Commemorating One Year

Two weeks, people around the world were celebrating the Eid. It was a time for thankfulness, joy and sacrifice. Lambs were slaughtered, food was shared and people in Mecca, and elsewhere, received the grace of Allah and his forgiveness.

In a small part of the world, in a little quiet town forgotten by time, I lay awake. I had many reasons to be up that day; but only one made me truly conscious. The date was October 17th, 2012, and that was a year ago, three hundred and sixty five days and thousands of minutes ago; a lifetime ago. It was now October 17th, 2013 and I had made it. I had come through the experience and emerged on the other side.

When we received the news on what was supposed to be a happy day I thought I would not make it. The words "bed" and "rest" had never been put together in my dictionary. That combined word was for other pregnant women, certainly not me. Yet suddenly I found myself part of those "other" women and I thought I would die. It was a blow, a huge blow, not only to my way of life, but also to my ego. How could my body fail me so bad, after it had failed me twice before. I was in disbelief; I was in denial. But I was certainly in bed.

The days were slow. Time was both my friend and enemy. Every day brought growth for my baby. Every day brought boredom, regret, guilt. Every day I willed myself to go on, carry forward, be strong. I teased myself with glances out the window, with glimpses of the outside world. Being bound indoors was pure torture. Life was going on outside, the world was still turning around and I was not feeling part of it. And yet I was; albeit in my little corner of the world.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I counted. I breathed. I complained. I wrote. I grumbled. I carried on. And one day the challenge was brought to fruition. I was rewarded, and I was blessed with the fruit of my labor. Patience lead to wondrous creation. And I am proud to be able to sit here and type these words now to lay to still an experience that, although I do not wish on anyone, am glad I had. I cannot believe I made through but I am so fortunate I did; the alternative would have been much worse.

The Story ~ The End, Part 6 ~ Candida and Beyond

At the same time as I was suffering from blood pressure issues, I was aching where it mattered most for Yousef: in my breasts. I had thought our breastfeeding relationship was established but one day, almost six weeks later, I woke up to massive and constant pains. It hurt when I nursed, it hurt when I did not, it hurt between nursings. My breasts throbbed, they burned. I cried when anything or anyone came remotely close to my nipples.

But I had to feed him, so I did; many time begrudgingly. Many times I tried to avoid feeding him. Many times I wished I did not have to. Formula feeding was looking very attractive. I debated the matter. I seriously considered it. I also considered going the exclusively pump and bottle feed route. I did my research and called around for hospital-grade pump rentals.

I played scenarios in my mind, looked at feeding an infant from many different angles, told myself I could muscle through it. I counted the days in my mind. “I can make it to six months through this pain,” I told myself. “I could pump and give him breast milk for another twenty four weeks,” I considered. “Formula feeding never hurt anyone,” I tried to convince myself. But I was not convinced. No matter how I looked at it, I could not bring myself to give up nursing and yet I wanted the pain to stop.

I reached out for support. I contacted a friend, then another, and a third. I fielded calls to lactation consultants. I went to breastfeeding support group meetings. I posted on my virtual support forum. I saw my OB. I researched online. I knew I would find an answer but I did not know how to pose the question.

The first thought that crossed my mind was a “latch issue.” I worked on that. There was no improvement. Then I thought he had a tongue-tie. That was not it either. Maybe the pain would go away once my body got used to nursing. It did not. My nipples were not cracked. My ducts were not blocked. It was not thrush. It was worse. It was candida, and it was ductal. It was diagnosed by every lactation consultant I spoke to, and confirmed by the one who visited me. Only my OB was not convinced; and he held the key to my cure.

My OB preferred to take the conservative route to my diagnosis. He agreed that I was suffering from something, but we disagreed as to what it was. He first suggested the APNO. I agreed to try it. There was only one place that composed it. The insurance did not cover it. It cost over $60. I hesitated. Two days later I broke down and bought it. It did nothing.

I went back to the OB. I called and emailed him. I sent him research findings. I waited for his response. He prescribed the medication, but not enough pills were dispensed. He was not yet on board with the suggested course of treatment. I resolved to ride the wave longer. I took the pills I had on hand and called around for assistance.

I found a lactation consultant who took my insurance. Within 24 hours she was in my bedroom helping me out. We discussed the treatment. We agreed on a course of action. I followed all the steps leading to the last resort: a 14-day supply of fluconazole in addition to the APNO, the grapefruit extract and the probiotics. I needed someone to prescribe the antifungal. The question was who.

My cousin is a doctor. I tried to convince him to dispense it. I knew NPs in other parts of the US, I reached out to them. I called my aunt in Lebanon and emailed my sister in Australia. I found a website that would ship internationally. I was desperate. If only my OB would write the script. Finally, I was referred to a lactation consultant who was also an NP. She agreed to dispense the required dose should my OB continue to refuse. She also agreed to see me at a discounted rate to call the medication in. Things were looking up.

I gave my OB one last try. I emailed him the progress I was feeling on just a couple of pills. He had a change of heart! I am not sure if it was my last email, my pleading, his compassion, his sympathy or a combination but all of a sudden a refill to the original prescription was called it. All was good with the world!

I religiously took the medicine, applied the grapefruit extract, waited for it to dry, aired out my nipples, applied the APNO, waited some more, washed my bras and shirts and towels and pillow cases and sheet and Yousef’s clothes daily. I sanitized bottles and nipples and shields. Anything that touched my breasts went straight into the dryer or microwave. Everything that had touched them was boiled, sunned, sanitized. The pain was gradually subsiding until one day I woke up “normal.” The pain was gone and the milk was still there. I was still nursing, happily now.

At the time of writing Yousef is over seven months old and still nursing like a champ. He is eating some solids but still prefers mama’s milk. After everything we have been through, I am glad I worked through the pain and arrived at a point of comfort. My last breastfeeding journey is looking good and I hope that it will continue as much. I may even be lucky enough to end it the way I had wanted to end the previous one: when we are both ready.

The Story ~ The End, Part 4 ~ going home

It was Saturday morning when we found out why Yousef was not gaining weight. I was to be discharged the next day. We had 24 hours to add some much needed ounces to avoid mother-baby separation. We were fighting for son, and so was the pediatrician.

As a near-term baby, Yousef came with his own set of challenges; he was a great pretender. Earlier in my pregnancy I had gotten in touch with a lactation consultant friend who had prepared me to life with a later-term infant who is like a term baby but does not act like one. He was super sleepy, tired quickly, and tended to have poor sucking skills.  I needed lots of coaching on how to best feed him and had to factor in a fair amount of pumping to compensate for baby.  

And so, with these two constraints alongside Jeff and I tried to pump as much nutrition as possible into that tiny stomach. I breastfed, pumped, bottle fed breast milk and then supplemented with “high-calorie” newborn formula. I had lactation consultants coach me. I had nurses help me. Yousef got weighed at every chance. We recoded, they recorded. He gained an ounce. We had a heart-to-heart with the pediatrician. She agreed to discharge the family.

We were to see her first thing Monday morning and to continue formula feeding him. It was heart-wrenching. I was determined to breastfeed him just as I was determined to have a healthy pregnancy and yet again I was being made to compromise my goals and expectations. I took it all in. What is a mother to do. I tried to fight it but it was stronger than me. I protested. I refused to take part in the formula feeding. I did not help decide what brand to get him. I did not care. What I had was enough, and yet it was not. I breastfed, I pumped, I sustained, or at least I tried. The numbers would tell us all, soon. The plan was to continue this routine for a week and reassess. I kept seeing numbers in my mind’s eye and the day I would let the man-made nutrition for my infant go.

Monday morning came quickly. We put Yousef on the scale. He had put on a few more ounces. “Keep doing what you are doing,” came the instruction, “and come back for a weight check on Thursday.” “When can we stop the formula?” I pleaded. “By the end of the week, if the numbers keep creeping up.” The end of the week brought hope. I did not want to lose my last breastfeeding journey to a bottle. I was not ready to give that part of my motherhood up so soon. I had given it up before I was ready with JR and I was not about to have a repeat with my last child.  

And I did not! Yousef continued to put on weight. By March 6^th, two weeks after he was born, Yousef weighed 7 pounds 5 ounces up from 5 pounds 12 ounces at discharge. Not only that, he had already exceeded his birth weight of 6 pounds 8 ounces. The pediatrician was now fully satisfied with our parenting. We were doing a good job feeding him, so good of a job that six months later, our near-term tiny infant tipped the scale at 18 pounds 10 ounces. If only, however, the journey to get him to that weight had been simple.

The Story ~ The End, Part 3 ~ losing weight

Yousef’s birth was supposed to “correct” everything; my blood pressure was supposed to get lower, the preeclampsia was supposed to resolve itself, the swelling was supposed to be gone, life was supposed to get “back on track.” Needless to say things did not prove to be that simple.

While Yousef checked out with the on-call pediatricians, I lay there getting stitched up and being reassured, again, that “everything will be fine.” As it turned out mostly “everything” was fine, but not all of “everything.”

Although Yousef was a preemie, he was in good health: his lungs were healthy, his temperature stable. He was breathing normally and he passed his initial screening. He did not require any time in the NICU and was free to join us in the recovery room. Then, his weight dropped. It dropped so much it raised flags. We were not worried. The doctors were.

There was only one intervention that could counter the weight loss: supplementing his diet with manufactured nutrition. As dedicated to natural feeding as we both are, we did as we were told. We followed the instructions to the letter. We remember the words clearly: feed him this much and not a drop more. And so we fed him the bottle and measured how much he ate. I nursed, I pumped. He ate. We recorded every feeding on a sheet and handed it to the nurses at every weight check. He was still losing weight. Jeff looked it up. Here is what he found:

"It appears neonates exposed to increased fluid before birth might be born overhydrated, requiring the baby to regulate his or her fluid levels during the first 24 hours after birth." (Read full article here)

While Yousef's primary pediatrician did not seem to be as alarmed over the weight loss, the discharge pediatrician was. She voiced her concern repeatedly and heatedly. She reprimanded us for our parenting approach and all but accused us of "tarving our baby. "I am very concerned about your child," and proceeded to talk about time in the NICU. She informed us that Yousef was not  where he should be in terms of weight and that unless we worked to put some ounces on him, I would be the only one being discharged from the hospital.

The thought of going home "empty handed" was terrifying. We tried to explain to her that we were simply "following instructions," but our words were merely met with a nod. From her point of view we were falling short of our parenting duties and she was Yousef's advocate.

Finally, many ounces and conversations later, we discovered the culprit:  the wrong feeding instructions that we were given. The nurse in the recovery room had initially instructed us to feed him no more than 5ml per feeding. "They eat all they can get," I remember her saying, "so do not give him too much. He doesn't know when he has had enough." And with that, and not to our knowledge, we spent the next four days denying our son the nourishment he needed most when he needed it the most.

The Story ~ The End, Part 2 ~ A Boy!

When I left in a rush that morning, I did not hug JR nor did I kiss her goodbye. I was so preoccupied with my condition and so wrapped up in making phone calls and looking online that I gave her little to no attention. I darted out the door as soon as Jeff walked in without looking back. Of course I told her where I was going, and I did say goodbye, but had I known that this would be the last time she saw me for five days, I would have exited differently. I would have sat her down, hugged her tight, and bid farewell to what remained of being an only child. I would have explained to her the reason I was leaving and told her about the day I would come back home. But instead I left her with Teta with nothing more than “Goodbye Jannah-Rae, I am going to the doctor. See you soon habibti.”

The OB gave us one order of business three minutes after we walked into the examination room: check into Labor and Delivery immediately. Do not go home, do not pack, do not take care of unfinished business. Go straight to the hospital and do not leave. I had severe preeclampsia and there was only one way to resolve it: birth my baby.

At 10:00am we took up one of the “mother in labor” parking spots. At 10:05 I was checked in, banded and escorted to a monitoring room. I was strapped down, hooked up and put on show. Decisions were made for me and I was a spectator in what started as another day but turned into the longest 18 hours of my life.

For the next few hours, nurses rotated in and out. My OB dropped by. I was told repeatedly that things were “under control”. But they were far from it. My blood pressure was all but falling, and I was at risk of a seizure. I needed to lay low, stay calm and be patient. I also needed a lot more medical interventions.

I was hence moved to another room and strapped down even further. IV drip, fetal monitor, contractions monitor, catheter. I was a living disaster. I was so bloated that it took the nurse three tries to find a vein for the IV drip. It also took her two tries to properly insert the catheter. The pain of delivering a baby had thus commenced and I was not even in labor. Minutes later, my water broke. I thought the worse. I thought the end was a doomed beginning. But at the time there was nothing we could do to haste the conclusion. We had to wait. I had to be on magnesium, to be monitored, to be pumped up with liquids. I puffed up even further and cried even more. I needed an end in sight and I watched the clock. But the end was still further away.

The minutes clicked away. Five thirty came and went. The OB was ready but the operating room was not. I was getting cranky and nasty. I was miserable. I was sick beyond my, or anyone’s, control. And yet I had to wait. I was hungry, thirsty and anxious. I could not contain myself any longer.

Finally a glimmer of hope walked into the room. It was the anesthesiologist. Not only that, but he was the same doctor who was present at JR’s delivery. What luck! I got wheeled away. A cold room never felt so good. It was my turn and I was finally going to get better. The magic wand had been waved and I was going to be myself again. The nightmare that started with bed rest and ended with severe preeclampsia was soon to be over. Little did I know, though, that these thoughts were merely wishful.

When Jeff and the OB walked in together, it was time to get things moving. A little cut, a little suction, a little blood and the baby was out. “Here is your son!” announced the surgeon. A good set of lungs, but “a son?!” “A boy?!”  Did I hear correctly? Were they talking about my baby? The baby I had been carrying for 36 weeks and 3 days? I was not having a son. I was having a girl. The sonographer told us so. She confirmed it more than once. The maternal fetal medicine doctor wrote it down on that green piece of paper she handed to Jeff. That was the news Jeff has shared with his dying grandfather. We were having another girl. Jeff was going to be outnumbered. We were going to be a family of three ladies and one man.

What happened to Josie? Where is Josephine Ramez? JR’s sister? The little baby girl who was going to wear JR’s clothes again? For whom I had spent hours washing, drying, hanging, folding pinks and reds and whites and purples. The little girl who was going to be little. No. I did not hear correctly. I am drugged and sick. I could not have just birthed a son.

I was crying and laughing at the same time. I asked to see. I had to see for myself. I did not believe. I needed proof. I needed anatomy. But the doctor was right; it was a boy. The boy I had always wanted. The son I had dreamed of. The boy I had wanted to grow up with as a little girl. The male who would carry on the family’s name. Joseph Ramez Mike.  6 pounds 8 ounces and a head full of hair. My son.

 

The Story ~ The End, Part 1 ~ Preeclampsia

... or rather the beginning. For every ending hails a new beginning and every beginning journeys to an end. It is an endless circle, seamless, constant, ongoing. Parts connect into a whole and the whole evokes each and every part.

It "ended" as abruptly as it "began." One day I was writing about bed rest, and the next day I was off of it. Just like that in a blink of an eye, or rather in the swelling of a foot, it was all over, or rather it all began. With no warning, no consent, no consultation. Just as it began on October 16th, it ended on February 20th. 

My pregnancy turned 36 weeks on Sunday, February 17th. I was moving around a little bit more but was still confined to our apartment. I had had my last visit to my maternal fetal medicine doctor at 33 weeks and was told I was in the “clear.” That meant that my baby’s survival chances are high should she decide to venture into the world early and that modern medicine can be employed to assist her in her early days should she need it. I was instructed to wean off Procardia, the medicine I was taking for pre-term contractions, and to stop it completely at around 34 weeks. I counted the days! When 34 weeks hit, I sighed relief; one less medicine to keep track of and chug down twice a day. Little did I know, though, that surprises lay ahead.

Procardia is the common brand name for Nifedipine, a calcium channel blocker. While it is primarily a blood pressure and heart disease medicine, it is also used to treat preterm labor in high risk pregnancies to slow uterine contractions. Since, like the heart, the uterus is a smooth muscle tissue and needs calcium to contract, Nifedipine is used to relax the uterine muscles and other smooth muscles of blood vessels throughout the body thereby slowing or stopping preterm labor.

In my case Procardia proved a success. Once off of it, though, things started moving pretty quickly. First, my contractions resumed. They were so often and so painful that many times I thought I was going into full labor. Luckily, that never occurred. Then, my weight spiked an all-time high: 160 pounds. I put on 10 pounds in one week. I was in shock and did not know what was going on. I wasn’t eating any more than previously but somehow my body managed to blow up and round up. I thought that maybe my metabolism has finally screeched to a stop and the inactivity of the bed rest has caught up with my body’s not needing any more food. At 35 weeks I started stepping on the scale before meals to check for the damage. I started eating less, too. But somehow I kept piling on the pounds.

At my 36 week appointment on Monday February 18th we got an unusual blood pressure reading ~ it was high. The doctor, however, did not seem very concerned. He dismissed it to the exercise I had just gotten walking up three flights of stairs; after all this was the most I had exerted myself in over five months. I was sent home with a follow-up appointment at 37 weeks.

Preeclampsia is a disorder that occurs only during pregnancy and the postpartum period and affects both the mother and the unborn baby. Affecting at least 5-8% of all pregnancies, it is a rapidly progressive condition characterized by high blood pressure and the presence of protein in the urine. If left untreated, it can develop into eclampsia, the life-threatening occurrence of seizures during pregnancy. While it is the most common of the dangerous pregnancy complications, apart from Caesarean section and induction of labor, there is no known cure for it. Globally, preeclampsia and other hypertensive disorders of pregnancy are a leading cause of maternal and infant illness and death.

"Severe preeclampsia" involves a BP over 160/110. That is the reading we got the morning of Wednesday, February 20th.

I didn't know anything about preeclampsia. It was something that happened to “other” women. I had already dealt with my share of challenges and of issues that happened to “other” women. A phone conversation with a nurse manager friend of mine, however, introduced me to the term “preeclampsia.” Of course, I dismissed her “diagnosis,” and filed the information away in the back of my mind. This was the afternoon of Tuesday, February 19th.

That evening when Jeff came home I told him what my friend had said about my state of being. He dismissed it as well. We thought nothing more of my rapid weight gain other than what we thought it to be: weight gain resulting from a sedentary life-style and a very pregnant belly. We continued to count up our blessings and down the number of days till this baby became full-term. But this baby never became full-term.

That night, I lay awake watching my feet blow up like a balloon. Call to mind if you can how Violet turned into a blueberry in the Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and you can picture what I looked like the next morning. My eyelids were almost swollen shut and my hands were a giant round. My ankles had all but disappeared. Swelling or edema, especially in the hands and face, is considered an important sign for a diagnosis of preeclampsia. And I certainly was manifesting these signs. The transformation was remarkable and almost magical. It most certainly could have been instantaneous.

At 6:02am when Jeff stirred awake, we took photos of my swollen feet. At 6:43 when I could not bear waiting anymore, I sent the photos to my OB. At 7:15 he instructed me to call the office for an appointment. At 8:10 I was on the phone with Jeff asking him to rearrange his schedule. At 9:00 Jeff was on his way back home and at 9:15 we were on our way to see the OB. At 9:45 we were heading away from the doctor’s office. But we were not headed home.

High Risk Pregnancy "Favorite" Things ~ 7

Care Packages ~ puzzle books, chocolate, and gifts make for a wonderful surprise; especially when least expected! I honestly do not know how I could have made it this far without my precious friends.

Hand-written notes in the mail ~ enough with bills! Cards, letters and personal notes make my day. A few words on cardboard with a postage stamp bring plenty of cheer, for JR and me. They bring special cheer from JR when they are accompanied by stickers!

Pizza ~ delivery, take out, dine-in or leftovers. Full price, half price or two for one. When JR needs a treat or everyone needs a break, we call on the dough, tomato sauce and cheese for comfort.

Tea Party ~ cupcakes and juice boxes make for a wonderful makeshift "tea" party. Just because we cannot have a formal setting does not mean we cannot have a great time.

T.V ~ when everything else has been tried, I turn the set on to make the hours go by faster. I do not watch anything in particular; just whatever meets my fancy at the time.

Counting Down to Baby! 36 weeks!

35 weeks 3 days... or

entering my 18th week of bed rest...

Today marks another milestone in my journey with this pregnancy. At noon today I can say I have been on bed rest for as long as I have not been on it this pregnancy. At noon today I can look back and think of what could have been had I not been put on bed rest; and trust me, there could have been a lot in either case. At noon today I can recall what the last thing I did was, the last place I visited, the last mile I drove, the last of many lasts and the first of many firsts.

What began as a trial bed rest period stretched out to become a new way of looking at the world, a different way of dealing with circumstances, an alternate approach to being. What started as a week of observation, turned into a month, two months, twelve weeks, and now eighteen. Only a little remains of this pregnancy, but what remains will remain wrapped in limited mobility, in house arrest, in being careful. By the end of this pregnancy I will have been down more than I have been out and about.

There has not been a day in the life of this pregnancy that was worry-free. From the day the test turned positive to the day the sonogram showed an incompetent cervix to this day, I have been flagged with one medical concern after the other. First, came the bleeding and the fear of another miscarriage. Then, the morning sickness, the cramps, the side effects of the progesterone pills. Giving up yoga, limiting my outings with Jannah-Rae to one a day, not being able to push the stroller much past our apartment complex, getting through the first trimester to annouce the news to friends and family.

Once the twelve week mark came, I sighed a sigh of relief. I left my progesterone pills behind, and looked forward to a pain-free second trimester. The announcements went out, the news circulated. I bought maternity clothes, got a pregnancy massage, booked a hair cut (which I never did get). But, I was still experiencing physical pain and needed help pushing the stroller up the hill. Many times I would stop to catch a breath, sit rather than run around, order in rather than cook. The doctor thought it was just my body stretching to accommodate the new being. I thought not much more of it. I coped and took my constipation medication regularly. I paced myself and did my best to balance the pain with JR. The walks were taking the place of yoga, and that was ok; it was all temporary and I was still getting some exercise. In the back of my mind, though, there was still the concern with placenta accreta. The complications from its previous occurrence still fresh in my mind. Every day that passed I thought about whether or not my uterus would rupture; that risk was also there. What would happen if I needed a hysterectomy. Jeff and I always thought I would be put on bed rest during this pregnancy, we just never thought it would happen so soon.

The promise of a pain-free trimester, however, was never fulfilled as six weeks into it brought on the status quo, during which I graduated from the "golden" trimester and entered the home-stretch of the journey. The transition was obvious: the scale read out the numbers, the mirror reflected the image, the aches and pains told stories. What started as a much awaited pregnancy, turned into a must forget journey. But at least the journey is still ongoing.

It is easy to lose sight of what the status quo has meant for the baby when I focus too much on what it meant for me, Jeff and Jannah-Rae. Some days all I can see is the "I don't have's" and "I didn't do's". Other days I feel blessed to have landed in bed by a mere stroke of a talented doctor who spent an extra five minutes reading through my history and another five minutes looking past the routine.

When I look back at how seemingly coincidental her discovery of my condition was I am left speechless. When I think how her partner's medical opinion could have cost us the life of this baby I am left outraged; outraged that he was willing to risk the baby's life because of studies he had read and research he quoted; outraged that he was not willing to take a chance, think outside the box, perform a procedure. I am also left thankful; thankful that she was of a different opinion, thankful that she had a different approach, thankful that she took the decisive action, thankful that she took a chance, thankful that she followed her intuition and did not let the past dictate the present.

This bed rest has been many things. I can name them all, but that would mean a laundry list of feelings I would rather forget. It would also mean a separate, but equally lengthy, laundry list of those I need to remember. This second list could be summarised in one word...Grace. If nothing else, this bed rest has saved this baby's life. That is a true blessing.

Counting Down to Baby! 35 weeks!

Counting Down to Baby! 34 weeks!

And another thought...

These thoughts are coming in a timely manner as I find myself more and more argumentative these days. I am so frustrated with this whole bed rest situation, heartburn, gaining weight, feeling uncomfortable, aching all over, being thirsty all the time, watching but not engaging, looking out but not being out, eating, drinking, sleeping, repeating, not showering, waking up and sleeping in the same clothes, asking for help, needing constant assistance, having to decide between washing my hair and making a sandwich, sitting on the couch, laying on the couch, moving to bed, back to the couch again, watching the same show, checking my email, stalking facebook, checking the board, writing in my blog, reading books, watching people go out, watching JR go out, struggling with JR to go out, explaining to her that I cannot go out (cause you have a baby in your belly?).

Day in and day out I am under the blanket, legs up, trying to keep myself busy, trying to keep my mind sane, trying to find the positive, trying not to complain, pushing my way through, hanging in there, wearing a smile, not being upset, but I am so DONE! This week has been one of the longest weeks of my life. I am tired of being cooped up. I have serious cabin fever. I have no outlet. So, I start arguments, something to make my life a little more "interesting," to get me a little more "engaged." But I need not to, and I should not. I know it but need reminders; who doesn't. These reminders came just as I needed them, as if the universe had known that I needed help and rushed in to save me before I self-destructed. It may just as well be a coincidence, but I like to think it is fate!

Counting down to Baby! 33 weeks!

High Risk Pregnancy "Favorite" Things ~ 6

in alphabetical order...

Fresh air ~ Being on bed rest in the winter has been both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because with the cold and the wind I do not feel like I have been
missing much "outdoor" time:
walks, playgrounds, open air concerts, outdoor seating, etc.
A curse because for the past fifteen weeks I have been
breathing in and breathing out the same stale air that is warmed by a heat pump.
But one day last week the weather was so fine for winter
that I was left on the couch
tucked underneath blankets, wearing my warm coat,
with the windows and door wide open.
The cold clean air came wafting in and I felt like I was in a different place and time.
If could have captured that smell I would have bottled it up,
but alas moments are fleeting and the best way to make them last
is to enjoy them while they are here.

A visit from Grandma ~ It is no secret that Jannah-Rae loves her Grandma.

So, it comes as no surprise that her visit to help us through a couple of weeks of bed rest

is instrumental both to my sanity, and JR's.

For over two weeks Grandma has been the center of JR's attention,

her playmate, bath buddy, bed pal, walker, and friend.

JR would sleep with Grandma at her side,

and wake up asking for her.

When it was time to say goodbye, JR was heartbroken,

but understanding. Grandma will be back soon.

March is not too far off.

Sidelines ~ Sidelines is a non-profit organization providing support for women and their families experiencing complicated pregnancies and premature births.

One of my friends referred me to their services and I have been corresponding with my e-mail support since October.

Her presence, and advice, have been invaluable.Her words have gotten me through some rough patches, and her encouragement has inticed me to keep my feet up.

Sunshine ~ I cannot imagine how much more challenging my journey would have been had I lived in the Northwest.

In the few days that I missed the sun, my spritis have slumped, my mood has swung, and I felt as close to rock bottom as I could be.
On sunny days, however, I tend to be lighter, the prospects for success more bountiful,

and the burden bearable.

Our living room gets plenty of morning sun, and warms up in its heat.
I am lucky to be able to perch on the couch and enjoy the warmth,
even on cold, cold days.

This is bed rest

I miss the everyday things, the ordinary, the mundane. The daily showers, the regular change of outfits, the looking in the mirror.
I miss the routine, the daily chores, the responsibilities and expectations. The dishes, the laundry, the cleaning.
I miss traffic, driving and red lights. The crazy drivers, the jay walkers, the cop cars.
I miss being agitated at Jeff when he leaves me waiting outside his office when I am there to pick him up, and taking longer to get ready in the morning when I am driving him to work to keep the car.
I miss JR's cooking classes, ceramic painting outings, story times, music shows, and park dates.
I miss getting her dressed, giving her a bath, making her meals.
I miss grocery shopping, refilling water, going to the Lebanese store.
I miss the bank, the post office, the dry cleaners, the phone and Internet billing offices. The mall, the carousel, the courtyard. The museums, the zoo, the open air.
I miss coffee shops, breakfast joints, lunches, and dinner dates.
I miss road trips, mini-vacations, weekends away. The early mornings, late afternoons and long days out of the apartment.
I miss yoga, talking walks, pushing the stroller.
I miss carrying my child, lifting her off her feet in dancing, joining her on the floor for playing, running after her in the hallway, holding her hand on the street.
I miss my metabolism, my digestive system, my dry lips and chapped hands.
I miss my winter coat, my warm shoes, my new gloves.
I miss society, I miss nature.
I miss myself.

Yes, I have read four books in twenty days, kept up with my blog, watched Murder, She Wrote, 30 Rock, Everybody Loves Raymond and The Wonder Years. I have slept and rested and relaxed. I have been waited on and assisted in every possible way. I have had breaks from my daughter, from my house, from my primary role. I put my feet up and sit all day. I stare at a screen, look at my phone, check my accounts. I rotate between the TV, the computer, the iPad. I flip through my book, write in my journal, take notes on my pad. I have had an extra long time away from things people try to leave behind, hire someone else to do, or wish they did not have to take care of. When I look at my to-do-list, I see nothing there. My list is for others; I just steer from the couch, or the bed. From the outside looking in, this do-nothing life style might seem appealing, tempting, attractive.

But, no. It is not. I would gladly give it up, walk away, take it back for a chance to be with Jannah-Rae when she is laughing, learning, playing outside of these four walls. To be able to see what she sees at the same time she sees it. To be able to answer her questions, lead her to safety, couch her on society. I would like to sit across from my husband at dinner, go on drives, share a yoga class. I would love to go back to the way things used to be fourteen weeks ago, but alas, the past is the past, and this is the present. This is my life now. My life for a few more weeks. If I can hang in there, I know the prize will be worth it in the end. I have not come this far to give up, and I will not give up. But I need reminders. My writing is my greatest reminder.

Counting Down to Baby! 32 weeks!

High Risk Pregnancy "Favorite" Things ~ 5

in alphabetical order....

 



 

A delivery date ~ An unexpected call from my OB's office at 5:02 on Wednesday informed me that my C-section had been scheduled for Monday, March 11th at 2:00pm.
I know my OB and I had discussed scheduling the surgery, I just did not know he had pinned down a date and time.
Talk about a surprise!

No more drug refills ~ I am down to my last prescription from being a walking pharmacy in the past weeks. And, in a couple of weeks, I will completely drug free; at least until post surgery!
Until the baby is born, I will no longer need to keep track of when I took my previous pill,
wake up in the middle of the night to take another,
or suffer the consequences of not having taken a third.
I do not have to worry about JR finding the pills and mistakenly popping one in,
or about dropping one on the floor and having to bend down to reach it,
or about timing my call to the pharmacy to get the refill in time.

Last visit to the MFM office ~ They have done everything they canfor me and from here on after I am on my own. When I went in on October 17th for an anatomy scan,
we walked out with heavy hearts and worried minds.
The January 15th visit, however, stood in direct contrast. We walked in with no expectations and walked out with light hearts and eased minds.
The journey is far from over, but at least we now are through the heavy woods.

The public library ~ The most trusted way to get the books I needed to keep me entertained during this dragging time. While only a small percentage of the books I check out end up on my shortlist, the service the library provides has been instrumental,
both to me and to Jannah-Rae.
From the comfort of my bed or couch I look books up, put them on hold,
request they be delivered to the nearest branch, and wait until my mother picks them up.

Sundays ~ These are the days that mark the passage of time. Every Sunday that passes, my baby grows another week, and with every Sunday we move closer to a full-term pregnancy.
Sundays used to stamp the end of a week, now they usher in the beginning.

Counting Down to Baby: 31 weeks

Sweet Revenge

When they say it is the little things in life, they really mean it is the little things. Like a chocolate croissant and a bottle of cranberry juice for breakfast when for days I worried about eating this and eating that, and cutting out all sweets, and giving away chocolate and cake, and resisting juice. But when the phone rang and I saw the number and heard the voice on the other end, the choice was obvious. For all the self questioning of what I can and cannot eat, should and should not eat, and will and won't eat, downing that sugar infused treat after sitting, or rather lying down, through excruciating three hours at the lab, getting pricked four times, being denied a drink of water and needing an official approval to take my medicine, seemed like the sweetest revenge. And, it was! The remainder of this pregnancy, and bed rest, will not be clouded by food decisions and worry over gestational diabetes and the health of this baby. Rather, it will continue along the same routine: getting by with the help of my friend and family and counting down to delivery time.

Counting Down to Baby! 30 weeks!