Yours, Mine, But Not OURS...

Someone I dearly love suggested to me that perhaps I should take a moment and write about my feelings for my children, versus my feelings about the babies I carry for other people.

I guess it makes the most sense to start with the way I feel about my kids. I could be cliché and say that I’ve loved them since the moment I realized I was going to have a baby. If I’m honest though, I can’t say it. I was excited at the prospect of having a baby, and I (obviously) thoroughly enjoyed the experience of being pregnant. It was fun to play with them all as they grew and began to respond to my pokes and prods and movements. It was also frightening, in the case of my two boys. Would I be ready? What kind of mother would I be? Especially with Alex; I was very afraid that I wouldn’t become attached to him, because I HADN’T become attached to the three babies I’d given birth to between him and Lil Man.

It was the moment I met my sons that won me over completely. They were MINE and I knew it, and that knowledge spilled into my heart, overflowing it in ways that Niagara Falls could only dream. I love them tenderly. I love them fiercely. I can never convey in words, hugs, kisses, or really any action – the depth of my affection for the two children I’ve brought into the world, and into my home.

I think it’s that ferocity; that tenderness of emotion that allows me to carry other people’s children for them. I know what it is to hold my baby in my arms and feel the wellspring of adoration come alive inside me; and I want to help others feel that, too. I think that’s also why nearly every surrogacy agency in the country requires that their surrogates have given birth to a child that they are currently raising. It ensures that the women they contract to perform this service, TRULY understand what it is they’re giving these couples – and decreases the liability of the surrogate attempting to “keep” the baby.

It also makes a huge difference – to me at least – that while Husbeast is there and supportive, he’s not a contributor to the process in any physiological way. There’s no emotional connection to us in the creation of these little people. It’s a very sterile, prescriptive process. Not to say that it’s unnatural or wrong in any way – but it helps me to detach, and reminds me as I begin each cycle, “This baby is not yours. This isn’t an adoption; you’re carrying someone else’s biological offspring.”

Beyond that, I’ve been blessed each pregnancy with Intended Parents who wanted to be involved. Seeing their faces light up at ultrasounds, and when the OB’s put the Doppler to my belly to broadcast the babies’ heartbeats is just amazing. And their expressions when they finally meet their children are absolutely priceless. Nothing in the world shows me that I’ve done something right better than those faces.

Better Late Than Never

Tuesday, March 24, 2017 was a relatively normal day. I got up, went to work, waddled around the building… Except that my left eye was watering far more than usual. It normally does if it’s too windy or too bright, but neither of these conditions existed. I figured I must have got some dust in it or something.

Wednesday and Thursday passed much the same, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what the hell had made my eye so irritated. My boss asked me if I was alright, as I kept a tissue with me, always wiping at it. I told her that if it was still annoying me on Friday, I’d call out of work and go see a doctor.

Friday arrived and my eye was still driving me insane, so I called my doctor, who had suggested that I simply was suffering from allergies, which of course can be exacerbated by pregnancy. She said to stay home and relax, take a couple showers and let it pass. I’m not sure why it took so long, or why no one else had observed it, but I noticed that night that the left side of my face wasn’t moving. In fairness to me at least, I don’t look in the mirror but once, MAYBE twice a day.

By Saturday evening, I had done a fair bit of research online and come to the conclusion that I likely had Bells Palsy due to a spike in blood pressure due to pregnancy. I called my obstetrician’s office and the doctor on call instructed me to go to either Urgent Care or the Emergency Room.

Well. Clear Choice MD is WORTHLESS. Don’t ever bother going there for anything more than a sprain. They referred me to the Emergency Room where the doctors agreed that yes; I had Bells Palsy. They sent me up to Labor & Delivery for monitoring because well, the E.R. doesn’t really do much with pregnancy.

The nurse and doctor who monitored me were very nice. They gave me crackers to nibble on, as I’d missed dinner entirely; and my favorite pregnancy drink – cranberry juice mixed with seltzer. My blood pressure had been quite high in the E.R. and when I first arrived in Labor and Delivery, but it came back down after a couple hours, and my blood work didn’t seem to concern the doctor, so they sent me home with an antiviral (in case the Bells Palsy WASN’T due to high blood pressure, but some virus I might have contracted) and steroids.

The rest of the weekend passed fairly uneventfully. I visited my dad and his family and we all had a number of good guffaws over my harmless and temporary facial paralysis. Until late Sunday night. From 10:00 PM through the morning, I did not feel Alex kick once. It was, needless to say, a sleepless night. Husbeast assured me that all was well, but something just felt WRONG. I was due for follow-up blood work Monday morning, so I decided I would contact the OB’s afterward.

Monday, January 30, 2017. Blood work went fine, but Alex still wasn’t moving. I went to the hospital café and bought a bagel with cream cheese and some orange juice, thinking that if I ate something, maybe he’d move. No dice. I called OB and they recommended I go up to Labor and Delivery. It was Alex’s lack of movement that concerned them most.

My nurse in L&D was, as with pretty much everyone up there, very nice. She apologized at the end of her shift, amusingly enough, for being curt with me, but that she had a horrible headache. If she considered herself curt while I was there, I’m almost afraid to imagine how chipper and bouncy she’d be without a headache! I was subjected to an ultrasound that confirmed that Alex was just fine; he had just gotten sort of stuck on my hip. Once he dislodged himself, much movement ensued.

The attending physician that day – I’ll call her Dr. Stern because she was pleasant, but was absolutely a no nonsense practitioner – came in after several hours of waiting for blood work results and announced that I was getting an IV because the blood work that was ordered on Saturday was insufficient to give her the information she REALLY needed. She also stated unequivocally that she would not have released me over the weekend – she’d have induced me right then and there, because she “did not like” my blood pressure coupled with the blood work results from Saturday night.

Three nurses and six big-ass needles later, I had an IV in the crook of my right arm. Guess what? The junctions in the blood vessels in my arm are VERY close together, and do not allow for intravenous needles or tubes anywhere but in the crooks of my arms. No hands, no wrists, no forearms. Just don’t try it. The bruises on my left forearm were truly impressive. I think the doctor at Alex’s first pediatric visit was concerned for my well being until I showed him the punctures from the IV’s.

Dr. Stern returned around noon and informed me that I was going to have a baby that day, and so I should contact whoever I needed to, to make arrangements. She said that it would be a little while before they even got the Misoprostol from the pharmacy, so nobody needed to rush. I texted Husbeast and relayed the information. He left work and headed home to take a short nap; anticipating a long, hard labor.

Around 1:00 PM, Dr. Stern returned and administered Misoprostol – a suppository (not in the bum) that’s meant to soften and efface the cervix. Depending on how well mine responded, I’d either receive another dose or would be hooked up to a Pitocin drip. (Reminder: Pitocin is the manmade version of Oxytocin, which is the hormone that the body releases to induce labor.)

Guess what? My body doesn’t need much of a reminder to get labor moving. The “Miso” did its job and did it well, and I was on Pitocin by 3:00 PM. Husbeast arrived basically in time for me to have a couple contractions and decide that, based on the doctor’s declaration that it was unlikely I’d have the baby before the following day, maybe I should get an epidural. HA. I waited too long. It worked on my right side but not my left. As usual. But it did take the edge off, and I found that humming worked well.

I haven’t told anyone this next bit, so bear with me. Strange though it sounds, when I hummed through the contractions, my mind went back to when I was a little girl and I would curl up on one cushion of this big, ugly brown couch with a weird sort of tartan design. Ugly the couch was, but comfortable too – and as I hummed through my contractions, I felt as though I was lying on that couch again; comfortable and warm and happy.

I had never tried to hum during labor before. It wasn’t musical; just a single, low note way down in my chest. Previously I had groaned loudly or moaned at the top of my lungs. This was quiet – almost subdued by comparison – maybe that’s why it felt different. Don’t get me wrong, the whole experience was just as intense, but it was far less unpleasant.

Around 8:30 PM the residents came in to check me and found me dilating nicely, but the amniotic sac still hadn’t ruptured. They said that if it didn’t happen on its own within the next 45 minutes to an hour, they’d have to do it for me. They put a giant, peanut-shaped yoga ball between my legs and asked me to relax that way. In short order, SOMETHING broke and I called for the nurse.

It wasn’t amniotic fluid. The running theory is that the placenta detached a little early – something I’ve since been told is not absolutely uncommon in an early induction. Nobody seemed concerned, but they did choose to go ahead and break my water to speed things along.

Well. Let me tell you. Within SECONDS of breaking my water, that overwhelming primal urge to just PUSH overtook me and I started hollering for the nurse to take out the catheter. As soon as she did, I bore down. There was no intelligent thought anywhere in my being – I just PUSHED. I vaguely remember the nurse hollering for “W” and the residents telling me “just small pushes” but nothing mattered but getting that pressure OUT OF MY BODY.

Needless to say, one massive push later, the residents were muttering in surprise and holding a six pound, thirteen-point-nine ounce baby boy. They set him on my chest and the world came back into pinpoint focus. Husbeast and I stared at our newborn son, trying to wrap our minds around everything that had just happened as we fell in love with our second baby.

“W” hadn’t made it in for the birth. I hadn’t given her time. She allowed the residents to continue their work as I put my new baby to breast and he latched on with the abandon of the just-born.

Update:

Alex is eleven weeks old today and weighs a solid fourteen pounds. His once saggy skin has filled in with “just the right amount” of chub, according to his pediatrician. He’s a greedy little savage who’s got nursing down to an art form, and we all love him more than words.

Panic At The... Clinic?

What a ride, ladies and gents. What. A. Ride.

Several weeks ago, Husbeast and I went in for our 18-ish week ultrasound. Squall looked normal; nuchal translucency was within normal parameters; we verified that yes, he is indeed a boy, and we found all ten fingers and toes. What we also found was that Squall’s umbilical cord is one artery shy of the norm. Babies are supposed to have two arteries and one vein in the umbilicus. The doctor said that his heart looked great though, and he was growing a little ahead of the expectation, so they weren’t terribly worried. They did order a fetal echocardiogram for four weeks out, however, to make absolutely certain that his heart was healthy.

Fast forward to last Friday. I took the day off for multiple doctor’s appointments, both for me and for Lil Man. As Husbeast couldn’t go and my stepmother has been baby crazy ever since I announced that we were pregnant, I invited her to go along and see the baby on screen.

The pediatric cardiologist doing the ultrasound was not talkative; excusing his silence before the scan even began by saying that he needed to concentrate. We didn’t fuss much. As it turns out, however, Squall has a small hole between the lower two chambers of his heart. The doctor explained that it’s not something that concerns him, but we will need to monitor it because one of three things could happen:

1.)    It could resolve itself (heal up) before Squall is born,

2.)    It could resolve itself during Squall’s childhood, or

3.)    It could get bigger, resulting in the need for surgery.

I played it relatively cool, but texted Husbeast, my dad and my besty (Mama.) They all showed appropriate concern, but unfortunately I left Mama hanging, as we were called in to my normal OB appointment right after I sent the texts. She may have flipped out a bit and left work to come take care of me. This worked out to my advantage, as I had helpers on the dresser I’ve been slowly refurbishing for Squall; and Lil Man’s Auntie and Gramma were able to accompany us to his appointment that afternoon.

We went to pick Lil Man up from school after lunch, and took him to the pediatric endocrinologist at The Big Hospital to learn how to do his first shot of Testosterone. He’s always been afraid of needles (though he’s been working on that lately), and I was worried he’d have trouble, but he powered right through it after a few deep breaths and did a GREAT job! We were very proud of him. We took him out to dinner at a local Chinese joint that also makes pretty decent sushi and parted upon our return to my place.

Once everyone was gone, I began to freak out. The baby. Has a hole. In his heart. Sure, that COULD mean nothing, or it could mean that he’ll be whisked away for major surgery the moment he’s born. The thought was torture. Husbeast was reassuring as always, but I just couldn’t get out of my own head about it.

About a week later, I confessed to a former coworker-turned-friend that I was having trouble coping with this news (which I had not, until that point, shared with her). She gently rebuked me for not having mentioned it sooner; that her son had been born with TWO holes in his heart, and that they had resolved themselves within weeks of the baby’s birth. I breathed again. Granted, that’s anecdotal, but then I called my OB’s office to ask if flying was a risk to the baby. I had to fly to Pittsburgh for work, and wanted to make sure I didn’t need to cancel the trip in light of this news. She reassured me that while Squall is still in utero, he’d be fine. She also mentioned that if the doctors were truly concerned about him, I’d already be making plans to deliver in Boston, so that Squall would have the country’s best doctors on standby the moment he was born.

I have since contented myself by making progress – albeit slow progress – on preparing for Squall’s arrival. I’ve received a crib and built it; and done a bit of work on the “Baby Closet;” and I have a comfy rocking recliner sitting in the van waiting to be brought upstairs, where I can both rock and comfortably feed him when he arrives. And as I mentioned; I’ve been slowly working on stripping decades of paint off an old dresser to refinish as a bureau and changing table.

Squall's New Room: Before.

How on earth am I almost 19 weeks pregnant already? Oh, right. Time. Duh.

Squall is now palpably wiggly and seems, like the previous tenants of the Uber Ute, to thoroughly enjoy kicking Husbeast in the back while we’re trying to sleep. Husbeast can’t feel it yet of course, but I can. And Catbutt has resumed his game of flicking my belly with his tail, waiting for a kick, and retaliating repeatedly. I think cats must be able to sense the movement somehow.

I spent today rearranging the furniture in my room (with Lil Man’s help, not to worry) so that we can turn what was originally my office (aka “Shame Closet”) into a little bedroom for Squall. I have to admit: I was reticent to vacate the space because I really enjoyed the privacy but with the movement of the bedroom furniture to new spaces, I now have the entire west wall of the room for my office, which allows me A LOT more room.

I know a lot of moms – far more stylish than I – decide on a “theme” for their nurseries. I had my mind set: Squall isn’t going to care about the décor in the least, until he’s at least three, if not older than that. So why would I bother doing much for decoration in that tiny space? And then I foolishly went on Pinterest. More often than not, I skim over the themed nursery pins suggested by the app but this morning while I lay in bed, summoning the motivation to get out of bed, I stopped scrolling at one named, “Adventure.” Now, some of the decorations were just downright silly – but the idea clicked with me.

Husbeast and I are avid H.P. Lovecraft fans, but obviously we wouldn’t decorate a nursery with Cthulhu or Yog Sothoth – it’d traumatize the kid. However; the Cthulhu mythos revolves around a certain amount of exploration, and THAT could make a pretty interesting child’s room. So 1920’s to 1940’s explorer is now our theme. Toss in a bit of Steampunk where it fits, and MAYBE a little Serenity (Firefly) hiding on the ceiling, and I think we’ve got a theme.

The room is tiny, but we’ll be moving out of here once Lil Man graduates high school, so Squall won’t be using the space for too long.

Here's the "before."

And Squall Is...

First item of note: "Squall" is the nickname I chose for the baby, because until the last few weeks, it kept causing panic storms in the form of spotting and light bleeding. (I realize it wasn't the baby's fault, but it felt apropos when it popped into my head.)

Now that our families have been informed, I can make the announcement official. But first, the background.

Due to my diagnosis of “advanced maternal age,” the OBs at the Big Hospital felt that it would be prudent to couple my 12-week ultrasound – where they measure nuchal translucency – with Non Invasive Prenatal Testing. This involves the drawing of a single vial of blood from my arm. As it turns out, some of Squall’s blood can be found in my blood stream (thanks, placenta!) This allows a laboratory in Massachusetts to identify Squall’s blood within the sample I provided, and detect any chromosomal abnormalities in the blood.

The good news is: Between the ultrasound and NIPT results, the doctors have determined that Squall is perfectly normal.

The part I forgot about the NIPT, is that it can tell you what gender the baby is. So when my Favorite Nurse at The Big Hospital called me yesterday to tell me that everything looked okay, she asked if I wanted to know Squall’s sex.

“Oh! I forgot you could do that! YES!” I responded dazedly.

“Are you sure you want to know?” She asked, trying to be sure I understood the offer.

“Yes,” I replied enthusiastically, “My husband and I agreed ages ago that we want to know.”

“Well then, it’s a boy,” my Favorite Nurse supplied; an audible smile in her voice.

I thanked her, hung up, and proceeded to tell everyone in my family. EVERYONE.

And now you all know, too! Honestly, I didn’t care whether the baby was male or female. I just wanted a healthy baby. I’m thrilled it’s a boy, but I’d be just as thrilled if my Favorite Nurse had said it was a girl.

Squall, On The Big Screen

Yesterday Husbeast and I went to the Big Hospital for our 12-week ultrasound! (This meant an early release from work for both of us, which was a marvelous little change from the usual.)

I will admit to you, ladies and gents, that I was a little nervous. What if there was something seriously wrong? What if the placenta was covering my cervix (placenta previa)? Not that it's a death sentence or anything, but I hate surgery. I'm very afraid of being cut open. What if, what if, what if?

As it turns out, Squall is growing nicely. S/he has all the necessary bits, and was easily as squirmy as his/her brother was, back in 2000. S/he did not want to be bothered or photographed or otherwise prodded. In fact, I'm quite certain I felt Squall kick the sonographer's wand several times, most likely in protest. S/he IS Husbeast's and my child, after all.

You know, after going through this process with me, three times, I kinda thought all this would be old-hat to Husbeast. But it turns out he didn't really pay attention during my pregnancies with Wiggle-Worm, Tempest and Nugget; so all this is completely new and fascinating. During the scan yesterday, he informed me and the sonographer - we'll call her the Raven-Haired Beauty, since she's done the last three scans - that he hadn't expected Squall to be this developed. Thought it would still be an amorphous blob. SURPRISE!

Lil Man has informed me that he hopes Squall is a boy, and that he plans to whisk the baby away to become his apprentice. He says that Squall will be named "Dude," will be born with the knowledge and motor control to care for himself, and that I will never see "Dude" again because he will become a little troglodyte in Lil Man's room.

Anyway; I'm sure the family (biological and otherwise) is anxious to see the photos, so I must oblige.

Here we have Squall in profile, just before s/he turned away:

Here we see Squall's tiny right foot:

Here we have a full-frontal, in which we get to see Squall's brain, left claw-like hand, and some other random bones which, being an accountant and not a sonographer, I can't be certain I can specify:

And one more wiggly profile:

Bleary-Eyed Post

Fair warning: Today’s blog post may be a little “off,” as Husbeast and I drove Lil Man to visit a friend not far outside Boston last night, and didn’t get home till 1:00 this morning.

I got to leave work early yesterday, to attend my first official, scheduled OB visit yesterday. Unfortunately Husbeast wasn’t able to come – I hadn’t given him enough notice for him to be able to request the afternoon off. But we agreed that I’d schedule appointments several months out, so he can go to the rest of them.

I’ll call the doctor I met yesterday, “Dr. Sweet.” This is not to imply that she’s anything less than highly professional and knowledgeable; but she was very reassuring and very compassionate, and that was the first thing that struck me. Don’t get me wrong; all of the doctors in OB at The Big Hospital are wonderful, but since I don’t use real names, I have to distinguish them somehow.

Anyway, Dr. Sweet went through my pregnancy history, asked about my spotting and said she’d check the size of my uterus. She mentioned that minor chorionic hemorrhage is not uncommon, and that as long as my uterus was still growing appropriately for gestational age, she wouldn’t worry overmuch. We talked about exercise, diet and appropriate weight gain for pregnancy, and she did a basic physical  and pelvic exam.

As it turns out, my uterus is about the size of a grapefruit – appropriate size for being ten weeks along – and my “What to Expect” app says that the Baby is about the size of a prune. We also discussed prenatal screenings for abnormalities (because of my age), and scheduled the blood work for it. I also have an ultrasound in two weeks, to check for development and nuchal translucency.

On my way out to the waiting room, I got a chance to chat with my friend, the Kickass Nerd, who works at the desk in OB. She's always so much fun, and so supportive and encouraging. I was also completely flattered to learn that she's read this blog! Whee! 

As I finished scheduling my appointments, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to find my friend BAMF, who’s due to have her baby in a couple weeks, standing right behind me! She’s an adorable, badass little preggosaur, who I’m confident will power through labor and delivery like a machine!