There are now two separate weekly blogs here: my current blog, the story of my escapades with fertility and pregnancy starting in August 2004 (which are a little off the "official" week number of my pregnancy), and the story of my second pregnancy, which sadly ended in the eighth week due to miscarriage. Please see the bar to the right for weekly links. This page will show only the most recent post(s), the weekly blog pages will defy blog practice by appearing in forward chronological order. Everything on these pages is copyright 2004 and 2005 by me, Sarah Gilbert.
Pregnancy stats: Due May 15 with a boy whose name may be Truman. Suffered partial placental abruption on January 7th at 22 weeks' gestation. Moved to "high-risk" status. To date, baby is healthy and big, and no signs of pre-term labor have presented themselves. Hoping to VBAC. Praying.
2005.01.22. ultrasound report
Could I have forgotten to update the permanent record? I could have, indeed. Yesterday was just such a loooong day. In which I went to my ultrasound appointment to check up on Truman's growth and the health of my placenta.
So, what did I learn? Well, for starters, Truman is doing just fine. His little heart is pulsing away just like it should, and let me tell you - the 24-week heart is a beautiful thing to behold. It's so amazing to just see it working away like that, how could he be anything but healthy with such a lovely little heart?
The ultrasound technician gave my placenta a clean bill of health, although he will, of course, have to check in with the radiologist for a final opinion. I'll hopefully find out more during my official OB appointment this coming Wednesday.
The scary part, though, was the decidedly un-fine feeling of the little ultrasound paddle when it was pressed (my God, those technicians press hard) on the site where the worst pain was when I was in the hospital in Vegas. It hurt like crazy - definitely not the panicky-take-over-my-body pain of the actual abruption, probably more like a really awful bruise. My current theory is that the abruption is what's called a "concealed placental abruption" or "concealed hemorrhage." That blood is just sitting there between the placenta and the uterus and it hurts when you press on it with a hard plastic object. I told the technician that it was hurting so in the next photo of my placenta he typed, "PLA XS AREA OF PAIN." Is it an extra-small placenta? Is it a cross-section? I never asked.
Truman is doing lovely, and I'm sure you're ready to see pictures, but I have to warn you: they take a fair bit of staring before you can make them out. We didn't have a lot of fabulously clear profile shots throughout the ultrasound - he was too busy taking measurements and looking at boring things like kidneys (which, try as I might, I just can't see on that grainy whooshy image). The measurements were clustered around the 24-week point (ick, the head circumference is the furthest along) which means that he is progressing normally, and I'm probably not a week ahead of schedule, as I thought after the first ultrasound.
2005.01.21. back in time
I've been thinking about making Truman's baby book, and tonight I picked up Everett's and looked through it with him. He was really intrigued by the "mail" (an envelope glued into the book), which was a letter from me. I opened it to read to him.
Of course, he didn't let me finish and tried to wear it as a hat (although he seemed very touched, just for an instant...I think). And then cried when I took it to put it back in the book.
A couple of nights ago I was reading through my pregnancy journal (the day-by-day one with Everett's dates still penciled in - I just subtract two months and call it good since their due days-of-the-month are virtually the same). I came across some notes I'd written about Everett moving around, about his ultrasound, and a few days later, our decision to name him "Everett."
It brought me back in an immediate way to Everett's time inside me, what a wonder that was, how much I longed to be a parent, how much stock I put in my conception of myself as mama.
It was a report card, too, as I'd talked in my little letter about how much I dreamed that we'd love him and support him in who he was. Have I done that so far? Probably, yes, but I've been lucky. What if it's not the same with Truman?
I thought about it again when I handed a cup of Yogi Cocoa Spice tea to my mom (delicious!) to taste and she said, "I'm sorry, I just don't like it." We're so different, she and I, from our taste buds to our parenting styles to our politics. I think she was a great mom, I'm just different. Not rebelliously, just...that's how I turned out.
Everett is turning out to be the apple of his mama's, and daddy's, eye. He'll be a runner, and play football, and probably wrestle (dad's love, not mine), without any arm-twisting from us. He'll probably read poetry with me, and knit, and bake. He already loves the laptop as much as mama does.
But what about Truman? Will he follow in both of our footsteps, adoring our sports and our hobbies and our intellectual pursuits just like we do? Or will he strike off on his own, playing (yikes!) soccer, and ... umm ... falling in love with auto mechanics, or something equally out of our realm?
Being the second child can be hard, and I'm worried for him, the expectations of cuteness and brilliance that will fall on his shoulders. I'm worried for me, hoping too much, planning on a small version of Everett. I want to be the same parent in attitude - hoping much, but not expecting (too) much - that I was with Everett. And, in many ways, better.
But I'm so imperfect and such an overachiever. I want all my kids to follow in my overachieving ways. Deep down? Yeah, I'll be super disappointed if Truman shuns track for tennis, or drama, or (yikes!) fixing up an old Nissan Altima (hee hee).
I have to remember what is, I think, my best parental quality: my devotion. I'm terrible at schedules, and expectations, and saying "no" when someone's crying. But I'm truly awesome at pouring my heart and soul into loving the little cuddlebugs until I can't love no more. Affection? I don't give it casually outside this house, but inside, it's all kisses and tight, jealous hugs.
So maybe what I lack in unreasonable hopes, I'll make up for by loving them so much when they're young that I'll get over it all by the time high school rolls around. Can a kid whose mom loved him so much she stayed up until 2 a.m. every night of his gestation blogging about him, really be that bad off? I sure as heck hope not.
2005.01.20. fun hurts
Tonight was mom's group, and as I was feeling energetic and relatively pain-free, not to mention, desperate for a little mom's group chatter, I decided to brave it. I even felt good enough to whip up a simple chili-queso dip (1 pkg cream cheese, 1 pkg sour cream, 1 can black bean chili, canned chiles, chipotle, cumin, salt, whir together, sprinkle grated cheese over, bake 20 minutes, yum). Tiffany picked me up, and I was ready for fun.
I ate delicious mexi-food, I drank amazing cocoa spice tea, I indulged in Denali chocolate sauce and coffee ice cream. I finally dished the way I'd been waiting for the past several weeks.
It was wonderful, but by 9:30, my belly started to give me grief. At one point the pain had risen to a worrisome point, then subsided again. Once I arrived home, though, I was certain: I wouldn't be able to go to my morning coffee shop meeting.
And now, the pain isn't intense, I'm not overwhelmingly scared, but there's a nagging tightness. An occasional "ouch" that makes me wonder...is this not over yet? Might I have more midnight dashes to the hospital before little Truman makes his all-important two pounds, 26 weeks? Might Valentine's Day be an impossible goal?
I'm more than a little scared, sure that stuffing my face with enchiladas, chili queso dip and guacamole could not be the cause of my bit o' pain, wondering if maybe it's the few blocks' walk today (in an attempt to make an ultrasound appointment that wasn't), wondering if it's just my tender tummy. I'm looking oh-so-forward to the (yes, in the computer this time) ultrasound appointment tomorrow, the one that will either quiet my fears or admit me to the labor & delivery ward. As I've said before...there's nothing I can do but pray. And sleep. And that's what I'll do now.
2005.01.18. through a son's eyes
I got the letter from Jonathan today where he described his graduation. He said that, while he'd wished I was there, he had really wished his mom could be there - that there was something unalterably special about that demonstration of accomplishment, that recognition from his mother.
Reading that, seeing the mother through the eyes of the son, wishing for that amazing and unique feeling of making a mom proud, I had a jolting epiphany. What always confused me was suddenly so clear - it's not what your mom did to you, as a boy, it's what you do for your mom. It's that knowledge that you did good, that you made her proud. It's proving that all the years she spent wondering if you'd ever make it were not in vain. It's justification for every misbehavior, every time you were sent to your room, every disappointing report card. It's almost universal, this basic need to have your mom see you walk across a stage or receive an award. It's the reason that, no matter how wonderful, sweet, loving and fulfilling a wife might be, however insufficient the mom, that bond can never be replaced.
I felt a sudden wave of failure: the compunction that there will always be a hole in my husband's heart that, no matter how overwhelming our love or perfect our relationship, I'll never quite fill. That was really hard to take.
At the same time, however, I was filled with the twin responsibility and good fortune of being a mom of boys myself, of having two or three little buckets of maleness who will spend their lives (at least, some of their lives) doing things to make me proud, whose chests will swell that extra percentage point when mom sees them make the goal, or get the diploma, or win the acclaim. For at least two souls, I will be that place in their heart unfilled by anyone but me. It's a terrible, gorgeous responsibility, and it makes me realize what a gigantic thing this motherhood trip is. I'm filled with wonder and terror, I'm struck with the weight of my mama destiny. I'll be there, boys, I'll be there with my camera and my approval and my love, I'll do my utmost to fill that hole to bursting. I don't want you to look around in vain, when you graduate from college, when you kiss your bride, when you promise to commit your own sons to God. I want you to look around and see me smile with pride and joy, with your father next to me, finally completing the circle that's been broken far too long. We'll be there, boys, with everything we have.
2005.01.17. nightmares
Last night I was awaken around 3 a.m. by my loving-yet-sometime-dunce-ish husband, who had made the mistake of trying to "watch out" for the young-and-ultra-foolish soldiers who were stuck with him in St. Louis by a snowstorm. He was upset, for reasons that seemed ridiculous to me in the middle of the night with bigger things to worry about than whether or not his (here's where it gets mean) stupid friends made it home, and whether or not they ditched him whilst getting there.
I tried to be understanding but couldn't help letting a little judgment slip in..."well, you should have just gone to bed and let them be!" He was brokenhearted with exhaustion and a bit too much forbidden beverage. I told him to call me later and went to see how much this ditching had cost the family by checking our bank account online.
Of course, he didn't call me later, and of course, I stayed up for hours tossing and turning over financial worries and concerns about my sweet hubbie - whether he was exhausted, hurt, making his plane o.k. At 5 a.m., I heard a car in our driveway. My brother-in-law.
He snuck as quietly as he could into my bedroom, clearly drunker than my hubbie. He came in with apology tripping over apology. It was a long story. He needed money for the cab, he'd pay me back three times over.
I had about $4 in cash, all in quarters and dimes. "What should I do?" he asked. Like the stressed-out-exhausted mama on bedrest knows. I gave him my debit card and told him to go to bed.
That certainly didn't help my sleep any, but by 5:30, I had slipped into a restless nightmare-fueled slumber. In my dreams, my brothers-in-law were partying in my (strangely huge and cluttered) attic, with hookers and loud music. I tried to call the cops but couldn't get "911" to go through on my ineffective cordless phone.
I don't need a therapist to tell me that I felt abandoned by all the men in my life - that their irresponsibility was throwing my world into chaos. But even when I awoke, happy to shake off that tortured dream state, I felt guilty for my anger at them. Somewhat justified, of course, but guilty - guilty that they were feeling so lost without their mom, guilty that I couldn't be more sympathetic, guilty that I had no mental or financial capacity to guide them through this.
When I awoke, it was to my mom arriving to look after me for the week. A few hours later, my friend Kate stopped by to pick up Everett for a playdate. She carried a huge bag full of goodies - magazines, pastries, bath salts, organic food for my freezer.
It's the women in my life who always come through, always look after me when I'm in need, always behave responsibily while the world is in chaos. How can I teach my sons to be more woman-like in their care for others? It's certainly a good goal. If I reach only a small number of my motherly goals, boy will my sons make wonderful husbands.
2005.01.16. recipe: bedrest noodles
Bring 1 can chicken broth to boil. Add capellini noodles, broken into manageable lengths, as many as can fit into the pot. Add a handful of frozen veggies (green beans, peas, corn) to taste. Sprinkle with a tad of cumin, hot pepper, salt and pepper. Boil until noodles are soft. Add butter to taste. Serve 1/2 to toddler and enjoy the rest.
2005.01.15.later. more truman
I looked up "Truman" in my dog-eared "baby names from around the world" book that I picked up at some garage sale tonight. According to said book, Truman is Old English (appropriate for my family, the Gilberts from the Isle of Man) and means "loyal."
"Loyal" goes very well with "Strong as a wild boar," (Everett's meaning) doesn't it? Something about that definition wins me over in a big way.
2005.01.15. bed rest 101, lesson 2
In today's lesson we learn the shower-bath combo.
It was icey today, the iciness so specific to Portland - where the cold wind comes first, rattles the windows so loudly you think rebel forces must be storming your house, then comes the rain, splattering its frozen droplets on everything in reach.
The sounds of my old house in an ice storm are unmistakeable, the tink-tink-tink of ice against the windows, the clatter of the frozen branches and ancient Christmas lights, the slow crunch of the chained-up cars in the street, the periodic block-shaking rumblings of the #75 Trimet bus. But still, I needed to open my curtains to see the icicles and the frozen leaves, to watch the occasional Jeep or bundled-up pedestrian struggle by.
Once Everett fell asleep, I was exhausted from his energy, and took a change of clothes and the phone upstairs, starting the shower. I washed my hair and body quickly, then filled the tub for a super-long restful soak.
A shower-bath is perfect for a pregnant woman on bedrest - you don't have to stand long, and if you're in an old house like mine, there isn't enough hot water left by the time you fill your tub to overheat your pregnant belly.
As I contemplated my protruding tummy in the ever-more-restful warm bubbly water, Truman began his martial arts practice, learning some new somersault-kick combinations that hurt so badly I was almost angry at him. But it was so wonderful, so rejuvenating, sinking into the water with the rain tink-tinking against the windows, calmness pervading my old sturdy house, I forgave him, and I gave him thoughts of love and longevity.
When I got out, I felt so good that I folded a few pieces of laundry, heated Hungarian Mushroom Soup and spooned out big chunks of bright-colored salad, drank three glasses of water and sat down with my laptop. For the first time in two weeks, I felt like a normal happy pregnant woman, cozy on my couch against the storm. And it was good.
2005.01.14.later today's peck of guilt
Everett woke up from his nap tonight asking me to "take him," which is Everett-ese for picking him up. Of course, I can't pick him up. I'm on bed rest.
I tried to talk him into walking with me into the living room, I held his hand while he got off the bed, I kind of pulled him along with me, stomping and screaming, "Take me!, Take me, mama!" He sobbed for a good 10 minutes.
Just the strain from pulling him off the bed hurt my belly, and I immediately worried about Truman. I sat there, looking from my screamingly sleepy son to my tender belly, and there was no good course of action. It really hurts not to be able to pick up your toddler when all he needs is a good cuddle.
When he finally decided to give in and come sit with me in our chair, I wrapped him in his star blankie and told him how much I loved him. Later, he gave my belly raspberry kisses. I think it was his way of forgiving Truman for causing such a ruckus. Can we all share in the love? I hope, I pray, we can.
2005.01.14. she's a high-risk woooman, yeah!
It's official, I'm a high-risk pregnancy. If one more person asks if I smoke, I think I'll scream. NO ONE could be more anti-smoking than I. When my brother-in-law gets those stupid glossy marketing packets from Marlboro, I throw them away immediately. I've held my breath in front of smokers, waving my hand in front of my face and acting panicked. I'm a non-smoker in the worst, least sensitive, most confrontational possible way.
Yet smoking is a major risk factor for my "condition." The other one is recreational drug use. And me, the woman who has only ever been offered marijuana once, I'm that much of a goody-goody. Ironic, hmmm? (uhhh...Alanis...this is ironic, just for the record, not flies in chah-dohn-aayyy)
While on the one hand I never imagined I'd be categorized as high-risk, on the other hand it gives me a kind of smug satisfaction, like, now you have to pay close attention to me, people! Yeah, watch out, I'm a high-risk pregnant woman, comin' at you! You know?
No, you probably don't. I read a bunch of information on high-risk pregnancy today. The odd thing is that something like 50% of those who end up in pre-term labor or other high-risk situations had none of the risk factors present. So, there are thousands of women out there, right now, mourning the same irony that I am - good girls, non-smokers, vegetarians probably, women who've run triathlons and never touched caffeine during pregnancy.
At once, this whole situation makes me paradoxically want to follow all the rules to the letter - and ignore them offhandedly. I'll do anything, including avoiding unpasteurized cheeses like the plague, in order to keep my baby healthy. On the other hand, it's unclear what I did that caused the placental abruption, and it certainly wasn't downhill skiing or off-road biking. It could have been anything from Everett's playful headbutts to simply turning around too sharply to pick up something from the back seat of the car. Or, most frightening of all - maybe it just happened, with no reason whatsoever.
It's all crazy, no? What a mad, mad, mad world we live in. So many things seem unfair, yet when you add up the columns at the end of the day, we have so many things to be thankful for.
What I'm thankful for, today, is that I'm only a week and a day from official fetus viability, with no signs of opening cervix and no contractions or bleeding or breaking of waters. My doctor is safely housed in a nearby hospital with a top-notch NICU, should I need it. My baby is kicking and turning with fearful rapidity and strength, never leaving me to worry about his health for long. And best of all, I'm informed: I'd never have ignored the pain, and I know what to look for in the future. I won't be the cautionary tale, with a moral of good prenatal care.
Oh yeah, and did I mention I'm thankful for a loving, gorgeous hubbie who's off making himself into super-dad? And my great family and friends who are looking out for me? And...there's another kick. I'm so happy, I'm crying.
2005.01.13. tender times
I always thought I was sturdy, invincible, healthy, strong. My body can take anything - I've been a hard charger all my life, rode bikes, played basketball and ran track through college, played co-ed football, lifted more weight than you'd think my 5'4" frame could handle. I've never broken a bone, never been hospitalized by anything other than labor, barely ever got sick.
So why am I suddenly so vulnerable? Why do I have to hold my belly up with my hands, it aches so? Why is it that the slightest twist in my chair hurts, sitting too long strains the muscles that hold everything up?
I'm so, so tender now, and it's really hard to handle. I'm the one who always ran up the stairs, the mom who played daddy-style games with her baby, who still threw her toddler up in the air and caught him after he was heavy enough to graduate to the booster carseat. Who one day not so long ago walked a mile home carrying her 30-some pounder when he fell asleep at track practice.
It hurts, not just physically, to be this fragile. And it doesn't make any sense. It doesn't seem fair, or fitting, or right. It's as if there is only the barest film of skin and flesh between me and my chunk of a 22-week-old, that everything could break at any moment. And I'm scared.
2005.01.12. laptop baby
My baby loves the laptop. Whether I'm sitting in my comfy green chair with the laptop on the table in front of me, or cushed-out on the couch, pillow shielding my big belly from its hard edges, Truman does somersaults. He's like a little hamster on a wheel in there, going around, and around, and around.
It's a good thing, as he's likely to see a lot of it once he's born. Everett spent many an hour draped across my thighs as I typed away. And much of his breastfeeding was done with one hand on the keyboard.
Now Everett will line his trains up across my touchpad when he's not getting enough attention. No, I'm not forgetting you, little one. I know you're in there.
2005.01.11. all about bed rest
Bed rest isn't so bad, as long as it has its end point. Two weeks seems doable. I cry for the women who spend months chained to their bedroom (or even worse, a hospital bed).
How...ever. I'm not what you'd call an excellent patient. While I do love a good pampering, there's not much of it to be had around these parts. And I can't ignore my child's siren cry: "peanut butter toast, mama! I want peanut butter toast!"
It's such a challenge, as I'm ever-so-committed to doing whatever it takes to birth a healthy baby a long, long time from now. I'm also ever-so-not-committed to avoiding the temptation to make a batch of cupcakes, or run up the stairs to get the phone I left there (whoops), or lean over to pick up my glasses when they fall. It's really hard remembering all the things that I should and should not do - and it's not like I even have a list, it's just my gut feeling (literally, heehee). My belly hurts, I can't do it.
The kind of bed rest I really (deep down) want is the kind that isn't possible. I want bed rest where I have no responsibilities, people to bring me food, and unlimited time to read and knit and type completely personal things. No bills to pay, no diapers to change, no financial models to sort out (hey, I love making a model, but it's just not tops on my priority list right now). I haven't touched my knitting needles since going on rest. I haven't had even two hours of uninterrupted work on my laptop. This bedrest isn't as cushy as I was thinking it might be.
Of course, I wouldn't really welcome any of the alternatives - I would hate to be stuck in a hospital bed, or have someone pick up Everett and take him away all day long to play in an impersonal day care while I tip-tapped away at my laptop. It's nice having his sweet self here with me. It's just ... hard. Really hard.
As I type that, I can see the spectrum of things that are way, way harder, and I feel very lucky that the pain in my tummy is mostly caused by an energetic, strong and still very much alive little boy. That I have a boss who doesn't mind if I work from home and hasn't been pushing the fact that I'm behind on some of my to-dos. That I have a little money in the bank, a healthy toddler, a husband that loves me (even if he is away at the Army, but hey, it's sure making him cute), a house that will be beautiful one day, a car (even if I can't drive it right now), so many friends, family who loves me, a mom close enough to come and fold my laundry and mop my floors. That I have people who leave me comments and emails saying that they love me and are praying for me and asking me what they can do. When you look at it that way, it's not hard, at all.
2005.01.10. the journey comes to an end
I never want to do that again.
I wanted to get home badly, but I didn't want to leave my sister-in-law's house to be cooped up with Michael and Matt for a whole 10 hours alone. Matt woke up with a hangover and in a terrible mood. Michael was running out of money, tired, and probably stressing over Holly's craziness. They were at each others' throats in the most passive-aggressive possible way.
There were literally minutes when I wanted to start sobbing in the back seat, when Matt had turned the air to cold and Everett was having a meltdown and my belly was hurting a bit from the stress and exhaustion, there was some sort of heavy metal band playing angrily on the radio ('cause who would let ME pick the radio station - me, the sad missing-her-husband pregnant woman in the back seat of her own car?). I went through waves of worry, anger and loneliness, saved only by the sweetness of odd interchanges with Everett.
Writing it is too close to reliving it, and I can't do that again. I got to stop at Target, buying milk and fish oil vitamins and cat food and a new Thomas train for Everett, a hefty bribe. I got to talk to Jonathan several times, from the airports in Vegas and Dallas. I got home.
As sad and lonely it was to walk in the house, cold and messy and empty, with the Christmas tree still up and one of our big silver ornaments still in shatters on the floor, I was so happy to see my home, to finally sink into my bed, Everett screaming because I wouldn't carry him in, the biggest meltdown thus far of the bed rest.
And so I put on my jammies, and became my own patient. The bed rest was official.
2005.01.09. bed rest 101, lesson 1
Today is my first full day of prescribed bed rest, but it's modified in all kinds of crazy ways. Last night we packed up all our chaotic belongings and took the elevator down two floors to the cold, sad parking lot of the Gold Strike Hotel (& Casino). On bed rest, you're not supposed to leave the house, except for doctor's appointments, and you definitely can't drive a car. You shouldn't go to a grocery store, or run, and never, ever, pick up anything heavy.
But I was stuck 1149 miles from home, and the doctor had allowed me to go home, telling me to stop every hour to use the bathroom. And first, we had to drop off my sad, sad husband at grandma's house.
It was his last day of "freedom" before returning to the Army, so we went to the store to buy snacks, and juice, and liquor. It was to be one of my last shopping trips for weeks, so I took advantage of it, buying mini-Brie and dry salami and a huge bag of tangerines and Snickers bars.
We drove back to Grandma's house, and she was in a state, declaring that we must remove Mom's stuff immediately, indicating several paper bags of memorabilia Betsy had packed the day before. As Jonathan and Matt re-packed the car to fit in a few other things, they began noticing all kinds of other precious items that must be saved - a box of photos, a stuffed (real) deer head, a painting of boats, a life-sized doll, a few boxes that later turned out to be garbage. And they got a little plastered.
By the time they were ready to go, the car was packed to the gills, I'd spent precious little time with my husband, and Matt was hammered. Matt does not (as we've mentioned before) do hammered gracefully. As Jonathan got dressed for lunch with Grandma and Uncle, I sat on the floor of the guest room, crying. I didn't know how I was going to face the next few weeks without him, and most especially, the 1,149 long miles home with his brothers.
We hugged goodbye, both teary, and Michael started the car and we pulled away, Everett and I both sad to see Daddy stay behind. Immediately Matt started in on his attitude.
By the time we stopped for gas about 4 miles later, Matt had refused to tell Michael if there was anyone in the next lane, threatened to get out and take a bus home, and told him several times that he had better not say a word to him for the rest of the journey home. I just wanted to cry more, stuck in the back seat with my peppy son, reading the Dora book and trying to pretend this wasn't actually happening. I was powerless.
They made up 10 minutes later, but I was wary, and Matt was sullen most of the time. I asked Michael to stop every 100 miles or so, and every time, there was a to-do about who would run with Everett, who would put him back in his seat. As I dragged my tired and aching body into restroom after public restroom, I wanted so badly to sprint back to the car, take the wheel, and leave both whiners in the dust.
We pulled into my sister-in-law's house in Sacramento around 10. Betsy is a fantastic hostess with a beautiful house. She and her husband put the Aristocats on the TV for Everett and made me chili and Passion tea. Betsy brought out the laptop so I could inform the world of my new status. And I sat there on the cushy carpet, listening to the cute little French kitties singing their arpeggios, telling my story and not feeling quite so bad.
So my first lesson in bed rest 101: don't do it with people who have no capacity to pamper you. Oh, how unfair the world will seem. My, how slow the time will go.
2005.01.07-08. in which everything is changed, changed utterly
We woke up early the morning of the funeral, but still were late. It snowed, in Las Vegas, of all places. Neither of us had gotten directions to the church and I had to run to our room and then wait in the snow as Jonathan returned from his detour to get treats for Everett (gatorade and doughnuts). Thanks to the funeral's coincidence with the peak of the Consumer Electronics Show, traffic was terrible. We arrived at the church 20 minutes late, and wet from the snow, which had now turned to rain.
We got there just in time for the end of the "homily" preached by a man none of Barbara's kids had ever met. Almost immediately, Everett started being silly, spitting at me and then hitting me when I shushed him. So I spent the rest of the funeral, oddly enough, in the crypt room at the back of the church (where, I believe, ashes were stored), trying to keep Everett from climbing up the spiral staircase that was in the room.
The reception was brief and strange; Barbara's husband, my evil step-father-in-law, left almost immediately. Good riddance, we all thought, hoping he would never call or write again. A few family members and friends asked about little Truman and fussing over Everett's cuteness (as he stuffed chocolate cake into his little mouth - who has time to worry about a toddler's diet during a time like this?).
We returned to grandma's house, the whole crazy group of us, and tensions were already high and getting higher. There would be an official "wake" that evening and it was like we were all waiting to be released from some terrible detention. I sat for a few hours in the living room with Grandma and Great-uncle Everett (my favorite and the kindest, most generous member of the extended family, little Everett's namesake). Jonathan came in to read part of his eulogy - the one no one would let him perform - to Uncle, and as he cried through it, I cried too, for his mom, for him, for my boys who would have only one set of grandparents.
There was a movement among the kids to split up a large box of mom's photos and memorabilia, in the living room where I was sitting with Everett, trying to keep him entertained and work through my growing feeling of general cruddiness. I chalked it up to stress, lack of sleep, and terrible diet, but my belly kept hurting and I kept feeling worse. Sitting down on the floor was difficult, and I was more than angry when my stressed husband asked me to take Everett away, as his whining was getting to him. What about me, I thought. Everett had wet through his diaper and the only pair of pants I'd thought to bring with me from the hotel. He'd drenched his shoes in the puddles at church. I took him, wrapped in his star blankie, to Kohl's up the street and proceeded to buy several pairs of pants, a pack of socks, some new shoes, and a couple of new maternity tops. For some reason, chasing him around Kohl's, struggling to get his new clothes on him before they'd even been purchased, was beyond my limit and it was all I could do not to break down in tears in the middle of the junior's section as I wrestled the shoes onto his feet. I felt so abandoned, but how could I be angry with all Jonathan was going through?
By the time I returned, things were going from bad to worse. The parcelling of the memorabilia had been cancelled amid too many lost tempers. The brothers were all drunk, and so was Barbara's brother, Uncle Donny, whose out-of-control abuse of my husband was the last straw. He said his goodbyes - he'd be leaving at 10:30 the next morning and we wouldn't have time to stop back by - tearfully, and at the last minute he packed up the brothers, too (who I was supposed to pick up the next morning after dropping Jonathan off at the airport for our trip home). We were all going back to our roomy-but-not-for-four-adults hotel room.
I was still feeling cruddy, and when Jonathan kicked out the brothers so we could spend some time alone, I didn't want to do anything like what we'd done the night before. I laid down with him and Everett (who'd fallen asleep early) and almost fell asleep, but couldn't. The pain had started to bother me, now, and was bad enough that I couldn't find a comfortable way to lie. It was about 11 p.m. I told Jonathan how it felt, and he told me, "you had so many scares with Everett, they all turned out to be nothing, I'm sure this is nothing, too."
But, as I told him as he tried to drift off to sleep, this wasn't nothing. This wasn't anything like any part of my pregnancy or labor with Everett. This was a somewhat severe pain on the top of my uterus - not contractions, not Braxton-Hicks, nothing in my back, nothing on the sides of my uterus (where the intestines often kick up some nasty gas pain), not the muscular soreness. This was really quite uncomfortable.
I decided to call a hospital. The labor and delivery nurses always were helpful at Good Samaritan Hospital when I would call them with problems during my pregnancy, labor and delivery of Everett. I picked out the University Medical Center, which seemed respectable, and was immediately told that I wasn't getting any advice from them, it was come in or nothing.
As I called, my brothers-in-law came back in. It was about midnight, and Jonathan was mostly asleep, telling me that I was fine, he was sure, I just needed to lie down and relax. For a minute, I tried to, but that made the pain worse and suddenly I knew this was bad. Very bad.
I called down to the front desk, asked which was the nearest hospital. They were so unconcerned I felt a little panic set in, and said the nearest one was 20-some miles away in Vegas. Any thoughts of calling an ambulance were discarded - I can only imagine how long it would have taken an ambulance to get to Jean, Nevada, from god knows which nearby hospital.
Thank God for my brothers-in-law, who were wide awake despite their grief and could recognize that I was not making this pain up. They somehow aroused Jonathan from his slumber and insisted that I not hold Everett any more, who was now crying for mama, awake and feeling the heightened stress of the room.
Somehow, we packed up the bare essentials, Everett, the brothers, and my husband, and got on I-40. No one had any idea where this hospital was, except for me - I'd glanced at the map in the phone book and had seen that it was very near the freeway. I'd taken the page out of the book, but couldn't find it now. The pain was getting worse, so much so that I started breathing the short breaths of the very-much-in-pain, and couldn't finish sentences. We were going 100 mph on the dark Las Vegas freeway and the only thing I could think about that was: we'd better not get pulled over, I couldn't stand to wait the eternity while a cop walked from his car to ours. I was starting to imagine insisting that Jonathan just keep going were a cop to pick us as a target. But, as usual on I-40, there were no cops.
Jonathan kept asking where the hospital was in his sleepy stress, my brothers-in-law were suggesting we should stop and ask. No, I said through clenched teeth, we're going until we see a hospital sign. We'll figure it out. The pain kept getting worse but I knew I wasn't in labor, so had the minutes it would take to get to the hospital I'd picked out. They had an NICU. They must have the best doctors. He very much wanted to pull over and call 911. But I kept him going, starting to cry out under my breath, "God let the baby be ok, God please let the baby be ok."
Even now, I can barely say what was going through my mind. I kept thinking about something I'd read on premature babies that said something like, "babies born between 24-28 weeks were..." I couldn't remember what the study involved, but remembered the dates. I was at 22 weeks. It was too early - or was it? The baby was big. I had a fair idea I knew what was going on. Placental abruption. I knew my placenta was up there on the top, I'd just seen it in the ultrasound a few weeks before. Someone I knew well had gone through placental abruption late in her pregnancy - her doctor didn't diagnose it correctly and she delivered her baby, already dead, a few days later. I'd heard the story early in my pregnancy with Everett and it had always stayed with me. It was why I never ignored pain that didn't fit classification. It was why I was so scared.
Finally, I saw the "H" sign and pointed frantically, having to explicitly direct my woozy husband as to exactly which lane to get in, where to turn. After several wrong turns within a few blocks of the emergency entrance, we finally made it. And as I practically sprinted toward the door, a man with a cigarette lazily walked toward the door, too, clearly marked "No smoking within 50 feet..." Despite my pain, my anger was laser-sharp, and I shouted at him to get that cigarette away from me.
I walked into a crowded waiting room, and wasn't going to mess around. I told the receptionist that I was having pain, I was 22 weeks pregnant, it was bad. She called for a transport, and had to keep calling, as it didn't come right away. Jonathan got me a seat, but it hurt worse, and I stood up, but I could barely stand from the pain, so I sat down again. "I'm 22 weeks, honey. 22 weeks, ok?" He always forgets my gestational dates, I thought he needed to know.
As the nurse wheeled me up to the labor and delivery ward, I told her everything, my dates, my pain, that it wasn't contractions, that I was far from home. It seemed like forever before we arrived somewhere far away in another waiting room. I could hear a baby's heartbeat whoosh-whoosh-whooshing on a monitor. I could feel the baby inside me kicking and turning, and I started to cry. As we waited another eternity and I started to mix my pain breathing with pain moaning (kind of an ooo-ooo-ooo-oohh-ahhh-ooh), I told Jonathan, "I don't want to have this baby now!" and he thought I said that I didn't want the baby. "No, not now!" I said. "I don't want to have this baby, now, here, in Las Vegas!"
I was thinking of Julie, whose baby was born at 30 weeks' gestation and who was required to shack up at a hotel near the hospital, several hours from their home. I couldn't do that, couldn't stay at my grandma-in-law's house for months while my baby gained strength (if, in fact, they would let me deliver him at this point). I didn't know if I could endure the first months of my son's life, with Everett, here, and screw up Jonathan's military career utterly.
It was another eternity, waiting while I heard what sounded like unhurried doctors and nurses in the maternity triage room nearby. I couldn't stand the pain, but I could, I had to. I was going through my dealing mechanisms mentally, and I couldn't think of any because of the pain, so I just dealt.
Finally I was wheeled into the ultrasound room and sat up on the bed, where I explained my entire life as a pregnant person while the doctor peered without much comment at the images of my baby and uterus. "Is the baby o.k.?" I asked, desperate to know this, although I could feel him kicking and turning. "I'm just making measurements," she said, unhelpfully. But is he OK, lady?
I can't really remember what we talked about, there, but I brought up placental abruption. Could it be? I asked. Yes, she said, it could be. Two things would cause pre-term labor: placental abruption, or an infection. They were going to have to figure out which it was. She moved me to a bed in the triage room. I remember undressing so quickly and thoughtlessly (it was all women in triage, but Jonathan, anyhow) that the nurse almost leaped to close my curtain. I never closed my gown properly, my fingers couldn't do it and I didn't have mental time to get help, and I didn't really care, anyway. They took my blood pressure and my temperature - I watched as the monitor blinked to its decision. I couldn't figure out from my angle, lying on the bed (with a blanket wedged under me to keep me off my back, causing even more pain), which numbers were which, but whatever way it went, I could tell that my blood pressure was its normal healthy lowness. I knew I didn't have a fever. Nothing pointed to infection. They sent my urine to the lab and left me alone to cry quietly in pain, as Jonathan went to call the base to say he wouldn't be back that morning, after all.
A while later, still without pain medication, the doctor came to me. I told her through tears that I had a really high pain tolerance, that this was way worse than anything I'd experienced, even those contractions after they gave me Pitocin when Everett was born. They were awful. This was awfuller. This was 10. And the odd thing was, it wasn't in waves like contractions, where you have one, then you have time to relax, you feel almost normal. This pain was constantly terrible, with slow undulations of being absolutely awful and gigantically awful. I was crying out, I didn't care that the 15-year-old mama in the curtain next to me heard my moans. The doctor patted me on the arm and said she'd get my morphine soon.
The nurse brought me papers to fill out, with a clipboard. Jonathan was putting Everett and Michael to sleep in the car. I scribbled halfway through the form, then couldn't anymore as the pain went to gigantically awful. I just sat there with my hands over my eyes, moaning and praying.
They brought in a resident, who looked at my ultrasound and said competently that there was an odd bit of fluid around my placenta. I told her that I was 22 weeks, but the baby was measuring big for his gestational age. Jonathan had returned by this point, and she told us quietly that, at this stage, the baby just isn't prepared to live outside me, no matter how big. There are key developments "in the lungs?" I asked, yes, in the lungs, intestines and brain, that just can't occur outside of the womb. The fetus just wasn't viable at 22 weeks, or even 23. She sounded as if 25 would be iffy, too. If I was to go into labor - if I was to start bleeding, if my cervix (nicely closed) was to open, if these contractions did anything - the baby wouldn't be saved.
Jonathan and I both didn't see much hope, here. She never really brought up the possibility of a partial abruption; she seemed rather certain that something was happening tonight, the only question was, why. They gave me morphine, finally, and admitted me. There was nothing I could do but pray.
Jonathan said he was going to take Michael, and Matt, and Everett back to the hotel, and went to deal with them as I was moved to a room, where the morphine slowly calmed the pain enough for me to deal. I sat there in my hospital bed, in a strange place, with my blood pressure monitor making regular contractions on my arm, with my head full of achiness and talked to the nurse as she drew blood and asked me question after question for form after form. Her name was "Clo" and she'd lived in Las Vegas 25 years. She came with a husband who was trying to make it in the music business. He didn't, they broke up, she stayed for the job.
Around 4:30 a.m., Jonathan and Matt returned, saying that Michael was now sleeping in the car with Everett, they didn't want to leave me here alone. The morphine was starting to wear off and the pain was rising again. I told him to call my parents, tell them what happened, ask them to pray. It seemed the only sensible thing to do. By 5 a.m., he was back in the chair next to me, and fell asleep while the nurse dosed me with morphine again.
My labs came back all normal, and I snoozed and woke, feeling the dull ache underneath the mask of morphine. Sometime during this process, Clo brought a detailed form about my medical history and started asking me questions, like, "Have you ever had any surgeries before?" (duh, c-section) and "What is your goal from your care today?" (she found the right one on her own: "to continue a healthy pregnancy") and "are you under any stress?" (YES!) and "what are the sources of your stress?"
I listed off a bunch of things, rapid-fire, like: husband in army, two part-time jobs, death in the family, pregnancy, toddler. As she went on to ask me other questions, through my half-sleep, I kept coming up with other sources of stress. Boy, I'm one mixed-up ball of stress. Jonathan had been asking to every doctor or nurse who took my history: "could this be caused by stress?"
Although I would have liked him to be comfortably in a cozy armchair right up next to me, having Jonathan there made me feel safe, and every time I woke up I wished I could squeeze his hand. Soon it was shift-change time, and I was told by my new doctor (Dr. Gonzales) that a perinatologist had been paged and would diagnose me upon his arrival.
When Jonathan awoke around 7:45, I asked for more morphine and sent him to take his brothers and Everett back to the hotel, for real this time. I couldn't feel the pain so sharply, but didn't know if it was because the drugs hadn't completely worn off or if it was getting better. Again, I fell asleep with Headline News on the television (Brad and Jennifer kept separating in my dreams...). After what seemed like an eternity of half-sleep, the perinatologist arrived with much fanfare. Dr. Gonzales helped me into another gown so I wouldn't flash the early morning nurses with my fabulous buttocks and thighs riddled with bed wrinkles.
Dr. Roberts, the perinatologist, was a tall man whose features I can't remember but whose presence electrified a room. He was so clearly knowledgeable and competent that I trusted him without a moment's thought. While he and Dr. Gonzales let me walk - on my own! - into the ultrasound room, he gave the rundown on the conference he'd just returned from in California. It was put on by the CDC, and they were discussing a quick test for AIDS. Doctors from Oregon and Idaho had been in attendance, and my ears perked up. While we waited for the ultrasound to be free, he put on a little talk to all the nurses and doctors who quickly gathered around him, basking in his presence. I felt like not such a scumbag (because, it seems by the way the nurses look over their eyeglasses at you, most of the patients here in the Las Vegas county hospital are scumbags) when he included me in his discussion as the representative from Oregon, and I already felt like an intelligent human again, mussy hair and unattractive two-gown combo and morphine hangover and all.
So I was calm when we took over the ultrasound room, and as Dr. Gonzales asked question after question of the master (why is the image so fuzzy? because we need a new ultrasound machine, of course) I could feel the non-worried vibe. He pointed out the blood and clotting around the placenta, and while Dr. Gonzales wondered how you could tell if it was blood or a clot (you can't, he said, from which I assumed that he just knew, he was that omniscient), I asked if it was reversible. "Just a minute," he said, as he answered Dr. Gonzales' question. and, "To answer your question, it's entirely reversible, in fact, you'll be fine."
oh. my. God. I've never felt so mentally cleansed as in that moment. He went on to describe the bleeding, that must have been caused by some trauma from a blow to my uterus or a fall (neither of which I could remember having happened to any great extent). It was already healing, which was why I wasn't feeling any pain now. The baby was healthy and, if I spent the next two weeks on bedrest, I could expect to carry my baby to term.
He said I could go to the bathroom, and work on my laptop, and (most wonderfully) ride home in the car. The fetus wasn't viable, he said, so if I were to go into labor on the journey - there would be nothing anyone could do for the baby, so there was no need to stay within a few miles of a hospital. This made me happy, yet sad, as he was writing off my baby, but I didn't have to stay in Vegas for two weeks. He said I could go home now, if I wanted, get dressed, eat real food.
Well, "now" was a stretch, I called Jonathan at the hotel (he'd driven 26 miles on I-40 North before realizing that he was supposed to go South to reach the hotel, and thus, just finished his journey) and he said he'd get there to pick me up in an hour. I was ordered a lunch and finally I could watch TV without that sick feeling in my head (the one that prompted me to avoid the Newborn Channel, a sappy production of iVillage, during the night). I ate an odd lunch of beef and acres of cubed carrots and potatoes and gravy, leaving the high fructose corn syrup-filled fruit punch unopened (my nurse later forced me to use it to wash my prenatal vitamin down - I took the smallest sip imaginable). Happily, Jonathan arrived while I was eating. I was given my papers and waited an HOUR for the damned transport to take me away (are you busy today? I asked him. No, it's slow on the weekends, he said. Slow enough for you to take an hour smoke break with your buds, I guess). I got into the car and have never been so happy to drive away.
Four miles later I took a sip of the water Jonathan had bought me and immediately threw up all my beef and potatoes and carrots over the car floor. I sat there shaking, with vomit in my hair, on my face, all over my pretty coat and my favorite maternity pants, the ones I'd made when I was pregnant with Everett. I walked into the gas station Jonathan pulled into, with a change of (dirty) clothes from the back of the car. It was, of course, a casino, and I could feel the eyes of everyone there on me, thinking, boy, she's had a hard night of drinking.
I washed my hair and face in a damned automatic faucet, smokey women coming in from the casino, and changed my clothes right there in front of the mirror. I couldn't believe how hellish I looked, worse even than I felt. I looked like nothing more than a junky from the streets, come in to wash her hair before she headed out for her next fix. When I got back to the car, Jonathan was studiously scrubbing the carpet with two different kinds of cleaner. My sweet fastidious husband, who won't even carve a cooked chicken because it grosses him out, did it all without cringing, while I sat in the back seat, trying not to cry.
It didn't feel "over" until I had reached the hotel, hugged Everett (who was happily playing with his trains on the floor of the darkened room while his uncles slept), gotten into bed, and slept. It still doesn't feel over.
