we held our perfect child, long enough to say goodbye

The cruelest detail was that I didn't actually hear that strong, healthy heartbeat until after they told us there was nothing they could do to save our baby.

***

Last Saturday, I had severe low-back pain. I thought I might have hurt myself, even though I hadn't been lifting or straining. Sunday night I felt weird, crampy twinges, some so severe I had to kneel down on the floor. I've never been pregnant before, and have long been regarded as a weakling when it comes to pain, so I figured it was gas and told myself not to overdramatize. It wasn't at regular intervals, but it kept me awake. Granted, I hadn't been able to sleep until the sun came up for the previous few weeks anyway. Plus, I'd had an (informal, I have technologist friends) ultrasound just three days before that looked fantastic. While the techs didn't feel confident about the sex of the baby just yet, they assured me our child was healthy--and showed me four strong beating chambers on the screen. In fact, I even saw Baby drinking amniotic fluid and moving around like a champ.

***

Monday morning I went to the office at 7. Any other day I would have been inhaling Cheerios at that hour. My mom recommended I call the doctor, but I got the answering service. I planned to call right when they opened at 8 a.m. Unfortunately, I had staggering--apparently they were contractions--pain and my water broke at 7:50. Just like the movies; a weird pop and a torrent of warm fluid. I can't get that horrible sensation out of my memory. And even though I'm pretty angry at God right now, I am so thankful this didn't happen while I was alone, especially while driving.

A coworker friend drove me to the Emergency Department and I called Jon to say he needed to leave work immediately and be with me in the ER. He didn't buy my fake-cool voice. I can only imagine the terrors going through his mind during that 40-minute drive.

The doctor did a check and said the outlook was extremely grim. Essentially, at 17 weeks our baby's lungs weren't developed enough to sustain him/her outside the womb. And on the inside, the child needed plenty of amniotic fluid to breathe, protect him/her as well as to continue lung development. Sadly, there was probably only a teaspoon or two of amniotic fluid left. And they didn't think it would last. If our baby would have been at least 24 weeks, he/she would have had a much better chance of making it on the outside.

***

For whatever reason, at the 14-week doctor's-office ultrasound, I couldn't distinctly hear the heartbeat. Jon and the doctor did, as well as my mom and dad with my brother's special stethoscope, but I just never felt confident I'd heard it and that made me sad. However, when they took me from the ER to Labor and Delivery and checked for fetal heart tones, it couldn't have been clearer: 165-170 bpm. A healthy rate for a 17-week baby in utero. That was devastating.

***

All the medical professionals were strongly encouraging Jon and I to consent to induce labor and deliver the baby. They worried I'd get an infection that could threaten my life or ability to have more children. While they never say "zero" or "one hundred percent," Baby's chances to make it were as close to zero as they could estimate. Hearing that right after such a strong heartbeat was excruciating. I was lost, but Jon was unwavering; we were absolutely not going to give up on a kid that wasn't giving up on us. They respected our decision but said they'd move ahead if I showed any signs of infection.

This continued for two days. They kept checking the heartbeat, which continued strong and thus became increasingly unbearable to hear. The baby apparently found a tiny pocket of fluid on my right side and was hanging in there, fighting it out. I was trying my best not to move and lose another drop of fluid for my kid. Everyone that came in the room already had that horrible, pitying look in their eyes.

***

On Tuesday evening, contractions started again and we stopped checking for heart tones. I am so thankful the universe made that decision for us, because Jon and I could not have lived with ourselves if it happened any other way. Regardless, we weren't going to get the baby, and if the placenta didn't come along when I delivered, I'd have to have surgery to remove it. So I consented for an epidural.

At 1:50 a.m. Wednesday May 22, our beautiful baby was born. From the look of it, our child was fighting to breathe until the very second it came into the world. Everything was perfect, from each little finger and toe to the cute little nose--which Jon swears looks just like mine. The mouth is definitely Muller. He/she was curled up and looked peacefully asleep.

My mom, dad, brother and Madelyn were all there, and most of them held our baby. It was tough watching them looking down at the little one. At 7 inches and 4.25 ounces, he or she was measuring tall, which I have to say is a little surprising. Baby was about the size of the doctor's hand.

But the absolute worst was watching Jon. He'd developed a fever, was shaking with the chills and was pacing around like a maniac until the baby came. I've wanted to be a mother since my high school babysitting days, but Jon was born to be a father. My already broken heart was completely crushed when I heard that he was cradling our baby and singing to him or her.

 The smudge on the left is a handprint.

No one knows why or how this happened. Not yet, anyway.

Apparently this is called Pre-term Premature Rupture of Membranes (PPROM) and it occurs in 2 percent of all pregnancies. If we were further along, perhaps something could have been done to save our child. Perhaps not. The maternal fetal medicine doctor says the membrane sac is extremely strong--experiments have been done where they drop cannonballs on it and they just bounce off. But no one knows why some can weaken and break. In my case, it wasn't a small hole, it was a blowout--impossible to put back together, even if the science had been there.

We have been researching this and there is all sorts of speculation, such as Baby had some kind of virus or infection that didn't show by making me sick, or a signal from either one of our brains telling my body he or she was ready to come out, inducing labor. The doctors were very clear that even though they will be testing the baby (including chromosome, which will finally tell us the sex), there's a very good chance we will never know how it happened.

***

Baby was cremated at a local funeral home and we will be taking him or her to two special resting places (one here and one in California) as soon as we decide where those should be. My parents handled all of that business. I've always been grateful for the love we have from family and friends, but at times like these, that support is pretty much what is helping Jon and I get to the next day. We haven't wanted to see anyone, but knowing people care give us strength.

***

It's so hard to describe what we're feeling (here's a link to Jon's post about this). The second I felt that gush of fluid, something in my mind snapped and sort of turned off. I am terrified of what will happen when it turns on again. Jon says that there was nothing we could have done better or differently these last four months. When I show signs of cracking, he is adamant: Yes, I was working a lot, but he's not wrong when he says my coming home and leaving my coworkers there to continue would have caused me far more stress than just putting in the 70+ hours a week. I'm not sure other people in our lives are as convinced as my husband, including myself. But I will have to learn to live with that. I hope I am able.

I am so grateful that our little one no longer has to suffer. There are few things worse than holding your child and knowing he or she will never take another breath. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

happy mother's day

 

It was killing her not to be able to put this out on her desk at work until we were at 12 weeks.

I gave this to my mother on her birthday. She said, "Oh, that is sweet," and sighed. "Maybe someday it will be true." 

Then Jon said, "Well...how about today?"

Watching her process what we were saying and proceed to completely freak out was simply amazing.

I could go on and on about how much I adore my mother. And on and on some more. But for the sake of brevity, I'll just say this: I couldn't possibly come up with a better or more appropriate sentiment. 

 

so really you should be glad i've been so busy

I can't remember the last time I had a day off from work. Was it a month ago? I wish I were exaggerating. The last three days I've been working 15-hour evening shifts from 11a-2a, as the project we've all been slaving away on for 18 months is finally up and running--well picking up speed to hopefully be running in the near future.

I realize, with all the working the last few months, that I never got around to figuring out what could replace my google reader. And now it is gone. With all the wonderful blogs I've always enjoyed. So that is sad.

But this post is not a total bummer: Jon and I are having a baby (!), due in October/November. I am hoping for Halloween so s/he can share with her/s father, and I can have all the fun of costume birthday parties without the guest of honor being a party pooper.

During these months that I have been vomiting, sore and grumpy, I have channeled that frustration into spreadsheets and dramatic eye-rolling during neverending meetings. I leave work and just want to sit on the couch for the length of one sitcom and go to bed. I haven't had a real meal at home in more than a week. So here is a condensed version of all the whining you likely would have read about if circumstances were different:

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

You're welcome.

just blame Larry

"OMG [redacted] just started changing stuff in the system without asking, and now our stuff is broken!!!"

"We call [redacted] 'Larry.' "

"Effing Larry."

"Feel free to use that around your office. Especially if there isn't anyone named Larry."

"I can't wait to kick Larry's a$$."

the secrets we must keep

About a month ago, I posted a cryptic note on twitter. It's just the kind of post I hate, because a) what do they mean!?! and b) they're plain annoying. So here, let me repeat it:

"I hate to have to be the one to keep scary secrets. And later suffer for having kept them."

In the span of an extended weekend, my brother called me up with work troubles, relationship issues and--having gone to the cardiologist because he wasn't feeling well--health concerns. The kid has been working from home, lives in a town where everyone he knows he knows through his girlfriend, and was now under directive from his physician not to travel. That week, he was essentially alone. The worst part was that he wasn't even going to tell us.

He prefaced the conversation with the caveat that whatever he was going to tell me must not, under any circumstances, be repeated to our parents. And if I gave the slightest hint of freaking out, he was going to hang up and not tell me another thing. Apparently, his oxygen levels are low, his white blood count is low. He's relying on his pacemaker way more than the original 13%. That cut he's had on his ankle from last spring? Still hasn't healed, even with the help of a wound-care specialist. And then he said his cardiologist mentioned the possibility that if things don't get better, he may need to consider two words that have never been up for discussion in the last 30 years, two words that made my blood run cold: heart transplant. I'm not sure I even processed the rest of the conversation after that.

Apparently, this boy had transferred his records, found this doctor in St. Louis, went for preliminary tests and scheduled himself for a cardiac catheterization. He's had them before--they run a tiny camera in through the femoral artery and check out how the blood flow is going. He wouldn't tell me when or where this was going to happen and forbade me from telling my mother. I spent the next week of nights crying on Jon and days pretending all was cool--trying very hard to act nonchalant over the telephone. Jon was right, I had to respect his wishes, at the very least if I wanted information.

I see my parents often. And keeping this from them made me feel like a fraud. Listening to my father complain about the government or the fact that the old car didn't pass emissions made me want to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs about how he is wasting his energy on stupid shit that is NOTHING compared to things he really ought to be worrying about. And my sweet mother saying things like, "oh your brother hasn't called. he's probably really busy with work." It was killing me.

After weeks of subtle cajoling, I convinced my brother to tell my parents. It just wasn't right. They were upset--and looked at me with the eyes of the betrayed. But they realized that being angry was pointless. The kid was going to do what he wanted.

Monday, my brother had his cardiac cath. He did not allow any of the family to be there. His girlfriend, M, was there for him every step of the way, despite also supporting her family through a medical crisis of their own last week. Thank God for that girl. She texted and called us with updates and made sure he was doing ok. After the procedure, it was revealed that my brother had "coils" or Arteriovenous Malformations between his veins and arteries (that mix oxygenated and non-oxygenated blood, making it even harder to breathe and function). They were able to remove about four of them, but they "weren't able to solve the oxygen problem," whatever that means. So it wasn't a routine checkup. This thing was a full-blown procedure.

Who knows what the next steps are. Hopefully this new cardiologist is going to have some answers. This is the first time we were not there to see him groggy and high as a kite in the recovery room (but he did not disappoint over the phone--I'm pretty sure I got a Tupac Shakur serenade). That was really hard for us. But I can't even fathom what going through all this--and trying to protect us from it--must be like for him.

farewell, gentle man-grandma

The rule is: If you don't come home for Christmas, you don't get a gingerbread man. And trust me, you want a gingerbread man.

Jon's grandparents make them for each kid in the family each year. They're about the size of your palm and the traditional shape, but they're not boring: Grandpa is in charge of decorating. He uses the red-hot candies and frosts the outline of the clothes. Zap one of those bad boys in the microwave and it's like you're chewing on Christmas. There must be a magical ingredient they're keeping secret from the rest of us, because none of the grandkids who've attempted to make these cookies has done them justice.

The last few years, Jon's mom and aunt have been baking the gingerbread men, but Grandpa insists on icing them--this Christmas it took eight hours, but he made sure they were all well-dressed. And we got to enjoy them because we came to California for the holidays. I'm fairly certain that Madelyn somehow got to eat two.

It was my first Christmas with Jon's family. On one hand, I wouldn't be with my own parents for the first time in 34 years, so that was a little sad. But at the same time I was looking forward to it. I grew up hearing great stories about my mom's house with her six siblings laughing and bickering over making sweets and playing cards until four in the morning at Christmastime. And for so long it has been just my parents, brother and I during the holidays while my friends all went off to sit at "kids' tables" and fight with their cousins. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous, especially because I have a big, loving family--it just takes 23 hours on a plane to meet them for dinner. Jon has three sisters, two brothers-in-law and a brand-new, adorable nephew. It was going to be the bustling family Christmas I had always longed to experience.

Before driving down to Jon's sister's house, we visited Grandma and Grandpa. Jon showed them how to use their new laptop to FaceTime with their great-grandson. They looked so sweet with their headphones, watching him wiggle and coo on the screen. There's nothing like a baby to bring joy to anyone's face, but it's extra special to see that kind of smile on a grandparent.

On Christmas Eve, Grandpa had a heart attack and was admitted to ICU. We were able to see him a couple of times before coming back to Chicago. Jon said it was difficult for him to see the man who has always spoken with such authority and strength barely talk above a whisper. But Grandpa was sitting in a regular chair next to his hospital bed and eating hospital chicken; he looked tired but otherwise pretty ok. We held his hand and told him we'd see him the next time we came to visit. 

Three weeks later, we were back in California for his memorial service. 

We left frigid and icy Chicago for 70-degree, sunny California. The front of the church was lined with beautiful arrangements of roses, irises, green plants. And posterboards of photographs. Grandpa had looked so smart in his military uniform back in the day. People milled about outside, talking quietly. Many of the smiles were directed at the great grandson, who showed up wearing a onesie with a tiny striped bow tie.

The service was lovely. There were hymns and a lot of stories about how Grandpa was funny, such a loving father, and how he treated Grandma like a queen, always. And there was an honor guard: I had only seen this on television and it was really moving in real life. They asked everyone to stand and played "Taps." Sweet Grandma, who is wheelchair-bound and very very thin, held herself up on the arms of her chair for the entire song. After the flag was unfolded and re-folded, one Marine held it close to his heart, turned and knelt before Grandma, presenting her with the flag on behalf of our country and president and armed forces. He thanked her for Grandpa's service.

I did a lot of crying and holding Jon's hand and surreptitiously trying to hide my soggy tissues. I hadn't known Grandpa very well; I've probably spent a handful of afternoons with them when we would come to town. But I know my husband, what a caring man he is, and I know he spent a lot of time with these grandparents growing up. When Jon was little, he would call for "Grandma," but when she came he'd have to clarify, "No, I want the man Grandma." Even on the way home from the service, Jon and his sister M talked about countless summer days spent at Grandma and Grandpa's community pool and how nothing tasted better than Fritos and cranberry juice after a long afternoon in the water.

When Jon and I were first getting to know each other, it took me a long, long time to guess what his favorite flavor of muffin was. Bran. Yeah, because Grandma would make them so delicious every Sunday; they'd have them after church. Jon likes to slice his muffins in half lengthwise, butter in the middle, and warm them in the toaster oven. He never makes bran muffins, probably because they just wouldn't be the same.

The memorial was very sad, as expected. But it was hardest to see Grandma, having also just lost her sister/best friend right before Christmas. She has this crazy notion that being in charge of her care the last few years may have kept Grandpa from staying around longer. She said as much when the family was gathered and discussing next steps. She started to cry. Jon looked her right in the eye, and with a strong and authoritative voice said No, that isn't the case, and I know it for a fact. Then he made a bit of a joke and she smiled through the tears. Later he told me that it meant so much to him to be able to be there in person for her, to at least try to reassure her it isn't her fault, and hug her and tell her again that he loves her so so much. I hope she felt his love for her as much as I did.

During the service, the pastor asked for people to stand up and share something about Grandpa. I'm terrible at funerals, but I wanted to get up there and say something about the gingerbread men. I just never got up the nerve. Which is a shame, because everyone loves those cookies. And I have a feeling they're never going to taste quite as good.

Happy 2013

I was trying to come up with something to tell people I accomplished in 2012, and aside from restarting my career/getting a certification, trying a crazy diet and starting to exercise in earnest, I have very little to say.

I didn't have time for projects or too much time to spend time with friends--until the very end, which will have been an amazing 16 days of driving around California, sleeping in and hanging with Jon's people.

Work alone is no way to live. Hopefully in 2013 I will have lots of cool projects and trips to talk about!

Hopefully you will, too.


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