Where Whine Meets Wine

Good (a)n(d) Sad

I  have a confession to make… everyone I know seems to be pregnant. Or has someone under one in their house. Or talks about wanting to be pregnant. And I’ll admit, with my biggest boy reaching school age years, I’ve had thoughts of how fast they’ve grown and how soon Littlest will leave the Toddler-Baby years, and be a full fledged Toddler-Boy. And gone will be the days of babies in my house and in my arms. No tears had been shed, just a heart, hanging a little heavier. And then yesterday happened. I was way overtired, and the kids were way over-wired. Not a good combination. On the way home, hubbyman and I were talking about people who can’t put aside their own feelings to be happy for other people. Or something along those lines. And I said something about how much time had gone by and moving on in life, and he countered with, I can see you feeling that way. And at first, I was annoyed, because he was wrong. I would never display my emotions so publicly, especially in a way that would take away some of anyone’s happiness. But that’s me, and we all feel differently and express ourselves differently. And I had no right to judge someone for their feelings. (And if I’m really honest, I’ll own that I feel a little guilty about my judgmental thoughts.) After being annoyed for him being wrong, then I just felt sad about him being right. I still hold to the fact that I would not have behaved in the same manner, but he is right in the fact that I would have felt the same way; I just wouldn’t have shown it. But that’s because it’s not my way. My way is passive, my way is to hide and continue on. My way is probably not healthy. Even writing this, I find myself, opening new tabs and looking over things to organize closets on pinterest. And a fabulous sweatshirt that not only would keep me warm, but actually looks cute and not just another jeans and oversized sweatshirt outfit. Because those things are easy and feeling things are hard. And if I’m really honest, I’m afraid once I start feeling things, I won’t know how to stop.

And that’s precisely what happened.  I started thinking about why the evening’s incident had rattled me, and what I found surprised me. I expected sadness, but I had not anticipated all the anger. As I think happy thoughts of my friends and family that are carrying their growing babies in their growing bellies (my sister in law is looking so cute as her baby belly is growing and becoming more pronounced and I cannot wait to see my friend as her belly grows as well!), I cannot help but feel a bit… of everything. I feel nostalgic thinking of when I had my biggest boy in my belly, I feel sadness when I think about the baby I did not get to meet, I feel happy when I think of how much I enjoyed my growing belly (even thought I felt miserable) with my girl, I feel anxious when I think about how scared I was during littlest’s pregnancy. And then it finally hits me. I feel angry that I will never experience any of that again. Maybe a better choice of words is that I feel angry that I cannot experience those things again. Maybe explanations are necessary, but just to clear up any misgivings (and should hubbyman happen to be reading this), I am not angry with him. This is not about him being happy with our three, or the fact that he had a vasectomy. This is about the fact that I had that choice taken from me, by a Dr. who was more worried about being able to make his other patients’ birth than the care I was receiving. Is it possible I could carry to term, well, I am the first to admit that miracles happen. But the more likely outcome is that I would lose another pregnancy; I would lose another baby. And I know that enduring another miscarriage would be more than I could handle as I cannot imagine a day where I wouldn’t give everything just to see and hold the baby I never got to know, just for a day, an hour, even just one minute.

I knew these feelings would come. I knew that one day Littlest would be grown enough that I would start to miss the days of newborn things. I knew that one day I would have to face the fact that I cannot carry anymore children, no matter if I were planning on more or not. I knew one day I feel the feelings I am feeling now. Anger, loss, sadness, and more anger. I’ve only allowed myself to think of it as our choice until this point. But now that I’ve gone there, I’m having a hard time gaining my control back. All I can think of is the emotions of getting to tell the people you love that you’re adding another person to the group, the look on hubbyman’s face the first time he feels the baby kick, the look on his face the first time he holds his babies, the first cries, the first kisses, the first hugs. I look at my three sweet babies and it’s not that they are not enough, it is that they are so overwhelmingly wonderful that I can’t help but imagine it would be that way with any number of children we should have. It’s the knowledge of how it could be. And the knowledge of how it can’t. And I didn’t get to make that decision.

I don’t know how to get past that. I don’t know if it’s something I can get past. But when Littlest woke up in the middle of the night, I brought him into bed with me, cuddled him close and whispered sincere prayers of thankfulness. It’s not fair that I don’t get to choose. It’s not. It’s not fair that I have one baby who’ll remain in my heart, but never in my arms. But was it fair that despite all the medical failings, along with my own body, that my littlest boy is here, alive, and so healthy? I don’t know about its fairness, but miraculous, yes, it is that. My boy who they didn’t pay the proper attention to (multiple medical professionals knew that he was not growing properly and that his cord wasn’t inserted by much and yet no information was shared with me, nor was complete bedrest mandated as it should have been, among many other things that accured before and after his birth), my boy that my body couldn’t provide for (his cord wasn’t inserted at all and my placenta was crumbling), my boy that has his sweet, soft, chubby little cheek nestled in my neck. His birth ended in the ending of birthing for me, and obviously I would never trade that for his sweet self. So maybe that’s how I get past it. Maybe that’s what gets me through the anger. I’m still sad. And I still think it’s unfair. But I am thankful that I have my boy out of that whole awful situation. And maybe that is what will get me through. That and probably a few glasses of good wine.

(To read more on the birth of my miraculous Littlest man, go here.)


Blessings Abundant

Ok, so I started out by doing a “know your blogger” survey, but I felt like you knew nothing more than my pets’ names afterwards. So then I started going back and forth on ways to tell you about me… but I’ve decided that I’ll share myself as posts continue, and so this post is really just what’s on my heart right now.

Blessed: my life has been more blessed than I ever dreamed it could be. Not in ways you might see just to look at my family and I, but trust me it’s there. We all know people who just seem to be “lucky” -always getting the promotion, winning the prize, finding the lost treasure, and while we are so happy for them- we don’t fit in that category ourselves. Thankfully my husband loves a good fight, because over the course of our marriage we’ve had lots of those. Not with each other (well, maybe some of those too) but with people and companies we’ve dealt with. It’s kind of the if-it-can-go-wrong-it-will kind of thing. We’ve got oodles of that. Important thing in the mail… it’ll get lost at least twice. And then sent to the wrong address. Cancel an account. They’ll continue billing us for MONTHS without ever sending a notice. Even after we’ve called multiple times. These kinds of things have become the norm for us. So if you’re wondering where the luck or the blessings happen… I am too. Ok, that’s not entirely true. We’ve been blessed with each other in our marriage, we’ve been blessed with our children. We have family and friends who are blessings and bless us frequently. Maybe we’ve always known that we were blessed in those departments, but this last year we have had out eyes open to just how lucky we are.

I’ve always wanted kids. For as long as I can remember. The kind of person who you know probably within minutes that I adore children and would have as many as hubbyman could handle. That’s not to say that I didn’t have a period of time (but not more the few years in between high school ending, going to college, and getting married) where I thought a career was on the forefront of my life’s horizon. And then I got married. And all of the sudden it was like everywhere I looked there were babies. And I wanted one. Bad. Hubby tried to keep those feelings pacified by getting a pet. But he was on nights and I worked days, so we got a cat… turns out it didn’t help. In fact, it kinda backfired. So during his deployment in Japan, and probably out of loneliness, he agreed to try for a baby when he got home. We had a very short time line. Obviously that wasn’t a problem. We knew I was pregnant in less than 4 weeks from him coming home.

Pregnancy, for me, unfortunately, wasn’t the dream I’d envisioned. Instead of “pregnancy glow” I had IVs keeping me hydrated because I was so sick and couldn’t keep anything down. Hubbyman says I smelled like I had applesauce coming out of my pores. I probably did. It was pretty much the only thing I’d eat because it was the easiest in reverse. And that was all 9 months. With all of my children. It’s a blast. Needless to say, for me, they’re more like 9  months of guilt for not being all happy and glowy. But the birth… well, let’s just say I’d rather give birth than to feel the way I feel all 9 months of pregnancy! Biggest E’s birth was amazing. I was so proud. Of him and myself. Miss E’s birth was also good. The Dr’s missed it, but the important people were there and that’s what really counts.

Figuring I’m just saying my children are my biggest blessings? I’m getting there, I promise. (and yes, they are my biggest blessings, but that’s not completely the point) After MissE, hubbyman felt like he was done having children. After all, as pretty much everyone we came in contact with would point out, we had one of each, why would we want anymore? While I always assumed I’d have kids, I never really thought of a number. Since Big E and Miss E are only 18 months apart, the early months/years were… well, the first couple months were a struggle. Just as I started thinking that maybe I was content with just two, I had a miscarriage. I’d only had an inkling that I could be pregnant, when it was over. I was so, so very devastated. And it was then that both hubbyman and I knew that we would have at least one more. While we had no idea it would be so soon after, we knew it would be eventual. 4 short months later, we knew we had Littlest E on on the way. I was a nervous wreck. I just had this feeling that I couldn’t shake and assumed it was because of the way my last pregnancy had ended. By 8 weeks we knew that where the umbilical cord inserted into the placenta was not centered like it’s “supposed” to be, but was on the top of it, over a placental lake (or a pool of blood in real people terms). By 20 weeks we knew that he was very small. 13th percentile small, 5 weeks behind my very accurate dates small. By 24 weeks he was now a week AHEAD of schedule. And while that was a relief, I still had that nagging feeling. My midwife was so nonchalant that even when I brought my mom (who is an OB RN, a doula, lactation consultant, parent educator, and infant massage instructor….you get the picture) along on a visit to ask questions, Mom was satisfied as well. Let’s fast forward through the rest of the pregnancy, the rest of the midwife visits, and ultrasounds I had. But let’s pause just to mention that they wanted to do frequent observations, but still continued to tell me there was nothing to worry about. Riiight. Like any woman can really know something COULD be wrong and not worry about it… it’s pretty much engrained in our DNA that we’re going to worry. So worry I did. But I also prayed. I prayed more in those 9 months than I have my entirely life previously combined. And I’m a prayer.

Enter his birth. (11 days early instead of the 10 days overdue like his siblings) We get settled in the room and I’m about to jump in the shower or go for a walk when the nurses start freaking out, because they’ve FINALLY gotten ahold of my charts. And right there in black and white it says that his umbilical cord is only attached by 20%!! Twenty freakin’ percent! Are you kidding me?! Apparently that was something they didn’t think I needed to know. Like the fact that I should have been on bedrest the whole time and not MOVING and lifting and emptying boxes! UGH!!! Obviously, it still makes me a little angry… Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. After hours more of labor since I was now stuck in bed and not “allowed” to move around or walk or anything else that helps both labor’s progression and natural pain therapy and with them awaiting a C-section (because of the insertion the fear was that it would become unattached when my water broke and he would essentially bleed out). Ethan entered this world (and not via Csection, thank you very much Dr. do-it-my-way). Pink and screaming and very healthy… tiny (less than 6 pounds…3 pounds less than Biggest E!), but healthy. And then came the placenta. The umbilical cord was NOT attached. I repeat, not attached. It had some veins coming out of it that had hooked on to either side of the top of the placenta with the middle of the placenta crumbling. Between my mom and my grandma they have over 50 years of OB nursing between them and they have NEVER seen a baby born with a 0% insertion, because they just don’t survive in utero. In fact, they sent it to pathology to study. (Starting to get the picture?) Medically speaking, there is no reason why he had that growth spurt and then continued to survive. Unfortunately, our adventure did not end there. Even though they knew my placenta had not been whole… they didn’t check for more pieces, or watch my bleeding. Even after I’d repeatedly told my nurse that I’d never had this much bleeding with either of my other children, let alone the fruit sized blood clots. FOR HOURS. Until I could no longer even sit up without passing out (over 4 hours later) did they even ask a Dr to come and consult. Unfortunately, he had a laboring patient down the hall and didn’t want to take the time for a proper DNC (which means going to another floor for operating and putting me under)… so without doing that he decided to just do it in my room, for an hour… using various painful techniques trying to pull the little pieces of my placenta off my uterus. After reaching the point I could not take anymore and having already told him so, repeatedly, only to have him make comments referencing my apparent pain intolerance. Telling me that if I would just settle down he’d be able to do it, how it was no big deal, not a painful procedure, among various other insults. I said all of my labors have been well over 12 hours and all of them have been without any form of pain medication. I know and can handle pain, thank you very much… and while I am willing to endure it for my babies, I am not willing to for you. Finally, at 3 in the morning, they had to take me up to surgery to have an emergency DNC done. While it means I was bleeding for a very long time, it also meant that my little peanut had more time to eat! And eat that boy did! Thankfully my milk supply was already pretty much in (I could hear the big gulps and see the milk on his face)… that’s probably a big part of why he was able to thrive so well. So…that awful night (unfortunately there was more awfulness that occurred, but I just highlighted the most important) and 2 blood transfusions later… we were both alive.

So…long story short…or long story, shorter than whole long story, but still long… After hubbyman had his vasectomy (for multiple reasons but a top one being that after all my in-room specials I’m left with holes and scars and would likely have a very hard time maintaining pregnancies. So the vasectomy was our way of making it our choice, and not something that was taken from us.) he and I got to enjoy some quiet time without “the big kids’ while he was recovering. And during a conversation he asked, “When is our lucky break?”  Suddenly, I felt the knowledge welling within me. Not that I believe God gives us “bad luck” or anything like that, but I know, for us, Littlest E is our luck, all rolled in one. He was, and is, our miracle. And we would not trade all the bad luck, or hard times, or long, obnoxious phone calls for him. Ever. He is our lucky break. He is God saying, even among the rest of the crap you have deal with in this life, I’m still here. Thinking of you and protecting you. And He knows the important stuff.  He knows me. He knows that on a daily basis I will look at my son and think of the miracle and the blessing he is, which in turn makes me think of the miracle and blessings Big E and Middle E are to my life. And my hubbyman. And our parents, and siblings… and all the REAL blessings our life contains. No matter how long I’ve been on hold to resolve the latest issue.

Littlest E at 6 months and 20 lbs

*I would also like to add a very special thank you to all our friends and family who kept their thoughts and prayers with us through Littlest E’s pregnancy. (Not to mention all the meals our family and church family provided!) The blessing of it is not lost on our family.