when We became Three (part two)

So here I am.   It's February.  It's cold.  I am 6 weeks pregnant, I have a tiny picture of my little sea money and her volleyball.  I am still terrified. 

8 weeks pregnant.  I have more nightmares.  I take my vitamins and aspirin and pills religiously.  I have never been so diligent with my diet.  I crave salt like I could never have imagined.  At one point, I honestly contemplated licking the dried salt off my dirty car.  It was just sitting in the parking lot of my apartment complex, all crusted over with months of road salt and sand and snow all compounded into a delicious, dirty crust, and I have to tell myself out loud not to eat it.  The non-pregnant me despises salt.  I am nauseous, but am not sure if it's the hormones or the constant worry that this wonderful thing will disappear forever again. 

3 am.  A cold Wednesday night.  I love those kind of winter nights, the kind where it's too cold to breath and all the moisture is crystalized, so that everything, from tree branches to trash bags sparkle.  And it is so quite outside that your own body seems obnoxiously noisy.  I wake up from a deep sleep with the sensation of being wet, very wet.  I bolt upright, still half asleep but all the same knowing what was happening.  Blood.  Everywhere.  All over my bed.  I stand up, run to the bathroom and turn on the light, brace myself as I turn to look in the mirror.  More blood, gushes of blood.  Its over now, no doubt.  I clean up and go sit in bed, staring out the window at this perfect winter night.  Mark wakes up and I tell him its over...I'm still staring out the window.  I don't want to look at him, I don't want him to look at me.  All I want to do is stare at the sparkles.  

I'm not crying, I'm numb.  Our dream is over, I am done.  Never again, I won't go through this again, I promised myself. 

Time passes, Mark wants to take me to the hospital.  I refuse.  Why?  So that it's real?  So that I have to hear what I already know, so that some cold doctor can tell me with the same amount of compassion that Barbie Bitch gave me that I am no longer a mother?  No...no.  Not again. 

We finally go.  I start thinking I may have to think about my own health, though truthfully I couldn't give a shit at the moment.  We go.  To the ER in the very hospital where we both worked/have worked.  Mark's former co-workers are everywhere.  Of course they recognize us, of course they will probably overhear.  Of course they know something is very wrong because I am crying now and we don't talk to anyone, don't smile or nod.  This is not like us, so of course, they know.  I know they know.  I failed again.  

The doctor comes in, does an exam.  Says he can't feel anything significant.  Nice, what the hell does that mean.  They don't have an ultrasound machine here.  Well, they tell me its on maternity and they can not get it now (because maternity is an entire flight up from the ER, really?)  They don't even have a doppler to check for a heartbeat.  So that's it, I go back to my own doctor in the morning for an ultrasound...for now I am sent home...I don't sleep.  

The ride to my doctor's office is quiet...I still don't want to talk.  I still feel this strange buzz inside me, I feel my body pulsate like it never has before, and for some reason, I have hope this morning.  

Back in the room, the same ultrasound tech. I hold my breath, Mark is standing so very still.  The tech smiles and my heart just melted into my chest.  "your baby is dancing" and she turned the screen.  There was my sea monkey, though now it looks exactly like a peanut shell.  That same flicker is much more visible now.  I am staring so hard, and I see it.  Our peanut is wiggling in a slow wave.  Mark is crying now, which I never see him do.  Again, I am a mother, and I think he finally realized he was a father.  We float out of the office.  We nickname our baby Ceci, for chickpea.  

10 weeks.  More bleeding.  I am at work and I feel that horrifying, all too familiar feeling.  Back to my lovely OB.  ANother ultrasound.  Now our ceci is out of the peanut stage and looks like a tiny baby, with flipper arms and legs.  I never lost my faith that time,our baby is too strong, but I am worried.  I am fascinated by how much this little chickpea changes every two weeks.  I see my amazing doctor again.  I have a couple diagnoses.  One, a small subchorionic bleed, she shows me on the ultrasound picture gripped my hand.  My sweet Ceci's head is resting on a pillow, which she tells me is actually a pocket of blood.  But it is too small to explain my large quantities of blood and frequent bleeds.  She speculates its a placental issue.   I should take it easy, I shouldn't be upright as much as possible.  I can work but my feet need to be elevated as much as possible.  And we are advised to cancel our cruise we should be on in a couple weeks, she is so apologetic, but I don't mind much.  I would trade a cruise for a baby any day.  

12 weeks, the big ultrasound.  I have been feeling better.  No more large bleeds and we have our own doppler so we can listen to our baby's heartbeat every night.  It feels so good to hear that sound.  We see our Ceci again, who now looks even more like a little person.  She is sleeping and the tech has to push and wiggle and poke her to get measurements.  Ceci looks like a cartoon, sleeping, the rise and fall of her little body, floating.  I can't stop staring, I never want the picture to end.  

20 weeks.  Ultrasound.  Mark and I decided early on we do not want to know the gender.  Our nursery is sea life and blue and green and beautiful.  Shells from our honeymoon are nailed to the walls and piled in bowls in the room.  Books about the sea and its creatures line the shelves. I can't believe this is our child's room.  

We see Ceci again, though we can no longer call her that because she is so big.  We see her face for the first time, her legs, arms feet.  Its all too amazing.  She can't get a good face shot.  The tech is a bit rough, its painful but I want to see more.  More bad news, I have complete placenta previa.  Another explanation for my heavy bleeding.  At least I have another answer.  

In a moment of weakness I ask the tech the gender.  She manipulates my belly over and over...but the baby's legs are sealed shut.  I get up, go to the bathroom, jump up and down, drink juice...nothing.  Our lazy baby is still snoozing away.  I am crushed, I need to know.  I walk out tearful.  I show my sister the pictures and comment on how much the baby looks like Mark.  To this day she still thinks I was upset because of my child's resemblance to her father.  But I wanted to have girl now, so badly I couldn't think about anything else. 

I didnt always feel this way.  In the beginning all I could think of was having a boy.  I became rather annoyed when people said I looked to be carrying a girl.  What did they know?  I am having a boy....period.  Until one day I woke up and wanted a girl, more badly than I had wanted my boy.  I wanted to buy pink clothes and bows and snuggle my baby girl.  I am now obsessed with having a girl, and I have to know, and I can't.  Add in my pregnancy hormones and the heat and I am not a happy or pleasant person.  My mother is convinced we are having a girl, she even filled my baby's closet with pink, organic outfits she bought when I was only 9 weeks pregnant.  I think she is crazy, but try to stop my mother from buying baby clothes and you'd only encourage her more. 

I have another ultrasound at 26 weeks, placenta is still firmly in place and is very unlikely to move.  We start talking about c-sections.  Because of my history, my OB says we may have to go as early at 32 weeks if the baby is struggling.  I am as inactive as I can possibly be.  I am swelling up.  My feet, my fingers.  At one point I attempt to remove the beautiful wedding rings from my hand.  After many lotions, potions and tricks, no one is able to take it off.  My skin is raw and bleeding.  We make the trip to a jewelry store 40 minutes away to have some old man cut the rings off my fat fingers.  We shop for baby clothes while he welds the rings back together.  My doctor calls, I have borderline gestational diabetes.  I passed the big test, but not by much.  More good news.  

I research placenta previa.  It happens in 2% of pregnancies, gestational diabetes happens in 1%.  Those are some odds I am beating.  And then, some good news.  My placenta is moving...it shouldn't, but it is.  Over the next few weeks it moves little by little until finally, it is the required 3 cm away from the cervix (6 cm, actually).  C-section is off!

More ultrasounds.  I am absolutely huge.  My feet are unrecognizably swollen.  My hands and face are as well.  I am happily reading all about labor.  I want med free, hypno-birthing.  I read all about the history of birthing, autobiographies by midwives and listen to my tapes, attend my childbirth classes.  I buy special lotions and oils to help me through my labor.  I can't contain my excitement.  When will it happen? How will it happen, where will I be?  I pack, unpack and repack my bag.  Over and over.  I fold onesies and boil pacifiers and rearrange my apartment daily.  I buy birthing tapes and balls and hire a doula.  

We are getting closer.  We have known our baby was breech since 26 weeks.  We are told over and over that she will turn, we have time.  Every week, she is still breech.  I have hope, I know she will turn.  I am going natural if it kills me.  I listen to my tapes, do my pregnancy yoga and dream about the day I will meet my baby.  

when We became Three (part one)

I have a lot of initial posting to do, since this is my motherhood blog, it seems appropriate that I start the relatively long story about when I became a mother.  (isn't it always a long story?  As mothers, even if it isn't, we will make it a long story, won't we?)

Mark and I always knew we wanted children.  We were married one year to the day of our first date, on a beautiful island with only the native birds, lizards and sea turtles as wedding guests.  Not even our families knew.  It was the happiest days of my life, we had so much fun.

We talked about starting a family right away.  I had a very happy childhood and couldn't wait to replicate that with my own children.  Mark's reasons were very different.  His entire childhood, and most of adulthood, was severely stifled by the one person who should have loved him most.  Unfortunately, his mother was and is a very toxic and cruel human being who really never deserved the privilege of having such a wonderful person, people really, in her life.  I think Mark wanted to create the loving family he was never allowed to have.  And while it certainly isn't an ideal motivator, he truly is the most amazing father to our girls I could have ever asked for.  All the love he was denied by his mother, he has multiplied infinitely and bestowed on our family.  I'll never know how he found the strength to do that, or if it was just in his nature all along.

I joined a motherhood forum I am still a part of today.  I love the women I have met there, but they will get their own tribute soon enough.  We started diets, supplements.  I took my temperature, peed on several sticks a day, charted everything I could to prepare.  Our first try...nothing.  Our second try.....

Mark was at work, it was Christmas Eve.  I called Mark to yell at him.  Why had he made caffeinated coffee this morning for me, he knew we had given it up months ago.  I was shakey and wired and my heart was pounding.  I can't believe he mixed up the coffees.  I am prepared to rip him a new one (I'm in a great mood).  He assures me he is 100% positive that he made decaf, we don't even have caffeinated in our house.  Hmmmm.  I think.  I pee. I see it.  The faint, but definitely there double pink line.  My knees buckle.  My legs feel like rubber.  I can barely walk over to the phone.  I call Mark again, all I can say when he answers is "I'm pregnant".  He laughs, as Mark does when he gets really good news.  We go to our family party that night.  I can't stop smiling.  I am pregnant and its Christmas and I am so happy.  I drink ginger ale in a wine glass and we smile all night at our littlest, biggest secret.  The next day is Christmas and I show my parents and sisters my pregnancy test.  I drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass at another family party and can barely open my presents I am so happy.  Its Christmas...and I'm pregnant...

New Year's Eve I wake up sweating, upset.  I had an awful dream where I am bleeding and have lost the baby.  I am shaken up.  I go to work.  I still feel awful...something isn't right.  Halfway through the day my awful nightmare came true, I am bleeding, just like in my dream.  And just as in my dream, I lose my pregnancy.  Blood tests confirm I'm pregnant, and losing it.  All the excitement, all the happiness, ripped away.  Stolen.  This is a sadness I have never felt.  I mourn my loss of motherhood, and am convinced now that my body is incapable of carrying a pregnancy as it should.  I start the long, tedious process of searching the web for international adoption.  The rules are so strict, the expense is exorbitant.  I start paperwork anyway.

I lost my pregnancy on December 31st....by January 16th, we had conceived again.  On January 26th, I had that familiar feeling as if Mark had made the regular coffee.  Only this time, I'm not angry at him.  I freeze when my heart starts to pound.  No way.  I just had a miscarriage.  I can not be pregnant.  It is impossible, right?  I go online, I search and search.  Not impossible.  The internet, and my motherhood forum, is just chock full of stories like mine....I pee again.  That familiar, light but definitely there double pink line.  I am, for the second time in 3 weeks, pregnant.

I'm only happy for a moment, and all my happiness quickly turns to fear.  I can't go through this again.  I tell Mark, I tell my mom this is it.  If I lose this baby, we will not be having biological children.  Mark is adopted, so we are both very open to raising children that don't share our genetics.  I continue the application process, though it will be many years before we can afford to take home our baby.

6 weeks pregnant, and I am bleeding.  I am not too surprised.  I call my doctor in tears.  I have a consult. She is a beautiful woman, looks like Barbie.  I want her to help me, to tell me its ok, to do an exam, anything...but she is so cold.  She is not interested in me or my pregnancy.  She tells me my previous miscarriage is common.  30 percent or more of pregnancies actually end in miscarriage, she tells me.  How comforting, thanks.  I am crying hard now.  She callously hands me a tissue box and I feel ashamed.  She proceeds to tell me that years ago women didn't have home pregnancy tests, so I would have never even know I was pregnant back then.  Great, I feel much better, thanks.  She doesn't even know I am pregnant again.  She didn't bother to look at my chart.  When I explain I am again pregnant, her only advice was "well, thats pretty fast, you should have waited".  She tells me, a woman who just lost a baby and may be losing another, that she just had her own baby, so that if my baby makes it, she won't deliver it anyway because she stays home with her baby at night.  She points to a picture on her desk.  She tells me that if I am losing this baby there is nothing anyone can do.  I am sent home to wait for it to end.  I am devastated, heartbroken, defeated.

The next day I have pain and more bleeding.  The Barbie bitch I had seen yesterday is unavailable, I have to go to another hospital, but the OB there wants to do an ultrasound.  I go.  I have the wand inside me and I turn my head.  I don't want to look at it, I know what is happening.  The tech turns the screen and tells me to look.  What type of terrible, sick person forces a person to look at her own dead baby?  I look at her...then the screen.  I cant stop myself.  I see a large black circle, and inside, a tiny little seahorse holding a volley ball.  The tech points out a faint flicker.  "That's the heartbeat".   I am shocked.  A heartbeat?  I'm still pregnant?  But its the same thing that just happened, the bleeding, the pain.  They can't explain it, but I am pregnant.  I am told to wait, the OB who ordered the ultrasound wants to see me, but she is in surgery. She comes down still dressed in her OR gear.  She is much different than Barbie bitch.  She is kind. She is patient.  She talks to me, reassures me, comforts me. She tells me she does not know why I am bleeding.  She tells me if I lose this pregnancy, she will make sure I never lose another one.  I instantly adore her, she cares, like really cares.


She became my new doctor that day.  And I became a mother.

Slow and Steady Wins the Race...

I thought I was going to the hospital today for a quick appointment.  I ended up spending 4 hours there.  I have had bilateral mastitis basically since JJ was born. I have been on several rounds of oral antibiotics with no reprieve.  My OBGYN was at a loss, none of the other OBs or midwives knew what to do either.  I was already on the strongest oral regimen.  I still have fevers and the infection is spreading.

Today I saw the infectious disease specialist, since apparently I am the only postpartum patient that this has ever happened to at this hospital.  I figured since mastitis was so common, it was no big deal, but apparently, my case of persistent, antibiotic resistant mastitis was cause for more concern than I bothered to give it.

I brought Jada with me today.  Mark met me there but had to leave before old man river walked in.  I much prefer younger to older doctors.  Older doctors tend to be too conservative, and resistant to the new age (but really, very old age) parenting ways I have adopted.  They hate co-sleeping and think breast feeding is only necessary for a few weeks.  Of course, his very first piece of advice was to quit breast feeding.  I remained calm.  I told him simply that this was in no way an option.  I think he was annoyed that his easy-way-out solution wasn't going to fly with me.  Nope, I'm just going to make you think a little bit harder than that.

The solution: a 10 day stretch of daily IV antibiotics.  Fantastic.  Because I can think of no better way to spend my summer maternity leave than to be pumped full of high dose antibiotics that will no doubt, while curing me of my painful infection, will cause some fabulous GI side effects...perhaps thrush even.  Nice.

I have my infusion, all the while trying to nurse and calm a fussy JJ without bending my left arm too much.  I await the call from my insurance company..I am just so excited for this bill!  I am set up with a home IV infusion kit and a visiting nurse.  Finally, I am allowed to go home.  Jada is sleeping peacefully for now.

I make the 45 minute trip home.  Its a lovely drive mostly, even the highway is a two lane and typically quite calm.  I am reflecting, as I do when I drive, since the option of music is out, now that I have joined the parenting club.  I now enjoy silence, I appreciate, where once I loathed it and longed to fill any gaps in noise with more noise, and noise on top of that.

I see an old truck on the side of the highway.  50  feet behind it, a man, walking on the edge of the highway, toward the truck.  He is dressed in dirty torn jeans and a cut off flannel shirt.  He has longer hair and a scruffy beard.  He is carrying a rock back toward the truck. I am momentarily annoyed at the disruption in my thoughts, because now I have to move over a lane.  I was in a driving zone, on autopilot.  I enjoy driving when you don't have to think about driving.  The lumberjack broke my non- concentration.  What the hell was he doing walking along the highway, presumably toward his truck with no evidence of tools or gasoline to fix a breakdown?  I pass him and briefly glance in my mirror to glide back into my lane, and I see it.  The man is holding that rock at an awkward angle, away from his body.  Except now, it is clearly not a rock, but a small turtle.  This man had pulled over on a busy highway, walked a hundred feet, and risked his neck to move it to safety.  And not just side-of-the-road safety, he was taking it back to his truck.  He was actually going to drive this little hitchhiker to a location more hospitable to little hard shelled reptiles.

Suddenly, my long, annoying day was over.  I am smiling at this burly man carrying his little critter friend, away from his body like he was afraid of it, a little.  And I know that this is what I want.  A world where a person like this cares enough to acknowledge that a few minutes of his time could save what some would see as a pretty insignificant creature.  A world where we are able to acknowledge that while we are the most destructive creatures who live here,  we should care about who we share our world with.  I want to live in a world where people respect each other, are remotely aware of how to cut down on damage we do here with our toxins, and poisons and destruction...and maybe try to prevent that a little.


That is the world I want to raise my children in.  I'm still smiling...

Everyone else is doing it, so why shouldn't I?

Thats not the only reason.  I have wanted to start my own blog for a long time.  Why? Well because I tend to blog my life in my head anyway.   I have been doing this in fact since I was very young, long before the word blog meant what it does today.   Back when the word may have conjured up images of digestive remains or a type of mucus ball.  Maybe that's the mother in me though, every thing is one or the other with young children.  

I also suck at journaling,  which I always wished I was able to do.  Someday, perhaps I will reflect on this blog, maybe I can share bits with my children as they grow up.  Perhaps I will use it for nostalgic reasons, to resurrect memories that might otherwise be lost in the infinite moments of life.  Even if I am the only person to ever see these words, I will certainly be grateful for that.  With my children, there are far too many wonderful moments of life I don't want to lose amongst the mundane chores of bill paying and picking bits of food from places I would have sworn it was absolutely impossible for food to be.  

I have two beautiful children, little girls.  My dream.  Di is about 20 months old, and JJ is 7 weeks old.  I plan to write about my experience with my pregnancies and births with each of them, again, mostly for myself, and for them.  I plan to use a graphic version to scare away potential boyfriends and embarrass them at cheerleading sleepovers.  But mostly, so I remember how amazing every moment of pregnancy, birth and raising my babies was, is, and will be.