Ankle Rolls

shhh

2009-01-04T22:35:00.000-08:00

In the slumber-sighing night room, I listen with breath held and motions stilled for the certain sounds of my children breathing.

The glow-in-the-dark stars have mostly faded for the night, as have I, and smudged shapes refuse to identify themselves for what I know they are: stuffed animals. A shelf. Possibly a kitten who's padded silently in, waiting for me to settle so that she can as well.

And as my children breathe out, I see the dancing translucence of their dreams and memories and visions of things to come.

L curls sideways around pillows, an arm flung to one side, the other wrapped lankily around Monkey. I kiss his sweet ear or his cheek, and breathe in the little boy smell still hiding there. His chest rises and falls (and sometimes I put my own cheek to it just to make sure, as I've done since he was born and probably will until he strikes out on his own in this world.) I imagine he dreams now of mythological creatures crossed with dinosaurs and Disney characters.

My little Ella sleeps in her own bed, where she seems -- surprisingly -- to really want to be. She's kicked her blankets off her body. Again. But her soft blankie is clutched in one hand up to her cheek or buried over her face, terrifying me. I gently tug it away and my stomach unclenches when she issues a contented sigh. I stroke her quickly thickening head of hair, my fingers silently imparting love and gentleness. Her dreams I suspect are of her brother and myself, maybe the new things she's learned to do, like give open-mouthed kisses and make silly sounds purposefully.

Translucence of dragonfly wings, whisping and whorling into forevers.

The beautiful night goes on.

One! Sing-u-lar sensation! ... is still singular

2008-12-02T22:27:00.001-08:00

Single parenthood sucks. Wow. Stunning revelation, hunh? It's hard, it's exhausting, it's imperfect. (Actually, in my case it's closer to rarely reaching a level of self-acceptance.)

It is tossing and turning at 2:30 in the morning while analyzing decisions and paths and ultimatums. Perhaps even decisions, paths and ultimatums from a week ago. Or a month.

It is constant wonder about which particular act will ruin the kids forever.

Single parenthood is vows to never ruin the kids forever.

It is saying goodbye to your children once a week. Every single week. And sending them off in some cases with the person you once loved more than you ever thought possible, and then hated more than humanly possible, and now have a balanced insanity with.

Single parenthood is coming home late at night after work to the toys and clothes and books and all the reminders of your babies ... except your actual babies.

And turning on the TV or going online because you can't sleep through the missing of them.

Going through the motions. Lather rinse repeat. Waiting for something to break the cycle. Wondering how many have gone through this path before you and come out clean, because nothing in life is original or unexperienced. Wondering what will be next you never could have anticipated, but anticipating it all the same because perhaps it will be that critical change you wished for to create a new life for your family and for yourself. That one new thing that you did-thought-said-typed to change. It. All. Forever. Happily. Ever. After.

Because guess what? When you stop waiting for IT, IT will happen. It cannot be repeated enough, that mantra. Or apparently it can't be, because damned again if someone hasn't repeated it to you. Such bullshit.

And it's self-perpetuating. Because your kids will always come first (as it should be), no one will ever measure up. Because you put their interests above all else (as it should be), your own true personhood is delayed and then lost. As it should not be.

It's also a yearning to be with your children all the free time you have. To ignore everyone else or activities that don't involve them. Because you're doing this by yourself while working full time, the time spent is never, ever enough. And it's not just some guilty sense. It's true craving to be with them because they're the highest purpose ever and how could you not WANT to be with them all the time? How could you not rejoice in the joy of them? Delight in their changes? Meet them anew all over and over again?

It's probably not a whole lot different from parenting as a couple, I suppose. Only you're left to bear everything alone. There's no one to back up your parental decisions, but more vitally, no one to back YOU up. Your bed, assuming a child is not sleeping in it, or a cat, is cold when you climb in. Your worries unvoiced and lingering.

There's no one to chide you that it's all better during the daylight hours.

To reassure you in a way you might actually believe because of the source.

It is, in the middle of bountiful love, lonely.

Who is strong enough to take this all on, to love my children as I do? How could I ask that of someone? And yet I'm willing to love someone else's children, should I be lucky enough to meet a fellow lonely single parent who happens to be my perfect mate.

Sensational.

Amazing, this parental life

2008-11-13T02:40:00.000-08:00

When you become a parent, it becomes this exquiste balance of hope and terror.

You expose yourself to the very ultimate in fear. You open your heart and your mind and your every utter fiber to the very real immediate possibility of devastation. How do I explain, really, this potential agony? Every detail you read in the newspaper becomes your own possibile scenario.

And it resonates.

So deeply.

The little 2-year-old boy still strapped in his car seat when the car he's riding in rockets on rain-wetted leaves irretrievably into the river is a little boy who will visit you in your dreams. To tell you it's OK. And that you need to protect your babies closer.

This true deep love is powerful and terrifying. Have I conveyed that specifically instead of in generalities?

What if I tell you that it only compounds? Builds?

You have another child and all of the possible terrors multiply.

And then. Yes. It gets worse.

Because THEN your friends have babies, too. And this love that you've become incapable of controlling suddenly expands. Takes these babies in, too.

Isn't that impossible? Right?

Except.

Yes, except.

I am a firm believer in balance. Ying/yang, goddess/god, the whole thing. And here it is, in full utter glorious example.

Parenting is soooo good!

I am the first mama in this entire damn world to mark these milestones. Mine, mine, mine. My every amazing beings.

Ferocious devoted love! Glorious depths, physical joy!

The way these babies smell, the way you breathe in the scent of their hair, their skin. And oh, that skin! Soft, gentle, unfettered skin! Delicate brushes of lips against it, to preserve it as you simultaneously consume it!

Every bit of these children has never been explored before. It's cliche, like possibly and likely all of this, but nonetheless the absolute truth.

Yup. You have fallen in love. Love beyond explanation, because it is this love that leaves you utterly vulnerable. Remember?

With reward. The reward of words. The reward of milestones. The reward of devoted, passionate love.

Passionate love for your child. Your creation.

Yes, babies, this is my love for you.

And I am at once terrified and grateful.

She's 1!

2008-10-26T16:11:00.000-07:00

Or I guess I should point out, 1 and two days. Wow. I wondered if I'd write on her first birthday, just a quick line, but figured I wouldn't have time. I was right.

There was so much going on, getting ready for her party and doing other house stuff. So the actual day passed, and I didn't really feel its effects like I thought I would. You know -- living in the past, the "this is where I was in the hospital exactly one year ago" stuff. There was just too much to revel in in the present to let myself become preoccupied.

Then today came. The family and I went down to the waterfront for trick or treating, as we do every year. Last year, it was on Sunday, the day after I'd been discharged and just four days after my C-section. But I still went, even in my dazed over state. I was really tired and not moving so quickly, but determined to do it for L even though a member of our family wasn't with us.

This year, she was:)

There's a water fountain by the aquarium that draws L every time like a bee to pollen. He can't spend enough time there. So I was sitting on the bottom level with the baby while he and my sister were playing up top. And I started to think about the previous year. And I held Ella closer to me. And snuggled my face into her shoulder because I was crying all of a sudden.

Watching her take everything in in that very wise, observant way she has, looking at the sun sparkling in her hair and eyelashes, kissing her cold-reddened cheeks ... and then thinking about the activity of the past two days and how well she did with everything ... And then knowing how much she loves me. ME. How she reaches out for me all the time. How she becomes upset if I set her down or hand her to anyone else. And watching her brother play ... As cheesy as it sounds, my heart was so full of love and gratitude. And this brought the tears.

And then I noticed the guy fishing for coins out of the fountain.

I started to get so mad as he moved from place to place, fishing out the coins. I didn't care about whatever dire need drove him to do it. I only worried that he was stealing people's wishes! Parents walking by with trick-or-treaters would look then be taken aback, pulling their children abruptly away. I just sat and watched as my tears dried. Thoughts raced through my head about chastising him. But he looked pretty grouchy and I wasn't about to step in it.

So I started to think, OK. The wish is made when the coin is tossed and the person walks away. He can't be stealing wishes, and if the money helps him, then who am I to become so judgmental?

And then he came closer.

I looked into the water by us, and there was a big silver coin. I knew he was coming for it. He set his pack down and rolled up his sleeves, right next to us. He reached into the frigid water and swooped it out effortlessly. Pulled his clutching hand out, shook the water off and rolled his sleeves back down.

And reached over.

And gave Ella the coin.

As a birthday approaches ...

2008-10-19T23:29:00.000-07:00

... here's a present for you!

March of Dimes

2008-10-05T21:03:00.000-07:00

Hi stranger!

So as Ella's birthday fast approaches, I'm reminded of a yearly event sponsored by the March of Dimes: The NICU Day of Gratitude. It's a day where NICU families and staff reunite to see how far the babies have come. Last year, it was held about a week after Ella's birth. It was comforting for me to meet some of the families who had already endured the experience I was yet to face.

I'm sure you already know about the work of The March of Dimes. If not, I've added a handy link at the top of this page. And I've also posted a brief synopsis of Ella's story on the site as part of a nationwide "quilt." If you follow the link, you'll be able to search for her and to leave comments.

NOTE: I don't know if her story's up just quite yet, so please check back. It might need to go through official channels first. In the meantime, click around and read some of the other babies' stories. You'll see how special Ella really is in this world.

Are You Covered?

2008-09-30T15:44:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name's Kerrie and I write over at Sanity Department. I'm participating in Absolutely Bananas Monday Writing Prompt about Embarrassing Moments. I already posted one over at www.sanitydepartment.com, but I'm writing a guest column here at Ankle Rolls. Enjoy this humiliating moment and then check out my Alarming Situation over at Sanity Department. Thanks!

Over the summer, me, Mr. T and T Junior went to the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw. We're both part Scottish, so it's something we try to attend every year. T Junior was handling the crowd and the noise of the bagpipes very well.

But, after an hour or so, it was time for him to eat. This was going to be my very first public breastfeeding experience.

We found a spot near the rear of the fairgrounds in an area where there was nothing going on. There were no booths or exhibits, just a lonely, empty bench. Perfect.

I told Mr. T to go enjoy himself while I fed our son.

I got out my privacy shawl and put it over my head. I know what you're thinking: Why didn't you just take a bottle? The answer to your very obvious question is: I'm not sure.

Anyway, breastfeeding a wiggly baby without a Boppy is no easy task. It's even harder when you can't see what you're doing because you are wearing a shawl trying to block others from seeing what you are doing. To make things more complicated, T Junior didn't really like being under this hot shawl. (He likes to observe his surroundings.) I kept having to make him latch again and again, but I couldn't see so it was difficult.

Finally, we got coordinated. He was eating and I was enjoying the music of the opening ceremonies featuring all of the pipe bands, maybe more than 100-pipers and -drummers strong. Even though they were far away, the music was loud and beautiful. A little breeze was blowing. It felt good.

T Junior was still eating when the ceremonies ended. The wind was picking up and I kept having to hold down one side of my shawl (the important side).

Then, to my shock and horror, I saw ALL of the pipers and drummers coming my way. There were lots and lots of men heading directly at us. I struggled to keep the wind from exposing me as EVERY member of ALL of the pipe bands passed right in front of me.

Figures.

A call for submissions

2008-09-11T11:34:00.001-07:00

I hereby extend this call for guest writers for my blog. You may write on any topic you wish. And if you don't volunteer, I'm coming after you.

Heartbeats

2008-09-04T15:57:00.000-07:00

My biggest fear in this life is losing my children. In fact, I'm certain that no one has visualized more horrible ways their children could be hurt than I have. I have a very vivid imagination, and random strangers snatching my children from my very arms is only the base level of my imaginings.

I don't know how I would survive their loss. They are my love, my life, my dreams, my compassion, my everything. It's not just about me, though:) These nouns are what I wish for them, as I try my best to guide and teach and love them for the day I have to set them free. (Not that I won't call ALL. THE. TIME.)

About a month before Ella's birth, my dad and I took a trip to the East Coast for fun. New York and outward. As we were leaving Gettysburg, Pa., we were seriously rear-ended, shoving our rental car into the back of the one in front. We all got out, the driver behind a young college girl profusely apologizing. Then I saw the passenger in the car ahead get out: She was very, very pregnant. Due, in fact, in a week.

The poor college girl had rammed into two pregnant women. What are the chances? Then all her friends started walking by the accident scene on their way to school. Poor thing.

I went to the hospital as a precaution, not really believing anything was wrong but also worried about back issues because we were hit HARD. The nurse brought out a stethoscope and listened for my baby's heartbeat. And couldn't find anything. A couple more nurses came through, and a portable heartbeat-listening-machine (the scientific name for it) still produced ... silence.

Despite their gentle reassurances about old equipment, my terror grew. And tears. The kind, kind, kind doctor came in, told me he was certain the baby was OK, but that they were bringing over a better device and they were going to do an ultrasound as well. That he wasn't at all worried but because I obviously was, he wanted to do what would make me feel better.

It. Took. Forever.

I was so scared, and for the first time contemplated what it would mean to lose the pregnancy I hadn't yet accepted. It's so common a scenario as to be stereotypical: Not knowing what you have until it's gone.

Obviously, the heartbeat was found, the baby once more vividly alive on the ultrasound, another set of pictures for the scrapbook.

How do women who lose their babies cope? How do they survive? It takes a strength I simply cannot imagine. So often after Ella was born and came home, I was lucky enough to be told the stories of strangers, strangers who in the course of telling me their pain and joy became mothers and members of my circle of family.

Rhythms of connections to the past and present and future. Understanding. Of the babies born too early who did not make it. Of the extraordinarily close calls. Of the past losses that present technology would have saved.

Thank you, to all of you, for sharing your beautiful, intimate stories. I hope that my being there for you for those tiny, tiny moments is accepted by the universe as a way of expressing my gratitude and giving back in so many ways I have been given. All of these heartbeats — gone, beating and still to come. I hear them and I feel them.

And on that hospital gurney in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, I felt my own baby's heart beating. And I fell in love with her for the very first time.

Another question, another day

2008-08-31T21:14:00.000-07:00

I'm wondering if I'm the only person who does these two oddball things, and perhaps what they mean. I *have* found over time that NONE my own unique idiosyncrasies are either my own or unique, so that should count for something.

First. I used to do this when I was little and bored on a car ride. As we'd drive along the street, I'd mentally draw a line between a car on one side to the car on the other. The moment the line connected, I'd mentally blow both cars up. Sometimes I still do it, but mostly I'm plotting how I could REALLY blow up the cars that are actually being driven.

There are two variations to this mental imbalance. The first is drawing mental lines in between poles or signs on the sides of the road and clicking them off, and the other is drawing mental lines between cars.

Still with me?

This other is a recent manifestation perhaps derived from when I was with my ex. The first couple of years, I had the only car between us and because it was an insane car, I drove everywhere. My ex always picked the radio station (I'd say 75% of the time it was the same one) and I never, ever changed it. So that's a bit obsessive, but sweet, too, in my sicko mind.

The recent peculiarity is this: When I get home late at night from work (and I only do this then), I click off my radio before pulling into my driveway. But I can't turn it off on a "bad" word. It has to be something good or fun or some such. So if it's, let's say, "Stupid Girls" by Pink, I wouldn't be able to turn it off on the word "stupid," but "girls" would be fine. And if I don't get it turned off in time, I HAVE to wait for a new "good" word.

There you have it. A brief glimpse into my head.

Scary, ain't it?

Now what?

2008-08-27T16:13:00.001-07:00

So you haven't heard from me in a bit because I'm trying to think about the direction of this blog. Should I continue the same track, now that the suspense is gone and you all know my story indeed has a happy (joyous) ending? Certainly, Ella's story doesn't end here. She's now a marvelous 10 months old, almost crawling (if that darn arm wouldn't just STICK there when the legs go from behind!), babbling and so on. Just as happy as can be, too.

The ironic thing is, so many times along the way in writing this, I would be frustrated by my self-imposed structure because something would strike me and I would want to blog about it. A few times, I did. But mostly I didn't, and now that I have the freedom, so to speak, to do so, I can't think of a single blasted thing.

Perhaps I'll throw some random bits out here, a few pictures for now. Because I have a good thing going here, and I don't want to stop now.

This is Ella's LAST night in the hospital! I'd decided I wanted to have the "traditional" hospital experience, so she and I roomed in that final night. Looking back, I'm not sure what the heck the attraction was for me. Capturing some of what was lost, I suppose. But I didn't get a lick of sleep. Hmm. Perhaps it was EXACTLY like a "real" experience, lol. But it was kind of sad, too. I think I wanted it to be just me and her, but I realize how lonely it was that night. And when I left the next day, it was just Ella and I and a nurse walking us out to the car. No family, no friends, no flowers and balloons and being pushed in a wheelchair. But I did get Ella. And so the baby and I made our way home together to start our new life.

Here's a funny, rare sight: Ella in her own bed! You know it's early on (the first day, in fact) 'cause she's so tiny, hunh? Now her bed's a nifty storage place for stuffed animals. Sometimes, she visits them to play. See that quilt under her? I bought that from an Amish woman in Intercourse, Penn. (hee hee)

The Morning After. I'd prepped for the night by having a stock of breast-milk filled bottles at the ready. And boy did we need them!

First bath. Not happy. Not at all.

Yo! Be-yotch! Bring me my bottle, check. (You can't see the thick rope of gold chains tucked under her chin.)

One of my favorite photos, hands down. Look at them adore each other! It's a small hint of the love to come.

Look how big the bonnet is on her head. She's wearing my favorite outfit of the time. It's now part of a shadowbox: A little pink pair of quilted overalls fits perfectly inside an 11"x17" shadowbox. A little pink pair of quilted overalls that once were too big for my daughter.

Yes, it was THAT engrossing!

Shhhh! My babies are sleepin'.

BIG NEWS ALERT! ... with multiple pictures!

2008-08-13T22:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes, you've been so patient. Good job. Now, it's back to the desperate race to catch up with the present. Speaking of presents, I have one at the end of this p-oh-oh-st.

Dec. 17: To see Ella:) 3 13 1/2 ounces. She nurses and roots.

Dec. 18: To see Ella-Bean: Just for 1/2 hour. 3 14 1/2 ounces:) Back after work for a couple of hours. Tried breastfeeding ... and she is 4 pounds, .06 ounces. (Don't believe me? I was THERE! See?)

Dec. 19: To see Ella:) Briefly before work to drop off milk. She's doing well w/bottles.

Dec. 20: Meet R (w/her L) at hospital at 12. To see Ella:) 4, 1.7. Has runny nose, though. I feel bad.

Dec. 21: To see Ella:) Stayed a few hours:) 4.3

Dec. 22: To see Ella:) 4.5

Dec. 23: To see Ella:) 4.7. Nurse says maybe 2-3 weeks!

L holds her!

Dec. 24: To see Ella:) w/L. 4.8. She takes 10 cc nursing:) (An aside: Here's some L brilliance: L: "I'm a nut and I'm very valuable." Me: "To who?" L: "Squirrels.")

Dec. 25: To see Ella:) with sister. 4 9.6. Here's the exciting news: She pulled out her feeding tube and they left it out!! She take full feeding by nursing (for an hour!!) To see Ella:) after work for coupla hours. 4 10.6. (Note: One of the nurses tells me I need to start clearing out some of the things Ella's accumulated — photos, clothes, pictures, etc. I'm kinda offended, but I do it. She also tells me I should come to rounds later that morning, but since it's like 3 a.m. and rounds are at 7 a.m., I decline. I'm such a dumb ass. Read on.)

(Here's Sister holding Ella, for first time, on Christmas Day:) Small on purpose.

(Here are FIRST photos of my baby girl without ANY TUBES, WIRES, ETC. !!!!!!!!!!!! :)

READY FOR IT??? Dec. 26: Today when I call, (nurse) Christine says, "You're not going to believe this ... (dramatic pause) They're talking about sending her home Friday." MAMA INSANITY ENSUES!!

I do go To see Ella:) later, but only after visiting many, many, many baby stores and give official word at work:

My maternity leave has begun!

Confession

2008-08-07T15:37:00.000-07:00

I'm waiting to hear from L (who's at his grandparents') so I can talk to him specifically about the C.D.I., but in the meantime I have something I need to tell everyone before I get back to Ella review. It's not easy to say this, so I'll just have to spit it out.

Deep breath. OK. Here goes.

I listen to country music on the way home from work.

I know! I know. sigh. I could have just kept this secret, but it's been weighing on me. Heavily.

I feel so ashamed.

sob

And I realize now that it's probably something I need to let go of. Listening to, gulp, country music and being a naturally depressed person ... well, it's just sick. Sick!

I have to say it likely began in Mexico. When L and I were in Puerto Vallarta on a day-trip pirate ship adventure, the "pirates" had Big & Rich's "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" blaring from the so-authentic loudspeakers on the ship. Being in a sun-drenched locale full of slightly dressed sexy people, hearing a provocative song ... well, let's just say I was intrigued. So after we got back to the States, I added the song to my iPod. Yes. I paid MONEY for a country song.

And once you get a taste ... well, it was impossible. Sure, I can use the excuse that my radio dial had been programmed to another station that switched formats to become a country station. But am I just fooling myself?

I tried! I really tried to stick with the alternative station I love so much. But my fingers would twitch on the drive home from work. And the public radio station at that time too often discussed heavy topics I didn't want to hear, having been at work all day. And the alternative station at this time was a bit, well, too alternative.

So what I like about country music is that it tells a story most of the time. Yes, there's the same-old, same-old maudlin crap, but there's some funny shit, too. For example, some lyrics:

She said, "I'm going out with my girlfriends"
margaritas at the Holiday Inn
oh mercy ... my only thought
was tequila makes her clothes fall off

I told her put an extra layer on
I know what happens when she drinks patron
her closets missing half the things she bought
tequila makes her clothes fall off

ch....she'll start by kicking out of her shoes
lose an earring in her drink
leave her jacket in the bathroom stall
drop a contact down the sink

them pantyhose ain't gonna last too long
if the DJ puts Bon Jovi on
she might come home in a tablecloth
tequila makes her clothes fall off

Funny, hunh? How about:

I’m the son of a 3rd generation farmer
I’ve been married 10 years to the farmer’s daughter
I’m a God fearin’ hard workin’ combine driver
Hoggin’ up the road on my p-p-p-p-plower
Chug a lug a luggin’ 5 miles an hour
On my International Harvester

Three miles of cars layin’ on their horns
Fallin’ on deaf ears of corn
Lined up behind me like a big parade
Of late to work road-raged jerks
Shoutin’ obscene words flippin’ me the bird

Well you may be on a state-paved road
But that blacktop runs through my payload
Excuse me for tryin’ to do my job
But this year ain’t been no bumper crop
If you don’t like the way I’m a drivin’
Get back on the interstate
Otherwise sit tight and be nice
And quit yer honkin’ at me that way

OK. Sometimes, they're really really sad, like this one about exes trading the kids:

Every other Friday
It's toys and clothes and backpacks
Is everybody in?
OK let's go see Dad
Same time in the same spot
Corner of the same old parking lot
Half the hugs and kisses
There are always sad
We trade a couple words and looks and kids again
Every other weekend

And then there's this one. It always gets to me. (Wonder why.)

Got my face pressed up against the nursery glass
She's sleepin' like a rock
My name on her wrist
Wearin' tiny pink socks
She's got my nose, she's got her mama's eyes
My brand new baby girl
She's a miracle

The cookie dough incident

2008-08-06T00:01:00.001-07:00

OK, so this has nothing to do with Ella, but it's really weighing on me and I need to do something to relieve the angst, if possible.

L requested for his treat cookie dough during my last grocery trip, and I complied. So last night, I went to have a glob or two and discovered just three left. Out of the whole package.

It had been a long, busy day, the baby was to bed and I wanted to just sit with my kid on the couch, each of us with a book in hand, nose in book, and eat something crappy for my fat ass.

Three cookie dough globs in the whole package.

I took a bite of one.

And then L asked me if he could have them.

At this point, I totally lost my temper. In true asshole fashion, I shoved the package at him and launched into dramatic tirade about how I never get anything for myself, that I have to share everything, blah blah blah. I then basically threw the half-eaten blob onto the package and told him to eat it all.

Is it normal to shove your problems down an 8-year-old's throat? How about a day after the child has turned 8? Yes, it had been his birthday the day before.

After some back-and-forthing with him telling me never mind, he ate the two blobs. But it doesn't end there.

I tried to make him eat the half-eaten blob as well.

And then I made him cry as I told him he had to eat it.

At some point, I came back to understanding exactly what a fucking wretched thing I was doing (not to mention stupid. You force kids to eat vegetables, not cookie dough) and I quit. This is the shit that haunted children carry with them into therapy sessions. Crazy-ass mothering.

So I quit yelling at my little boy. After I made him cry.

For being an 8-year-old boy who wanted cookie dough.

Some questions

2008-08-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

So I've been wondering about a few things, probably all of them things I could find answers to if I actually decided to make the effort. But I haven't. So here are a few.

1. Newborns are screened for a certain number of genetic illnesses/predispositions to those illnesses. At what point was my daughter screened? Or was she?

2. Does the fact that Ella's dad puts her to bed with the radio on mean she's going to be one of those people who always has to have some kind of noise in the background to calm down and focus?

3. Because of when my daughter was born, she's going to be one of the oldest kids in her classes. Is this going to result in her being the illegal-substance/item-buyer for her underage peers?

4. Being born 3 1/2 months early not only put Ella into a different Zodiac sign, it also put her in a different year according to the Chinese calendar. What do I go by when it comes to determining her astrological inclinations? When she was physically born? Or when she was suppose to be? This is a big question for me, ironically bigger than any of the other issues.

And JUST where have you been, young lady?

2008-08-01T17:07:00.001-07:00

Here and there and a bit of everywhere. Some time off with family. Busy time for birthdays. Did you miss me ferociously? Is it weird I'm asking this question when no one reads my blog? Does this mean I'm talking to myself? Does it matter?

Ahhh, the profound mysteries of life.

Dec. 10: To see Ella:) 3.4 1/2. SHE NURSES!!! :) Residual is a cc of my milk! (Definition time. Residual is the amount that's left in the baby's stomach after she eats. The nurse uses a syringe to suck out the contents of the stomach through the baby's feeding tube, note how much is there, then return it. Pretty horrible, isn't it? It's so they know much the baby is getting to eat.)

Dec. 11: To see Ella:) 3.5. Nurses more; takes 1/2 of feeding via bottle:) SO cute!

Dec. 12: To see Ella:) Just for a bit. She's 3.6 :)

Dec. 13: To see Ella brfly:) 3.8. Then after work. 3.9.

Dec. 14: To see Ella:) 3.9. Nursed brfly. (Son and I ate dinner at hospital. And DRESSED the baby in actual clothes. So cute! I've never had dress-up tendencies, but how could anyone resist this little "doll?")

Dec. 15: Ella:) 3.10 (I didn't stay long at all, just dropped off my milk because I was sick. I was so devastated not to be able to see the baby. I felt so awful.)

Dec. 16. Ella:) TO CRIB!!! 3 pounds, 12 ounces (lots of smiley faces)

And here's a final photo to show ... it's Christmas time! Isn't she gorgeous?

Hey! That kid looks like me!

2008-07-20T21:41:00.000-07:00

Let's keep catching up, OK? I can't take much more of the sadness right now (being Tuesday and all, the day I reabandon my children ...)

So we were all the way up to Dec. 1. Time flies. The boy, sister and I went to see the girl as usual, but it started to snow. Heavily. So we headed out much sooner than usual.

Dec. 2: To see Ella:) 2 pounds, 11 ounces. They gave her a bath last night and didn't tell me :(
(**I'm all about keeping things chronological, but I need to expand on this AND get through more days, so I'll catch you up on this entry in a minute. If you're patient and hang out till then, I'll make good on the title of this entry, too. **)

Dec. 3: To see Ella:) Back to 2.10, but doing well. She's very active — she turned self around last night in bed:) Very alert holding her. They took NASAL PRONGS OUT!! for time outs:)

Dec.4: To see Ella:) Up to 2.13 Eye test — everything looks great:) Nasal canula out:)

Dec. 5: Starting back to work. To see Ella:) 2.14:)And after work to see her:) (Boy, that sucked, going back to work part time. Have you figured out yet that I might feel that way?)

Dec. 6: To see Ella:) 3 POUNDS:) Sign on Isolette:) Maybe 32 wks we'll start trying to nurse.

Dec. 7: To see Ella w/Dad:) 3.1 I can bring clothes! Next bed change likely to be to a crib, nurse says!

Dec. 8 To see Ella:) She totally pulls back head to check me out. (Editor's Note: I think I might've said this already happened. A thousand apologies. This is REALLY when it happened.)

Dec. 9: To see Ella:) (Jumping in again. This week, in my planner I've made notes about Ella's room. I'm getting it ready for her. Wow.)

**OK. Time to update the bath thing.

So when I showed up the next day, I found a small stack of pictures on the shelf next to Ella. I leafed through them, then realized they were OF Ella. I was confused, thought maybe they were from her dad ... then I realize they were of her getting a bath.

That rippling/ripping sensation wrenching down my gut.

I asked the nurse, and yes. They gave her a bath after we'd left because of the heavy snow. I was, to put it mildly, devastated. All along, they'd told me about how I'd get to do certain things with Ella, like nursing her, putting clothes on, bathing her. I was looking forward to every first I could have, since so many had already been stolen.

So, as I held my baby and the pain deepened, I choked out to the nurse my despair. I don't know if she understood the depth of my sadness, but she was my favorite nurse and very sympathetic. She made a note in the chart.

Not a single nurse involved ever apologized to me, though they later explained that giving a bath was just an automatic for them, that they hadn't even considered how it would affect me. Except, my response was, if it was so automatic, why did they take pictures?

So, I'm trying not to remember that my daughter's first bath happened without me, but there IS the photographic evidence. And with that evidence came a stunning realization: She LOOKS like ME!

Here's Ella:

Here's me (with my mom ... who I look like in many ways.)

And because you've been so patient, here I am again, a bit older. Ain't I cute? I think I'd do just about anything to have that bonnet and sweater again.

A letter to my children

2008-07-17T15:15:00.000-07:00

Guilt is the cancer of motherhood.

No matter how astounding you might be, or be perceived as, if you are a mother you are never, in your own mind, good enough.

I, my children, am no different. I love you, I would die for you, but I will never see myself as good enough for you. I will go to the grave lamenting the mistakes I have made (and will still make).

Son, I am forever haunted by the time when the young you was going through a hair-pulling phase. One tug too many, and I reached out, yanked your own hair. You looked at me in shock and betrayal, your eyes welling. And I died a little, knowing how quickly I could harm. I am sorry.

And daughter, the failure to believe in your tenacity, the loss of understanding mired in shock of reality, stole time. It's not that I doubted you; only that I never knew to believe. I am sorry.

So much guilt. Take, for example, the issue of going back to work. Without exception, men who return to work are celebrated, supported. They are taking care of their family, providing. On the other hand, it's still common that women who return to work are shunned. They are failing their families, abandoning their children for their own selfishness. And if there is no choice, say, if they must work to support those children? Well, then they failed in securing a decent husbandly provider.

And as much as I discredit this diatribe, this little worm squirms disturbingly inside my conscious. Am I doing the right thing? Will I look back someday and berate myself for not doing more to secure the time with you, even as I am so conscious now of making this choice? I have tried to explain my choice to you, L, so I can comprehend if it's truly the right one. I need to know how I am affecting you, if I am ruining you. Isn't it enough to have my love? Why can't we live in a tiny apartment that costs far less instead of a big house I struggle to afford? Whose dream am I trying to capture?

And Ella, my darling girl. I struggle, struggle with the terrible fear that you will lose the sense that I am the most important person in your life. That you were inside me, albeit for a brief, naive time. That you are a physical flesh and blood creation of mine. That I am Mama and there is no other person as vitally rich for you. Will you lose that knowledge, as I leave you in the care of others? How do I always and forever maintain that unreplicatable relationship? Will I always be truly special to you, or will your smiles for others come to mean as much as the ones for me? Will our bond be weakened?

I love you both so deeply, and the loss I bore as a child — still struggle to understand and overcome as an adult — affects how I struggle to prevent any replication of the pain.

Leaving each of you is a weekly loss. I go to work angry, discouraged, full of self-hatred. I want to be with you, only with you, I live my life FOR you, and yet I abandon you? For that is what it feels like: constant abandonment. It's difficult to see it any other way when it's what I went through as a little girl. (You see? It's so easy to mess up your children! And, of course, it's always the mother's fault.)

I am so, so sorry, my babies.

The solace I can try to offer to myself, though it will never be good enough, is that I am full of you. I am madly in love with you. I am acutely aware of how extraordinarily lucky I am that life brought you into my arms.

L, as you grow the natural separation has begun. I remember when you were a baby how I'd sometimes come home from work and just hold you forever, smelling you, stroking your skin, rubbing my cheek on your silken hair, kiss and sing to you. You still snuggle with me sometimes, but it's not as often and I understand. You MUST move from me. But you will always be my beautiful little baby boy, even when the day comes I must tilt my head to look you in the face.

And Ella, your babyhood prevails but your maturation is fully under way. You are a person! Isn't that a silly thing to say? But I see you and I know you, and I am so delighted by you.

None of this is exactly what I wanted to say and all of it is exactly what I wanted to say. Words are my living but are inadequate in a mother's hands.

I am here for you both always, my love is everlasting and unconditional, and I know you will understand this all more someday when the cycle repeats and you become parents.

Thank you for the gift of you. You two are the purpose of my life.

Mama

We now interupt your regularly scheduled reading (again) ...

2008-07-13T19:24:00.000-07:00

... so I can go off on a subject wholly unrelated ...

I want you to meet Edith Macefield, who died not so long ago.

Ms. Macefield lived a pretty interesting life. But it was the very end of it that we've come to discuss today.

You see, Ms. Macefield lived in her tiny house, with the glass animal figurines in the tiny windows, until the very end of that life. What's remarkable is what she did when change came to her block. To become her next-door neighbors, in fact.

You see, a multi-use structure was to be erected on her block, to consume her block in fact, and everyone else sold their homes to make way for it. Except Ms. Macefield.

She held firm to her convictions.

But the noise! people said. Eh. She lived through World War II. A little noise wouldn't be anything.

OK, said the developer. We'll give you a million bucks. Eh. No thanks. What would she do with a million bucks? She had everything she needed.

So Ms. Macefield lived in that tiny house as the bigger building went up around her. She kept her home neat and clean, and the yard well tended with its one tree, and she parked her old blue car out front. And that's where it remains, even after her death.

No one, even the construction foreman who befriended her, knows what is to become of the tiny house.

Ms. Macefield, however, had a will. What's in it is still to come.

Don't believe this story is real? Maybe you think it's just a version of the 1942 tale by Virginia Lee Burton, called "The Little House: Her Story?"

No. This story is true. Don't you believe me? How about now:

I take illegal drugs

2008-07-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

I haven't really delved recently into the emotional aspects. I'm trying to catch up a bit, and racing through. But it wasn't easy, even with Ella's move to a lower-level NICU hospital. At this point, it was all still very numbing, and I suppose rather difficult to get a grasp of. Going into the experience, I was repeatedly warned it would "be a roller coaster." I came to hate that term, still do, I heard it so many times.

I was confused and still terribly afraid, and had no idea that I would be bringing this child HOME at some point. It was such a foreign concept, even as this child really became a person. The nurses would tell me later how worried they were for me, as every little thing resonated so deeply. I'd never been through this before. I didn't know what to expect, despite any kind of education. Part of me, I guess I need to admit, couldn't comprehend it someday would be over.

One thing that was happening had to do with my milk supply. Simply put, it was dwindling. It's a common thing with mothers of preemies. Although I was pumping, it wasn't the same. The body recognizes and responds to a baby, not a machine. So this potential loss was terrifying for me. Breastfeeding was something I could still preserve from everything that had been lost.

So I did a little digging, and discovered my options. Two drugs are known to promote lactation. One exacerbates depressive symptoms to the point one is ready to die. The other is not sold in the United States. Obviously, the first was out. So I turned to the Internet and found the second one, domperidone. And I ordered it. It came from Thailand. I had to wait. And fret.

So. Let's do some more racing through the calendar, and I'll even include a few photos.

Nov. 17 (first day at new hospital): Went with son, dad and sister to see Ella:) back on CPAP because they don't do high-flow oxygen; she's 915 g — 2 LBS!

18: To see Ella:) Held her but she's back to same issues with stupid CPAP. They're watching iron level, too. I feel so scared.

19: To see Ella:) 940 g, blood test excellent (EPO working!) Held her for a long time w/son

20: To see Ella:) 950 g. Back on CPAP after hard night.

21: Ella: doing well — esp. w/CPAP. 950 g.

22 (Thanksgiving, aka day after horrible root canal!): To see Ella:) On nasal prongs! 960 g. I her her for 1 1/2 hours:) She knows my voice — wakes up and listens and looks at me!

23: To see Ella:) 820 g (2 lbs. 4 oz.); held for hour 15 mins.; feisty — she peed on me while I changed her poopy diaper! :)

24: To see Ella:) 1040 g!

25: To see Ella:) Same weight. Held for long time. SO alert! Down to 1 liter oxygen.
(The SO alert note ... When I was holding her, she actually lifted her head and just stared at me! She's still 2 1/2 months before her due date, but this little baby girl LIFTS HER HEAD and looks me in the face, straight on, as if to say, "Hm. So that's what you look like." I was, to put it mildly, astounded.)

26: To see Ella:) w/son. To 1/2 liter oxygen; harder time, but good; 2.6 lbs.

27: To see Ella:) 2.8! Held long time — she watched me for long time. But having harder time again (like when first born). (Scratched out this day is a class my son and I were going to take called "Siblings are Special.")

28: No entry.

(But look at this tenacious girl!
They'd burrito-baby swaddled her, as usual, which she didn't care for.
So she somehow managed to stick her foot out the side!)

29: Dad over @ noon to see Ella:) Doing well — 2.9. She fountain pooped on me. Held her, too.

30: To see Ella:) 2.10. Held for long time. She's getting vocal!!

---
In the middle here someplace, just as my supply was down to almost nothing, the illegal drugs arrived from Thailand. And I started to take them. And they worked!

Time for a trip!

2008-07-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

But first, one last picture from the first hospital:

I can just see her little brain ticking ... "Whoa. What is this thing here?!?"

She looks sad, though, I think. It's hard to see this image of a daughter who's still just skin and bones. And dark veins so visible through the tissue paper thinness of her skin. And eyes as big as her palms ...

sigh

So it's time for a trip. I promised, right? It's been 23 days here at this NICU, it's now the 16th of November ... although who's counting yet? My son and I have gone to see the seriously lame film "Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium," when I'm buzzed and paged repeatedly (silently! I'm not one of those annoying people, but I do have a critically ill child and have no qualms whatsoever leaving my cell on.) I can ignore the calls no longer, so head out into the lobby to return them ...

And discover they want to move Ella to a new hospital! She's not in need of such a critical facility anymore, and our HMO wants her back to its own hospital. Not to mention: This is the place she was SUPPOSE to be born; we'll have a semi-private room (it has space for one other baby, but remains vacant until about the last couple of weeks, so we have loads of space); and it's much closer to home (no crossing the water/dealing with city traffic.)

I mull and I ponder and I worry, but ultimately agree to the transfer. Because of various issues, I am not able to ride across with her (this is the same journey I took, in reverse, when I was still carrying her.) So my son and I go to wait at the new hospital to greet her. And wait. And wait.

Transferring a NICU baby requires some specific attention, including a dedicated pediatric nurse trained to care for such tiny, critical creatures. She's located, but what's holding us up is the ambulance isn't made to carry the kind of Isolette Ella's in. So there's some back and forth, a new ambulance brought in, so and so forth, and they're on their way.

Ella does well in the ambulance. We get word when she arrives, a couple of hours late, but THEN my son and I have to wait while they make all of the adjustments in moving her in, about another 30-45 minutes. THEN we go to see our girl in her new digs.

While we're visiting, I note in my calendar, she sucks her pacifier while I'm holding it so I feel her gums on my finger:) Plus she holds my finger!

The boy and I get her settled, although it's more about getting myself settled since we're both exhausted and needing to go home, meet some of the new nurses and eventually say goodnight.

"Ella and Me"

2008-07-06T16:50:00.000-07:00

"Ella and Me"

There once was two happy kids named L and Ella. They loved to play with each other every day. And they were brother and sister. Together they made a great team and made the world a better place for kids. Ella was a tiny baby and L was her older brother who watched over her. Ella had to live at the hospital for quite a long time because she was a preemie baby and very tiny. The nurses and the doctors helped Ella stay healthy and alive and kept her safe. L had to wait a long time before she could come home. He visited her often and read her stories so she would not be lonely. He thought that she was beautiful and loved her very much. To him she looked like a butterfly just coming out of her cocoon because her eyes were not open. He always wanted to be near her and someday when they were grown up he wanted to live next door to her and be her neighbor. Until then L would continue to visit her and he would tell other people about her and what it is like to be kept in the hospital. So that they will understand what it is like to be in the hospital and not be scared.

The End

These photos of awards and recognition for my son's story (brag, brag, brag as a mama should) are placeholders till I get a copy of the story up:) Story up 7/9/09.

Redefining humanity

2008-07-02T16:00:00.000-07:00

Isn't it crazy? I mean, ALL of it. That my daughter was born into this world weighing less than a large container of yogurt? That within her tiny body was every building block, every miniaturized version of EVERY single physical element she will need to become ... become MORE?

Having Ella has changed my life, redefined my existence once again, in so many ways. My smug certainties teeter now, as I have been forced to re-evaluate just about everything in my staid world. What does life mean, even? When I come in to see this red being of skin and bones, ribs so starkly visible, to know everyone is working so desperately to continue this life? And then comes the point where it is made real, where this being ceases to be clinical and transforms into my daughter. That yawn and stretch was that very moment. And how magical to bear witness to it!

Of course, the guilt piles on, as I wonder how I betrayed her in my disbelief. I vow to never doubt this little child again, but how do I make up for ever doubting to begin? Even when I couldn't have begun to fathom how to believe.

There she is, so utterly human, enjoying this astounding stretch and yawn. If she is suffering, a thought I cannot bear, there is no evidence of this as she enjoys a most fundamental human pleasure. It's more than a mechanism of survival, more than an instinctual reflex. There is no possible way for me to explain how profoundly this affected me.

9. No entry.

10. To see Ella:) with Dad and son.

11. Ella: Nurse says she smiled. Had a good night.

12. To see Ella:) just me ... Got to hold my girl for 1/2 hour ! ! ! Took temp, changed diaper. She was hiccuping, too:)

13/14. Ella:) Increasing food to 1/2 milk 1/2 formula to increase calories. Also giving shot 3x week, 2 weeks to boost blood/iron (EDP?) I'll get to hold her more often after her weight goes up. She coughed 2x. I pumped there 1x.

15. To see Ella:) 883 g.; held her, changed diaper. VERY alert. PICC line removed yesterday. EPD shot yesterday for boosting red blood cells. Milk/formula is still 2/3-1/3 Doing well! Food tube through nose — her mouth is unencumbered now:) (I go to son's school for conference, which is the first time I read his story, "Ella & Me.")

The post where I go home ... and Ella becomes my daughter

2008-06-27T23:32:00.001-07:00

So weird, to go home. So lost. Confused. Trying to cling to normalcy but not knowing what the word means, or who I am. I can't drive, but it's almost a relief because I'm not sure I want to go in to see this person who is surreal and not a person to my rational, silently screaming conscious.

I curled up for most of the day, alternately trying to sleep and alternately crying and alternately taking care of my son however I could and alternately trying to make lists and organize, organize, organize my life into sense again. But it was all lost, in the daze of my existence.

I took my son to our annual trick or treating event the next day, the 28th. So odd, to be walking around on the waterfront having undergone major surgery only four days earlier. This heartbreak ebbing in the back of my mind.

So let's move through some days here, sweep them out of the way so I can move forward virtually as I have in reality. I wasn't able to visit Ella every day because I wasn't allowed to drive. At least, theoretically. I started driving again on the 31st, against orders. But I didn't go every day at the beginning. I did call daily, though, several times sometimes. So here are my brief notes:

29: To see Ella — breathing on her own (w/CPAP), stopped my milk. PIC line doing well

30: Ella — was breathing all on her own while nurse was doing care; they took out umbilical cord line because she doesn't need it:) Trying my milk again. L over.

31: To see Ella:) Breathing well. Having Bs — Bradys w/heart. Cries. Breaks my heart. (It was so sad, so unhuman almost. Devastating.)

1: See Ella — meets S Doing well! Sleeping peacefully. 693 grams

2: Ella — Doing well; they've increased my milk to 1cc per hour, auto feed. She's at 703 grams:) (And here's a heartbreaking story: It is this night that my son goes to our French doors, opens them and starts outside. I ask him what he's doing. He tells me he's wishing on a star so that when we go to see his girl the next day, we will be able to bring her home with us. I gently tell him it probably won't happen, and he says, "But Mama, if I don't wish, it'll never happen.")

3: Ella:) (And as we leave, my son says sadly, "I guess my wish isn't going to come true." How do you deal with such understandings by the loves of your life? How can you cope with another overwhelming depth of empathy when every emotion is so fragile, so teetering already?)

4: Ella — 753 grams.

5. To see Ella w/son — Gained weight, but having hard day with oxygen and regulating food. (Scratched out this day is a midwife follow-up appointment. Note the photo below, of Ella being read a Halloween story by her big brother!)

6. R. over. To see before parent support group: Ella — Doing better w/new kind of oxygen. Concerns about possible infection. Monitoring closely, but taking no action for now.

7. Ella — Doing better and gaining weight. No sign of infection.

8. To see Ella Bean — 800 grams. Doing my better. I love my girl:) Stretching and yawning.

(THIS!! This right here! This is the moment the terror dies and this unknown form becomes human ... becomes my DAUGHTER!)

Kicking me out

2008-06-22T23:27:00.000-07:00

Gosh, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I haven't wanted to write, at all. I think I'm moving away from the pain and not feeling like it's so relevant anymore to my life. How wonderful is that? But there's still a story to tell.

Saturday was discharge day. I was surprised, to tell you the truth, that I'd be treated like any other C-section case: The boot after three days. There was nothing at all normal about what happened, and I could see that as plainly as anything. I didn't understand why they didn't either.

But I was up and moving, slowly and cautiously, and I worked to get myself packed up. There were various bits of things to take care of. But it was the flowers that my dad and sister brought that I think about so sadly. They were a bouquet of tiny yellow and red roses and buds. But they hadn't been put into water soon enough, and so when I moved them, many petals started to fall. Again, in that suppressed terror of exactly what could be lost, I decided not a single one of those petals would be left behind, and I gathered every one.

So another friend was coming that day, and my son, too, would finally meet his sister. He'd been prepped on what to expect by my ex, but I was so scared. When he arrived I tried to show him some photos of Ella that I'd taken with my digital camera. And I tried to read him the children's storybook they'd given me called "Katie's Premature Brother." And I tried to explain what he would see. But he just didn't want any of that. He was simply too excited to see his sister.

"OK, Mama. OK. Let's go! Let's go! OK, OK. Let's go meet my sister!"

So we went, and happened to run into my friend at the NICU; she'd thought she was suppose to meet us there. As a gift she'd brought along the two things I craved the most during the pregnancy: Mentos and Perrier:)

We all scrubbed and I took my boy in to meet my girl. Later, my friend would tell me how she felt honored and privileged to have been there the moment my son saw Ella. Because this is what he said:

"She looks like a butterfly who's just come out of her cocoon!"

And

"She's SO beautiful!"

And

"She's so beautiful, Mama!"

And other exclamations I've lost in the wave of those first words.

Never, never did he ask about the wires, or worry about her. He saw only this tiny human being who was his sister, the girl he knew I'd have and the sibling he'd wanted. I don't know how I can possibly explain how extraordinary that moment was. In the scope of human existence, it's simply stunning. He later wrote a story about Ella, mentioning that moment specifically, for a contest. I'll share it later.

Eventually, inevitably, it was time for us to go home, my family-minus-my-daughter.

As we packed the car, my dad put some of the flowers — including the red and yellow roses — on the floor under his legs. I worried about them the whole way home.

And then we left. And as we exited the parking garage, my sister driving, my dad in the passenger seat and my son and I in the back, the despair and exhaustion stole me. I started to cry.

My little boy took my hand and said to me, "I know why you're crying, Mama. You're crying because you worked so hard and we have to leave the baby in the hospital." And I simply put my head on his lap and cried myself to sleep while he stroked my face.

I went that route not so long ago, on a return appointment to the hospital. And I was overwhelmed with the memory of it. I am overwhelmed now, at the humanity and empathy of my first child.

And when we finally made it home and I bent over to get the flowers my dad had put on the floor beneath his feet, I realized little yellow and red rose petals were everywhere. Mashed into the floorboard and not mashed at all. And as I stood up to flee, I saw them, and would see them for weeks, scattered in the gravel of my driveway as well.

2008-06-12T22:29:00.001-07:00

I feel really grouchy today. I don't want to write a damn thing. Except that.

The post where I see lizards! But I guess I like them

2008-06-08T23:40:00.000-07:00

So I've met Ella, that Thursday morning. I'll move through the rest of Thursday and Friday here, so I can get to Saturday in the next post, then zoom through. At some point, I need to get to the present.

One thing I did forget was that after I kind of came to after being taken back to my room, at some point, I remember that I was desperately thirsty and virtually begged for water. They wouldn't let me have any until after I'd had my own, erm, bowel activity. Sorry. Something about how my stomach would swell up and I'd explode if I got water and my innards hadn't returned to normal, independent function after the natural shutdown that occurs with the surgery. So they let me have an ice chip or two. One nurse did let me have a glass of water after I promised not to swallow but only swish, but GROUCHY ASS nurse stared killer eyes at me (undoubtedly envisioning me as I burst into tiny bloody pieces) and that didn't last long. But it was another of those intense moments of gratitude, where I would have sold my soul for a Super Big Gulp cup of Third World country water.

Thursday. There were so many little things, as has been the case with all these posts, that I won't remember. I called people to let them know what happened. I had panic attacks. I watched TV. What stands out are the following memories.

At some point during the morning, I think after I was back in the room just after seeing my daughter, I was trying desperately to sleep but could not. As I would sink into that tipping point, I would find myself gasping for air. Even though I could once again take deep breaths without any oxygen (that's how quickly the slide began to reverse) and could prove it to myself, I could not calm down enough to let myself go.

The nurse came into sit with me while I tried to sleep, and it was the same pattern. Terror overcame the point of release into sleep. Eventually, she went and got something to put into my IV, and I did sleep. Later, the social worker came to talk to me again. I had other visitors, too, to discuss the experience and to apologize and this and that and the other.

At some point this day, I was moved onto a different floor, into the post-partum recovery room. This was a ridiculous thing, too, and I'll try to explain why. This room was for EVERY recovering mother and family. It didn't matter if you'd lost your baby or your birth was traumatic. It was the same procedure for everyone, including this ridiculous white board where they'd erase and fill in details, such as who your nurse was at the moment and what your "tasks" were. (My "task" was to pump every three hours, which I found utterly ridiculous because what would be the point when my baby wouldn't make it?)

And there was one of those dorky posters with the cartoon drawings of people, about what to expect, either if you'd delivered vaginally or C-section, and how you needed to take your baby for a hearing screen and a post-release checkup within a certain amount of days. Except I wouldn't be going home with my baby and thanks the fuck for the reminder ...

A lactation chick came to teach me how to use the pump. I don't remember a single word of what she said. I just remembered her face, and when I ran into her again a few weeks later, I told her I didn't remember a single thing.

More tests to check my post-delivery health.

And at night, my dad and sister came. By this point I was able to get myself into the wheelchair with slight assistance from them. Because I couldn't yet exactly walk (that was on my "tasks" list on that stupid-ass white board), I had to take an elevator up a floor to the NICU ... except when we got to the elevators, the fire department was conducting a drill and the elevators were not working. Staff randomly walking by assured us the drills never lasted long, but it did. Eventually, I sent my sister and dad to see Ella and I sat in front of the elevators in my wheelchair bawling. I didn't see Ella then, though I did go back later.

It was the first time my dad saw his granddaughter. He's never told me this (my sister did much later), but at this point he didn't believe either that Ella would live.

They went home, and the nurses wet themselves (hah!) waiting for me to be able to pee on my own for the first time (no more catheter.) I was surprised, too, that I'd have to worry about bleeding. Duh, it's all connected to the same places, but after nothing else was normal, why would I have expected that to be?

More extreme panic as I cannot find sleep in the gasping and choking for air, and more of the mystery drug.

Friday. I went on my own (after being helped into the wheelchair) to visit Ella again. I remember this time because I guess I must've been showing some ass because Claudia (the NICU nurse) sweetly and subtly adjusted my gown.

More tests.

At one point, I was visited by a doctor leading a group of maybe four or five med students. He came in (didn't bother to ask) and asked me questions about the experience, explaining my "case" to the students first. Random questions about my health, my life. And then, I swear to god, he actually took off his glasses, held them in a hand that also held a pen, chewed on the end of a temple and regarded me. I actually said, "You are going to ask me about my childhood now, aren't you?" And I'll be damned if he didn't do just that!!

Friends came to visit this day, one bringing chocolate and rubbing my feet, another bringing a sweet little stuffed rabbit and a desperately needed book on premature babies. I took one to see the baby. And I received phone calls from friends, family and friends of friends. Thank you all; I love you all so much.

All the while, I was becoming more exhausted, but I was terrified about falling asleep. So I begged my family to stay with me that night, because I was so scared. My dad "slept" on a horrible hospital couch/chair setup he made in the waiting room, and my sister slept in the room with me. And here comes a story that's already become a family legend.

As I was drifting off to sleep (AGAIN after they'd ended up having to give me something to knock me out because the panic stole my dreams), I muttered something. My sister said, "What did you say?" And I, in my drug-sleep-induced state, replied in a very enthusiastically bright voice, "Lizards! I see lizards!" To which my sister understandably said, "WHAT?!" And I replied, "lizards!" in a very happy, content voice. And then began to snore.

Of course, I remember none of this. She could be making it up.

Take note of this

2008-06-06T14:45:00.001-07:00

Remember an earlier post where I wrote that I'd scrawled a message to myself to get off the medication? Well, since I'm coming up to the point where I realize how screwed up I am (ed. note: was! I mean was!) because of the mucky stew of all the drugs, let's insert that note, oh, right about

And, because I know you've been waiting, the message left by my sister should look good somewhere around

I meet my daughter

2008-06-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

I know — I promised an uploaded note. You're going to have to wait for now, as I want to introduce you to Ella.

The next morning, sometime. Still incredibly groggy but in immediate need of seeing my little baby girl. The nurse is very understanding, and gets a wheelchair in asap.

Getting out of bed was very humbling. I know — major surgery. I moved as slowly as I could, but it's hard to know how to move when you've been sliced in half for the first time, and I put too much strain somehow on my right side and sent this nerve-shooting ripping pain across the right side of my wound.

Pause. Catch breath.

Slowly, slowly, I make my way into the wheelchair and am given pillows etc. to make me more comfortable. I'm taken down a floor to the NICU.

I don't remember my feelings at this point. I think I felt that I was playing along — going to visit the baby as I should. But I did need to see her as well.

We checked in at the front desk in the NICU, and the procedure was briefly explained to me before I was taken into the smaller room where Ella was and introduced to her on-duty nurse, who in turn introduced me to her.

There's no way to know how such a situation would proceed, of course. My sister's note assured me of Ella's perfection, her perfectly formed creation. But could you truly comprehend being presented not with a healthy newborn into your arms, but this:

If the top picture of Ella takes up about a quarter of your decent-sized computer monitor, then you're seeing an approximate life-size representation of my little one.

Though I'd been told after delivery that she was an amazing 2 pounds at birth, in actuality she was 1 pound, 7.7 ounces. She weighed less than a large yogurt container. And she was 14 1/4 inches long, just longer than a ruler.

As I gazed at my daughter, the NICU nurse, Claudia, who would be one of Ella's main nurses during her time in the NICU here, gave me a very brief introduction to begin my degree in NICU 101. She explained what some of the wires were for, what the monitors meant. It was. Hm. Overwhelming? Oh, yes. Terrifying. Numbing.

But I don't know that much penetrated my shell-shocked state. I know now that I was in shock, that the shock would last a good 10 days. It carried me through in a fog, and I'm sure protected me on a deeper level than I can ever understand.

After a bit of time, Claudia suggested I go back to my room to give myself more chance to recover. She told me that I could visit anytime I wanted but insisted I needed to take care of myself first. I don't know if I was truly exhausted or I just couldn't take anymore or I needed an excuse to flee, but I was grateful to her for giving me a way out.

There.

I admit it, and it makes me so instantaneously regretful. Nothing would have prepared me for what was happening, nothing at all, so there was no way to know the "proper" way to be. And despite later assurances that there simply IS no "proper" way to deal with everything, I still can't help wishing I'd reacted differently. Even when I can't remember how I exactly reacted.

Isn't that the pisser? I can't give myself a break even when I don't remember the minute details of how I was. Even if I was merely human.

The laters, part 1

2008-06-01T22:39:00.001-07:00

It's probably a good time now to backfill a bit, share another perspective of the situation and bring some clarity to what happened. It was the first major surgery, the first surgery period, that I'd ever had, and it was the ultimate in traumatic. Obviously.

My sister filled in some of what she witnessed, and it will add another perspective.

After they took me in, she waited around for some time before they came to tell her how to suit up. She donned the protective things, was covered head to foot in egg-blue scrubs, mask, etc., and ushered into the operating room.

She said she was overwhelmed, immediately. She didn't see me at first among the multitudes of people and machines, it was so overwhelming. Then she came over to stand near me.

During the operation, she said I wasn't screaming as I thought I was, but muttering. She was the one who told the assembled medical professionals what I was saying when I was moaning in pain. She translated my thanks to them for saving mine and my baby's life (the baby I knew would die).

At one point, she had moved aside, worried she was in the way. When I began to beg for her hand, she came back.

And when Ella was born, she saw her lifted above the gape in my body. She said the baby was miniature, but perfectly formed, very clean aside from a spot of blood on her leg. They took the baby to the room next door to put her into an Isolette and administer immediate care.

And when the doctors began to sew and cauterize me closed, the smell made her woozy, so woozy that a nurse urged her to step away.

After Ella was whooshed by and briefly shown to me, she followed the baby contingent out, to see where they would take her. Then she went to my recovery room, wrote me a note and headed home. I'll try to upload the note for the next post.

As for myself, during the operation, I was pretty aware of what was going on, and I was in acute pain. It was later explained, when the anesthesologists were trotted in to apologize for it and for the "comfort the patient" dialogue, that it's impossible to know how a person will react to pain medication, or how much would be enough. They'd given me all they could and I was still in pain. I felt the tearing, the cutting, as I wrote in the last post.

But perhaps it was the blue drape in front of me that really affected me the most profoundly. I thought I would be able to see at least the doctors' heads above it, but it was literally a few inches from my face, hanging vertically. The post-op visions that repeatedly danced across my vision, the "Vivid blue lines with whisps of thread tendriling about them, evenly spaced around darker squares muted at the edges," were, in fact, of the too close curtain. Take a cloth and hold it as close as you can to your eyes. See how it patterns? See how the threads whisp and blur the edges of the spaces between?

On top of everything, I was told later that the operation itself was much more difficult than they had anticipated. It lasted three times as long as is normal.

I've still not recovered emotionally from the operation (along with everything else I've not recovered from.)

As for the hallucinations. I'm sure you'll dismiss them with the notion that they're attributable to the drugs I was pumped full of, and I've no doubt that's a reasonable conclusion. But why would I bring my grandparents to join my great aunt, for whom my daughter is named?

I do believe their souls came to me that horrific night. I don't know if they came to comfort me in my emotional and physical suffering, but I do believe they came to claim Ella and that their presence was meant as solace that they would care for her.

There was no fucking way I was going to let them simply take her.

And so I begged. And did not care if my daughter would be whole. Rational thought was torn away when my daughter was ripped out of my body.

And so I begged.

The hallucinations pay a visit

2008-05-29T22:42:00.000-07:00

She's calling me siren-song to tell more of her story.

Post-op, my corporal self was returned to the room. My everything-else self floated somewhere else, transported by visions. Patterns. Another reality.

How to describe, really?

In front of the bits called my eyes range an astounding display: To begin, unknown faces at first fully visible, but quickly becoming indistinguishable as the focus zooms incredibly close so that only portions are there in minute details of pores and color.

Blink. Hard blink, to clear these people and return to the room, the too bright room.

A desperate need for relief, for escape, sending me scurrying down the rabbit hole as closed eyelids bring new impressions: colors whorling and dividing. Vivid blue lines with whisps of thread tendriling about them, evenly spaced around darker squares muted at the edges.

Blink.

Bright, too bright lights of the room. Pain and confusion. Outside myself, outside any self that ever was or ever would be. Outside the very knowledge of self, the possibility of self, the self-importance of self. Distance but more than distance. Nonexistence, neverexistence, realms of nevercreated — not just myself, but the physical race of humanity.

Terror, as reality becomes an abyss, and then is swallowed screaming into neverabyss.

Blink.

More. More wavering blue strings with whispy tendrils and blurryblack edges.

Blink.

Some hint of understanding, of reality comprehension, then finding blessed relief in that rise of terror.

Blink.

More images of humanity, people who perhaps exist in the future or never did at all coming to grossly overinflate their faces too close too close too close to my present. And patterns spinning.

Blink.

No notions of taste, touch, sound or smell. Only vividvision. Irreality. Expansion. Terror dripping steadily, inescapably, in. Understanding coming, flooding flooding flooding.

And then. They come. It is a tunnel that opens in the middle of the toobright room — no, first a circle of dark with hints of blue-orange lightspots that appears on the right side of the room.

An expanding circle that reveals their shadowsilhouettesouls, Grandma and Grandpa standing shoulder to shoulder on the left, Great Aunt Ella on the right.

They float to me, growing larger. And I bury my fears into them, hurl my terror. I begin to beg. I beg them to do whatever they can to let her live. I beg them through custards of snot and gagging tears and screaming desolation to help her live, to watch over her but to not take her with them. I beg my hallucinations to let Ella simply live, no matter the consequence to her own mortal coil.

I cannot breathe through the begging of my hallucinations to let my daughter, at all costs, at any costs, live live live. I am choking on the wads of my desperation, choking on the naive absurdity of doing what would be best for her medically-morally, vomiting inward those resolutions in the savageness of want.

Somewhere in the middle of this, something is injected into my IV, and there is nothing.

A child is born

2008-05-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

This weekend on vacation, I finally started to delete some of the photos from my camera's memory card. I have them saved elsewhere, of course, but I kept them all on the camera as well, some kind of talisman. But this weekend, I think I finally started to let go a little. Of course, the problem with doing this blog chronologically is that I cannot really diverge with the here and now. But I have to do this chronologically, to force myself to tell it at all.

As I said, I don't remember the flood of visits before the operation, but I do remember the anesthesiologists' visit after all, mostly because I've been thinking about this post and remembered the role they play in what's coming. I remember them explaining how the epidural would progress, and about the nature of pain control. The main guy was an oddball, with his multi-colored hat. But mostly it's just that he was ... odd. Off, somehow, like crazy but not in an insane OR fun way.

So finally the time came, somewhere around 7, and they hefted me onto a stretcher and away to the OR. When I got in there, several people already were bustling about. Computers, monitors, lights, sounds, sensations filled the space, and I was hefted again onto the actual operating table.

More bustling followed, along with draping, organizing, talking. The above-mentioned anesthesiologists arrived to administer the epidural, which I'd fretted over, but which went completely smoothly. An anesthesiologist-in-training actually did it, and despite the long, thin needle being inserted incorrectly into the spaces in my spinal cord a couple of times, there was really very little pain or discomfort. I suppose it was the shock of it all numbing me in other ways.

Lying me down, draping me, swabbing me, talking, talking. In the background, a rock station playing. Nurses and medical folks talking, me trying to talk to them, unsuccessfully. The sweet nurse from the NICU there, at least for a little while before being called away. Me begging repeatedly for them to get my sister.

Images flashing, snippets of sounds, portions of sensations, smells, understandings.

My sister arriving, decked out head to toe in scrubs and their accouterments. Talking to me, holding one of my hands.

My arms perpendicular to my body, resting on flying supports, making me into a T with a head. Physical numbness spreading through me, without the loss of control sending me into the panic I had expected. Feeling in my arms but deadness in my chest.

Learning to breathe with a new kind of oxygen mask on.

The doctors arriving. The drape in front of my eyes, rising like a blue-weave wall.

Smells.

Sounds.

Preparations, doctors talking.

Numbness.

Low conversation. The announcement that the first cut was being made.

The first cut.

More.

Somewhere, physical pain ebbing upward.

Tears, constant.

Distant understanding.

More pain, beyond the warned-about tugging and odd sensations.

The repeated words to the doctors "Thank you for saving my baby's life and my life," words translated by my sister above my whispery rasp into audible understanding, words that silence the low murmurs from the doctors.

The weird anesthesiologist whispering to the one in training but not whispering silently enough: "Now is the time you comfort the patient. You comfort the patient by saying, 'It's OK. It's OK' and rubbing their arms."

And the anesthesiologist comforting the patient by saying, "It's OK. It's OK" and rubbing my arms.

The overwhelming but somehow suppressed desire to scream at the anesthesiologist in training.

And then more pain. Intense, wracking.

Screaming "It hurts! It hurts!" only to understand I wasn't screaming at all, but muttering. Translation by my sister resulting in boosted doses of pain medication, cold ice flowing oddly upward through my spine.

And still more pain. And more screaming, screaming, screaming. Silently.

The quiet words from a doctor about some organ or flesh inside me being "tough" as the pain intensified.

Begging for my sister's hand to hold, after she had stepped aside, overwhelmed by smell and sound.

Tearing, tearing, searing, ripping. Ripping. Ripping. The baby torn from my womb as the words, at last:

"It's a girl!"

A little girl.

But no sounds from her. And no vision of her, only the sight of the blue-weave blockade inches from my face.

The sewing closed of my ripped-apart womb and body. More pain. The stench of my flesh being burned closed, in layers. Repeatedly.

90 minutes.

No baby. No sounds. No image.

And finally, a rushed glimpse as she is quickly rolled in an incubator briefly into my line of vision, a startling flash of pink flesh, and then she is gone.

There will be no cutting of the umbilical cord by my sister. My son will not tell my daughter her name in a lovingly expressed whisper into her ear.

I will not kiss her welcome into this world. I will not rejoice her first few moments with love and joy.

I will not make her promises, ancient fierce powerful vows of protection and devotion and possibility.

I will not touch her, I will not feel her skin, I will not touch her hair.

I will not smell her.

But I will say her name, as if to make it real. To make her real.

Ella.

We now interupt your regularly scheduled reading ...

2008-05-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

to keep you in suspense while Ankle Rolls goes on vackay for a week.

The post before the C-section

2008-05-18T22:55:00.000-07:00

It's so hard now to not feel so melodramatic. I'm trying to convey everything to you in the way that I can remember, the way that I remember feeling. But it's seven months later, and while I'm dealing with PTSD from the experience, I keep feeling like I'm so close to that line I first wrote about, that line between ridiculously wrought and true grief.

They're going to end this pregnancy and I can do nothing to change it. There is no going back from here, only forward into a void. Forward into fears and forward into no more decisions and forward into reliance on methology I fought my life against, against the few goals and dreams I'd allowed myself to have about this pregnancy and birth. From the beauty of a natural, drug-free birth where my sister cut the cord and my son whispered the baby's name into his or her ear, I would be physically dressed out with wires running to and from me like an electric box, and strapped to a narrow board with my arms splayed like Christ, unable to move.

Those hours from the visits until the medical staff began the surgical preparations are mostly lost. Maybe they'll surface at some point, but I suppose it's unlikely. The confusion and disbelief have erased reality, blessed compensation for the horror of overrunning nature's plans.

Several times I was told what would happen — I'd be shaved and prepped for surgery — and what would happen during the surgery and after delivery. Several times I was asked if I had support at home. I said yes, of course. I was lying, because although my sister did and does support me, how can you not help but go through something like this completely alone?

I knew my dad and sister would show up as I was being shaved, and damned if I wasn't right. Thankfully my sister came in first, and I repeatedly hollered to keep our dad out! And thankfully he stayed put until the pubes were razored away half way down the top — this totally ridiculous stop spot that left me half woman, half girl.

While the shaving was going on, I could hear my dad and sister and their comments to everyone. My sister kept reassuring anyone who would listen that "I watch 'Baby Story' all the time!" as if she'd be able to jump in and help with the operation:) And my dad. Oy! He had the nurse shaving me in stitches (no pun intended.) He was telling medical staff who walked by how the delivery would progress: After the baby was out, they'd need to slap him or her to make him or her cry.

And the hours progressed past 4, past 5, past 6, past 7. This agony of keeping me waiting, because more C-sections had to come before. And the doctor who wanted to perform the procedure went off shift and couldn't do it after all. How could they do such a thing to someone? Telling me every half-hour or less that it would be soon, very soon. How could they prolong this?

I decided to be conscious for the operation. I had to know if my baby would be a boy or a girl. And I had to know if the baby would live.

The descent

2008-05-15T22:45:00.000-07:00

I really couldn't believe it, couldn't process what the doctor was saying. I'd been so convinced all along that I'd be stuck on bed rest that her words were incomprehensible. I asked why, and she was very kind, explaining that nothing they'd tried to halt my body's slide had worked. And she explained it repeatedly as I found multiple ways to ask the same question repeatedly.

And all I could think was that the delivery would mean death for my child.

The doctor explained what would happen, how I would be prepped, what the operation would be like, what would happen to the baby (the baby who would die.)

I asked, no begged: "Why can't we push my body to the very brink? Why now?"

And her clearly articulated response: "We're already past that point."

After rounds of repetition failed to stem my tears or the onslaught of disbelief, the doctor said she'd send in various people to answer more questions. She said the operation would happen at 4 p.m. and that she wanted to do it.

Sympathetic glances from the team, maybe some pats, and they left me alone. Alone to process, or begin the attempt to fathom ...

Look at my eyes in this photo. I took this of myself when I realized I didn't have any photos of the "momentous" occasion. I don't know why I smiled, but my eyes tell the real story.

I called my family to tell them. It was late morning at this point.

The various people began to arrive. The gentle nurse from the NICU returned (she'd been by the day before, I believe, and explained the same things, though I couldn't remember the details of her previous visit, wouldn't have been able to remember it for anything.) She gave me the statistics and explained how these cases progress, from delivery and crisis care for the infant to the transfer to the NICU. And those statistics: I couldn't cite them now, about rates of disability depending on X and so forth, but she did repeat that my child had about a 40 percent to 50 percent chance of survival. So I folded into my understanding that statistic and it helped cement the knowledge that my baby would die.

The social worker returned, and I reiterated my fears and grief for my son, and fears about his own grief. How would I explain to him the loss of his greatest happiness? How could I possibly? And how could I begin to survive his grief?

In the end, nothing anyone said or probably could have said would have made a difference. The events played out as they inevitably were meant to play out. Except I suppose I don't actually believe that, considering I know that if only, if only, if only I had done one little, undefinable thing in a different way, I wouldn't be crying inconsolably on a hospital bed waiting for my child's delivery into death.

Here we go ...

2008-05-09T23:05:00.001-07:00

At some unavoidable point, we're going to have to get to Wednesday, birth day. You've been very patient so far, and I can't stop the chronological retelling of events any more than I could stop those events from first transpiring. But maybe I'll draw it out a bit more, considering how long my posts tend to ramble. Take it in more palatable bites (been reading Renae du Jour; can you tell, Miss Renae and friends?)

See? Humor. Remember how I mentioned that problem earlier? Humor as avoidance. Screw it.

Wednesday morning after a few more tests Morning Group Head Doctor (known in the previous post as Evening Group Head Doctor; I guess shift change hadn't happened yet) appeared, saw my breakfast tray and very agitatedly exclaimed, "You can't have anything to eat! You haven't eaten anything have you?"

"Um, no."

Calm from Morning Group/Evening Group/All-Around Head Doctor. Preparing me. Softly, now. The air of gentleness.

"We're going to have to deliver the baby."

And Mike Rowe

2008-05-06T12:13:00.000-07:00

I promised him, didn't I? I just have been avoiding this place for a bit. Pretending I didn't start this blog and commit to keeping it up.

So you say you don't know who Mike Rowe is? You crazy, crazy person, you. Here, educate yourself, you Luddite: Mike Rowe is a god.

Mike Rowe, to me, is dreamy. More than McDreamy, more than McClooney. I like Mike because he has sweet laugh lines and the slightly-starting-to-sag body of real personhood. He's still strong, a physically drawing strength, and flippin' gorgeous. And he's funny, in that attractive slightly sexual way. Double entendres are the staple of "Dirty Jobs." Well, that along with the dirty jobs.

So. The point of this, and it does relate, is that after I was left alone in my room that Tuesday night after my baby began to breathe, a nurse came in to hang out with me. Either there wasn't much to do or she just didn't care, because she stayed quite a while. We chatted as she cared for me, about how she was a traveling nurse; she'd take a new job every few months and move to a completely new city. She also cared for her husband, whose disability kept him pretty much confined to bed. She sat down to watch TV with me, just as the 100th episode of "Dirty Jobs" was coming on.

At the exact moment Mike Rowe spoke, the baby gave me the absolute hardest kick I'd felt yet. It was startling and vivid. I can feel it now, and suspect it would have been a preview of the activity that was to come had the pregnancy continued to full term. Whew.

I also understood in that instant that the baby was going to be a girl. Now, in the interest of sexual identity fairness, I know there are men out there who groove to the Mike Rowe tune just as strongly. But it didn't enter my mind at the time.

I just had a gut feeling -- pun intended -- that this little fighter still inside me would be like her mama and find more attractive than anything the essence of real personhood.

The ultrasound

2008-04-27T22:55:00.001-07:00

Argh! I am so frustrated by everything that I cannot remember! I asked my sister to help with details but of course she can't talk about what she wasn't there for. I am so frustrated that I can't tell you all the little bits I'm sure I vowed at the time to cement firmly in my mind. I feel like it's more of a loss, on a smaller scale, to have these minute details taken from me.

So I'll write what I know, which for now is how I kept thinking I'd be stuck in the hospital for the foreseeable future. I didn't have the knowledge of experience to envision any other outcome. So I'd ask the nurses about what it was like for women who were forced to stay in the hospital. I remember being so unable to picture myself confined to that bed for any length of time that the thought became a desperate panic. Even the news that one of the nurses ran a scrapbooking group did little to ease me.

At some point during the day, they also brought in two critical people to see me: The social worker who came to talk to me about what might happen, and a nurse from the neonatal unit to talk to me about premature babies. You know — the details about percentages of survival, of disability and so on. I didn't really process most of it.

My sister came that night (I think this is when she must have brought things for me.) She hung out for a while but the details are lost for now. After she left, the doctors came in to perform an ultrasound. (These doctors came and went in packs, as it was a learning hospital. I'd see a couple of revolving groups once or twice a day, when they made rounds, one for the morning, one for the evening.)

Evening Group Head Doctor squirted the goo on my belly and wielded the wand with all of her hovering fellow doctors and doctors-to-be playing witness. By this time, of course, I'd had my second Butt Shot. So this doctor was looking for evidence of its effectiveness, which she confirmed by excitedly proclaiming, "The baby is breathing!"

What she meant was that she could see the baby practicing breaths.

I guess this should be a happy thing, right? So why do I find myself crying right now? I never know what is going to affect me, what is going to steal my ability to remain aloof enough to tell the tale. I guess I cry now because ... because. I'm just at a loss as to why.

My baby breathing, so early, TOO god damned early, but forced to do so because I failed. Failed to carry to term, failed to be a good parent, failed in so many ways. Failed in this very true and basic essence of womanhood. I failed my child. I betrayed myself. I betrayed this baby, who somehow managed to rise about it all ANYWAY, to fight above the bitterness of the physical surroundings, to be so fundamentally there and alive and breathing. Why couldn't I have been able to celebrate that strength by not betraying and failing it? Why did I force my baby to fight for life instead of providing a hospitable and loving and protective womb in which to grow and thrive? Why couldn't I sustain the pregnancy instead of my failure of a body trying to end it? I cannot find forgiveness for myself. I cannot accept that some things cannot be explained, because I know somewhere deep inside me I am responsible for very base-level inability. In the end, I did not protect my child. Instead, I put my child in danger.

A safe, life-giving protectiveness turned vile and abhorrent.

Six months or so ago ...

2008-04-24T23:09:00.001-07:00

I know, I know. We're slowly working up to the 24th, which was a Wednesday, and here it already is six months from that day of birth.

What day are we on now? We've finished Monday night, and now it's time to review Tuesday.

But I haven't posted in awhile because I'm scared of what awaits. After I tell you about the tests and tests (you might remember the tests from the other posts? Yeah, I'm going to repeat myself), I'll have to tell you about the C-section. And then the tiny baby in the plastic box. And I'm still not sure I want to go back there yet. So I'm dragging my feet.

Tuesday.

My sister had brought some things from home. A photo of my son was my most important request, but that deodorant came in close second. Because by Tuesday, I was feeling seriously grody. I hadn't had a shower since Saturday or even the opportunity to sponge bath. When the technician came in to listen to my innards, I told him I'd give him a million dollars just to hand me my deodorant. (Nurses, you put up with a lot, cuz this was one stinky chick!)

At some point, though, the nurse came in and told me I might be able to take a bath "later." In the meantime, she brought me some toothpaste and a toothbrush, along with that thing to spit in. (Another shout-out for the nurses here, for having to carry people's spit.) And she brought me towels and a basin of warm water and a bar of soap and

I felt.

So.

Immensely.

Grateful.

I remember vividly thinking how beautiful a moment it was, this basic luxury of being able to care for myself, to clean myself. That from that very moment, I would learn to appreciate every little thing in life. That I'd never complain about anything because that basic need had been denied to me and now I was getting to have it. I just wanted to wash my body.

At some point I did get to have a full-on bath. Maybe it was Wednesday morning? It was even more glorious, even as I cautiously carried my drugged and IV'd body into the bathroom and into the tub. I think I cleaned my hair three or four times.

During Tuesday's day, I also had someone who came and listened to different innards — my heart — with this somewhat painful little device that poked into my bones and skin. I'm trying to remember how I passed the day, other than phone calls to family and to work. I'm trying to remember so much that's falling away.

I'm going to stop for now, I think. Next time, I'll tell you about Mike Rowe, and about the doctor who came in late Tuesday night to do an ultrasound ... and exclaimed loudly, "The baby is breathing!"

The next hospital

2008-04-15T22:56:00.000-07:00

"A baby can't survive."

It's hard to write that even now, after my baby proved everyone and every statistic wrong. It still hurts to remember the terror and doubt and desperation.

And I AM trying to remember everything that happened, because I worry if I forget a piece it will fester. It's surprising, the stupid things I remember in the middle of the bigger things. So I suppose I'll come back to these entries as new details emerge, or as I notice errors and inconsistencies.

But it's so difficult to recall the banalities, not only emotionally, but physically as well. It's soon in this that I'll tell you that the drugs dripped into my veins started, drugs that ripped away any belief I had I could retain some control and made me more woozy and fuzzy-headed than I understood possible. Drugs that led to hallucinations and a scrawl in my bedside notebook to "get off ALL drugs" as a goal for reclaiming my sense of sanity.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After they told me I'd be moving to the Level 3 hospital, my dad and sister waited until the ambulance showed up. I don't remember the conversation, other than my sister's constant reassurances. I told them they didn't need to go to the hospital with me; it was late, both were tired.

And I already felt terribly alone.

The EMTs came, eventually, with a stretcher, and I was moved onto it and out the door. It was my first ride in an ambulance. They wouldn't turn on the lights, though:)

I don't understand my humor sometimes. In the ambulance I bantered with the EMT in the back, who peppered my witty comments with serious questions. I just kept thinking I wanted to make SOMEone laugh. And he was a good audience. Not to mention -- who doesn't love to talk about herself?

Arrival at the next hospital was to the emergency entrance, where I was pushed past the admittance desk, into an elevator and up to the room. They transferred me over to the bed, which supposedly was much more comfortable than standard fare.

More questions about myself. A nice nurse. A phlebotomist using my arms for what felt like practice as in her search to find an unholed spot she was forced to dig into the backs of my hands ... and the sight of the incredibly beautiful, vibrant, alive circle of my blood as it ran out and spread onto the white, white sheet when she couldn't establish proper insertion in the back of my left hand. And then moved onto the right. And then into my right inner wrist, halfway between hand and inner elbow, where she finally found success.

Another hour or two of tests and questions. About what? I wish I remember, other than general repetitions of the story-thus-far and biographical information. Some explanation of what was going to happen. And the beginning of the IV drips.

I was given magnesium sulfate to prevent the pre-ecclampsia from developing into ecclampsia, which would mean convulsionsstrokebraindeathdeath. And potassium to counteract the magnesium sulfate and hydrate me. Blood pressure medications came and went in various doses.

The oxygen started, too. Tubing with little prongs that shoved into my nostrils. Because I still couldn't take a deep breath and that was terrifying me. Was it this night I opted for the sleeping pill, Ambien? I can't remember if I was beyond exhausted yet and gave in. Whenever night it was, it didn't help anyway.

And I was given the first Butt Shot.

Two shots administered 24 equal hours apart. Into my ass. Left cheek the first night, right the next, if you're really into the details of this story. It was a steroid that promoted development of the baby's lungs, lungs that weren't meant to breathe outside air until the very end of full-term pregnancy.

I do have to say I'm proud to brag that I resisted the catheter for a long time. I don't remember when I gave in, but I did. I peed automatically, into that tiny tube without feeling it, until after delivery.

I think sometimes that I will request my medical records so I can fill in the gaps. But I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. And when I read about medications I had, or procedures, all of the "possibles" fold into my understanding and overwhelm me anew.

I could have I could have It could have It could have. These possible side effects of magnesium sulfate:

Cardiac arrest
I was already having trouble with my pre-ecclampsia-induced irregular heartbeat.
Pulmonary edema (lungs fill with fluid; can be fatal)
Check, had that too.
Chest pain
Cardiac conduction defects
Low blood pressure
I WISH!
Low calcium
Increased urinary calcium
Visual disturbances
Oh yeah. We'll learn their names later.
Decreased bone density
Respiratory depression (difficulty breathing)
Had that already.
Muscular hyperexcitability

I was on the magnesium sulfate until just before I was discharged.

I learned how the bed went up and down. I learned where the call button and the light switch were. I asked for the blinds to be open even though it was night because I was so terrified of confinement in that little room.

This was Monday night.

It was only later that I noticed the incubator tucked into a corner, and realized this was a room meant for giving birth.

The second hospital

2008-04-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

The hospital at night. Alone in my room, missing my son, I suppose it was inevitable I'd think back to his birth 7 and a half years before just a few rooms away. I remember it was late and everyone had gone home, and I was left alone to hold my baby boy. I remember how perfect it had been, how I snuggled him close in and whispered all the promises I still try to keep, promises born from my own failed childhood. I ached for him as I lay in the semi-dark, trying in vain to find sleep.

I guess the night passed; I remember more blood draws and eating at one point. Trying to watch crummy-reception TV. I'm sure someone talked to me about the status of tests. At some point they must have told me I was staying overnight, so then my hopes turned to release the next day.

In the morning, more tests, more people, more more more. I was wheelchaired at one point down for an MRI ... either of my brain or lungs, I don't remember. I felt so bad for the guy who had to push me, I tried to make up for it with stupid banter. The MRI wasn't as horrifying as it had been for my grandpa, whose terror at the closed space and subsequent flight from the room were the stuff of family legend. I worried about harm to the baby, and was reassured s/he would be OK. I'm thinking that test was something like $9,000, if I'm correctly remembering.

Back upstairs to the room, passing the day, into the night, with food, people, TV, boredom boredom boredom. And utter boredom. And still no clue as to the intensity of the circumstances. I just keep thinking now what a FOOL I was to be so ignorant. But how can one know when it's never happened before? I'm looking for self-forgiveness in this, along with the multitude of other regrets that pile up and demand attention.

I knew that when the doctor came to tell me I'd have to cancel my trip to Disneyland, planned just a week later with my son as a final it's-just-the-two-of-us trip, I smiled and nodded and smugly told my inner self he was full of bullshit. (This doctor will come up later in the tale, so mark him here in your memory.)

This doctor was the first to name what was happening to me: pre-ecclampsia. He explained the details of it, what was happening to me to land me in such a rare condition. My lungs were filling with fluid -- thus the breathing difficulties -- my brain was swelling. My blood pressure was still heading north. And so on. It's a rare condition, affecting about 5 percent of pregnancies, and the only cure would be the eventual delivery of baby and placenta. To stave off that event, I would be confined to bed rest, intensely monitored, medicated. I worried about work, but the doctor told me he'd write a note.

I guess they knew the outcome, though, that bed rest notes wouldn't be needed. Because when evening came, I was given the news that I was to be transferred to a Level 3 hospital -- the most critical of them all. Why? They explained that the hospital only delivered babies at 26 weeks and later, that it wasn't equipped to handle babies born earlier.

I was 25 weeks and two days.

Some inkling began then, because I wept as I explained the situation to my dad and sister. My dad kept kept repeating the words, in the way dads have of repeating words meant to stay quiet: "But a baby can't survive this early. A baby can't survive."

The first hospital

2008-04-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

I don't remember how long I was in that little room at urgent care at the first hospital. Long past my son's boredom turning to apathy. Long past him exploring all of the equipment in the room. Long past lunch.

I didn't get it, and that just gets me now. I had no clue how bad things were starting to become, only that when they told me my skyrocketing blood pressure and the fluid climbing in my lungs and the other bits of health terror bought me a ticket to the next hospital, I insisted my sister take me through the drive-thru for food first.

That's right. I nearly sold my soul for Taco Hell.

I didn't comprehend what the beneath-the-breath anxiety of the medical staff meant, had never contemplated anything wrong with the pregnancy. I guess because I was just beginning to come to terms with the pregnancy.

So they examined me, they monitored my pressure, they did everything they could to bring it down and when it just continued to move up, it was time for more urgent medical intervention. So I was sent down the hill (via personal vehicle with a stop for a burrito first) to the second hospital. And admitted into the room where I'd planned in three and a half more months to actually give birth.

Nurses, doctors came and went. Tests, questions came and went. The afternoon and then the evening came and went.

My son marveled at the room, said it was as wonderful as the 5-star resort we'd stayed in in Puerto Vallarta. Didn't want to leave me. He drew pictures on the dry erase board and erased them with a hospital-issue washcloth. I remember this vividly because the picture he drew was of two separate fetuses in two separate amniotic sacs. They were himself (because he'd been born at the same hospital) and the baby still inside me. For some reason I was too terrified to ask, he erased one of them. I also didn't ask if it was himself or the baby he left behind.

I have that washcloth still, with the smears of green dry erase ink bordering the stamped "hospital property." It was the first thing of all the things I kept during the whole experience. I seemed to need to hoard all the bits and pieces because the loss of any one of them symbolized a much greater loss. That giving up one little thing could only set off a domino chain of even greater loss.

So my sister took my son home, after I told him I'd soon follow. After I wiped away his tears at having to leave me and reassured him I loved him. After I told him I'd soon follow.

I promised him I'd be home.

I was SO mad at that point, that I had to stay overnight. I was so bored. I keep thinking, "They'll do one more test and then they'll release me." I kept asking when they could take out the IV needle and assorted bandages taped to my inner arm. I watched nurses change shift, the new one asking what she could bring to eat. I declined, assuming I'd soon be leaving.

She stayed to take care of me, I guess understanding that I had no clue. She helped take the toe ring off my rapidly swelling feet. She talked to me.

I just wanted my son and my own bed.

I wouldn't see either for a week.

Why this is called Ankle Rolls

2008-04-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

That line between the expression of melodrama and trauma is miniscule, it's nearly impossible not to step over. So before I write any more, I want to admit I'm likely to cross it as I struggle to find a way to convey what happened. Haven't I already, with oceans of tears on my pillow? All I can do is ask for your patience and understanding that I will always be my own biggest critic.

About a week before Oct. 21, 2007, I was nearly six and a half months pregnant and aside from a gag reflex on hyperdrive, had had no negative symptoms. (Unless you count utter denial about the pregnancy a negative symptom.) The baby had just begun to seriously make herself known through movement and kicks (though I felt her from at least before the third month.) And then I looked down and realized my ankles had become so fat, they actually had rolls.

I was pissed.

The only flippin' thing on my body that wasn't fat and now it had rolls. The injustice.

So I pondered and came up with this clever title. I thought maybe it'd help cement the reality of this pregnancy, to write clever ditties about it. To draw in admiring women who nodded in understanding. But I didn't have a chance to come back to this blog until now.

For about three nights, I started to have trouble breathing and thus I got very little sleep. I simply could not catch my breath. On that third morning, the 21st, I called my consulting nurse line, sure I was coming down with the flu. But there were no other symptoms. And nothing wrong with me aside from fat ankles.

The nurse told me to go in to urgent care. I was frustrated. Urgent care took effort and energy I didn't have, meant uprooting my family and dragging them with me for something I was sure would self-resolve. But I went.

The admitting triage nurse was going off shift, was in fact overdue as she had no problem complaining to me, so rushed me through and didn't indicate any problems when assessing me, taking my blood pressure, etc. When I was called back into a room, though, another nurse and the doctor rushed in.

"You need to relax," the nurse kept repeating. "You need to relax."

I yawned as I told her it didn't get any more relaxed.

But she kept telling me. "You need to relax."

Beginning to worry, I asked why. And though I didn't know it at the time, would not fully take it in until I was on the hospital bed with the oceans of tears at the sides of my head, that's when this all began.

"You need to relax."

You have to start somewhere

2008-04-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

As my baby and I lay dying on the hospital bed, I kept thinking about this blog that I'd started. I kept thinking how helpful it would be to have a laptop propped on my belly because the experience was so unreal that the only way I would be able to believe what I was feeling-thinking-understanding-experiencing would be to document it here and read about it later. That I'd just had time to come up with the delightfully clever title before the whole world crashed down around me.

I remember at that point the sides of my face and hair were drenched from the torrent of tears that pooled into oceans on either sides of my head. The nurse came in to turn down the volume on the fetal monitor, and I begged her to leave it loud. Because I feared it would be the last time my baby's heart would beat.

These snippets of memories are rising to the surface as the time passes and the trauma begins to work its way out into the open. Memories I wanted to forget, that I should be ABLE to forget given the ultimate happy ending my story vows ... but that linger until I can give them fresh breath and a glimpse of new life and send them on their way.