Yoga class today. It was a really special event for me, as the yoga instructor for the Mommy and Me class is the same instructor who taught my Prenatal Yoga class and the Yoga for Fertility class that I attended during my last two years of infertility treatments. She has been an amazing support. Her kind and calming energy has worked wonders for me throughout the years and, today, it worked wonders on Ian too. He was so relaxed that he delighted the rest of the class with a symphony of flatulence. I was really embarrassed at first...especially because he tends to smile and laugh every time he lets out a loud bout of gas. But all of the other "mommies" were laughing and so I was able to relax and enjoy the humor of the situation. Ian is quickly teaching me that I've got to just let go and roll with the punches. He's going to turn my world all topsy turvy...it's his job...he's a child. I need to learn to enjoy the ride...and I'm already starting to get there.

Ian's Birth Story (Unabridged version)

2012-03-01T23:12:00.000-05:00

I’ve promised this post for awhile now, but could never seem to find time to write it. I know that it has to be done though, as I am starting to forget the details of Ian’s birth…something I really don’t want to do. The story is really long, but breaking it into several posts just didn’t feel right.

I want to give a quick disclaimer…I didn’t sugar coat any of this. If you are going to have a baby and you try to avoid people’s labor and delivery horror stories, you probably should avoid this. Mine was by no means a “horror” story, but it wasn’t pretty either. And…as with most things…my experience was my own. Just as women experience infertility differently, I think the same is likely true with giving birth. Also, skip it if you don't want to see a picture of a newly born baby. I have an edited version (so as to make it G rated) of our very first picture of Ian in this post. I had considered leaving it out, but this is my blog and my story and it feels right to me to have a picture to go with my words.

For those of you who still want to share in this story, and are willing to commit the time to reading the whole thing, I hope you enjoy.

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As most of you know, I went into labor at 30 weeks and was already four to five centimeters dilated by the time the doctors caught it. I was hospitalized and placed on bed rest, trying to keep my “bulging membranes” from breaking. At 33 weeks of pregnancy, my contractions were consistently measuring at three to five minutes apart. However, I had only dilated one more centimeter during the three weeks I was in the hospital. The day I hit 33 weeks, I started feeling really crappy. I was more crampy than normal, felt sick to my stomach and couldn’t seem to shake some serious grumpiness. I threw up breakfast and barely kept down lunch. When I had my fetal monitoring it showed that my contractions were consistently two minutes apart. But an internal examination revealed that my cervix hadn’t dilated further. Everyone assumed this was just my normal super-slow labor.

The next day, I felt the contractions change. My back became sorer and I was having a tough time ignoring the contractions. I took Percocet…something I had been doing a good job holding off on up to that point. One of the resident doctors felt my back and hips and told me my pelvis was separating more, likely causing the pain, but that it was all perfectly normal “late pregnancy stuff.”

That evening (December 2nd), my friend (an awesome massage therapist and fellow IF sister) came to visit me. She gave me a light massage to help ease the back contractions. It was such a blessing to get a quick break from the pain. She commented that she could really feel the contractions in my back. I appreciated the validation as I was feeling like everyone was so used to me being in labor that I was beyond getting any sympathy when things got more uncomfortable. When my friend left, I told my husband that I was feeling better, so he went home to get some sleep. Within an hour, I was calling the nurses into my room. I couldn’t explain what was different about the pressure and pain I was feeling. I just knew something had changed. One of the residents checked my cervix again and said it was about six centimeters dilated still, but she could feel my contractions very strong internally. I was moved from the antepartum floor to a labor and delivery room, just to be safe. I called The Prince. He initially said “Call me back and let me know if it is real labor.” I can't tell you how angry I was at that response. Luckily, I wasn't the only one who was angry about his response…my nurses were livid that he wasn’t immediately coming to be with me. So, during my second call, when I was still bickering with The Prince over whether he needed to come to the hospital or not, one of my nurses took the telephone and told him he needed to get his butt to the hospital “NOW,” regardless of whether I was having the baby that night or not. By 11:30 p.m., The Prince was in the labor and delivery room with me (on his best behavior).

I was given two doses of medication to stop/slow my contractions and received yet another internal exam. I was still only six centimeters dilated, but the baby had moved down two stations. My contractions were between one and three minutes apart, and were lasting about 45 seconds. That was when the nurse from hell was assigned to me. We'll call this woman “B” (and I won’t comment on what that “B” stands for). B was the only labor and delivery nurse I have ever met that I despised. She started right out telling me (and The Prince) that this wasn't “real” labor because I clearly wasn't experiencing the kind of pain women experienced during “real” labor. I explained to her I was on week three of constant contractions...I didn't feel my pain reaction was likely typical. She was unconvinced and kept pushing me to take pain medication and additional medications to try to stop the contractions. Finally, at 3 a.m., I was so angry I asked to speak to my doctor. Dr. C was out of town so his partner, Dr. S was my doctor for delivery. She was in the middle of a triplets c-section, and so a resident (actually two residents) came in to talk to me instead. I explained to the residents that, after three weeks, I knew what was status quo for my labor and what was not. What I was experiencing was of the “not status quo” variety. The residents encouraged me to take some pain medication so that I could get some sleep, but they would not agree with B (who really irritated one of the residents by repeatedly interrupting her while she was talking to me) that I should take more medication to slow the contractions. The residents agreed with me that, if this was “true” labor, taking too much of that medication would only prolong delivery and increase risks to the baby. I explained that I wasn't going to take any pain medication because I wanted to wait until I spoke with the doctor (Dr. S), so I could be clear-headed during the important conversations. B left the room in a huff, saying I should just call her if I needed her.

From 3 a.m. to 6 a.m., The Prince and I dosed on and off. My contractions were really intense, but there were two minute breaks between most of them and I could sleep during the breaks. With every contraction, I breathed and worked on visualizations I had started practicing during my hospital stay. I considered calling the doula, but decided against it because something inside of me felt like I needed to get through what I was experiencing on my own. At 6 a.m., B started with her crap again. A nursing student was shadowing B and it was all I could do not to make some nasty comment about how B was the last person who should be training someone in patient care. The contractions were increasing in frequency again and I was starting to waiver on whether I wanted pain medication or not. What I was not wavering on was my distaste for B. The Prince kept telling me that I should ask to be assigned to another nurse, but honestly, I didn't see the point because, after hours of B telling me that I wasn't in “true” labor, I was starting to believe her. I didn't want to be the “pain in the ass patient” if this wasn't the real deal. I held out on the pain medication because people kept telling me Dr. S was on her way into the room.

At 8 a.m., Dr. S came to my room and took a history of what had happened over night. Again, B kept chiming in with her opinion, but Dr. S didn't seem to pay attention to her. When Dr. S did her internal exam, she turned to B and said: “Get the room prepped. She's at eight to nine centimeters and the baby is coming.” And at that moment...a huge, pivotal moment in my life...the only thing I could think of was…“SUCK IT, B!!!” Seriously. That was my immediate thought…”Suck it you stupid, mean nasty lady! I was right and you were wrong. Hah!”

And then the petulant two year old in me stepped aside and I put on my big girl pants (figuratively) again. Immediately panic set in. I was really going to have this baby. After weeks of “false alarms,” this was it. I was going to be a mother…and we were going to find out if our baby was okay. I asked to get up to go to the bathroom because all of the sudden I had to pee like a race horse (and the panic was making me feel like I would die if I stayed on the bed/table any longer). I was told “No” but I got off the bed and went to the bathroom anyway. They couldn't really tackle me and, at the time, it didn't bother me in the slightest to pee in front of a room full of people. I quickly realized, of course, that peeing wasn't relieving the feeling that I was so sure was a full bladder and being squatted over the toilet was not the ideal position when the baby was moving down. So, I hopped back onto the bed/table and scooted down as directed. Dr. S informed me that it was obvious my water wasn't going to break on its own, so she would need to break it for me. I consented...happy to find some relief from the building pressure that was quickly overtaking the pain of the contractions.

Dr. S took something that resembled a crochet hook out of a sterile bag and proceeded to break my water. I felt a quick pinch and then a huge rush of warm water between my legs and down my butt. Dr. S said “There’s really a lot of fluid” as we kept waiting and waiting for the waves of fluid to stop coming out with each contraction. The Prince just kept saying “Holy crap!” I had to laugh at the look on his face…his expression was something between “I’m gonna’ throw-up” and “Cool!” I was relieved to hear that the fluid looked good and clear. Then…the first “transition contraction” hit. Suddenly, I was the one saying “Holy crap!” I told Dr. S “Something’s wrong,” and Dr. S replied “No. You’re just having your baby now.” I said the only thing I could think of… “I want an epidural,” and I was informed that we were well past that point. I explained that they didn’t understand. I REALLY NEEDED an epidural and would have asked for one earlier if I had only known that the baby was coming. Dr. S was unpersuaded by my pleas. She also denied my request for pain medication, explaining that taking any pain medicine at that point wouldn’t do any good and would only slow the baby’s respirations. I begged The Prince to make them understand (as if he had veto power in the room). But, ultimately it became clear that no one was listening to my complaints and I was going to have to just grit my teeth and do it…have that baby.

I tried to distract myself by staying focused on all of the people who had come into the room to prepare the incubator and emergency equipment for the baby. The room was full of the NICU team (which consisted of about eight people), three nurses who were taking care of me (inclusive of B and the nursing student), Dr. S and a resident. My husband (and his camera) were at my left, while all of the NICU team and the nursing student stayed at my right. Dr. S, the resident and B remained positioned at my feet/between my legs.

I’m not sure exactly when Dr. S told me that she needed to help the baby…before I started pushing or after a couple of pushes. It’s a bit hazy. But I do know that she had to reach inside and pull the “lip of the cervix” up and around the baby’s head because he was stuck on it. There was so much pain and pressure at that point, I couldn’t tell what sensations were from reaching or pushing or pulling or baby scooting. I just knew that it felt like there were bicycle handlebars wedged between my hips, trying to come out my butt. That was exactly how it felt to me…and I repeatedly said so to anyone who would listen to me. They kept “shushing” me…telling me to conserve my energy so I could push the baby out. I was pretty sure there was no way I was getting the baby out. (And I was pretty vocal about that belief, too, the entire way through my delivery).

When Dr. S had me start pushing, I had no clue what I was doing. I thought I knew…bear down like you are trying to poop, right? That’s what I had always heard. Well…whoever used that as advice on how to push a baby out has a very different bowel system than I do. I started out pushing like I was trying to take a poo (P.S. All that worrying I did about actually pooping on the table was wasted energy…as when the time comes…you could really care less if you are taking a giant poop right on the doctor’s head, so long as the baby comes out). I was quickly scolded by B that I wasn’t “placing my energy in the birth canal.” Apparently I was “using my face too much.” Who knew that I poop with my face? (By the way, you will know if you used your face too much when you are done because you will have tiny and huge coin sized spots all over you face where the blood vessels burst from straining. Mine show up in every picture of me with Ian for the first two weeks of his life). So…by trial and error…I slowly figured out which pushes were wasting my time and energy and which ones got things moving in the right direction. Of course by trial and error I mean B telling me what a crappy job I was doing whenever it was wrong. I yelled at her repeatedly in between contractions, telling her she was mean and “not helping.” The nursing student took over the counting for the pushes because I think everyone in the room knew my feelings about B about two pushes in. The nursing student was awesome and upbeat, but I still struggled. (By the way…my “pushing advice” would be…you will know you are doing it “right” when this God awful guttural sound comes out of you, leaving you to look around to try to figure out where the Exorcist noises are coming from. I could never mimic that vocalization if I tried…but it came out of my mouth from somewhere deep in my stomach…and it got that baby moving fast).

Every time I had ever talked with anyone about labor or watched a show about a baby delivery, the woman was always depicted as pushing to the count of ten and then relaxing and breathing. No. no. You push to the slow count of ten…three times in a row before you get a break. I was NOT prepared for that. I eventually gave in (of course) and pushed for over 30 seconds at a time. But initially I resisted and argued that I had been the victim of false advertising regarding what delivery entailed. I would quit after ten seconds…only to realize that your contractions don’t quit just because you think you need a break. When your body says “Push!,” you push whether you feel exhausted or not. When I think back to the “pushing,” it seems like it went on forever. But I remember saying to The Prince, when it was all done, that it seemed like it only took a few pushes. In reality, I pushed from a little before 9:00 a.m. to 11:01 a.m. I’ve been told that two hours of pushing is considered a really quick delivery. God help the women who push for longer. They must be in much better shape than I was in.

The thing I really remember the most clearly about the delivery, is how The Prince behaved. I had been so concerned about whether he could be emotionally present and sympathetic and helpful during labor and delivery. He was AMAZING!!! When I was crying that I couldn’t do it (and B was saying “You have to!”), The Prince would get my attention and would hold my hand and say “You are doing it! You are doing so amazing. You are having our baby. I love you.” Over and over he repeated that…meaning it (or at least convincing me of it) every time. He really kept me going. He also did a great job helping me hold my left leg up.

Which brings me to my next gripe about delivery. No one told me I had to hold my own legs. Sure there is a person holding each leg at the knee, but during delivery they tell you to reach under your thighs and pull them back towards you, rounding your back into a “C” shape. So…essentially you are holding a serious crunch position with a pregnant belly, and pulling your legs to you from around that pregnant belly, for at least 30 seconds at a time…over and over and over. I did prenatal yoga…didn’t prepare me for holding that position. I thought I had to do the pushing and the hospital bed and people at my legs did the rest. I thought wrong. When they say a mother brings her baby into the world…they aren’t kidding. The mother does the work…lots of work!

So…fast forward to 11:00 a.m. I was spent from pushing. I was certain that baby was not going to come out and I was going to need a c-section because I was too tired and in too much pain to push. I told everyone I was going to try one more push, but I knew it wasn’t going to do anything because I had nothing left to put behind it. I didn’t even hold the push a full 10 seconds. I just couldn’t do anymore. That’s when Dr. S said “Reach down and touch the baby’s head.” I said “Yeah right.” I hadn’t felt the “ring of fire” that everyone talks about experiencing when the head crowns, so I thought they were just trying to keep me from quitting by tricking me. Plus, I always thought it was pretty gross in natural birth videos I watched, when the baby’s head was hanging out of the vagina and the woman was reaching down there to touch it. I always felt like there was no reason to do that when you could cradle the baby a couple of second later…after it was out of your vagina. Then, I heard The Prince say “There he is,” and Dr. S said again “Reach down and touch his head.” The Prince (who is never forceful) grabbed my hand and moved it towards the bottom of the bed and said, through tears “Touch our baby. You can do this.” I moved my fingers a couple of inches and there it was…a wet, hairy little head. That was all it took. I drew up strength from God only knows where…strength I was certain just seconds before that I didn’t have…and with one quick push the baby was out. I get it now…why the mother reaches down to touch the head. That first touch seals the deal…it causes your body to surge with a strength and a protectiveness and a love for that baby that allows you to do absolutely anything (even push some stocky shoulders out).

I heard The Prince ask “Is he okay?,” and then I heard a cry…a gorgeous, strong cry…of a baby with mature lungs that wasn’t fighting to breath. I didn’t get the “baby on the chest moment” that I might have had if Ian had been born a couple of weeks later. And The Prince was not offered the option of cutting the cord. Ian was born at 11:01 a.m. on December 3, 2011. He was 33 weeks and 2 days old…premature enough that time was of the essence in getting him into an incubator and cared for. Thanks to my gestational diabetes, he was a chunker and he weighed 5 pounds and 13 ounces (initially reported on my blog incorrectly as 5 pounds and 11 ounces).


Ian enters the world...not the friendliest greeting.


The extent of assistance Ian needed to breathe was the clearing of his lungs...the same thing all babies need.

The NICU team quickly wrapped Ian up like a mummy in Saran Wrap, to keep his body from losing heat too quickly.

This is how Ian looked the first time I saw him, when the NICU team held him for me to see before whisking him away.

As soon as Ian was out in the world, The Prince’s attention shifted solely to Ian (as well it should). I, on the other hand had been sufficiently assured by the NICU team that Ian was safe and on his way to the NICU, so I drew my focus back to what was going on with me. The NICU team told us it would be an hour to an hour and a half before we could see Ian, so I felt I had that much time to rest. Hah!

No one told me you had to deliver the placenta too. I have watched calves and puppies be born, and always the afterbirth/placenta slides right out after the baby animal comes out. I just assumed the same happened with humans. Not so. And, in my case, my uterus was so stretched out from three weeks of contractions, it couldn’t contract enough to get the placenta out. Even with an increased oxytocin drip, Dr. S had to reach inside of me and “gently coach” the placenta out with her fingers while the resident pushed on my stomach (my very sore stomach). I also had an excessive amount of bleeding (it looked like someone was murdered at the bottom of the bed and all over the wall behind the doctor’s stool) which had to be stopped with additional hormone infusions. Once the placenta and bleeding was taken care of, it was time for stitches. At that point, I said “Now that the baby’s out, is there anything to prevent me from getting some pain med?” Dr. S said I could have some Stadol and B brought it to me (after dropping it on the floor the first time). While B was giving the medicine she said “See. I’m not so mean am I?” To which I replied “No. You’re just judgmental and condescending.” (Go me!) Ultimately, the tearing was pretty severe. I had to have six internal and seven external stitches. Interestingly, I whined about the pain of the Novicane needle going into the vagina during the stitching process. You would think that after having a baby, you could handle any pain with ease…but that stupid needle really hurt. By the time the stitching was finished, it was past 12:00 p.m. and The Prince was anxious to see Ian in the NICU, so I hopped in the wheelchair, made a quick stop in my room, and away we went to the next floor up in the hospital.

In the elevator, on the way to the NICU, I told The Prince that if I ever got it in my head that I wanted to try to have a vaginal birth ever again…shoot me. I promised myself that I would never forget how “awful” the experience was. And yet, by the next day, the memory of the pain was starting to fade. I have heard it said, and I think it is true, that women have to forget the childbirth experience or there would never be enough babies to populate the world. I am writing about how painful things were, but I don’t “feel” the pain. You know when you think back to breaking a bone or endometriosis cramps, and your body feels the pain a little just because you think about it…like the trauma of the pain stays in your body for future reference? Well…that doesn’t happen with childbirth. Within a day or two my memory of the pain had significantly faded and had been replaced by a hormone high that I can’t even describe. I have to admit, there is something strangely empowering about having gone through that experience. The Prince acknowledged it. For weeks after Ian was born The Prince would occasionally look at me, smile, and say “You did so well,” or “You are amazing!” He’s right. If I had known what was involved in childbirth, I would have said “I can’t do that.” In fact…I did repeatedly say I couldn’t do it as I was doing it. When you have a baby, you find a strength you didn’t know existed. No one can ever take that away from me. And...if I had to go through the delivery experience every day, for the rest of my life, in order to keep my sweet Ian with me, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Awesome Things

2012-02-29T00:08:00.001-05:00

Mommy's Little Grump

For over a month I’ve been choosing between getting some sleep while Ian sleeps or blogging while Ian sleeps. You can see from the date of my last post which one has been winning. But even though I haven’t been writing as much as I would like, I have found a few minutes each day to read and catch-up on the blogs I follow. There are so many wonderful things happening in the lives around me, especially in the land of infertility (and post-infertility). I feel like I need to chime in with a few of my thoughts about the wonderful things happening in my life. So, here is my “Gushing New Post-Infertility Mommy’s Awesome Things List.”

Ian’s Smile

Ian is a lot of work…but being his mom is so rewarding. He’s worth every diaper changed, bottle washed, drop of breast milk pumped, and night of sleep lost. And the thing that reminds me of how lucky I am, when I’m nodding off while standing in front of the open refrigerator door only to be woken by my own “2 days with no shower” smell, is Ian’s smile. He smiles only when he wants to, not on cue. But his smile makes my life worth living. Especially, the "morning smile.” Every morning my husband watches Ian from 5:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. while my husband gets ready for work, so I can get two straight uninterrupted hours of sleep to start my day. And every morning, when I come out to the living room to “take over” Ian’s care again, Ian smiles. He smiles with his whole face. His eyes sparkle and then they squint shut as his cheeks rise so high that they almost cover his lower lashes. The corners of his mouth rise higher and higher until his whole toothless mouth is wide open in a giant grin. Then he holds that face, like a cartoon sunshine in a Disney movie, for a few seconds. The best few seconds of my day.

Ian’s Poo

Yep. That’s right. I am going there and saying that even his poo is awesome. You see, my son’s poo smells exactly like movie theater popcorn butter. I have NEVER heard of anyone, baby or adult, having poo that smells so much like a specific food. But Ian’s poo smells so much like popcorn butter, when my mother-in-law came into our house shortly after I had changed Ian’s messy diaper, she actually said “Have you been making microwave popcorn? It smells delicious.” How cool is it to have a kid with popcorn butter poo? I mean, if it has to smell like something, there are certainly worse things. Right?

Seriously, Mom?!? You're going to blog about my poo!

Baby Clothes

I’m not going to lie. I worried when I found out I was having a boy that I would miss out on all of the cutesy, frilly baby clothes that go along with having a little princess daughter. I thought that buying “boy clothes” wouldn’t be much fun. But I was wrong. I am loving my boy clothes shopping. From the little newsboy cap that I bought for Ian on Saturday (my husband calls Ian “P Diddy” whenever Ian is wearing the cap…not sure why) to the little blue corduroy overalls and white polo shirt I got off ebay, I am LOVING dressing my little man. Cute is cute…whether in pink or blue.

Wholeness

I hope this last part isn’t going to be discouraging for any of the ladies who are still fighting in the infertility trenches. It isn’t meant to be. I just have to share what is in my heart. I am feeling so blessed and so complete now that I am a mommy. All through my infertility struggle I felt like a part of me was missing. I ached for the loss of the child I was never getting pregnant with…cycle after failed cycle. I had difficulty filling the emptiness inside of me. I know the politically correct thing to say is that I found the strength in myself and realized I didn’t need anyone or anything to make me complete. But I would be lying if I said that. The minute I laid eyes on Ian…not the minute I found out I was pregnant, which was when I started loving him…but the minute I laid eyes on him, I suddenly felt complete. The emptiness was filled. The ache went away. And any fears I had about whether I would always feel incomplete vanished. Ian completes me…not in the cheesey Jerry McGuire way, but rather in a real and almost palpable way. I am a mother. I always was. And now I have finally have the child I waited so long for (and he’s awesome). I feel like I was a puzzle that was missing a major piece and now that the missing piece is in place, you can finally see the whole picture of who I am. Ian makes me whole.

There are too many “Awesome Things” to write about at one time, so I’ll stop here. I’ve just shared so much heartache and sadness and anger on this blog that I wanted to finally take some time to share pure joy and optimism. I am Postive Polly on crack right now. I could probably shoot rainbows out of my fingers if I tried hard enough. I think it is important that people hear about that part of infertility too…the “happily ever after” that does exist…and that makes it all worthwhile in the end.

My Happily Ever After

The Future of Our Frosties

2012-01-20T00:46:00.000-05:00

Today was my post-delivery follow-up appointment with my OB. It was also Ian’s first outing, as my husband couldn’t come home to take care of Ian during my appointment. It was also Ian’s due date today. But…most importantly, it was the day that I started to truly come to terms with the fact that the beautiful miracle I’ve been given is almost certainly going to stay my only child.

I anticipated that my OB would talk with me about my preterm labor and delivery. I feared she was going to talk to me about the issue of a subsequent pregnancy, even though I knew the issue had to be broached eventually. My fear was warranted. The OB started the conversation by telling me that there is no way to know for sure what caused my preterm labor. I clearly had an incompetent cervix. I may have had an undetected infection in my uterus which triggered labor, though that option is less likely given my lack of fever, symptoms or elevated white blood cell count. A likely cause would have been increased stress. It could even have been the minimal increased physical activity related to my baby shower. My prior uterine surgeries for endometriosis and uterine suspensions may also have played a role. Ultimately, there is just no way to be certain and because of that fact, we can’t “fix it” for the next pregnancy. The OB said that she does not feel I should rule a subsequent pregnancy out, but I need to be realistic about what it would entail. I would likely have preterm labor again, regardless of the precautions we might take, because I actually delivered so early. I guess preterm labor in one pregnancy doesn’t necessarily mean you will have preterm labor in the next pregnancy, but preterm delivery (especially at 33 weeks) creates a really high risk of problems with the next pregnancy. The OB also said that I could never carry multiples to viability so, if we chose to do an embryo transfer in the future, she would strongly recommend not transferring more than one at a time.

If we chose to try to get pregnant again at a later time, I would have to stay on progesterone and hydroxy (?) injections daily, throughout the pregnancy. I would have a stitch placed in my cervix between weeks 14 and 20 to try to keep the cervix from dilating too quickly. I would be on some form of bed rest the entire pregnancy. And, I would have to have my cervix checked every week throughout the entire pregnancy to look for any signs of shortening or thinning. If the cervix changed, I would have to stay in the hospital for the remainder of the pregnancy.

If we were facing all of this trying to bring our first child into the world, I might be inclined to say “Okay. Whatever it takes.” But, we have been blessed with one little miracle. How would I take care of him properly facing all of those restrictions? What if I was hospitalized for weeks (or months) on end? How would that affect him? And, even more of a concern for me…is it fair for me to try to bring another baby into the world when the odds are already stacked against that baby making it to term? We dodged a bullet with Ian. Even though he was moderately premature, he was almost born at 30 weeks and if he had been born that early, though he likely would have survived, he would have been facing surgeries and other difficulties that I would feel terrible putting a baby through.

The OB said we would reevaluate in a year, when we had a better idea of what was going to happen with my endometriosis and my uterus (which hasn’t been able to shrink back to size yet because of the three weeks of contractions before delivery). But I know where I stand on this issue and I don’t see myself changing my mind. I think we should be happy with the blessing we’ve already received and accept that our family is complete. The Prince doesn’t agree with me…or at least he isn’t ready to face the issue. He feels strongly that children should have siblings, and his concerns about having another child involve financial considerations…not medical considerations. I understand where he’s coming from, and ultimately we agreed that it would be better to not try to make any decisions for at least a year. But I also know that I need to start preparing myself emotionally for the reality that I’m not going to be pregnant or give birth again. I know I’m going to have to grieve that loss. And yes, it is a loss. I may have been given the amazing gift of motherhood and it may seem greedy for me to want another child (or at least consider wanting another child) when so many women can’t even have one. But the fact is, being told you “can’t” have another baby is a loss…a loss of the idea of the baby/babies that might have been. A loss that is tempered by the amazing joy I have every time I look at Ian, but still a loss. I will put this issue out of my mind for a while now and will just let the reality of the situation slowly sink in until The Prince, OB and I decide it is time to fully face the issue later on.

Directly intertwined with the issue of whether we would pursue another pregnancy is what we would do with our frozen embryos if we choose not to try again. At least with regards to this issue, The Prince and I have our minds made up and are on the same page. The Prince has always said that he thinks we should donate our embryos to other IF couples if we don’t use them (assuming you are allowed to do that with embryos from an egg donor…which I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be able to). I was not thrilled with that idea initially. As hypocritical as it sounds (considering that I conceived with eggs donated to me), I felt like it would be too weird to have children out in the world with my husband’s DNA in them. I also felt like the embryos were “my children,” and I had this very possessive feeling about them…like I didn’t want anyone else raising “my children.” Then I gave birth to Ian and I realized that motherhood is even more than I dreamed it would be when I was going through IF. I actually said to The Prince the day after Ian was born that I wanted to donate any embryos we didn’t use to other IF couples, as I would do just about anything to help other women experience the feelings I had when I became a mother. Giving birth to Ian made me realize that the eggs, embryos, sperm, DNA, etc. don’t make a child yours. It is the love you feel for the child that makes the child yours. And that love is indescribable. It is inconceivable to me to have the ability to help other women in their journey to motherhood and to choose to withhold that help. I know everyone is different and I am not saying everyone should make that choice…but for me, there simply is no other choice to make.

So, even though I was faced with hard facts today and started to make hard choices, I am at peace with what the future holds. No matter what happens, I believe that things are going to work out exactly the way they are meant to. And if that means I don’t have another child and another woman becomes a mother by using the embryos we had planned on using, I can live with that.

It Would Have Been Today

2012-01-11T04:32:00.001-05:00

I am so sorry it has taken me so long to provide an update. I feel like I really left everyone hanging with my last post (which was a month ago!!!). I kept thinking I was going to get through writing Ian's birth story, and that would be my next post. But that is a LONG story, and I have come to realize that it is going to take awhile to get that down on paper, as I now am learning to type with one hand while I hold my baby in the other (and the bottle with my chin). So...here is a very quick update...and I promise that the birth story will come someday.

First, today is the day that we expected Ian to be born. It would have been today because today was our scheduled induction. But 5 weeks ago, Ian decided he was finished waiting after 33 weeks in the womb. His impatience with getting out was just a preview of what was to come. We call Ian "Grumplestiltskin" as a nickname, as he is constantly groaning, moaning and making grumpy faces. It's really hilarious and, although I still feel guilty sometimes for laughing at how grumpy he is, I can't help but enjoy how surly our little angel-faced boy is. He has his sweet moments too, but by and large, his time is spent complaining in baby language.

As you have probably guessed, he is home with us now. In fact, he came home 3 days after my last post. The doctors had told me that day (December 12th) that Ian couldn't come home until he ate for 48 hours straight, without the need for a feeding tube. After my meltdown (which I shared with all of you), it was like a light went off in my head. He was doing so good eating when I was there feeding him...and then I would come back to the NICU in the morning, only to find that he had a feeding tube in...again. It dawned on me that no one was ever going to take care of my baby as well as I would. So, for two whole days and nights, I stayed at the hospital...except for a three hour nap I took once each day (when The Prince took over our "NICU" watch). Between the two of us, for two days and nights we gave Ian every bottle feeding and...guess what...he didn't need a feeding tube even once.

It isn't really fair to make the assumption I'm making, but I can't help it. I think the nurses in the NICU are very busy, and they might not have wanted to spend the whole 30 minutes Ian was allowed to complete his feedings when they could just put in a feeding tube and do the other things they had to get done. I'm not judging them for that (or at least trying not to), but The Prince and I just had a motivation and a singular focus that the nurses didn't have. Regardless, I am just so glad that our NICU experience was only a couple of weeks long. I don't know how much more of the frustration of not having him home I could have taken.

At any rate, Ian came home on December 15th. Within two days, my baby blues were gone. I still cry when I'm really happy sometimes (okay...lots of times). But there is no wailing. No choked breath. No bargaining with God. My baby is finally home, in my arms, and I am truly overflowing with joy. I welcome the sleep deprivation (no crap...I really enjoy it because it is validation that I am FINALLY a mommy) and The Prince and I have never been happier or more in love. Motherhood is everything I ever dreamed it would be, and more, and I just know that nothing is ever going to be the same for me (Yeah...straight past Positive Polly and directly on to Positive Pollyanna). I can honestly say, without hesitation, it was worth the wait and all of the IF trials that we went through to get to this spot. My prayer now is that every single one of the IF ladies I know gets to have this experience. This is just a joy that should never be denied to someone who wants a child.

Ian's only real health problem is that he has reflux disease. Many babies get reflux, but Ian's is more severe as his stomach acid quickly eroded his esophagus and gave him a sort of baby ulcer. He is on medicine for it now, but the pain and discomfort he gets from the stomach acid coming up is part of why he grumbles and moans so much. You can tell when his groans are "pain" groans versus "I'm a grumpy baby" groans (just in case anyone was worried that we were laughing at his pain). It is hard to watch him go through the pain but there is really nothing we can do other than give him the medicine, hold him upright through all feedings and for one hour after feedings, and prop him up during his naps. The Prince and I are always covered in throw-up, as Ian spits up (and projectile vomits) at least 10 times after every feeding. I don't even bother to wash the spit-up off anymore. I can tell I stink like sour milk, but Ian loves me anyways and that's what counts. We'll find out in May if Ian has any serious developmental delays as a result of his prematurity, but his pediatrician is really pleased with how strong and interactive Ian is...so we are hopeful that there won't be any major setbacks.

I also wanted to send a separate message to those women out there who are currently doing egg donor cycles, are considering using an egg donor, or are pregnant with a baby conceived via egg donor. I spent a long time worrying about how I would feel about my baby's lack of genetic connection to me. Would it bother me that he might not look like me? Would I feel any weird disconnect emotionally? Would I think about the egg donor when I looked at him? The answer to all of those questions, at least for me, is unequivocally NO WAY!!! I connected with Ian when he was still inside, but when I gave birth to him...it was a feeling I can't describe. I talk about the egg donor with ease when the issue comes up with healthcare providers, etc. And talking about it doesn't make me feel one iota less connected to Ian. He is my baby all the way. In fact, even people who know we used an egg donor think he looks like me. The Prince and I look at pictures of The Prince as a baby and the egg donor and...Ian looks more like me than either of them (though he does have his daddy's jaw line). And even if Ian looked (or ends up looking) nothing like me...I could care less. He's beautiful and perfect and mine...all mine (I hope that isn't triggering mental images of a female Golum hovering over a baby, stroking the baby and whispering "My precious"). The "egg donor issue" is really a non-issue once your baby is born. I couldn't possibly love him more...so I know using an egg donor didn't effect my love for him. I hope that observation from someone living the experience can put other women's minds at ease.

Okay...Grumplestiltskin is telling me that my allotted time for typing with both hands is up. I can't wait to catch-up on everyone else's blogs soon and, again, I promise there's a birth story post coming.

The Baby Blues Diary

2011-12-12T19:32:00.002-05:00

This is not the amazing positive birth I had promised to post. I’m not capable of writing that post right now. Instead, this is a post of how I am feeling at this point…with Ian in the NICU for the 10^th day. As per usual lately, my feelings aren’t pretty. But I’m out of apologies, so feel free not to read it if you don’t want to.

I am fighting hard to keep my “baby blues” from becoming post partum depression. I’m not sure how you figure out where that line gets drawn, but I at least am aware that there is a line and am looking for it. That has to count for something. I’ve spent a lot of time crying (make that sobbing until my throat is raw) over the last week and a half and, just when I think I am getting past all of the emotions, something happens that sends me back into a tailspin. I’m trying to stay away from the edge of the abyss and so I am doing what all of the NICU nurses have said I should do…I’m journaling about my feelings. Sure, I’m journaling on a public blog…but I think getting these toxic thoughts out of my system is really the point…not keeping things private.

I am REALLY thankful that I have Ian. It was a long journey and every time I look at him I think of where I’ve been and where I am now. I can’t put into words how blessed I feel when I look at his face. I have never been so in love in my life. I get it now…how women can find the strength to pull cars off babies. Why women will literally kill or even be killed to protect their children. Whatever force it is that creates that bond, it is a force that kicks in immediately at the first sight of your child’s face. Perhaps that protective instinct, that desire to do anything to shelter your baby from all things bad in the world, is what makes having your baby in the NICU so hard.

Don’t get me wrong. Ian is getting amazing care in the NICU. By and large, I love the nurses and they seem to truly care about Ian and his progress. I love the neonatologists…who are the most patient and caring doctors I’ve EVER met. Ian is exactly where he needs to be so he can get stronger. My brain knows that. My heart doesn’t care. Logic goes out the window when every fiber of my being screams at me that I can’t leave him, as I take the long walk down the hall from the NICU to the parking garage. That walk never gets easier. I still cry every time I make it. And, while the first time I made it (2 days after Ian was born, on the day I was discharged from the hospital) was the hardest (I crumbled in the elevator and The Prince had to hold me up while I sobbed in front of complete strangers), it is still devastating to leave the hospital without my baby. It feels like I’m losing him, every time.

I think things have gotten worse the last couple of days (from a mental health perspective), because we had been told Ian was coming home this last Saturday. He had been a little rock star and was holding his own temperature, eating from the breast and from the bottle like a champ, and was doing everything the doctors would ask from a term baby. No one could believe how fast he had progressed. So, there was no reason to keep him. Then, when we carried in his car seat and “going home outfit” on Saturday, the nurse greeted us with the bad news. Ian had a “setback.” The doctor came in and explained that, overnight, Ian had started sleeping through his feeds. Unless he had two solid bottle feeds from me on Saturday, he was going to have to stay. He wouldn’t eat anything for me. I prayed, I begged him to perk up and eat for his mommy, I tried every trick I’d learned over the first week of Ian’s life to get him interested in sucking, and then I bawled my eyes out as he slept through the half hour they gave him to “complete his feed.” The doctor saw how upset I was and said she would give him a second try before putting his feeding tube back in. He didn’t wake up for his second try. I can’t explain in words what that felt like. It wasn’t just about the disappointment of him not coming home. It was pure raw pain at seeing Ian take such a big step backwards and frustration at seeing him with that damned feeding tube in his nose again. He hates that thing and I hate that he has to endure it. And there is nothing I can do to fix it. Nothing I can do to take his pain or sleepiness away. I tell him that he is just teaching mommy a lesson in patience, but the truth is, I don’t think this is a lesson at all. This is just one more sucky, crappy obstacle being placed in the way of me finally bringing my baby home. Only this obstacle is so much worse than the others I’ve faced in my journey because this one affects Ian, too. Life can shit on me all it wants, but I take exception to it dragging my perfect innocent baby into the mix.

As a friend wrote to me (and many of you kind blog commenters have said), this will all be a distant memory soon enough. Like the pain of labor, I will forget how much this hurt and will just be consumed with love and happiness when Ian gets home. I also know that I am so so so so so so blessed that Ian’s only trouble is that he is too sleepy to eat as vigorously as he needs to. All around him are babies on methadone and morphine because of drug addicted mothers, babies recovering from surgery, and babies who will spend months in the NICU because they weigh a couple of pounds at birth. We watch as parents cry because they live hours away from the hospital and can only see their babies a couple of times a week. We are really blessed that Ian held out for those three weeks that I was on bed rest. We are really blessed that he is doing so well. We are really blessed that we live 15 minutes from the hospital and that I can spend 8 hours a day with Ian. I know all of this and I truly am trying to hold on to gratitude. But sometimes, the pain and frustration of this situation makes it too hard to hold on to anything…even hope.

I’m going to end this post now. I’m not so sure that writing these feelings down has helped. I think I just feel stupid now, seeing how irrational and ungrateful I sound. But hopefully this is a process and I will feel better eventually. If not, I apologize (I guess I did have one apology left in there) to all of you who are reading this and ask that you just ignore my blog while I wallow in self-pity.

Happily Ever After Has Arrived!

2011-12-05T07:49:00.000-05:00

I promise to write a longer, more complete post about our little's prince's birth story very soon. But, for now, I just wanted to let everyone know that our son, Ian Andrew, arrived on December 3, 2011, at 11:10 a.m. He was 33 weeks and 2 days gestational age. He weighed 5 pounds and 11 ounces, and measured 21 inches long. He is staying in the NICU for awhile (a fact that is killing me as I prepare to go home from the hospital today...without him), but he is doing so well that we are hopeful he won't have to stay there for more than a few weeks. As I said, I will be sending a more thorough post soon. For now, I just want to fully embrace every second of these amazing first days of Ian's life...of our new life together.

The Long-Overdue Baby Shower Post

2011-12-02T15:16:00.000-05:00

I'm not feeling particularly well today, so I thought this would be a good day to post the pictures of my baby shower. There probably won't be as much narrative as I had originally hoped to offer, but a picture is worth a thousand words, right?

The Theme was "Mama's Sweet Lil' Pumpkin."

I had to ask our neighbor to buy this pumpkin off her porch on the morning of the shower, so I would have time to decorate it before the shower. I had gone shopping a couple of days after Halloween, assuming that pumpkins would be on sale. Instead, they were all gone. Luckily, our neighbor is an incredibly nice woman and she was more than happy to give me the pumpkin, free-of-charge, when she heard what I would be using it for.

The shower was held at The Prince's family's restaurant. I think the theme tied in perfectly with the comfy and quaint atmosphere of the restaurant.

I tried to stick to more of a fall theme, with touches of "baby boy" stuff, as opposed to a barrage of all things baby.

But, so as not to forget the reason behind the shower, I threw in some light blue accents here and there...like these Martha Stewart tissue poms (not as quick and easy to make as you would think).

I don't have pictures of the actual favors, but I have extra favors, so someday I will take and post pictures of them. Until then, here's the thousand words... The favors were vanilla-scented, light blue candles in baby food jars. I bought them from a single mother who makes them and sells them online. I then had a graphic designer on Etsy.com design labels for the baby food jars, with personalized information about the shower and our baby (ex.- ingredients were things like love, giggles, happiness, etc.). I printed the labels out on a color printer (it is a lot cheaper to buy a design and make your own labels than to buy pre-made labels), cut them out, and stuck them on the jars. They really looked like baby food labels until you looked at them closely. I also cut out designs matching the theme of the labels to place on top of the jars' lids, so they would say "Thank you" instead of "Gerber" or "Beechnut." Next, I placed them individually in orange bags, hole-punched a small hole in each bag to gather the top of the bags, and threaded a ribbon through the hole and a favor tag I had printed. The favor tag gave info about the shower and, on the inside, had the following poem:

"Here's a candle for you to light,
Once the stork has made its flight.
With the flicker of the flame,
Please send hugs and kisses in our baby's name."

I'm biased, but I thought they were cute.

People were so generous and the baby got so much cute stuff. I blame all the gifts for him deciding to try to pop out four days after the shower...he couldn't wait to wear all the adorable outfits and play with all of the cute toys. We also asked people to bring books in lieu of cards, so we could build the baby's library early. The books we got were fabulous and I have been reading to the baby a lot during our hospital stay.

I had to add some pictures of this Baby Shower Biker Bunny that my sister-in-law's sister-in-law (not sure that what makes her to me...friend I guess) made out of burp clothes, bibs, diapers, receiving blankets and bottles. It was ADORABLE and I am definitely stealing it as a gift idea for showers I go to in the future.

This is me opening a gift of hand-crocheted baby booties, cap, coat and blanket, made by The Prince's great grandmother for him when he was a baby. The Prince was a June baby, so he never got to wear them, but The Prince's mom saved them for the day that he had his own baby. When she pulled out the gift from our baby's great-great-grandma, I couldn't help but cry.

One of the many highlights of the shower was when I opened this gift. My mother-in-law commented that it was too bad that they don't have these jumper things that hang from door frames for adults, as they seem like so much fun. My dear friend piped up "Oh they do. They just don't really get used for jumping...though I guess they could." My mother-in-law (who tends to be quite prim and proper) didn't get what my friend was talking about for a few seconds, but once she did, she laughed to the point of crying. My friend apologized and said "Sorry. That was probably inappropriate." My mother0in-law replied "Oh, we like inappropriate here." Never would have seen that coming!!! After the shower, my mother-in-law commented that I have really great friends...she's right!

One of the many books that people were generous enough to share.

And, finally, I am posting my favorite picture from the shower. I don't look particularly good in it, but I don't like how I look in any pictures. Still, it is my favorite because it is one of the few pictures that exist of The Prince and I together, and I think it captured how truly happy and blessed we are feeling about this pregnancy. I'm not sure how a picture can capture that...but I feel like this one does.

On our way to happily ever after...finally.

I want to say thank you, again, to all of my IF friends who came to the shower. I know how hard it can be to come to a baby shower when you are battling with IF, and I know it wasn't easy for you to come celebrate with me. But as I said at the shower, you were all such a huge part of The Prince and I making it this far in our own long journey, I couldn't imagine celebrating this victory without all of you. I can't wait until I am attending each and every one of your baby showers. Thank you for making the day of my baby shower (a day I had dreamed about for years and had almost given up hope would ever come) one of the best days of my life.

33 Weeks...and Still Cookin'

2011-12-01T09:41:00.002-05:00

33 Weeks! I can’t believe I’ve been in the hospital 21 days already. It’s not that time has flown by…not by any means. But, if you had told me three weeks ago that our baby was still going to be safe and sound in my belly at 33 weeks, or that I would be able to survive 3 weeks of hospital bed rest, I would have said you were crazy. And yet…here we are.

As with most things in life that initially seem insurmountable, this experience has been both stressful and empowering. The range of emotions I’ve been through, the possibilities that The Prince and I have had to consider with regards to the health of our baby, and the physical demands of being in some state of labor for this long…it all seems like a weird dream in retrospect. Or, maybe not a dream. More like someone else has taken over my body and shown a strength of will that I’ve never possessed. At every step of the way, I kept thinking “I can’t get through this.” But I did. And now, there is an “end” in sight…a more hopeful end.

The doctors have said that, if the baby looks good on next Monday’s ultrasound, and the baby and I exhibit no change in condition, we can go home at 34 weeks (one week from now!!!). I will still be on bed rest and I will likely still be dealing with these stupid incessant contractions, but I will be doing it from the comfort of my own bed…with no roommates except my two little pugs (whose company I appreciate a lot more now) and The Prince (whose company I always appreciated).

The Prince has said for the last two days that his gut is telling him that the baby is coming out any day now…that we aren’t going to make it to 34 weeks. But my intuition is telling me the opposite. I feel like the baby changed his mind about coming out and now he plans on staying in for the long haul…that we may be back to an induction on January 10^th. We’ll see who is right. At this point, it is pretty clear that the baby is the boss in this matter…and he’s got a mind of his own.

In an attempt to make this 33 week milestone as “normal” as I can, here is my little update on all things baby/pregnancy this week. First, the baby has hiccups all the time. He gets about five bouts of hiccups each day. I timed one bout…it lasted 37 minutes!!! Poor little guy. The nurses assure me that he doesn’t mind, but I know how much I hate hiccups and it is hard for me not to feel bad for him. The baby also has a habit of moving away from the fetal heart rate monitor and he has gotten much better at it over the last three weeks. It is taking about five minutes to find him now and sometimes, as if knowing what the nurses are looking for (movements), he goes to sleep as soon as they start the non-stress tests. On those occasions, the nurses make me chug some juice and then the baby perks back up. The Prince is worried we are creating a sugar addict, but I think the baby is just showing the beginning of his personality. We’re in for fun times.

As for me, I was weighed again this morning and I’ve lost a total of 8 pounds since being admitted to the hospital three weeks ago. I have not adjusted to the hospital food (although I choke most of it down now), and my blood sugar still runs low if I don’t “cheat” and eat the snacks that The Prince and my friends bring to me. This morning, as I put on my “civilian” clothes (I manage to get out of the hospital gown some days), I realized that I have a serious baby bump now. I’m not sure when that happened. Some time between last week and this week, I developed a ton of stretch marks and a protruding stomach. It’s pretty weird that I’m so happy about that. I also have another area of my body protruding more than normal…the “ladies” are HUGE! I keep thinking that they can’t get any bigger and, as if to prove me wrong, they grow another inch. I can’t fit into 4x sports bras…and there just isn’t really anywhere to go from there. I am currently stuffed into a 4x sports bra and all I can say is that I am really glad I don’t have to go out in public like this. My breasts are also super leaky. When I get into the shower or bath things just flow now. Oddly, I am happy about this too. I think it is because we are now so far along in the pregnancy, our baby might be able to suck shortly after birth…meaning this new development in my body won’t be going to waste. Three weeks ago, the leaking seemed like a cruel reminder of the difficulties our baby was going to face with eating, digestion and nutrition. Now… I have hope.

With regards to the “labor” stuff…my contractions are measuring consistently between 2 to 5 minutes apart. They seem to get closer together each day, but the intensity isn’t increasing at a regular interval. Some days are better…some days are awful. I’ve adjusted my mindset about pain medication. I’ve really had to. I still catch myself saying things like “I’ll break down and take the medicine,” but I now know that I shouldn’t feel guilty about taking something to take the edge off. Whatever I have been doing, it has kept the baby inside and it has kept his heart rate steady and healthy. I just have to trust that the doctors know what they are talking about when they tell me that being in constant pain is as bad for the baby as any side effects of the pain medication. I know I “want” to believe that line of reasoning, and I am looking for evidence to support it, but I still think that it is telling that the only time the baby has shown any problems was on days that I had struggled through without any pain medication. Hopefully, I won’t regret the decisions I’m making now.

I know I probably sound like a broken record, but I want to thank everyone again for your support. I know it wasn’t my fortitude that got me through the last three weeks (or the pain medication)…it was the strength I was able to muster because people were standing behind me and beside me, urging me on and telling me they believe in me and my baby (cue “Wind Beneath My Wings”). It was a Coldstone milkshake, gummy fruits, stinky feet popcorn, books, flowers and other deliveries. It was friends’ humor, well-timed sarcasm, shared tears and words of comfort. It was by blog readers’ shared stories of hope and constant encouragement…even when my posts got redundant and borderline incoherent. I’m sitting here, at 33 weeks, because others gave me the strength to make it this far. So…again…thank you.

Roommate Number 3

2011-11-30T10:42:00.001-05:00

Fair warning- This is an ultra-witchy post (and a long one at that). I’m being the equivalent of a mean girl in high school…I know it…and I don’t care. I need to vent.

The nurses and I have built a lot of good will over the last couple of weeks. So, when one of them “accidentally” took the second bed out of my room a few days ago, I knew that it was a favor to me. My instinct was confirmed when I found out from the charge nurse that night that there were only three empty spots in the antepartum area, two admissions were coming in, and because my room had no extra bed in it…I would be the last person on this ward without a roommate. I also knew that my blissful no-roommate situation could not last forever. And sure enough, a couple of nights ago, a new bed was wheeled into my room, with a new roommate following about an hour later.

For those of you keeping track, this is Roommate Number 3 for me. My first roommate was very nice but very religious, and it was difficult for me to transition from having my own room in labor and delivery to sharing a room with someone with constant visitors. (FYI- Roommate number 1 gave birth, via emergency cesarean, to a healthy baby girl on Monday…at 34 weeks! I couldn’t be happier for her). Roommate Number 2 was the Nightmare Roommate who smoked, drank alcohol and refused to listen to doctors’ orders while she was here. She checked herself out against doctors’ orders a week and a half ago, after her amniocentesis showed that she needed to stay in the hospital because she and/or the baby would likely not survive labor without extreme assistance. I’m not sure what has happened with Roommate Number 2. I just pray that, despite her stupidity and pig-headedness, everything works out okay for her and her baby.

Roommate Number 3 is just as entertaining/upsetting/ridiculous as Roommate Number 2, just in a completely different way. When she and her husband came in, they rushed in like a loud, belching whirlwind. Yes…they both belch…all the time. Belching is one of my biggest pet peeves. Every time I hear a belch, I feel a little bit of throw-up in my throat. After belch number 6 or so, I started clearing my throat each time…hoping they would get the message. As I am typing this, three days later, my roommate is letting out belch 600 or so…apparently they did not get the message.

In addition to being a belcher, Roommate Number 3 (hereinafter #3) is a very loud woman, both in her demeanor and the volume of her voice. She is 37 years-old, but she reminds me very much of a child…a child that was never taught about using her “inside voice.” I’ve tried earplugs and ear buds/headphones, and I can hear her conversations through both.

#3 has been admitted to this hospital four times now. She doesn’t check herself out (like Roommate 2 used to), but she keeps being discharged after one or two days because she doesn’t really have anything wrong with her…at least not objectively. She comes in because she says her blood pressure is 200/150 (or there about) and that she can’t feel her feet or legs or arms, etc. Reports like that have to be taken very seriously. But, when she gets to the hospital, her blood pressure is always in normal range and her symptoms don’t match up with any problems she could have. It is very curious watching #3 and her husband. They clearly want something to be wrong. They keep suggesting to the doctors that the baby should be taken out, even though #3 is only 31 weeks pregnant, to “prevent” any problems. They truly seem to believe that there is something serious going on, and yet, when they are told that tests are coming back normal or that they will likely get to go home soon, they both start offering excuses as to why the tests are reading “false normal.” Once the doctors eliminate one problem, she develops new symptoms that they have to check out. And the whole time, in spite of the doctors assuring them that everything is fine, they keep telling their family on the phone that she won’t be let out until she has the baby.

They put #3 on the same blood pressure medication that they prescribed for me to stop my contractions. The medicine didn’t work on my contractions and it made my blood pressure a little too low, but it is really a benign medicine compared to the others I’ve been on here. #3’s next blood pressure reading, after taking that medicine, was in the low-normal range. Instead of being thrilled, her husband immediately looked online to see what the side effects of the medication are. She had just gotten done telling the nurse that she felt good, but as soon as he read the side effects, she had all of them. Now they are asking the doctor to take her off that medication. It’s strange to me…and frustrating. I WISH I could go home right now, and #3 seems determined to do what she can to NOT go home.

#3 is also a “symptom-stealer.” I think most of us who have been through IF know what I am talking about. You talk to a friend or acquaintance about some health issue/symptom you are experiencing and, the next thing you know, they are telling you and everyone else that they have the same thing. I don’t think most people do this on purpose…I think they just become aware of health issues they weren’t previously thinking about and they start molding their own previously unnoticed symptoms into the new health issue. Still, if you’ve been through this…it’s a bit annoying. (My mother once told me, when I was complaining about fainting during my first trimester, that she and my brother were having the same exact problem. REALLY?!? Pregnancy?!?). Anyways, #3 is a symptom-stealer. When the doctor decided I should spend some time in the whirlpool yesterday, as my contractions were holding steady at 3 minutes apart for a few hours and then increased to 2 minutes apart, #3 asked if she could go in too. The doctor explained that they don’t allow antepartum patients to use the whirlpool, that it is just for women in labor, but that I was a bit of an exception because I technically was in labor for the last 2 ½ weeks. The next time the nurse came in the room to check #3’s vitals, #3 told the nurse that she was having contractions and was pretty sure she was in labor. Unfortunately for #3, a non-stress test quickly dispelled that possibility, as you can’t really “fake” labor. Again, I feel like I should be sympathetic with #3, feeling bad that she has some psychological issue that causes her to do these things. But instead, I’m just annoyed (I’m blaming it on the hormones and contractions…but I might just be mean).

Speaking of psychological issues, #3 is currently talking to a visitor about her teenage daughter’s “cutting” and threats of suicide. #3 is going on and on about how the issue is just that the daughter likes attention and always has to try to be the center of attention no matter what. Pot…meet kettle. She also is hypothesizing that her daughter may have a slight case of possession by Satan. I can’t even get started on this…or I am going to end up with #3’s high blood pressure.

Another strange thing about #3 and her family dynamic is the “story of their miracle baby.” #3’s husband was told seven years ago that he is not able to get anyone pregnant. They went through testing for infertility treatments and were told they would have to use donor sperm because #3’s husband had no live sperm and never would. They decided not to go forward with infertility treatments, as #3 already had two teenage children from a prior marriage. #3’s husband is in the military and is out of the country for long periods of time, only getting one to two week breaks now and then. #3 explained to me that they were very surprised when she became pregnant while her husband was away. She said that they must have gotten pregnant while he was on a break, although the doctor disagrees with the due date. The due date the doctor is using requires that the baby was conceived when #3’s sterile husband was overseas. But, #3 and her husband agree that this baby must have been a miracle conception and that the doctors are just wrong about the due date. I suppose it is possible. I don’t know when he was on leave and miracles happen all the time. I shouldn’t be so cynical…but I am. I think I’ve watched too many Maury shows over the last couple of weeks.

Finally (and then I will stop my Roommate #3 rant), #3 refuses to turn off her cellphone ringer…EVER! I am getting no sleep at night because of #3’s snoring and the cellphone going off every couple of hours (and, to be fair, the stupid contractions). #3 always picks up the phone and starts a conversation…even at 3 a.m.! I hear the same conversation over, and over, and over…all day long. That is annoying enough…add to it that a good portion of the conversation is lies or exaggerations, and I’ve about had it. At first, the ridiculousness of #3’s ringtones made it bearable. Her ringtones are various elevator music versions of gangster rap songs. But, I have all the ringtones memorized now and they no longer make me want to break into a ridiculous spoof of club dancing…now I just want to jam that phone where the sun doesn’t shine and see if it makes #3 want to dance. The best is when #3 is snoring really loudly for an hour or two, then the stupid phone rings, and she answers it and says “I was just resting my eyes. I can’t really sleep here.” UGH!!!

So, I finish this post with an interesting tidbit of information that the nurse just gave me, while I was typing this. I have tried really hard not to ask for my own room or for a different roommate. I’ve told myself that they won’t keep #3 here very long and, even if they do, I might get out late next week or earlier if the baby comes earlier. I can survive anything for a finite amount of time. The Prince has been begging me to ask for a private room, as he’s not a huge #3 fan either. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to be “that” patient. So…imagine my surprise (and delight) when the nurse just informed me that #3 asked to be moved to a different room…not because she has a problem with me, but because she wants a bed next to a window and would prefer a private room so she can “get more sleep.” I laughed out loud when the nurse told me that. I couldn’t hold it in…I just laughed and laughed. I told the nurse I thought it was a great idea for them to move #3 and that if they needed more of a reason to accommodate her request, I would certainly be willing to share my own concerns. I can only hope it doesn’t come to that, because if this post is any indication…I am going to come off as a serious B-word if I’m asked about my opinion on the matter.

Sorry For The Silence

2011-11-28T08:05:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my silence over the last few days. I know people who read my blog worry about my situation and I don’t want to add to anyone’s concern. I thought about that every day…I was just too tired and too frustrated to do anything about it.

I am on day 5 of non-stop (or at least, almost non-stop) contractions. They’ve been holding steady at 3 to 5 minutes apart and, while they aren’t the kind of contractions to bring me to my knees in pain, they really suck. My abs and sides feel like someone has used me as a punching bag and then forced me to do 5,000 sit-ups. The muscles in the front, side and in my low back are so tired they shake during each contraction, which basically means they are always shaking. The whole thing is taking so much out of me physically, there just isn’t any energy left to help me deal with things emotionally. And still…I remain 5 to 6 cm dilated…just as I have been for 2 weeks and 4 days.

I am really grateful the baby is still inside. As the doctor told me this morning, during 6:30 a.m. rounds, my baby is so much better off now that we’ve made it to 32 weeks and if I can just hold on until 34 weeks, the doctors won’t be even a little worried about our baby…he’ll be fine. That’s not to say he won’t have to spend some time in the NICU, or will be exactly like a baby born at term. But, on a scale of “okay,” the baby will be a far cry from where he was at when I was admitted at 30 weeks pregnant. The doctor suggested I start counting down the days to 34 weeks, now that we are only 10 days away. Another doctor, the partner of Dr. C, told me that they might consider letting me go home at 34 or 35 weeks, to continue bed rest there, since we live so close to the hospital. That IS something to look forward to. I miss my dogs. I miss my bed. I miss sleeping without being woken every hour on the hour to have my vitals taken. In some ways, there is a light at the end of the tunnel now. I have something to look forward to. Unfortunately…I frequently can’t see that light through the veil of pain caused by the contractions – a veil that seems to cloak me from head to toe right now.

I’ve broken down a few times and taken pain medication. The doctors offer it far more often than I take it. They aren’t stopping the contractions because the medication used to stop contractions lowers my blood pressure, and my blood pressure is already so low that they sometimes have to wait to give me my regular medications until we can get the blood pressure back into a low-normal range. Plus, the risks to the baby, associated with chronic use of the “stop-contractions medication,” outweigh the benefits to the baby of not being born right now. So, all we can do is try to help me live through the contractions. Some days I feel so sorry for myself, I begin to think I can’t live through it. I find myself saying “You just aren’t strong enough for this.” Or, I catch myself praying to God to help this baby come out now…then I immediately feel overcome with guilt about being so selfish and I cry about being so weak. When I get to those moments, that is usually when I accept the pain medication.

Generally, the doctors give me Percocet. It is a narcotic pain medication but, on the scale of narcotics, it is fairly mild. It does not make the pain/pressure go away completely, but it does take the edge off enough that I can focus on something else…like TV or knitting (you should see my mad knitting skills…lol). A couple of times, they’ve had to inject morphine into the muscles in my back, to ease the contraction pain so I could get some sleep. Obviously, morphine is a much more substantial narcotic, but taking it intramuscularly cuts down on the amount of the drug passing through the placenta, to the baby. The doctors have explained to me (and The Prince, who was initially quite upset that I would agree to expose our baby to drugs) that the use of these medications would be a problem if I was using them chronically or even daily. But I’m not. I hold out until I can’t take anymore, and my blood pressure spiking is a pretty good indicator of my body getting really distressed about the pain. I say no to the meds sometimes when the doctors would prefer I take them. The doctor explained to The Prince that occasional use of pain medication, in my case, is better for the baby than not taking the medication, because the baby’s exposure to constant stress and my spiking and then plummeting blood pressure is much worse for the baby than medication side effects. I try to use that explanation to ease my guilt about turning to medication. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I’m just too worn out to care about the guilt. At this point, The Prince has seen how exhausted and miserable I am and I think that even he is in favor of me taking Percocet once in awhile.

All of the pain and frustration over the last couple of days has made me worry about my mental health a little. I feel depressed. I’ve felt it before. I know that old friend well and it feels like he’s creeping into my bed. But…depression’s tell-tale symptoms (for me at least) are the same symptoms I think a person would expect to feel in the circumstances I am in. I feel tired all of the time, sore all over, grumpy towards everyone and everything, and really overwhelmed. I’ve asked friends not to visit me these last few days, and I feel like I’m balancing on that line between giving myself space because of how crappy I feel (I don’t want anyone to visit me and walk away feeling like I was unappreciative of their sacrifice because I can’t even muster a smile) and isolating myself because I am depressed. I can’t think clearly enough to see exactly where that line is, but I know I’m close to it…so I’m going to try to do better. The Prince’s mother came to visit me yesterday, without asking permission, and I felt like it did not go well. I complained A LOT…A LOT more than normal even. She took it well, but I could tell she was not having much fun.

Ultimately, I just need to remember to be grateful. If I can just stay focused on that, I can make it through 10 days. I realize this may not all end at 10 days, but at least the scenery might change and…well…I need to believe in an end point of some sort, even if it’s a fake end point. If I am quiet over the next few days, I apologize to all of you ahead of time. It doesn’t mean the baby has come. It just means I’m too tired and worn out to bring myself to type. Thank you again for all of the kind comments and a special thanks to those who have chosen to share your own, similar stories with me after my previous posts. I’ve said it many times over the last couple of weeks…if it weren’t for this experience, I would never know how amazing my friends are and how wonderful people can truly be.

Thanksgiving Letter To Baby

2011-11-24T08:08:00.002-05:00

Dear Baby,

Today is Thanksgiving Day, something you don’t know about yet. In school someday you will learn about Native Americans and pilgrims and will make painted turkeys to celebrate this holiday. But at home, you will learn that Thanksgiving Day is a special day each year because the day gives us a chance to remember to be grateful for what a wonderful life we have... something that is easy to forget in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. In our house, it is also about eating massive quantities of yummy food (wait until you taste daddy’s family’s cooking), but that just helps make us even more grateful for what we have. I just wanted to give you a sneak peek at the wonderful things waiting for you out here…things you will soon be adding to your “gratitude list.”

You have an amazing family. I’m not talking about me and daddy (although he will likely tell you many times how awesome he is). I’m talking about your extended family. Daddy and I have fought so hard to have you and, as much as we love you and consider you the missing piece that made our family complete, you should know that our family doesn’t stop with the three of us. You have a whole huge family of men and women, related and un-related to you, who have been waiting for your arrival. You will soon learn that “family” isn’t just about who you are related to…it’s about who loves you. And you are so loved, Baby. It is sad that not every child can say that. Hopefully you will learn to pay forward all of the love you are shown and to be generous to those children who don’t have the same blessings you do. You have some great examples to show you the way in that area, as your extended family is generous and kind…attributes I hope you will learn from them.

Another thing you have to be thankful for is that there was an amazing woman who, not quite a year ago, agreed to give your mommy and daddy the most amazing gift anyone could give. We tried so hard to bring you into the world, but we were having trouble doing it on our own…and even with the help of doctors things just weren’t working for us. But then, an amazing woman agreed to donate some of her eggs to us, so we could use them to make a baby…and that baby is you. I like to think that she knew how much your daddy and I would love you, and that she cared about all of us enough to help us make our family whole. You will always be my baby, but we will never forget or stop being grateful for the gift that extraordinary woman gave us.

Someday, you will hear the story about how you tried to make your appearance into this world a little early…about 10 weeks early! Perhaps you inherited your patience, or lack thereof, from your mommy and daddy. Or, perhaps you just had such a fun time at your baby shower that you decided you wanted to come out and play with all of the neat gifts you received. Either way, although your daddy and I have had a very hard time waiting for your arrival, we are willing to wait a little longer to see your smile. We don’t want you to come see us too soon, as that would mean you could have some health problems that we don’t want to see you have to go through. As I write this, you are officially at 32 weeks gestation, a big milestone and one that the doctors and nurses didn’t think you and I were capable of. But we are an awesome team, and you are so strong, I think we are going to keep beating the odds for awhile. We’ve done it once already, right? Still, we couldn’t have done it without the superior healthcare and attention we’ve received. When you get a little older, I’ll tell you about everything that happened and we can talk about how grateful we are that you – our little turkey (I can already hear the “Oh Mom” groan) – decided to stay in my belly and keep on cooking for awhile longer. We can also talk about how important it is to have good healthcare and kind and compassionate care providers. We can be grateful that people chose to spend their Thanksgiving 2011 working in a hospital, taking care of you and me, instead of home eating Thanksgiving feasts with their families. And whenever you decide to make your appearance, I have complete faith that you are going to be a healthy and happy baby…and we can talk about how grateful I was/am for that.

Most of all, Baby, I want you to know how thankful I am for you…that you chose to come bless us with your presence. Daddy is thankful too…he just doesn’t express his feelings in words as often as I do. You are a miracle in so many ways, and I love you so much (even when you are kicking me in the ribs). Out of all of the blessings I have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, you are by far the greatest. I can’t wait (well…just for a little longer I can wait) to have you in my arms, to start showing you the love this world holds for you. You will get to learn all of the blessings you have in the coming years, but mommy and daddy already know how blessed they are.

Love you so much,

Your Mommy

Another Little Scare

2011-11-23T08:04:00.002-05:00

Last night we had another little scare. After two relatively quiet days, I started having regular contractions again yesterday afternoon. I assumed they were the same old contractions that I get just about every day, so I decided not to let myself get excited/anxious about them. I calmly asked for a second dose of the oral medication I had been taking to stop the contractions and took a hot shower. Two hours later, I was having to breathe through the contractions and I realized they were getting really close together (I’m TERRIBLE at timing them…they all run together). When I finally called my nurse in at 4:00 p.m.’ish, I was getting concerned but trying not to show it. I explained that the contractions weren’t painful, just really intense. The nurses (a second one came in to help) could feel the contractions and couldn’t push their hands into my belly at all…indicating severe intensity.

They set up the fetal heart rate/contraction monitor and struggled to find the baby’s heartbeat. My contractions were registering as one minute apart with little “break” time. I could still feel the baby moving, so I was less concerned than the nurses were. But I had to roll into four different positions before we picked up a faint heartbeat. The baby’s heart rate was stuck between 100 and 115. The two nurses had taken care of me enough to know that my little guy sleeps in the 120-130 range and is usually in the 140-160 range when he is kicking. At that point, things moved very quickly. One nurse started pushing on the baby, trying to get him to push back and to get his heart rate to rise, while the other nurse ran (literally ran) from the room to get the doctor. I continued to try to tell myself that everything was fine…he was still moving and my contractions weren’t that bad. It was hard to stay calm when the nurse (and a couple of minutes later, the doctor) kept saying over and over to me that things were probably okay but we needed to move me to labor and delivery immediately and make sure the baby was safe. “Safe” is not a word you want to hear in that context.

I took a wheelchair ride down the hall, and arrived back in a labor and delivery room, similar to the one where I started my hospital stay. They turned on the incubator for the baby in a small room attached to my room. That’s when I felt considerably more urgency about the situation and called The Prince. He said “Is this an emergency? I’m in the middle of a work thing.” How do you answer that? I realized chances were good that these contractions would stop and the baby would be fine, but this was the “biggest event” that had occurred in over a week…what if? Ultimately, I responded “Not an emergency. I’ve been moved to a labor and delivery room. It would be good if you call me back as soon as you can.” He hung up but was back on the phone with me two minutes later and was at the hospital 20 minutes after that.

In the meantime, anesthesiology had to be called in to start an IV. Three tries later, the anesthesiologist apologized as the best he could do was a needle that is a little too small for what we need during delivery being inserted into the vein in the underside of my wrist…not a great spot. The other, better veins, had infiltrated and the IV’s he tried to place there had to be removed. My veins are just too small and too deep for IV’s. The plan was to plump me up with IV fluids and try again if we got a chance. While the anesthesiologist was working on my veins, Dr. C came in and said “Well, we knew it was only matter of time. You are still at 5 c.m., 100% effaced, bulging membranes, but I’ll be surprised if those membranes are bulging for much longer. I think they’re on their way. On the other hand, you’ve become quite the celebrity case as no one thought you would hold out this long.” He also asked if he had explained to me that I would need a “rescue” course of steroids to help mature the baby’s lungs. He explained that the first course of steroids I took, two weeks ago, when we first arrived, would lose maximum efficacy after one week. Dr. C said he likely didn’t tell me about that because no one thought we were going to make it a week. But, I made it almost two weeks, so we now needed to try to get a second, two-shot course of steroids in. That steroid course should last until delivery, regardless of how long that takes. Dr. C said “Do you think you and your little guy can hold out until Thanksgiving?...to give the second steroid shot a chance to work? I promise to come deliver that baby if he will wait that long.” I told him I would do my best and that, hopefully, the baby would hold off past Thanksgiving and Dr. C could enjoy a meal with his family.

I was given two injections of “terb,” the blood pressure medication I mentioned in earlier posts. It, as usual, made me have tachycardia and violent tremors. But, over the course of a couple of hours, it completely eradicated the contractions. I was given the first of the two steroid injections and, after a couple of hours of being stable, was allowed to go back to my antepartum room…and to eat my four hour old tray of hospital food. YUM!

The baby’s heart rate had improved shortly after we went to Labor and Delivery, and while Dr. C said it could truly be a matter of the baby being very sleepy, we now have to keep a more careful eye on the guy’s heart rate. He has seemed completely unaffected by everything going on with me, and his heart rate rarely dives with contractions. If the contractions were having a major effect on him, we might not be able to continue our “watch and wait” course of treatment. As long as we don’t have more episodes like last night, where it seems like the contractions are doing something to him, we should be able to avoid more interventions. But if he starts having too many “sleepy periods,” we will have to reevaluate our plan.

This morning I feel grateful and much better, physically, than I did last night. Our little man woke up at 6:00 a.m., when they took my first set of morning vitals, and he has stayed up. Feeling his morning workout makes me very happy…even if he is getting a bit big for the yoga stretches he’s trying to pull off. I’m contraction free this morning (knock on wood), and feeling cautiously optimistic that last evening’s events were just another fluke….and that the baby and I are going to make it way past Thanksgiving before he comes out. And if I’m wrong, at least I know that all of this “practice” has gotten me to a much more calm and logical place going into a possible emergency situation. There was no crying, feeling sorry for myself, or panicking last night. Just a whole lot of positive thinking. Small victories.

For those of you who are celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow and will not be checking your blogs, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!! For those of you who will not be celebrating that holiday, HAPPY THURSDAY…and eat something yummy for me anyways.

Enough Is Enough

2011-11-21T11:02:00.002-05:00

This is not going to be a very cheery post…just to give you some fair warning. I’ve tried to hold off on writing, waiting for my dreary mood to lift. But, if I wait for that to happen, I may not get to write for a LONG time.

To start the post on a high note, the baby is doing great. Our little Thanksgiving turkey is still cookin’, and he still seems oblivious to what is going on with me. He has frequent bouts of hiccups, but other than that, he is exactly the same as he was before all of this started.

Another happy thought is that I have been having visitors and that is, I think, what has kept me going. People have sent flowers, sat with me while I cried, and one friend even brought me a book of inspirational quotes about joy…to read when things get really rough. I know I’ve said it before, but my friends are amazing and I only hope I get to return their support when all of this has passed.

I’ve tried to find activities for myself, things I would enjoy doing or which are similar to the things I would be doing if I wasn’t stuck in the hospital on bed rest. But the truth is, it is only the anticipation of visits from friends, showers, time in the whirlpool bath, and clean sheets that keep me going. Everything else seems forced. I broke down and took a narcotic pain medication last night, as my blood pressure had spiked from the pain of the contractions and they couldn’t’ get it down. Even Percocet didn’t ease my nasty mood (or the pain).

I don’t think I will have a roommate for much longer. She had an amniocentesis this morning because they found pockets of excess fluid around the baby a couple of days ago. It turns out, she miscalculated her due date. She is only 34 weeks along and the baby’s lungs aren’t even close to mature. The doctor came in to explain to her that she needs to stay in the hospital until the lungs mature, as the baby would likely die if she had it anywhere but at this hospital. Because she already has a tear in her placenta/placental abruption, and a low blood count, there is even a chance she won’t make it through a delivery. She told the doctor to shove it up her ass…she’s leaving. She’s packed up her stuff, all the while complaining to me about how stupid the doctors are and how she needs to go home where she can do what she needs to do. I’m not sure what she “needs to do,” but if her activities in the hospital are any indication, that baby is in real trouble. The woman who cleans our room has found two empty vodka bottles in our room (in case I need to say it…they aren’t mine). The roomie told the nurse who was lecturing her about the dangers of smoking during pregnancy yesterday that they should be happy she has cut down to 14 cigarettes a day, as she was smoking twice that much when she came in. It just breaks my heart. I HATE being here right now, but wild horses couldn’t drag me an hour or two away from this hospital (that’s how far away this woman lives). This is where my baby needs to be when he decides to come see us. How can the roomie not get that? How can she take something so precious for granted? It’s hard to watch.

On another topic (because if I focus on that one anymore, I’m not going to make it through this post), I am officially leaking milk. Gross. I know. I had been leaking milk a little before, but now I get big wet spots on my shirt during the day and I actually squirt milk if I lean against my breast at all. My breasts are enormous! They don’t fit into a 3x sports bra, and I’m not sure where I can really go from there. For right now, the ladies are just having to squeeze into what I’ve got. Not wearing a bra is no longer an option. The hospital gave me nursing pads. They remind me a lot of circular maxi pads. NOT COMFORTABLE against my nipples. But my boss is coming to see me today, to do my biannual evaluation and to take my work laptop away (I’m out on leave now, as we can’t get my work laptop to work at the hospital), and I don’t want to take any chances of having an awkward moment while he’s here. It is really odd to see my breast actually produce milk. I mean, I knew it was coming and I know it is natural. But it still seems strange. There is part of me that wants to smile about it, as it makes the fact that I am going to be a mommy even more real. But there is a part of me that freaks out about it a little bit, like I am losing part of my identity as a woman outside of motherhood. I’m sure that makes no sense, but it is how I feel…sometimes.

My body feels like it is not my own…like it is betraying me again. My cervix is still at 5 cm and seems happy to stay there. My uterus has apparently not gotten the memo from my cervix, and it won’t stop contracting. Day after day after day…it just wears me down. Today, the doctor (one of Dr. C’s partners) told me that every day I am not having this baby is a miracle, and I should celebrate it as such. She said she knows it is hard for me, but no one expected me to make it this long and now everyone is excited to see how long I can hold out. I needed to hear that. I needed to hear things put in those terms…like people are proud of me and what I am doing is a major accomplishment. Too often people say to me “You’re doing good. This is good for the baby.” That’s a nice thing to say, but it isn’t the same as telling me that what I’m doing is amazing and special. I know it is super selfish, but that’s what I need right now. To be told that what I am doing is superhuman…even if it isn’t. I’ll keep taking care of the baby, doing everything I can to keep him safe inside of me. But I need someone to take care of me. I feel like I’m getting lost in all of this. I know…welcome to motherhood. I just have to believe these feelings would be a little easier to bear if I was holding my baby in my arms, instead of waiting for him to arrive. We’ll find out I guess…though hopefully not too soon.

On another high note, today’s doctor (the one who gave the great inspirational speech) has given me permission to take a wheelchair ride. If the weather warms up a little, and my husband comes to visit when I am not having contractions and everything is stable, he can wheel me outside the front door of the hospital, so I can get a little fresh air before the bad weather sets in. The Prince didn’t seem thrilled about that prospect when I told him over the phone this a.m. He is really bored with the whole hospital visit thing. He even volunteered to work at his parents’ restaurant on Thanksgiving, and told me he didn’t think he would get a chance to come see me after he was done. How can he not understand how devastating it is to me that he would think it is okay to leave me alone on Thanksgiving? I think his Mom is putting a stop to his plans…and will make him bring me some real food from the restaurant for dinner. But I hate that he has to be forced to do that. It is hard for me to feel like he sees spending time with me as such a burden. I get it…I just wish he could empathize with how hard this is for me. I felt like he really got it last week. He was sweet and here as much as he could be, rubbing my shoulders and back during contractions. Now, I have to force him to give me a hug and peck on the cheek when he leaves. If I had to guess, I would think that this may be some kind of whacky male coping mechanism. Maybe the stress is wearing him down too, and his way of dealing with the helpless feeling is to avoid being around the situation. Oh well. It sucks, but he’s wheeling me outside whether he wants to our not. I’ve got a serious case of cabin fever and I literally cried when the doctor said I could go outside. Small victories.

Well, it is almost lunch time (the food might be part of what is wearing me down too…it doesn’t get any better). So, I better go. I’ll try to suck it up and write more often. Not writing my thoughts down isn’t helping. I just hate to be Debbie Downer all of the time. I think it gives people a skewed idea of who I am. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

We Made It To 31 Weeks!

2011-11-17T16:24:00.000-05:00

So much has happened since my last post. No delivery still (Phew!), but lots of other things have happened. For one thing, this morning I had an ultrasound of the baby. We hit 31 weeks today, meaning we’ve held out for exactly one week. Huge accomplishment! The doctor performing the ultrasound did a full anatomy scan (the baby’s third). Again, everything looked wonderful. There is no evidence of any potential structural problems, the placenta is providing adequate blood flow to the baby, and the umbilical cord is right in front of the baby – exactly where they want it to be. I have a fabulous picture of our little guy’s left footprint, as he kicked hard at my ribs right as the doctor was snapping a picture of the top of the uterus. It’s adorable.

Perhaps the most important thing we learned during the ultrasound is that our little chunker is weighing in at 4 pounds and 14 ounces!!! That puts him above the 90^th percentile for a 31 week baby. The doctor said that our baby is as big as some small full-term babies and, given the lack of evidence of any problems associates with his size, this is the best possible scenario. If I was going to go full term, his size would be worrisome. But that isn’t going to happen, so we are thrilled that we’ve got a beefy boy on our hands.

A couple of people had commented on my last post and suggested that it was time to call my doula. I thought the same thing you all did. So, when I got stressed out, I called the doula. I didn’t write about it, even though I placed the call before my last post, because I was still angry about how things went with her. Our doula has turned out to be a huge disappointment during this situation. After spending hours crying over my stress and the pain of the heavy contractions, I called the doula for support. I was crying to her, letting her know what was going on. Her response was silence. I asked if she was still there, thinking that the call had been dropped. She responded that she was still there…then silence again. I dragged the conversation out for ten minutes, hoping that she was just busy doing something when I called and I would soon have her full attention. No such luck. When I asked her to give me some advice about how to deal with my pain and frustration, she said “This is a horrible situation. It’s really too bad.” That was it. No advice. No significant empathy. No encouragement. It really seemed like she was talking to me while playing solitaire on her computer or something. I got off the phone, called a good friend of mine, and got the support I needed from my friend. I’m not sure if I will be calling on the doula again. I would still be angry about the situation, but I honestly don’t have the energy to even be irritated. So, I think I am just going to ignore her and my feelings about this, until things have settled down after the baby’s arrival. Then I’ll try to figure out how to address this with her.

On a more positive note, the nursing care has improved drastically since my last post. Though it sucked to be moved to a semi-private room, the beds are more comfortable, the showers are better, and the nurses are nicer. I also now have the big side of the room, with the large window and window sill…more space and more sunlight. My first roommate (the one with all of the visitors) ended up being REALLY religious. I’m not judging, and I’m not going to say which denomination/religion she was. What I am going to say is that I have my own spiritual beliefs, but they do not include religious services or things like that. In the one and a half days I was in this room with her, I sat through two church services that were each two and a half hour long. My roommate and her family attended the services via SKYPE…meaning I listened to hours of hymns and scripture readings. At first I thought “That’s nice.” But hours into it…not so nice anymore. There was no place to escape to (except the bathroom). I spent A LOT of time in the bathroom. Yesterday morning they told my religious roommate that she was being moved to a private room, as her blood count was still dangerously low and they needed to have her right next to special equipment in case she went into labor or started hemorrhaging. I was actually a little sad to see her go. Then I moved to her side of the room and instantly felt better about my situation. Sunlight and a little privacy go a huge way to improving one’s outlook.

Two of my good friends visited yesterday and that made all of the difference too. I had been isolating myself, but I realized a couple of days ago that I couldn’t continue to do that…not if I was going to be stuck on bed rest for a long time. One of my friends got me food for dinner and an enormous bag of cheese popcorn (something I never eat because I think it smells like stinky feet, but which I have been craving for two days…last night I assuaged the craving in a MAJOR way). Now that I know that I really am up to visitors and I have confirmation that my friends are going to be okay if I break down in tears in front of them (even on my happy days…it happens), I am more comfortable asking people to come visit…or at least I anticipate that I will be soon.

Another thing that happened is that the doctor ordered recreational therapy for me, so a woman came down to my room and gave me the option of all kinds of activities and crafts to fill my free time. Today I painted a porcelain piggy bank for the baby and a Thanksgiving door decoration. Tomorrow I am going to be taught how to knit. I feel really silly being “prescribed” these activities, but the doctor is right…I need something to focus on other than what is going on with the baby and what is coming up after he is born. Besides…when am I going to find any other time in my life to learn how to knit? Right? And, as dorky as it is, it really has helped. I’m so grateful to be in this hospital, where they have a whole separate wing for women on long term bed rest, an extended menu for pregnant women (which I just found out about today…SO happy!), and things like recreational therapy. We’ve determined that I can’t work from here and I have to go out on leave, but even that isn’t devastating me like it normally would because I am getting a lot of support from friends and from the hospital. I’m a lucky girl (and that time I said it without any sarcasm).

I’ve saved the “best” for last. I was told last night I would be getting a new roommate. I was afraid that would happen. At least my religious roommate was really nice and her family tried to be friendly. The new roommate never showed last night, but she did come this afternoon. It turns out, she was in this room before me…that is, she was here until she just disappeared from the hospital without letting the doctors or anyone know she was leaving. In fact, this is her third admission to the hospital within the last two weeks, as she keeps just leaving (even though she lives two hours away) and then coming back in an ambulance when the baby goes into distress. Her baby’s daddy (her term, not mine) is also here…and he is going to spend the night each night. YAY! (As if on cue, as I am writing this, he just let out a huge belch. Nice!) When they walked in, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes filled the room. In the first two hours she was here, she snuck outside for two smoke breaks. I think she is used to smoking more than cigarettes, based on her very erratic behavior and really fast talking, but I have no evidence to back up my assumption and I should probably keep those thoughts to myself. She and her hubby (?) keep coughing like they are going to hack up a lung, which then makes me paranoid that I am catching some awful disease like tuberculosis. On the upside, if history is any indication, she likely won’t be my roommate for long. She should be taking off any time now. But, until then, I have to listen to her talk about her friends not knowing who their babies’ fathers are, about her baby’s likely developmental disabilities and clubbed foot, and about how stupid it is that they can’t just give her a blood transfusion and send her home (like my last roommate, this one has a bleeding problem…but that’s where their similarities end). In short…my new roommate is the embodiment of all things women who have dealt with infertility despise. She is a reminder of how unfair life is sometimes. I’m not going to let her bring me down because it would be bad for me and for the baby, but if I had been put in a room with her one year ago…there may have been a smack down going on.

So, that’s my update. As usual, it is a little disjointed, but I didn’t want to wait any longer as I know some of you worry about me the same way I worry about you when I hear about your trials. Thank you again for all of the support and prayers.

My Private Struggle...Only Without The "Private"

2011-11-15T08:06:00.000-05:00

First, I want to say thank you so much to everyone who has commented with kind words and support over the last few days. When I think about how amazing my friends and family have been, and how much energy people have devoted to thinking about us and sending us their thoughts and prayers, I get overwhelmed and start to cry. I am not a Positive Polly (as those of you who follow my blog well know), and I often have less faith in humanity than I would like. It is only at times like these, when I am facing something that I feel too weak to handle on my own, that I am reminded that I'm not on my own because there are truly good, kind people all over the world who actually care about others. I know this all sounds very "Polly-Anna'ish," but it is how I feel and I want to express it (before I move on to my complaining...that sounds more like me).

Yesterday was a rough day. I had a rough time dealing emotionally with what is going on. I thought I would have been in a better place in my head by now, as usually I just need an initial adjustment period before my inner strength kicks in. Not so much with this. When I try to talk to the baby, I start crying and get so choked up I can't do it. I can't even describe why it happens....it just does. When there is a small setback (like waiting for the nurses to answer my call button, or another doctor saying "Who knows what is going to happen over the next few days?"), I get frustrated and sometimes cry. If they make me wait to eat (because the tray comes to my room but I have to wait for the nurse to give me my insulin before I start eating), I start to cry in frustration. I think this situation just makes me feel very helpless, and setbacks...even tiny ridiculous ones...remind me that I am at the mercy of others and fate. I'm not taking that well.

Last evening, The Prince came to visit me at about 3:30, between his day job and evening class. He joked that we were entering a three hours period when I could not have the baby...as he could not cancel his evening class. I joked in reply that I would put 50 to 1 odds on me not having the baby during those three hours. On cue, the baby pushed down in my pelvis and a wave of contractions started. The Prince had to leave for his class anyways, so I ended up going through a couple of hours of the strongest contractions I've had yet, at one to two minutes apart with little rest between peaks. It wasn't fun. It was scary. The baby kept dancing around in there during the contractions (not so helpful with the pain, but reassuring) and luckily, my water didn't break. It took two injections and a pill to slow down the contractions. I'm still only 5 c.m. dilated, but the membranes are bulging even more...which means more restricted activity (as if that is even possible). I am still having contractions every ten to fifteen minutes, but the doctor who checked on me last night thinks that is going to be the norm until the baby comes. I have to keep taking an oral medication to try to keep the contractions at bay (it makes me shake like an addict and causes tachycardia...but both are preferable to having the baby right now). Once the water breaks, we will have to let the labor move forward and it will probably move quickly. But until then, I just have to tough out the contractions and we will watch to make sure the baby isn't reacting to them. If he does, they may need to move forward with labor. If he continues with his strong heart rate and movement (even the nurses say he's an INCREDIBLY active baby), we will just wait.

After the contractions slowed last night, I had to wait a couple more hours before I could eat. So, my already gross hospital food was three and a half hours old by the time I could eat it. And, as I was trying to figure out how to nicely explain to the nurse that I could not eat hours old powdered mashed potatoes and solidified gravy, she informed me that I was being moved to a different room - one with a roommate. I lost it. I had another meltdown and pouted while I threw my things into my bags for transfer to another room (apparently, I am not allowed to stand up for a shower but I am allowed to stand up and carry my own bags to make room for another patient). I called my husband, interrupting the end of his lecture, and begged him to come take me home. I told him about the food and the room change and the contractions and just sobbed. I demanded to speak to the doctor and told her it was stupid I wasn't able to go home when we only live 15 minutes away and it takes the nurses that long to respond to my call button. I'm terribly embarrassed about how I behaved (now), but I had zero control over myself last night. I was on a rampage.

When I got to my new room, my new roommate had 10 family members in the room. She has placenta previa and was admitted at 30 weeks with hemorrhaging. She's at 32 weeks now and is shooting for a c-section at 34 weeks. She is allowed to walk around the hospital and wear her own clothes, etc. She just can't go home because she lives far from the hospital and she could bleed to death during the hour drive. Her family is from Kentucky, so they sleep here (only her mother sleeps in the room...the rest sleep in the waiting room), and they are here all the time. She was complaining about it last night. I've been not having visitors because I felt like I needed to hunker down and push through what I am going through on my own (and with The Prince). Now...that isn't really an option. I have her visitors whether I want them or not. Plus, having the roommates stuff everywhere in the room is making it even harder for me to accept that I can't be at home. This doesn't feel like my room...it feels like I am staying in hers. I don't feel like asking her to change anything, even though she probably would if I asked. I just feel like whining. I feel like everything I have tried to have even the tiniest amount of control over (I had just asked The Prince to bring me a few things from home, yesterday, so I could "decorate" the room to make myself more comfortable), has been pulled away from me. It's not a pleasant feeling.

Today, I am going to just focus on not focusing on all of this negativity. I am going to try to work from bed, to keep my mind off of the contractions and what is going on around me. I am going to try to not analyze the contractions or pains I feel, and to just take them for what they are...ultimately temporary. I am going to remind myself that when I am holding our baby a year from now, I won't even remember how awful I felt in the hospital. None of it will matter. I'm going to focus on the small pleasures...like the steak dinner that The Prince brought me last night to make me feel better about not being able to eat old powdered mashed potatoes (have I mentioned how awesome he is?)...that make this experience more bearable. I'm not up to shooting for gratitude yet today... but I'm taking baby steps in that direction.

Still Waiting

2011-11-14T05:55:00.002-05:00

We’re still hanging in there. I’m tired, scared and a little frustrated, but trying very hard to be grateful that the baby and I are beating the odds every day.

Saturday night, after my last post, (and my waves of meltdowns), I became really exhausted. Even though I had taken a sleep aid again, I woke up at 2 a.m. with terrible back contractions and pelvic pressure. The fetal monitor showed that my contractions were fairly regular, but far apart. Although the doctors have been trying to avoid internal exams, so as not to accidently break my bulging membranes, they checked me that night. I was so certain that we were gearing up for the big event, but it was yet another false alarm. I was still only dilated 5 cm, 100% effaced. I cried. I think the combination of stress, exhaustion and pain was just too much for me. Dr. C came into the room to talk to me and explained that I wasn’t doing myself or the baby any favors by trying to be a hero. He said that he understood my feelings about pain medication and he would respect my wishes, but he really felt that if my goal was to hold off labor progression for as long as possible, I needed to consider pain relief. I talked about my options and ended up getting Stadol, a narcotic medication, in my IV. Stadol is relatively short acting and the only side effect on the baby would be temporary sleepiness. I felt like I was failing, getting the medication, but after it kicked in, I was so glad I took it.

Once the Stadol had taken the edge off the pain (it doesn’t get rid of it completely…it just helps the pain seem more bearable), I could clearly feel what was going on in my body. The pressure which I couldn’t pinpoint earlier in the night was actually being caused by the bulging membranes. The bulging makes me feel like I have a big piece of a tampon stuck high in my vagina. I try to wiggle and move around to get the “stuffed” feeling to subside but, like when you are wearing a tampon, there really isn’t much you can do to relieve the sensation. After the Stadol, I figured out that the baby happened to be pushing his head down and punching low that night, and each movement was just irritating the already “full” sensation down there. Somehow, just knowing “why” was enough to make coping with that sensation bearable. As for the back pain, once the contractions subsided, the back pain got better. I still felt (and sometimes still feel) an intense pressure low in my back, but for now I can take it.

When Dr. C came to check on me yesterday morning (I swear…the man lives at this hospital. I see him every 6 hours or so), he told me that I had already passed his expectations as far as holding off labor. He said that every day the baby stays inside is a day the baby isn’t in the NICU. However, he further said that I need to be realistic about my expectations. The baby is not going to stay in me for another six weeks, and the only way we might avoid a NICU stay is if the baby manages to make it that long. He said it isn’t healthy emotionally to set that kind of goal. I need to just focus on each day, and dealing with what comes up that day. I asked him to revise his estimate of when the baby will be born and, in typical Dr. C laid-back fashion, he said “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe four days from now, maybe a week from now. Not a couple of weeks from now… I don’t think.” Dr. C said that the steroids we gave the baby to mature his lungs have had the full amount of time to work and everything looks good. So, I was taken off constant monitoring, I was taken off of the IV, and I was even allowed to take a shower.

The Prince brought me all of my shower and hygiene stuff and, even though the shower here is literally the worst shower I’ve ever been in, I enjoyed every second of being able to stand up and get clean. My body seems to think that even showering is overdoing it, as the showering triggered contractions and cramping for most of the rest of the day. But it was worth the cramping. I smell my hair every few minutes and smile because it smells like my own shampoo, and not like sweat. Small victories.

Dr. C also allowed me to start eating. The horrible shower here is rivaled only by the horrible food (it doesn’t help that I am on a diabetic diet and I HATE “diet” anything). Still, I try to remember how hungry I was two days ago, when I wasn’t being allowed to eat or drink anything. Usually I can tell myself that being allowed to eat anything is better than that starving feeling. The Prince smuggled me some cookies and has offered to get me “real food,” but so far I’ve been a good girl and held off. If this hospital stay goes on too much longer, I may take him up on the contraband action, and just try to be responsible about what I have him bring me (trying to match sugar content and calorie count to what the hospital provides). For now, I try to keep saying “This is just temporary. You can eat real food after the baby comes.” It isn’t really helping, but I’m trying to be Positive Polly.

Once I was switched to “floor care” (no longer the constant monitoring and one-on-one nurse in my room), I stopped seeing the nurses. I get really frustrated because I have to keep calling the nurse into my room to take my blood sugar reading and to give me my meds and insulin, so I can eat. My trays of food sit for 30 minutes sometimes before anyone responds to the bell. Yesterday, my “hat” (a little pan-type thing that sits in the front of the toilet bowl to catch urine, for the nurses to measure fluid output) was not emptied the entire day. It overflowed before I finally got testy with the night nurse and said I thought it wasn’t very hygienic to let things continue that way. I’m trying to stay patient, as I know this is a very busy hospital. But the care I am getting now is so different from what I was receiving, it is tough to not compare and get disappointed. At least I know there are good nurses available and that, when things actually really move towards the baby coming out, I will have those nurses taking care of me.

Another milestone yesterday was that I had visitors. The Prince’s family came to visit me. No one asked me if I wanted them here, they just came. At first I was a little annoyed because…well…I guess I’m annoyed about everything. But, they brought my three month old niece and it is hard to be grumpy with a smiling, giggling baby in the room. It is nice to know that I have their utmost support, but it is hard to see the fear and anxiety that they try to hide from me, but which shines through their eyes. No one asks any questions, even though they are anxious for the information when I volunteer it. It is kind of like people (including The Prince) feel like they are walking on egg shells around me, trying not to upset me at all (it doesn’t help that Dr. C told The Prince I need to maintain as little stress as possible, as stress will exacerbate the labor). I appreciate their efforts, but being that person who has to be treated with kid gloves is not fun. Knowing that I am causing so many people so much stress is not fun. I feel like I need to be positive and upbeat for them, to reassure them, but I just don’t have it in me. I think that is part of the reason I was avoiding visitors. I don’t want to feel guilty about not entertaining them or reassuring them…and I will feel guilty, even if I know I shouldn’t.

I’ve been too tired and too overwhelmed to write emails or even update Facebook. I wouldn’t be writing this post but for the fact that I can’t ever seem to sleep after my 4 a.m. vitals check, and there is NOTHING to do at 4 a.m. I figure I should use this time to work through my thoughts and feelings about the day before, so I can head into the next day without carrying so much baggage with me. I don’t want family and friends to worry about me or feel like they are being ignored, so I really am going to try to get up the energy to write to people today. It is just hard. I’m drained. I want to have something to tell people – “It won’t be long,” or “We’ve stopped the labor…Yeah!” But I don’t have any answers about what is going on. I don’t know what to say other than “Thank you for the support.” Maybe that’s enough.

I can’t really express why I am so frustrated by all of this. All we want is for the baby to be happy and healthy, and the best chance of that is if he stays in me as long as possible. But the constant on again-off again labor is really draining me. I wish my body would pick a strategy and stick to it…are we getting this baby out, or are we going to hunker down and keep him in? If my body wants to keep the labor at bay, then it should stop having random contractions and constant pain. Yesterday, I lost what was left of my mucus plug…that got my hopes up, again, that the end was near. But no. I’ve had zero spotting since then.

When Happily Ever After Is Going To Start In The NICU

2011-11-12T21:33:00.000-05:00

Sorry this update has taken so long. It has been a long two/three days. The good news is, the baby has not been born yet. Every day he stays inside is a day that improves his chances of survival and a healthy life. The bad news is, I’m on my third day of active labor and it doesn’t look like the end is near. The worst news is, the end of the labor is just the beginning of a whole new, difficult journey for me, The Prince and the baby.

Yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life. The contractions weren’t fun but the worst was our talk with the neonatologist. It was her job to explain to us what would happen after our baby is born. There will be no tearful moments with the baby in my arms, where we weep in happiness as we begin the rest of our lives as a family. Instead, our baby will first be handled by the large team of professionals that will be in the room with us during my delivery. There is an incubator beside my bed already with all kinds of tiny tiny instruments in it. When our baby is born, he will not cry. His lungs won’t be developed enough to allow him to. He will be rushed to the waiting incubator and wrapped in Saran Wrap (literally…they use the brand name Saran Wrap and I know this because it is sitting by my bed) from head to toe, except for his face. The Saran Wrap will keep him from seeping liquid through his fragile skin and will help keep in his body heat as he lies under the large “French fry lamp” (that’s the neonatologist’s term) at the incubator in my room. He will be suctioned and will immediately have a mask placed over his face, with the "team" manually "breathing" for him until they can get him and his incubator into the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). Then they will determine whether he needs to be on a ventilator, or whether his lungs are mature enough that he can breathe with just the help of the cpap machine pushing oxygen in gently. That will be his first minutes of life…and there is nothing I can do to change that. I won’t see him for at least 45 minutes after his birth and, for weeks, we won’t be able to take him out of the incubator, which will keep him warm and moist, or to hold him in our arms. We will be allowed to visit at will and to touch him, but not to hold him next to us. Not at first. Even typing that is hard.

All of that isn’t even close to the worst of it. Even in a best case scenario, it will take a couple of months to teach him how to be able to eat and digest breast milk. I will be pumping from the day of birth, but he won’t be “fed” my breast milk for a long time. His stomach and intestines wouldn’t know what to do with the milk and starting him on it too soon could lead to a disease of the intestines that can require surgery or be fatal. He will eat through an IV that goes through his umbilical cord; then through a PICU line that runs through his arm, down his neck and into his stomach; and then through a tube that goes down his nose and into his stomach. He’ll hopefully start learning to suck around 5 to 6 weeks after birth and he'll need to be able to suck at least a bottle before he can be discharged. For months, he will get breast milk mixed (at times) with a special formula, because he will need different nutrients from most babies.

He might need to have blood and fluid removed from one or both of his lungs (via aspiration with a needle or insertion of a tube into the lung) at some point early on, as the air sacs in 30 week old lungs can collapse easily. He may need cardiac surgery to close the hole in his heart that would have closed on its own if he made it to term (or the hole might close on its own during his first week or two outside the womb). We will have to check his eyes for years, as babies born at 30 weeks can have retinas that don’t form properly, leading to vision problems. He’ll have frequent hearing tests and developmental check-ups, so that any cognitive delays can be addressed quickly, giving us the best chance at correcting any issues that come up. There is the potential for mental retardation or cerebral palsy. There are so many other “possibilities” that I just can’t type them all.

The neonatologist had to go over the worst case scenarios with us (all of them) and have us sign consents for various procedures. The chance of any one of these things afflicting our baby is less than the chance that it won’t. Many of the problems have a very low chance of occurring. I keep telling myself there is a chance of any baby having problems at birth. But, most mothers don’t get the talk we were given…because the fact is, our chance of facing these issues is higher. Higher because I can’t keep this baby inside of me as long as he needs to be. Dr. Google gave a consult last night, and I was encouraged to find that the majority of 30 week old premies usually make it home by 38 weeks and usually have few issues after the lungs and eating issues are resolved in the NICU. The most common ongoing issues are gastro-esophogeal reflux disease and an initial speech delay which corrects itself by the time the child is pre-school age. Many children, perhaps even a majority, born at 30 weeks seem no different from their full-term counterparts by the end of the first year of life. We just have to hope that our baby is one of those success stories and that his journey through these first few months and years aren’t too hard.

The neonatologist watched me try hold it together and be hopeful while she talked. I think I did a good job. But as soon as she turned to walk out of the room, I wailed...literally had a wall of sound encompassing all of my fear and anguish just escape out of my lungs like a blaring siren. I couldn’t hold it all the way for her to get out the door of our room even though I had tried to. I just crumbled. She came back and held my hand, cried a little herself (which I thought was amazingly compassionate for someone who does this stuff day in and day out), and offered to help me get in touch with the psychologist the hospital provides for parents going through these circumstances. I declined the professional help, for now. I know I need to be strong for our baby. I know that feeling sorry for myself and for the baby doesn’t help and won’t solve anything. But I still can’t seem to hold the tears at bay for more than a few hours at a time.

All of the nurses and doctors refer to our baby by name now. I know why they do it. They need me to start bonding with this baby and feeling positive about his arrival now. They want to help me feel secure that they care about him enough to know his name and use it (Yes, his name that I have kept a secret from family, friends and everyone else). They are all awesome…the nurses, the doctors, everyone at this hospital. I know I am in the best possible place to have this baby and I have the best specialists involved in his care. No psychologist can tell me anything I don’t already know about this situation, and talking to a stranger isn’t going to help me. Not now at least.

I’m not letting myself question why this is happening. I started going there yesterday, with the “Was I not meant to have a baby and this is my punishment? Who punishes a baby for a mother’s refusal to give up on her dream of having a baby?” or “Is God trying to teach me a lesson about priorities and letting go of my own will?” I’ve quickly rejected those thoughts and labeled them as what they are- BULL SHIT. This preterm labor happened because preterm labor just happens sometimes. Unpleasant things just happen sometimes. Things like infertility. Things like pregnancy losses. Things like preterm labor. Things like the drug addicted woman in the room next to me asking how soon she can get outside to smoke after they wheeled her drug addicted baby to the NICU this morning. These things happen and there is no good reason why they happen. I just have to have faith that I am strong enough to handle what is coming. Everyone here at the hospital tells me that they know we are a strong couple who can handle parenting a premie baby, and that they have no doubt our baby will be a success story, propelled by our love. If outcomes truly came down to how much the parents loved the baby, they would be right. But that’s not always how it works. Anyone who has been exposed to the land of infertility knows that. We will love and support our baby with every ounce of strength in us, but how things will turn out is out of our hands…not because of some punishment or lesson…but just because.

If this post seems disjointed, I apologize. This is probably one of the most important posts I’ll ever write and yet, I don’t care how the words come out…I just need them out of me. Like a purge. I need to share my pain and fear and frustration, and I don’t care how I sound.

Through all of this, The Prince has been amazing…truly amazing. He has sat by my bed until I make him go home to eat and take care of the pugs. He talks to me and tells me it will all be okay, even though I see the pain and fear in his eyes. He has sought support from his own family, so he can support me without showing any weakness. He brought me ice chips and cold clothes for my face and neck for hours on end, when I was dealing with the side effects of the Magnesium IV and the steroids they injected into me for the baby. He has held my hand through painful contractions. He keeps encouraging me to view each frustrating setback in this labor as a good sign that our baby is getting to stay a little bit longer in the best place for him…my loving body. I have never loved The Prince more than I have loved him the last couple of days. He really is amazing and the baby is so blessed to have The Prince for a daddy..

I’ve also never seen such an outpouring of love from family and friends. I’ve offered a general overview of the situation on Facebook, but I’ve offered very minimal details of what is going on. Even people I haven’t seen in 20 years have comforted me with their words each day. All of my IF friends have reached out to me. I’m not able to reach back yet. I’m not able to really talk about the reality of what is going on. I think it might become too real. I am afraid my fragile façade of strength will tumble if I bring anyone from the outside into our situation. I haven’t even allowed the doula to visit me. I just can’t do it. I’m hoping I’ll feel differently soon. If I have a long stay here (and Dr. C said today that he is amazed I’ve made it this long and thinks I could be looking at this labor going on for even as long as a week or two, though he doubts it will go on much longer than that), I am going to need to see and talk to my friends for support. The Prince is going to need for me to have that alternate source of support. But, right now, I just can’t. I'm afraid of everyone avoiding the big purple elephant in the room, nervously avoiding starting a conversation about what is happening and instead stumbling through a topic we can only half focus on. I am afraid that the first hug, or tender squeeze of the hand, or smile and nod of recognition of what I'm going through, will lead to a visit during which my friends watch be bawl like a baby and then apologize a million times to distract myself from those emotions. Even kindness hurts a little somehow right now. I don’t know if sitting alone in this stupid room crying over my keyboard is better than sharing this experience with my friends, but I’m afraid of the unknown. If it is possible for me to feel worse right now, I don’t ever want to know what that feels like.

I really hope that I am able to keep up with this blog…to keep my closest friends (those I’ve met and those I haven’t) updated on what is going on. I’ve realized that this may become a much longer second chapter to my “Fairy Tale” than I ever imagined. I still see our baby’s birth as our “Happily Ever After.” We've succeeded and been blessed when so many others have not. I have faith that we will bringing our baby home one day in the next few months and he will be ours forever. "Happily Ever After" has morphed into something new, but I will never lose my gratitude for the gift we've been given. I guess I just now realize that “Happily Ever After” can have dark chapters too. That phrase is a whole other journey in itself...and ours is a bumpy journey.

Eventually, I may need to start a new blog, one about the baby’s journey that family and friends can access for updates about his condition and care, but which doesn’t discuss my infertility journey in the great detail and honesty that this blog does. Colin's extended family and, to an extent, even my own family, care about us enough to care about our baby. But it would be impossible to keep writing to all of them with updates. I think a blog may be the answer. I guess I will cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, I just want to say thank you for all of the kind comments that you’ve sent me and thank you for following this journey which has taken a most unexpected turn. I hope to have good news to share soon…though not too soon. Love you all.

Bad News

2011-11-10T23:37:00.000-05:00

Well, I am in labor and delivery now. I won't be leaving until our baby has arrived. I went to the doctor's office and they confirmed I was having regular contractions. They did an ultrasound and found that the baby was in position and my cervix was totally thinned and effaced. A quick internal exam confirmed that I was 4-5 cm dilated, so off to the hospital we went.

I've been given Magnesium and a beta blocker cocktail that is supposed to help slow the contractions, which were 3-5 minutes apart for the first few hours I was here. Those meds seem to have helped, as the contractions aren't as strong or as frequent. I was also given my first shot of betamethasone, a steroid to help the baby's lungs to hurry up and mature. The hope is that I will be able to hold off on delivering for another 48 hours. They like to give a second injection of betamethasone 24 hours after the first, and then wait 24 hours to give that second injection time to work before delivery. I'm at least 5 cm dilated now and the membrane is bulging, the baby's head right at the cervical opening. My water hasn't broken yet, but part of the mucous plug has broken off, so the doctor said it doesn't look promising that we are going to make it another two days. I will likely be having the baby tomorrow. But, every second he stays inside is a little more time his lungs are having to get ready for the outside world. I want to give him as much time as I can. All I can do is breathe, pray and try to relax.

I'm not allowed to eat or drink anything, in case a c-section becomes necessary. It looks like we will be able to deliver vaginally, but you never know. Honestly, the stomach pain from not having any food in my tummy is almost as bad as the contractions right now. They are going to give me an Ambien tonight, so I can get some sleep in case I need to push tomorrow. All of the doctors and nurses keep asking me why I'm not pursuing pain medication but the truth is, I'm not really in pain. I'm REALLY uncomfortable, and there are times that I would like some relief from that discomfort. But the discomfort waxes and wanes and I can't really justify taking pain medicine if I'm not feeling actual pain.

So...how do I feel about the baby coming out so soon (30 weeks today)? Not psyched. I've cried, I've joked, I've gone ballistic about the state of our house, and now I've resigned myself to the fact that I have little control over this so I just need to roll with the punches. My 2-page, 10 font, Birth Plan is out the window. I haven't had my doula come, as things are so up in the air right now. The weird thing is, I really like her, but I'm not even sure if I want her here for the labor. Things are so far astray from what I had planned. There will be no holding the baby and bonding with him after he's born. He will immediately be taken by the NICU team to have his lungs flushed with a liquid that will help him breathe. Then, he'll have to be taken to a sterile incubator, as he will have no means of regulating his own temperature and little means of fighting off infections. He won't be able to suck or swallow, so he will have a tube placed down his nose and into his stomach, for feedings. I will be able to pump breast milk for him, but it is unclear whether he will be able to latch in the next couple of months. He'll likely be hospitalized for around 8 weeks after birth. Again...not our plan. So, facing all of this crisis, there's a part of me that just wants my husband's support (which he is really being great about giving) and no interruptions from anyone else. We need to get through this as a family. Maybe I'll change my minds when the labor gets painful and I'll want the doula's support, but for now, I'm just going to go with what my gut is telling me.

Anyways, thanks for all of the prayers and well wishes. It means the world to me. I'm not sure how things are going to go over the next couple of days, so I'm not sure how many updates I will be able to give. I have my laptop with me, so if I'm able to, I'll write updates. I really appreciate having so many supporters out there. This would be really scar if I was alone. But I'm not. So thank you. Okay. Ambien time.

Please Keep Your Fingers Crossed For Me

2011-11-10T13:58:00.000-05:00

I have to go in today for another non-stress test and an internal exam (instead of waiting until tomorrow). Even though I started feeling better today, I started spotting late this morning. Not a lot, but enough that I have to go in to get things checked out. I'd appreciate any prayers anyone has to send my way. We are only 30 weeks today, so I am not ready for the baby to come out yet. I'm sure this is nothing...but still...crossed fingers would be great.

I'll let you all know how it goes.

Stupid Stress Strikes Again

2011-11-09T18:56:00.000-05:00

Today I had my 30 week check-up. It didn't go as planned. I thought I would listen to the heartbeat, get my belly measured, and be off to do some grocery shopping. Instead, three hours after my appointment started, I was talking with my OB about how the non-stress test indicated some cause for concern.

As an initial matter, I should note that a couple of things came up in the last couple of days which were really stressful for me. I don't want to get into what those things were, but they probably weren't as significant as my pregnancy hormones made them. I didn't sleep at all on Monday night/Tuesday morning and neither did the baby. My stress seems to make him spazzy. On Tuesday, the initial stressor had resolved for the most part, but there was a new one that took its place. I was too exhausted to be as upset on Tuesday as I had been on Monday, but still, it was a long two days.

So, when the baby wasn't moving much Tuesday night or today, I wasn't horribly concerned. I thought he was probably just tired out from all of the "excitement." But, when the nurse listened to the heartbeat at my appointment today, she said "Is it always this fast?" I asked how fast the heartbeat was and she told me the baby's heartrate was 174. He hasn't been that high since he was a tiny bean. He usually runs around 135 now. The nurse asked if I had noticed any changes in his movements, and I told her about the stress and subsequent lull in his kicks. The nurse went and got the doctor (one of Dr. C's colleagues), who felt around my belly for awhile and listened to the heartbeat herself. She said "we need to put you on the monitor." My heart sank a little, but I had felt the baby move in the waiting room before my appointment, and we had just heard the heartbeat, so I wasn't too frantic.

After 20 minutes on "the monitor," which is a machine that reminds me of a giant EKG...with the electrodes on the belly instead of the chest (actually...that's basically what it is), the doctor came in and said she wanted Dr. C to take a look at the "strips" (the printouts of the baby's heartbeat, measurements of movements, and measurements of my contractions). Apparently, the strips showed that I was having contractions and the baby's heartrate was being affected by them. I stayed strapped into the monitor for another 20 minutes (after a quick potty break) and then the machine started beeping...indicating no fetal heartbeat. When no nurse immediately came into the room, I started yelling...without shame. The nurse practitioner came in and explained that the baby is still small enough that he can move and that is all that happened...he moved so far away from the monitor that they couldn't hear his heartbeat. The nurse practitioner found the heartbeat again and, upon confirming that it was steady, said there was no point in monitoring further because they knew what was going on. I had to wait for Dr. C.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dr. C came into the room and looked at the strips. He said that I was having contractions, but they weren't as strong or regular as what one would expect with active labor. The baby's heartrate was showing inconsistencies, especially around the time of the contractions, but the baby did not appear to be in distress. Dr. C said that I need not worry, as that was his job. He wasn't "worried, per se," but he felt an abudance of caution would be prudent because women with insulin dependent gestational diabetes have a higher rate of stillbirth (no matter what the context, the phrase "stillbirth" feels like a knife through my heart). He told me he wants to see me again on Friday evening for another session of monitoring, just to be sure that this is a matter of the baby and I having "an off day," which he assured me happens all the time. I'm glad that he is being cautious and I believe him when he says he isn't worried. I think if he was worried, I would be in the hospital tonight.

While I wait for Friday to arrive, I am supposed to take it "very easy." I am supposed to avoid anything stressful or upsetting, even if it is just something on the news that bothers me. I am supposed to lay on my left side as much as is comfortable and do kick counts for twenty minutes at a time, three times a day. If the baby doesn't move in the first twenty minutes, I am supposed to get up and drink a cold sugary beverage, and lay back on my side for another twenty minutes. If there is still no movement, I need to call Dr. C and go to the office immediately. The baby should move three or four times in the twenty minutes following the sugary drink and change of position. I'm really going to try to relax. It is hard when there is so much to do. Sometimes I will do something that I think is going to be relaxing, like starting to plan the furniture arrangement of the nursery, only to find myself panicking 30 minutes into it about something stupid (like how the furniture won't fit in the tiny room). It is tough to avoid stress right now, but for the sake of having a great appointment on Friday, I'm going to try my hardest. Maybe the baby just needs a spa day...via mommy having a spa day of course.