My mother.
She raised 7 children, of which I was the baby. That was her job. I can't recall a single time she hired a babysitter for me. She was always there. She never worked outside of the home. Would do everything for her family, even to her own detriment. A true mother. And we fought like cats and dogs. Looking back, I like to think this is becaue we were more alike than even we realized. All of us 7 children had our labels: the Crazy One, the Smart One, the Mischievous One, the Responsible One. My title? Simple. I was Her Baby. All of my years growing up.
My senior year of high school, I was working on college applications when they told us Mom was in the final stages of lung disease. I couldn't leave her. I refused. But then something happened, and she seemed improved, and we decided I would go. And so I did. But everytime I would call home, it would seem, she would be in the hospital. I will never forget the phone call I made one day, when she told me she had signed the papers. What papers? The Do Not Resuscitate Order. When did it get that bad? I took a leave of absence from school for a week to go home and assess the situation. The plan was to see how things were, and return and finish finals if she seemed okay, but to withdraw if not. She acted fine. Same ol' Mom. So on the Sunday night before I was to make my return to class, I was getting my things loaded into the car. She knocked on the glass of the window beside her bed, and I went back into the house. She was crying, and hesitated some before asking me if I remembered my purse. It seemed like there was something strange going on, someting more she wanted to say. The purse question was just so silly. But she insisted all was fine, and I started the 2-hour trip back to campus, driven by my then-boyfriend.
But I cried the entire time. Something was telling me that I should've stayed home. She died the next morning, surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and my father, her husband of 32 years. She died before my sister, with the help of the college staff, could locate me in my freshman psych class. The entire way home, I didn't even know she was gone. The hospital staff had warned my sister that, once she finally spoke to me, she should not tell me my mother had died over the telephone. So she didn't. She just told me mom was okay, but that I needed to come home. I thought I was doing so to say goodbye. I never dreamed my opportunity for that had passed when she had asked me a silly question about a purse the night before.
Had I have known, I would not have left that night. I would've stayed there with her, holding her hand and apologizing for all I said and never said. I would've made sure I had every detail of her face, her laugh, her voice memorized.
She was ever the mother. Looking back, there is no doubt in my mind that she held on until I left that night. Later recounts of her last breath revealed to me how much I was loved by her. The story goes like this: She was holding my oldest sister's hand on one side, and my father's hand on the other. And she looked at them all, her children, her life's work, and said "Just make sure My Baby is taken care of." Meaning me. Still. Her Baby.
That year, and the years following were cruel to me. She died in April. The following month, May, was one of those years where her birthday actually fell on Mother's Day. May has always been difficult for me for that reason. I hate May. It's been 14 years, and I still do. The idea that the world keeps turning on its axis without her here is still so unbelievable to me. Over the years, I have learned to put on a happy face to mask her absence for E's sake. He brings home macaroni art and construction paper cards from school, and I act like it is the best day in the world for his sake. J knows the truth, and knows I don't want him to buy me cards or jewelry or flowers. Mother's Day is not a celebration for me. Mom isn't here.
I've missed her in my life. She wasn't there when I got married. She wasn't there when I became a mother. Not physically. I have even made my living taken care of people who are dying of the same condition. I would be lying if I said there weren't days where I see her in my patients. Those are the hardest ones, but also the ones I can help the most. And I can honestly tell their loved ones, as mom or dad slips away from this world, that I have been where they are.
I ask myself everyday if she would be proud of me. Is she looking? Yes, I think she is. Because she always has a way of creeping into the big moments. When J and I married on Christmas Eve, a ceramic angel figurine fell onto a tile floor without breaking. The night E was born, when I was finally able to sleep, I dreamed of her laughing and playing with him in a field of the greenest grass I had ever seen. We never told him anything more than that his grandma, Mama's Mom, is in Heaven. But one day, out of the blue, he referred to his Angel Grandma. And the day I graduated with my degree in respiratory therapy? Well, it fell on Mom's birthday.
So here I am. All of these year later. And we have E. And we are having Zachary. My amnio, I just realized, is on my Mom's birthday. It will now be the day I find ot my son's lungs are okay. How bizarre. He will be born in the same week she was, the week of Mother's Day. He'll have her birthstone, and I will be constantly reminded of the emerald jewelry she always cherished.
But why? Why May? Why the worst month of the year for me? Easy. I really think it is Mom again. I don't think she could stand that there was a whole month where Her Baby was sad. Once again, she is fixing something for me. Zachary is coming to give me reason to celebrate again.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Of Sapphires and Emeralds
So I have to tell you the story that has been a source of embarrassment for me since that fateful night in September when E entered the world. I bring this up now because J brought it up to one of my nurses the other day.
I had endured HELL! Picture the experience I have had with Zachary's pregnancy, with the same exact complications, but prolong it for a month, an that was E's pregnancy. It may have also been made a little worse by the fact that we were less financially stable, so there were more money issues, which made for more emotional issues. Plus E's pregnancy was planned.
Picture the scene. I had endured months of preterm labor and contractions. I had endured every prenatal test known to man. I had even had a fetal fibronectin done back then, which is no big deal to us now, but back then? There was only one lab in the entire country that processed them and the samples had to be flown out to that location. It was high tech and new-fangled then. We had even lost everything we had and had moved into J's mother's basement. It was bad. I had been to the hospital the day before, on August 30th, and of course it is me, so I wasn't dilated. But they could feel E's head pressing on the other side of my cervix, trying to make his way into the world. I got sent home, with a little red sleeping pill, to try to rest. We didn't know then about my cervical dystocia, so we were just waiting for some changes to take place.
The contractions never stopped. J had already called in at work several times because "this was it". But it never was. And this was a new job of his, as we had just moved to the area. So when the contractions were even worse the next day, I called the doctor on call for my OB. He didn't know me, but I was able to recount for him every test I had, the results, and when I had them. I could recount every hospitalization, every treatment for preterm labor. I told him that I frankly was not going to go the hospital unless he would deliver me. He told me to come in and he would assess the situation, but that he didn't have a full say, as he was not my doctor.
I will never forget that relief I felt. He came into my room at the hospital, took the monitors off of my belly and palpated my uterus as the contractions came and went. It was very intense, as he sat there staring in my eyes, with his hands on my belly, helping me to breathe through the contractions so I didn't tense up, giving him a better feel of what my body was doing. And he looked at the nurses, telling them that they should've done more, that I was having hard contractions, and that my body was trying to deliver this baby, but for some unknown reason, it was not working. (Later, while he was in there for a c-section, he found enormous areas of dense scar tissue and the cervical dystocia was diagnosed.) He left the room, saying he had to call my doctor, and returned to tell me that he was going to deliver after doing a surgery to treat an ectopic pregnancy, and I was prepped for surgery while he was doing that.
So fast forward an hour or two. I am strapped to the OR table. J is perched on a stool by my head. I am awake and hearing and seeing everything going on around me, but they had given me morphine along with my spinal, so I was in a sort of haze that is hard to describe. There was a surgical drape in place, so I was staring straight up. The only thing in my real line of sight was the clock on the wall. The initial incision was made at 11:52 PM on August 31st. But at 11:55 PM, the hands on the clock stopped moving. It seems the clock had died. We were stuck in August.
I certainly had more important things to worry about. I was having a baby 6 weeks before my due date. I had just survived the pregnancy from hell. But I had some good drugs on board and could not help myself.
"STOP!!!", I yelled. "It's August! We're STUCK in AUGUST!!!! August's birth stone is ugly. I want a SAPPHIRE in my mother's ring. Wait! Please, just wait 5 more minutes!!!"
E entered the world with the lustiest cry I have ever heard. 6 Weeks early, and all I could think was "his lungs are okay", as tears were streaming. The clock on the wall still said 11:55 PM, so the time on E's birth certificate was actually from the monitor that was recording my vitals. E was born at 12:05 AM on September 1st, 2001. His birthstone is a sapphire. The hardest, toughest gemstone next to the diamond. Believed by some to have healing properties. One of the most precious stones known. How very appropriate.
Am I silly? Yeah. Crazy? Most definitely. But I not only said it, but shouted it for all to hear. It was the joke around the Labor and Delivery unit of the hospital at least until I was discharged. And for our 7th anniversary, J did the most amazing thing for me. He was unemployed, and I was the breadwinner then too. But he saved every ounce of money he got--birthdays, Christmas, etc.--and he bought me an anniversary band with alternating stones of diamonds and sapphires. Precious to me for many reasons--the perfect symbol of our little family.
So the story of the sapphire came up again recently, when we thought Zachary was going to be delivered at 34 weeks or so. His birthstone would have been a diamond. But instead, since I am delivering in May, it is to be an emerald. Emerald is known as the Christian symbol of hope, and is also one of the most precious. It is supposed to represent harmony, wisdom, and love. To heal the heart. Oh, Zachary!
I had endured HELL! Picture the experience I have had with Zachary's pregnancy, with the same exact complications, but prolong it for a month, an that was E's pregnancy. It may have also been made a little worse by the fact that we were less financially stable, so there were more money issues, which made for more emotional issues. Plus E's pregnancy was planned.
Picture the scene. I had endured months of preterm labor and contractions. I had endured every prenatal test known to man. I had even had a fetal fibronectin done back then, which is no big deal to us now, but back then? There was only one lab in the entire country that processed them and the samples had to be flown out to that location. It was high tech and new-fangled then. We had even lost everything we had and had moved into J's mother's basement. It was bad. I had been to the hospital the day before, on August 30th, and of course it is me, so I wasn't dilated. But they could feel E's head pressing on the other side of my cervix, trying to make his way into the world. I got sent home, with a little red sleeping pill, to try to rest. We didn't know then about my cervical dystocia, so we were just waiting for some changes to take place.
The contractions never stopped. J had already called in at work several times because "this was it". But it never was. And this was a new job of his, as we had just moved to the area. So when the contractions were even worse the next day, I called the doctor on call for my OB. He didn't know me, but I was able to recount for him every test I had, the results, and when I had them. I could recount every hospitalization, every treatment for preterm labor. I told him that I frankly was not going to go the hospital unless he would deliver me. He told me to come in and he would assess the situation, but that he didn't have a full say, as he was not my doctor.
I will never forget that relief I felt. He came into my room at the hospital, took the monitors off of my belly and palpated my uterus as the contractions came and went. It was very intense, as he sat there staring in my eyes, with his hands on my belly, helping me to breathe through the contractions so I didn't tense up, giving him a better feel of what my body was doing. And he looked at the nurses, telling them that they should've done more, that I was having hard contractions, and that my body was trying to deliver this baby, but for some unknown reason, it was not working. (Later, while he was in there for a c-section, he found enormous areas of dense scar tissue and the cervical dystocia was diagnosed.) He left the room, saying he had to call my doctor, and returned to tell me that he was going to deliver after doing a surgery to treat an ectopic pregnancy, and I was prepped for surgery while he was doing that.
So fast forward an hour or two. I am strapped to the OR table. J is perched on a stool by my head. I am awake and hearing and seeing everything going on around me, but they had given me morphine along with my spinal, so I was in a sort of haze that is hard to describe. There was a surgical drape in place, so I was staring straight up. The only thing in my real line of sight was the clock on the wall. The initial incision was made at 11:52 PM on August 31st. But at 11:55 PM, the hands on the clock stopped moving. It seems the clock had died. We were stuck in August.
I certainly had more important things to worry about. I was having a baby 6 weeks before my due date. I had just survived the pregnancy from hell. But I had some good drugs on board and could not help myself.
"STOP!!!", I yelled. "It's August! We're STUCK in AUGUST!!!! August's birth stone is ugly. I want a SAPPHIRE in my mother's ring. Wait! Please, just wait 5 more minutes!!!"
E entered the world with the lustiest cry I have ever heard. 6 Weeks early, and all I could think was "his lungs are okay", as tears were streaming. The clock on the wall still said 11:55 PM, so the time on E's birth certificate was actually from the monitor that was recording my vitals. E was born at 12:05 AM on September 1st, 2001. His birthstone is a sapphire. The hardest, toughest gemstone next to the diamond. Believed by some to have healing properties. One of the most precious stones known. How very appropriate.
Am I silly? Yeah. Crazy? Most definitely. But I not only said it, but shouted it for all to hear. It was the joke around the Labor and Delivery unit of the hospital at least until I was discharged. And for our 7th anniversary, J did the most amazing thing for me. He was unemployed, and I was the breadwinner then too. But he saved every ounce of money he got--birthdays, Christmas, etc.--and he bought me an anniversary band with alternating stones of diamonds and sapphires. Precious to me for many reasons--the perfect symbol of our little family.
So the story of the sapphire came up again recently, when we thought Zachary was going to be delivered at 34 weeks or so. His birthstone would have been a diamond. But instead, since I am delivering in May, it is to be an emerald. Emerald is known as the Christian symbol of hope, and is also one of the most precious. It is supposed to represent harmony, wisdom, and love. To heal the heart. Oh, Zachary!
33 Wks, 2 Days: A Dream of Zachary
Yep, I'm awake at 3 AM...Again!
Last night, J and I were watching tv when I smelled the most noxious smell coming from my beloved husband. I literally gagged, and got so sick. I haven't done that in at least a month. The pukey part of this pregnancy has long since ended. But I was sick, so I ended up in bed after ensuring that our Cincinnati boy, Chad, was still safe on Dancing with the Stars. (I won't refer to him by his last name. I still cannot believe he changed his last name to a Spanish number because that was what all of us Cincy people called him. What a goofy thing to do!) But once in bed, I intended to read, and ended up waking up at 3 AM with the lights out an J snoring softly beside me.
What woke me was a dream I had of Zachary. We were bringing him home from the hospital. Nothing eventful happened. We were just bringing him home. He was nestled into his carseat, with his tiny baby legs curled up like newborns do, and he was so sweet and small and cute. My baby. I don't have anything profound to write about the dream. I think it has just hammered home that this is really happening. I am going to have two boys. One would think I would have gotten used to the idea somehwere in the past 33 weeks or so, but I haven't. Zachary will probably be E's age before I finally do. I have to cut myself some slack on this one: E has been an only-child for almost 9 years. (He'll turn 9 on September 1st!)
I cannot wait to meet this little guy. I don't know how much I believe in miracles. I simply have learned too much about science and medicine. But if miracles do exist, both of my boys are examples of them. E was supposed to be a miscarriage at 18 weeks, and Zachary probably would not have survived when I first went into labor at 21 weeks. Either God or the Marvels of Modern Medicine, whichever, is the reason behind both of them.
I'm reminded of my favorite quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. "If he is not the word of God then God never spoke." That may be a complete misquote, with puctuation or one or two words off, but I am recalling it off the top of my head. I remember when I read it, I thought of E. If God exists, there is no better evidence than the presence of my son in my life. Now I can say my sons, plural.
Last night, J and I were watching tv when I smelled the most noxious smell coming from my beloved husband. I literally gagged, and got so sick. I haven't done that in at least a month. The pukey part of this pregnancy has long since ended. But I was sick, so I ended up in bed after ensuring that our Cincinnati boy, Chad, was still safe on Dancing with the Stars. (I won't refer to him by his last name. I still cannot believe he changed his last name to a Spanish number because that was what all of us Cincy people called him. What a goofy thing to do!) But once in bed, I intended to read, and ended up waking up at 3 AM with the lights out an J snoring softly beside me.
What woke me was a dream I had of Zachary. We were bringing him home from the hospital. Nothing eventful happened. We were just bringing him home. He was nestled into his carseat, with his tiny baby legs curled up like newborns do, and he was so sweet and small and cute. My baby. I don't have anything profound to write about the dream. I think it has just hammered home that this is really happening. I am going to have two boys. One would think I would have gotten used to the idea somehwere in the past 33 weeks or so, but I haven't. Zachary will probably be E's age before I finally do. I have to cut myself some slack on this one: E has been an only-child for almost 9 years. (He'll turn 9 on September 1st!)
I cannot wait to meet this little guy. I don't know how much I believe in miracles. I simply have learned too much about science and medicine. But if miracles do exist, both of my boys are examples of them. E was supposed to be a miscarriage at 18 weeks, and Zachary probably would not have survived when I first went into labor at 21 weeks. Either God or the Marvels of Modern Medicine, whichever, is the reason behind both of them.
I'm reminded of my favorite quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. "If he is not the word of God then God never spoke." That may be a complete misquote, with puctuation or one or two words off, but I am recalling it off the top of my head. I remember when I read it, I thought of E. If God exists, there is no better evidence than the presence of my son in my life. Now I can say my sons, plural.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Really the Last Time: On Family Planning and a Sort of Mourning
Awhile back, I posted about the conundrum of whether we would have more children. We will not. If anything, the events of the past week have taught me that I cannot, and should not, try this again.
We have been pursuing options for permanent family planning. This has been difficult, as I work for a Catholic healthcare system. The ideal would have been a tubal ligation while they were already in there for my c-section, but that is forbidden. I've searched high and low for a loophole--medical necessity being my primary approach--only to find nothing. The next step was to pray that there was something so wrong with my uterus while they are in there that they have to remove it. I doubt that will happen. I even asked about an elective partial hysterectomy while they're in there, and was told it would be too risky.
So that brings us to vasectomy. We have toyed with the idea for a while now. We talked before I became pregnant, as this option is cheap (my hospital privately funds our insurance, and so will not pay either), and can be done in a doctor's office. Before I became pregnant, J said an emphatic "No Way!". Actually his exact words? "No one is coming near this area with a scalpel", as he made a sweeping gesture of his nether regions. Seriously, what is it with men and their testicles? Is it not enough to know that he is so virile that he made two sons? Then somewhere around 26 weeks, when I got shipped to OB Mecca, he changed from an emphatic NO to a "we'll see" approach. But he is still waffling. This is rather frustrating for me, for several reasons. First of all, I am the one who has to endure hell to bring our children into the world. And it seems silly for me to recover from a c-section, only to return later to have another procedure, regardless of how minor it may be. Furthermore, why the hesitation? We have been together for a decade. Our marriage isn't going anywhere. Is he afraid he will want another kid with another woman someday?
So anyhow, how to solve the problem of our fertility??? Well, my doctor mentioned that they do the Adiana procedure in their other office. I am seriously thinking of going this route. But what does that do to me psychologically?
I realized the other day that, no matter how far my doctors try to stretch this pregnancy, I will be having this baby within the next month. With that being said, this is it. This is the last time I will feel that wonder at a life growing inside of me. The last time I will feel the indescribable sensation of having a baby move and kick and squirm within me. And this isn't about just current pregnancy milestones. The home pregnancy tests I took marked the last time we would have that experience together. And what of those moments when I first heard his heartbeat or saw him on an ultrasound screen? All of that---the last time. And my experiences with Zachary: never again will I have the joy of hearing my newborn cry for the first time, or cry the tears of joy that are so unique to becoming a mom. These moments that are coming up are it for us. The end.
My fear is that, in the terrible-ness that has been this pregnancy, I didn't cherish it all enough. I cannot go back and fix any of that. All I can do is ensure that from this day on, I will cherish every bit. Every milestone, sight, touch, smell, feeling.
I sort of knew I would be coming to this decision eventually. I know this is what I have to do, for my safety and the safety of any children who would have come down the road. But nevertheless, I'm sad. Not only for the fact that I won't ever have these experiences again, but for the end of an era. I am ending my fertility. I'm in my 30's. Next comes 40, then 50. Is making it so I can no longer have children putting a premature end to what makes me a vital young woman?
The hardest part is not so much the having to admit that this is my last child, but to have to say this is the end of this stage of my life. All that is left is for John and I to grow old together, raising our two sons.
We have been pursuing options for permanent family planning. This has been difficult, as I work for a Catholic healthcare system. The ideal would have been a tubal ligation while they were already in there for my c-section, but that is forbidden. I've searched high and low for a loophole--medical necessity being my primary approach--only to find nothing. The next step was to pray that there was something so wrong with my uterus while they are in there that they have to remove it. I doubt that will happen. I even asked about an elective partial hysterectomy while they're in there, and was told it would be too risky.
So that brings us to vasectomy. We have toyed with the idea for a while now. We talked before I became pregnant, as this option is cheap (my hospital privately funds our insurance, and so will not pay either), and can be done in a doctor's office. Before I became pregnant, J said an emphatic "No Way!". Actually his exact words? "No one is coming near this area with a scalpel", as he made a sweeping gesture of his nether regions. Seriously, what is it with men and their testicles? Is it not enough to know that he is so virile that he made two sons? Then somewhere around 26 weeks, when I got shipped to OB Mecca, he changed from an emphatic NO to a "we'll see" approach. But he is still waffling. This is rather frustrating for me, for several reasons. First of all, I am the one who has to endure hell to bring our children into the world. And it seems silly for me to recover from a c-section, only to return later to have another procedure, regardless of how minor it may be. Furthermore, why the hesitation? We have been together for a decade. Our marriage isn't going anywhere. Is he afraid he will want another kid with another woman someday?
So anyhow, how to solve the problem of our fertility??? Well, my doctor mentioned that they do the Adiana procedure in their other office. I am seriously thinking of going this route. But what does that do to me psychologically?
I realized the other day that, no matter how far my doctors try to stretch this pregnancy, I will be having this baby within the next month. With that being said, this is it. This is the last time I will feel that wonder at a life growing inside of me. The last time I will feel the indescribable sensation of having a baby move and kick and squirm within me. And this isn't about just current pregnancy milestones. The home pregnancy tests I took marked the last time we would have that experience together. And what of those moments when I first heard his heartbeat or saw him on an ultrasound screen? All of that---the last time. And my experiences with Zachary: never again will I have the joy of hearing my newborn cry for the first time, or cry the tears of joy that are so unique to becoming a mom. These moments that are coming up are it for us. The end.
My fear is that, in the terrible-ness that has been this pregnancy, I didn't cherish it all enough. I cannot go back and fix any of that. All I can do is ensure that from this day on, I will cherish every bit. Every milestone, sight, touch, smell, feeling.
I sort of knew I would be coming to this decision eventually. I know this is what I have to do, for my safety and the safety of any children who would have come down the road. But nevertheless, I'm sad. Not only for the fact that I won't ever have these experiences again, but for the end of an era. I am ending my fertility. I'm in my 30's. Next comes 40, then 50. Is making it so I can no longer have children putting a premature end to what makes me a vital young woman?
The hardest part is not so much the having to admit that this is my last child, but to have to say this is the end of this stage of my life. All that is left is for John and I to grow old together, raising our two sons.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
31 Wks, 2 Days: Random Stuff
Saw my doctor yesterday, and all was well with my BP. I finally gained some weight, 1.8 pounds, making my net gain for the pregnancy totalling 12 pounds so far. Not too bad. We discussed my situation, and I left the office reassured that they will not let me go any further than necessary with the pregnancy. His exact words: "You're in pain, and we're concerned that you are in pain, and we are not going to let you suffer any longer than necessary." So the plan is still to wait until 34 weeks, stop everything and do an amniocentesis to test out Z's lung maturity. They cannot plan a c-section that early without a medical indication. I don't think I will last more than 8 hours without the meds before I am contracting. But what they can do is let me start contracting at that point, then do my c-section.
We discussed the end of my FMLA job protection on May 1st. The doctor had the idea that maybe, once I reach 34 weeks, they can let me return for some piddly 4 hour shifts a couple times a week to try and buy me more time. I would be thrilled with this idea, but for the first time ever, I had to make the statement that I don't think I am capable. I am so de-conditioned right now that it isn't even funny. I'm relying on the post-partum period to gain some strength and get my chops back before I start running around the hospital. I hated admitting that to him. I really miss work, and would give my eye teeth right now to return.
So speaking of work: Yesterday was the big Gainsharing disbursement. In lieu of giving huge sign-on bonuses, my hospital has this employee incentive they call Gainsharing. Basically, the hospital keeps tabs on those patient satisfaction surveys, compares them to the national average, and if we meet certain criteria, since it is a private hospital, they determine a portion of the hospital's proceeds and disburse it to employees. The amount you get is based on the number of hours worked for the year. 2080 hours is considered full-time, and thus earns you the top-out, maximum amount. I worked 2,778.4 hours last year. Since I work 36 hours per week, that was the equivalent of 77.178 weeks of work in 52 weeks. Kinda like me squeezing an extra 25 weeks out of the year. So of course I got the full disbursement amount. The check had to be picked up in person, and each department in the hospital has a big to-do over it: catered lunches, mandatory meetings, etc. My boss was going to allow J to pick up mine, considering the circumstances, but I wanted to do it. J dropped me off in front of the door, parked the car, and came and got me in a wheelchair to take me to my department. I got a very warm reception, making me think that the feelings I had of being snubbed were more my perception than reality. I'm sure that, just like anywhere else,there are people in my department who talk about me behind my back, who think this has been a vacation for me or some kind of lame excuse to not work. But for the most part, everyone got it and seemed genuinely concerned. My supervisor's exact words: "just have a healthy baby, recover, and get your butt back here ready to work!" as she hugged me before I left. This gives me hope that they see my value there and will not post my job.
Of course the money could not have come at a better time. I was sort of bummed that I couldn't just go on a binge and spend it like I did last year. Instead, this year, I used it to pay bills. The plus side is that I can now breathe a little easier, and will be until I am back to earning my full salary. I paid a couple of rent payments (through June) and huge advanced payments on electric and phone/ internet/ cable. My car-loan disability insurance came through, so I no longer have to pay that. They actually calculated my post-partum period to end 8 weeks from my scheduled c-section, so I am free from car payments until July 27th. And my bank, since I have been a Good Girl and never been late or short on any payments, actually restructured my other loans (education, personal, overdraft line of credit, etc.) into my car loan, refinancing my car to a payment that is actually lower. So when the insurance pays my car payment, they will be paying toward all of my loans. This frees up my income from my short-term disability pay for simple living expenses like groceries, gas, etc., for the next couple of months, at least. I can breathe again.
We did have a little fun, though. I treated myself to a stack of books that I cannot wait to lose mysef in. And E: that kid has been sitting quietly by, watching every spare dime that comes into the house go toward baby stuff. I'm sure it has been harder on him than he lets on. He is used to getting everything he wants. It is bad enough that my earnings have reduced so drastically, but then to have to watch any little extra go toward another baby? Poor E. And he has been so good about it. So I was going to buy him a new bike. He outgrew one a while back, and got a new one from his Grandma, but he has a little problem: the kid is short! And small. So while his old bike was too small, the next size up was way too big and no matter what adjustments we made, his little feet could not adequately touch the ground. Too dangerous for my taste!So the new bike is still brand new and in the basement right now. It has been for almost 2 years, as we kept stalling on buying him one, thinking he would grow into it. But summer is either coming, or is here, and my kid still doesn't have a bike to ride. We took him to the store to find one that would fit. Of course none did, so I gave him the equivalent in cash to spend how he wanted. I did place some guidelines on him, though. No video games, no dvd's, no computer games. Toys or books only. He made some good choices. As for the bike, I think Iam going to have to wait until later in the summer when I am back to work and take him to a cycling shop and get something customized for him. We then swung by and bought him some summer clothes. This is my favorite time of year for that. Usually I am a kid/ baby clothes snob. My child has been dressed in designer everything from the time he was born. But somewhere around the time he started school, I changed this a little. I think it was the first time he went outside to play in summer in a brand new Ralph Lauren outfit, and chose to roll in mud, and the outfit ended up in the garbage, as it was too ruined to even donate to charity. So in summer, we buy cheap clothes. And I have found that if you are choosey, you can find clothes at the discount stores for dirt-cheap prices that look like designer labels. So for once I can get him an entire summer wardrobe for a couple hundred bucks instead of the thousands I spend during the school year. Bonus for mom! And on the way home, E says this: "Thanks, Mama, for the ...." And rattles off a list of every litte tiny item I bought him, all the way down to the candy he got in the checkout lane. Arrrgh! I love the kid so much it hurts!
We discussed the end of my FMLA job protection on May 1st. The doctor had the idea that maybe, once I reach 34 weeks, they can let me return for some piddly 4 hour shifts a couple times a week to try and buy me more time. I would be thrilled with this idea, but for the first time ever, I had to make the statement that I don't think I am capable. I am so de-conditioned right now that it isn't even funny. I'm relying on the post-partum period to gain some strength and get my chops back before I start running around the hospital. I hated admitting that to him. I really miss work, and would give my eye teeth right now to return.
So speaking of work: Yesterday was the big Gainsharing disbursement. In lieu of giving huge sign-on bonuses, my hospital has this employee incentive they call Gainsharing. Basically, the hospital keeps tabs on those patient satisfaction surveys, compares them to the national average, and if we meet certain criteria, since it is a private hospital, they determine a portion of the hospital's proceeds and disburse it to employees. The amount you get is based on the number of hours worked for the year. 2080 hours is considered full-time, and thus earns you the top-out, maximum amount. I worked 2,778.4 hours last year. Since I work 36 hours per week, that was the equivalent of 77.178 weeks of work in 52 weeks. Kinda like me squeezing an extra 25 weeks out of the year. So of course I got the full disbursement amount. The check had to be picked up in person, and each department in the hospital has a big to-do over it: catered lunches, mandatory meetings, etc. My boss was going to allow J to pick up mine, considering the circumstances, but I wanted to do it. J dropped me off in front of the door, parked the car, and came and got me in a wheelchair to take me to my department. I got a very warm reception, making me think that the feelings I had of being snubbed were more my perception than reality. I'm sure that, just like anywhere else,there are people in my department who talk about me behind my back, who think this has been a vacation for me or some kind of lame excuse to not work. But for the most part, everyone got it and seemed genuinely concerned. My supervisor's exact words: "just have a healthy baby, recover, and get your butt back here ready to work!" as she hugged me before I left. This gives me hope that they see my value there and will not post my job.
Of course the money could not have come at a better time. I was sort of bummed that I couldn't just go on a binge and spend it like I did last year. Instead, this year, I used it to pay bills. The plus side is that I can now breathe a little easier, and will be until I am back to earning my full salary. I paid a couple of rent payments (through June) and huge advanced payments on electric and phone/ internet/ cable. My car-loan disability insurance came through, so I no longer have to pay that. They actually calculated my post-partum period to end 8 weeks from my scheduled c-section, so I am free from car payments until July 27th. And my bank, since I have been a Good Girl and never been late or short on any payments, actually restructured my other loans (education, personal, overdraft line of credit, etc.) into my car loan, refinancing my car to a payment that is actually lower. So when the insurance pays my car payment, they will be paying toward all of my loans. This frees up my income from my short-term disability pay for simple living expenses like groceries, gas, etc., for the next couple of months, at least. I can breathe again.
We did have a little fun, though. I treated myself to a stack of books that I cannot wait to lose mysef in. And E: that kid has been sitting quietly by, watching every spare dime that comes into the house go toward baby stuff. I'm sure it has been harder on him than he lets on. He is used to getting everything he wants. It is bad enough that my earnings have reduced so drastically, but then to have to watch any little extra go toward another baby? Poor E. And he has been so good about it. So I was going to buy him a new bike. He outgrew one a while back, and got a new one from his Grandma, but he has a little problem: the kid is short! And small. So while his old bike was too small, the next size up was way too big and no matter what adjustments we made, his little feet could not adequately touch the ground. Too dangerous for my taste!So the new bike is still brand new and in the basement right now. It has been for almost 2 years, as we kept stalling on buying him one, thinking he would grow into it. But summer is either coming, or is here, and my kid still doesn't have a bike to ride. We took him to the store to find one that would fit. Of course none did, so I gave him the equivalent in cash to spend how he wanted. I did place some guidelines on him, though. No video games, no dvd's, no computer games. Toys or books only. He made some good choices. As for the bike, I think Iam going to have to wait until later in the summer when I am back to work and take him to a cycling shop and get something customized for him. We then swung by and bought him some summer clothes. This is my favorite time of year for that. Usually I am a kid/ baby clothes snob. My child has been dressed in designer everything from the time he was born. But somewhere around the time he started school, I changed this a little. I think it was the first time he went outside to play in summer in a brand new Ralph Lauren outfit, and chose to roll in mud, and the outfit ended up in the garbage, as it was too ruined to even donate to charity. So in summer, we buy cheap clothes. And I have found that if you are choosey, you can find clothes at the discount stores for dirt-cheap prices that look like designer labels. So for once I can get him an entire summer wardrobe for a couple hundred bucks instead of the thousands I spend during the school year. Bonus for mom! And on the way home, E says this: "Thanks, Mama, for the ...." And rattles off a list of every litte tiny item I bought him, all the way down to the candy he got in the checkout lane. Arrrgh! I love the kid so much it hurts!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
You Make Me Smile
We really take our loved ones for granted, don't we?
I don't know...Maybe it is J's newly-diagnosed illness. Maybe it's the pregnancy having me all hormonal and emotional.
Last night, J's doctor advises him to eat a great supper because today, when he wakes up, the sugar-free, fat-free whirlwind begins. So we go to an upscale burger joint, J, E, and I. And as we are all sitting around the corner booth in front of burgers the size of E's noggin, I look at the smiling faces of my husband and son. The picture of beauty. The men in my life. And this song was playing in the restaurant. I remember seeing part of the video on CMT as I was flipping through the channels from my permanent home on the sofa, and I remember thinking, "Wow, what a cute song". But suddenly, it's more than cute.
J has never been sick. I have. I have had some doozies. It was this time 3 years ago when I was having blinding headaches that would cause me to pass out and the doctors told me I have a benign brain tumor. It ended up being okay. There is a tumor, but it is small and nothing that cannot reamin there. But I remember that time. We had the best summer we have ever had. Because for weeks, we had thought I was going to need a surgery that, because of the tumor's location on my brain, would result in me having to learn everything all over again, including my own son's name. I was off of work then, too. So we spent the entire summer by the pool, with me memorizing every detail of J's and E's laughter, of mapping out every freckle on J's bronzed shoulders, of focusing on the exact location of every teensy sparkle in E's eyes when the sunlight hits them at certain angles. My boys.
I've gone on and on about E. But what about J? I have spent a decade of my life with this man. It's been hard at times. We've had times where we liteally lost everything we had and had to build anew. Not one time. Times. Plural. But we've had our share of good, too. After having dropped out of college when my mom died, it was J who convinced me that I was too smart to not go back and finish. And it was J who was there as I walked off the stage, having finished my degree with academic honors, top of my class. Right there. As in he didn't stay in his seat, but was literally at the foot of the steps, with open arms, to hug me. It was just the two of us when E came into the world. His mom visited afterwards, and of course medical pesonnel were present, but otherwise, just us. And when I made my return home to greater Cincinnati, after having been gone for 6 years, he is the one who drove the U-Haul out of the way just to pass over the bridge into downtown so I could see the skyline of my hometown at night. We had left here in defeat when E's pregnancy drove us to financial ruin, and we were returning again in triumph,better than ever before, and he knew I needed that.
Looking back, it's always been him, even before I met him. How can that be? Well, quite simply, we all want to find the person out there who understands us. Who can get to the very soul of what makes us tick. For me, J is that person. Does he drive me crazy? Absolutely. This man can get under my skin and aggravate me like no other. He can drive me to insanity and back.
I have never even tried to picture a world without J. I don't want to, ever.
He makes me smile.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
26 Wks, 1 Day: Brothers Fighting Already?
Baby Zachary's amazing little kicks and squirms are getting stronger by the day. A true reflection of what is going on in my uterus, they tell me he is okay. If I go for any length of time without feeling them, I start to secretly worry about him. There is nothing like feeling him kick. Nothing. Relief washes over me with each nudge from his little arms and legs. And love does also. My baby. I can already tell how cute and sweet he is, how amazing he is sure to be. He's my Zachary.
Lately his kicks are strong enough to see. J has been able to feel them from the outside for some time, because he has felt it before with E and knows what he is looking for. They would have to be pretty pronounced for E to be able to feel them. Now is the time. As I was sitting on the sofa one day, I felt him kicking up a storm, and had E come over and put his little hands on my belly. Nothing. E's little face fell in disappointment. He could have waited and he would have felt Zachary kick, but he is a busy little boy with his own agenda, and didn't want to sit and wait.
Yesterday, I was laying on the bed and E came up and kissed my bare belly. Then. Right at the perfect moment, and in the perfect spot. Zachary kicked where E's little face was located. E felt it on his cheek. He gave a little surprised gasp, and looked at me with the most priceless look of shock on his face. "Was that him?" he asked. "Yep", I said. It made his day. He laughed as he told Daddy that Zachary kicked him in the face.
Now,before he does anything, he wants to kiss his baby brother in the hopes that he will feel Zachary again. He is truly going to be an awesome big brother. And it makes me kind of sad that we didn't have them closer together in age, that there will be an almost 9-year gap between the two of them. Will they still find a way to be close, or did we rob them of that?
Lately his kicks are strong enough to see. J has been able to feel them from the outside for some time, because he has felt it before with E and knows what he is looking for. They would have to be pretty pronounced for E to be able to feel them. Now is the time. As I was sitting on the sofa one day, I felt him kicking up a storm, and had E come over and put his little hands on my belly. Nothing. E's little face fell in disappointment. He could have waited and he would have felt Zachary kick, but he is a busy little boy with his own agenda, and didn't want to sit and wait.
Yesterday, I was laying on the bed and E came up and kissed my bare belly. Then. Right at the perfect moment, and in the perfect spot. Zachary kicked where E's little face was located. E felt it on his cheek. He gave a little surprised gasp, and looked at me with the most priceless look of shock on his face. "Was that him?" he asked. "Yep", I said. It made his day. He laughed as he told Daddy that Zachary kicked him in the face.
Now,before he does anything, he wants to kiss his baby brother in the hopes that he will feel Zachary again. He is truly going to be an awesome big brother. And it makes me kind of sad that we didn't have them closer together in age, that there will be an almost 9-year gap between the two of them. Will they still find a way to be close, or did we rob them of that?
(Image: Zachary's Foot at 25 weeks, 2 days)
Sunday, March 7, 2010
25 Wks, 5 Days: Bedrest and the Eight-Year Anesthetic
Bedrest.
I have dreaded that word, but have anticipated it from the time I saw 2 pink lines on the home pregnancy test. I didn't want this. I used to work for a hospital where I would come home at the end of the day hating my job. That isn't the case anymore. I love my job. I love my coworkers, from the nurses and doctors I work with, to the other RT's, to the nurses, and all the way down to the housekeepers. I don't want to jeopardize that. And I am worried about the financial well-being of my little family. We have had some rough times, and we always bounce back, but after so many of those, you get tired. I mean really tired of having to rebuild. I know somehow we will survive this also. I just don't know how at this point. I'll cut expenses as much as possible, save as much as possible, and get help if I need it. I guess I'll have to wait and see, which is the hardest part for a type-A control freak like myself.
Yesterday, as I was contracting every 3 minutes, I hung my head and asked J if it was this hard with E. "Yes, baby, it was," he says. " But it was different because we were at a different place in our life and our marriage." It seems like a funny question for me to be asking him. I, of all people, should know. I was there.
They tell you that you will forget the pain of bearing a child as soon as you hold your baby. In some ways, I agree with this. I can tell you that E's pregnancy was a nightmare. I remember that much. I can tell you about the time a doctor told us we should just abort him and try again. I can recall other bits and pieces. The viscosity of the mag sulfate, cranked to the highest possible dose, and the throbbing in my arms as it entered the vessels. The purple-black bruises up both arms from both failed IV attempts and having to have labs drawn every 2 days. My white-knuckled fist grasping the bedrail as the contractions ripped through me. But that's it. Little tiny snapshots. Heartbeats, really, in the 34 weeks my body managed to both maintain him and try desperately to rid itself of him. Back then, I could have told you the entire story, in great detail. Somewhere along the line, the edges blurred, as if the 8 wonderful years of my life since he entered it have served as an anesthetic. As if Mother Nature or God, either one, is whispering in my ear, "It's all okay. You survived that, and now look at the reward. Look at this beautiful person who is here as a result of your toughness and grit." I can tell you the story, but the raw emotion is removed from it. It is just another event in my life. I think I needed the 8 years of watching him grow and giggle and learn and laugh in order to recover from the manner in which he entered the world.
So now here we are, fighting the same battle and it feels both the same and completely different. E's pregnancy seems easier now, looking back, and I don't know if this is because of different circumstances, or if it just seems so because I know E, and that has erased the degree of difficulty from my mind. 8 years from now, when Zachary is 8, will I have forgotten? Will knowing him and holding him and watching him grow serve to take all of this from me? One can only hope.
I have dreaded that word, but have anticipated it from the time I saw 2 pink lines on the home pregnancy test. I didn't want this. I used to work for a hospital where I would come home at the end of the day hating my job. That isn't the case anymore. I love my job. I love my coworkers, from the nurses and doctors I work with, to the other RT's, to the nurses, and all the way down to the housekeepers. I don't want to jeopardize that. And I am worried about the financial well-being of my little family. We have had some rough times, and we always bounce back, but after so many of those, you get tired. I mean really tired of having to rebuild. I know somehow we will survive this also. I just don't know how at this point. I'll cut expenses as much as possible, save as much as possible, and get help if I need it. I guess I'll have to wait and see, which is the hardest part for a type-A control freak like myself.
Yesterday, as I was contracting every 3 minutes, I hung my head and asked J if it was this hard with E. "Yes, baby, it was," he says. " But it was different because we were at a different place in our life and our marriage." It seems like a funny question for me to be asking him. I, of all people, should know. I was there.
They tell you that you will forget the pain of bearing a child as soon as you hold your baby. In some ways, I agree with this. I can tell you that E's pregnancy was a nightmare. I remember that much. I can tell you about the time a doctor told us we should just abort him and try again. I can recall other bits and pieces. The viscosity of the mag sulfate, cranked to the highest possible dose, and the throbbing in my arms as it entered the vessels. The purple-black bruises up both arms from both failed IV attempts and having to have labs drawn every 2 days. My white-knuckled fist grasping the bedrail as the contractions ripped through me. But that's it. Little tiny snapshots. Heartbeats, really, in the 34 weeks my body managed to both maintain him and try desperately to rid itself of him. Back then, I could have told you the entire story, in great detail. Somewhere along the line, the edges blurred, as if the 8 wonderful years of my life since he entered it have served as an anesthetic. As if Mother Nature or God, either one, is whispering in my ear, "It's all okay. You survived that, and now look at the reward. Look at this beautiful person who is here as a result of your toughness and grit." I can tell you the story, but the raw emotion is removed from it. It is just another event in my life. I think I needed the 8 years of watching him grow and giggle and learn and laugh in order to recover from the manner in which he entered the world.
So now here we are, fighting the same battle and it feels both the same and completely different. E's pregnancy seems easier now, looking back, and I don't know if this is because of different circumstances, or if it just seems so because I know E, and that has erased the degree of difficulty from my mind. 8 years from now, when Zachary is 8, will I have forgotten? Will knowing him and holding him and watching him grow serve to take all of this from me? One can only hope.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Hmmmm, I Should Start at the Beginning
I guess our fight to become parents began with E. eight years ago. E was the little boy we were sure was to be our daughter, and we found out we were expecting him almost one month to the day after we were married. I remember J's excitement, after having told me he, like I, wanted a girl, and then we saw the telltale image on the ultrasound screen to show us it was not our daughter after all, but rather a son. "That's my BOY!", he exclaimed!I will never forget the feeling of the tightening in my belly at eighteen weeks of pregnancy. It seemed so benign. But after a few minutes, it happened again, and I realized that I was having contractions. We reported to the hospital to be told what I already knew. But instead of saying I was in preterm labor, they said I was having a late miscarriage. No. No no no no no. Miscarriage is something that happens at the stage of pregnancy when everything is still so abstract. Not to ever belittle the loss of a baby, but this was OUR baby. Our son. Our E. Of course we cried.
The doctor agreed, since we were a young married couple, to try to stop the labor. Looking back now, I realize how arrogant this truly was. Who were they to "decide" which babies are worthy of saving? But they gave me a shot, and the contractions stopped. But the battle was far from over. I went into labor on average of once a week from that point on. That is, until it got to the point where I just didn't stop contracting. I spent a month in a local hospital, what was known as the mecca of obstetrical care in this region of the country. I toured their NICU, in preparation for what we would be facing. I was on every drug known to man: Brethine, Procardia, Sulindec, magnesium sulfate. I got the steroids, a course in each trimester, to be exact. I was on bedrest and couldn't work. My husband, having just started a new job, lost his from having to be absent so many times thinking "this is it, we're having a baby". We ended up living in my in-laws' basement from financial ruin.
But E held on. To know him now would explain it all: a spirited, gifted, spunky little boy who can have you enamored with him within five minutes of meeting him. He was born at 34 weeks gestation and came out screaming. I cried when he cried, from lungs that were to be underdeveloped. That is what we had prepared for, after all: the idea of immature lungs had been hammered into our head from 20 weeks of gestation. But he made it, and was a picture of health. He's now eight years old.
When E was a baby, if you asked me if he would be an only child, I would've told you no. While we were not eager to repeat the experience of his pregnancy, to test fate, we loved being parents. We had been so lucky, and our family had emerged, other than a few minor bruises, largely unscathed. Our boy was healthy and proving to be quite smart. And one day we would give him a brother or sister, but "not right now". After a few years of recovery, I didn't even think of birth control. If it happened, it happened. It never did.
I was always kind of sad about that, though I would never admit it. I didn't want to attempt fertility drugs because I didn't want to chance multiples. Not after having survived E's pregnancy. I would stifle my jealousy as others around me became pregnant. I knew I SHOULDN'T want another. We couldn't afford it. I couldn't risk it. And I had things I wanted to do with my life. I went back to school to become a health care professional, and began to earn a far-better salary. Then I turned to the idea of fulfilling a lifelong dream: I went back to school to work on the requirements for medical school.
As E got older and older, people started to ask when we would have another. "NEVER!" would be my cry. My life was crazy. A full-time healthcare provider, a full-time pre-med student, a wife, a mother. J had started nursing school so that he would be done in time for me to start medical school, so I could then slack off at work. We had plans. And they were coming to fruition. No. No more babies. Instead, we had given up the idea and filled our life together with other things.
But God had other plans for us. And after just "not feeling right", and years of no birth control, I discovered myself to be pregnant. Everyone around me judged me for thinking this, but I honestly thought it was a cruel joke. As in: " Now? Really, God? Are you serious?" And I was upset. All of the struggles we fought to bring E into this world came back to me. What if they happened again this time? How would we handle it? J was unemployed and a full-time student. E was thriving. And me? I was the sole breadwinner for the family. What if I couldn't work? What if it was worse this time? What if I just couldn't hang on again?
Gradually, I got used to the idea by telling myself this was finally my daughter. I was later devastated to discover it was to be another son. After all, this really is to be the LAST ONE. I am an obstetrical nightmare, and the odds of a complicated pregnancy increase with age. I am now 33 years old. I had to tell myself that this is it. I will never have a daughter.
But then something happened. I got over the shock. I got over the disappointment of a boy. I began to realize that this, just like E, is to be our baby. And we love him. I never thought I could love like I love E, but I do. I picked out clothes and furniture and bedding. We picked out a name. Zachary, because it means "God remembered", and Clifton, after J's grandfather, who passed away this past year.
I took comfort in the idea that every pregnancy is different and watched as the weeks ticked by on the calendar, each week thinking "so far, so good". I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finally it did, and I went into preterm labor on January 29 at 2o weeks gestation.
So now, here we are. Fighting for Zachary. And I am starting this blog to document the struggle. It is not foreign territory to us, but I find myself wishing I would have documented something with E's pregnancy. Now is my chance.
(Image: E at 4 years old, on the front porch, and those chocolate-brown eyes that reel me in.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
