October 8

[Today is Photobaby's birthday,
so I'll wrap up my crazy little story for you...]

I’ll spare you the gory details, but here are a few highlights from the next several hours:

• As the nurses and doctors began rushing around my room, which was blurry and a little orange, I asked Mark if I was going to die. His reassuring response? “I don’t think so.”
• My nurse, Kristina, overheard and said, “Not on my watch.” I found out later that she stayed in my room most of the following night, just watching me breathe, making sure I was okay.
• The drugs in my system and my condition made me so loopy that while talking to my mom on the phone as they prepped me for surgery, I made a completely inappropriate comment about what “prepping for surgery” included. I can’t dwell on that because it’s so out of character for me and for my relationship with my mom that it’s just too humiliating.
• I started to cry as they gave me the epidural, but then I had to laugh at myself. I’d had too many friends get that shot to the spine in the middle of contractions to really feel sorry for myself.
• I talked to Mark, non-stop, during the entire surgery (which didn’t last long), because I was so nervous. The anesthesiologist laughed at us because we were talking so much.

And then she was born.

My beautiful, wonderful, healthy baby girl was born just after midnight on Monday, October 8. She weighed 3 lbs, 14 oz., and she was the cutest little frog I’d ever seen. I’m not kidding. She kind of reminded me of a frog.

The rest of that day is a blur. My memory includes a NICU nurse chastising me for not breastfeeding; my dear friends, Zac and Mandy, coming into my dark room and whispering their congratulations; my aunt sneaking into the room by telling the nurse she was my grandma – that really messes with your head when you’re all hopped up on drugs, let me tell you; my hand cramping from holding the painkiller button so tightly, terrified that I’d drop it in my sleep and the pain would start; stumbling through dictation for Smitty and Mark as they wrote an e-mail announcement to send to all our friends and family; asking Nurse Kristina for something to help me sleep, because every time I started to doze off, I got a little panicky, thinking I wouldn’t wake up; Mark waking me up in the middle of the night to show me the tiny red dress he’d bought our daughter during a late-night run to Walmart.

Our baby girl was born a year ago today. And she was healthy and strong and perfect. Because my condition didn’t improve immediately and was apparently more serious than they’d let on, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room until Thursday. But the NICU nurses actually brought her in to see me for a few, brief minutes on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday was a big day. They removed all my wires – IV, catheter, spinal block. I took a shower. I ate a meal sitting in a chair. And I was wheeled down the hall to hold my daughter in the nursery.

My health returned slowly and I was finally released from the hospital on Saturday. Mark and I didn’t return home with a baby, though. She stayed in the hospital for another week and a half, gaining weight, learning to eat and staying warm. My feisty baby ripped out her feeding tube a full week before the nurses thought she’d be able to eat from a bottle and never looked back. After a brief stint under the blue light, she kicked the jaundice problem. And finally – just a couple days later than we’d hoped – she learned how to keep herself warm enough to come home.

October 7

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

On Friday I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t enjoy being poked for an IV. And I didn’t like it when they started the magnesium sulfate drip. It shot through my veins, hot and sharp. And I really didn’t like the steroid shots. I knew they were necessary to help build up my baby’s lungs in case she came early, but oh my good gracious, those puppies hurt!

On Saturday I wasn’t scared. When I looked up at one point and saw my husband freaking out on too much caffeine and my parents hugging and crying, I almost laughed again. It’s not like I was unconscious – I could see them! I could see them being scared and sad.

And then the cavalry arrived – my cousins, my aunt, my brother all the way from Iowa. And they sat in my room, talking in hushed murmurs and staring. Staring at me and staring at the monitors beeping my vitals for the world to see.

On Sunday I was a little scared, because they began giving me Pitocin, a drug used to induce labor. Labor! That excruciatingly painful process I’d read about and heard my friends describe and was terrified to experience myself! But as the special, fancy consultant doctor had explained the day before, the only cure for my condition was to deliver my baby. 7 WEEKS EARLY. And the worst part in my mind? We hadn’t taken a childbirth class yet! It was still two weeks away!

I shouldn’t have worried. The magnesium (used to prevent seizures, but also often used to halt pre-term labor) overpowered the pitocin. Though my family stayed glued to the monitor that day, waiting for contractions, nothing changed. Including my frighteningly high blood pressure. So the doctors scheduled a C-section for Monday morning.

Later that evening, the magnesium began making me a little loopy. I was out of it enough that I asked my nurse and my mom to help me take a shower, since I didn’t know how long after surgery before I’d take another one. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m extremely self-conscious about my body and would never, under any other circumstances, have allowed – much less requested – someone to see me naked.

After getting me into bed that evening, my parents decided to head home, promising to be back bright and early the next morning. But shortly after that, the heartburn came back. I’d learned my lesson and this time, I told Mark to get the nurse. That nurse, Kristina, got my doctor to stay (she’d been headed home, too). And then they decided to deliver. Right then.

Mark called my parents, and when I asked him if my mom started crying, he said, “No, I did.”

And then I got scared.

October 6

This is what the seizure box looked like. But it was older,

and it had the word, "Seizure," written in block letters on the side.

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

The on-call doctor was one I’d never seen, and when she called me back, she yelled at me. In a nutshell it went like this: “What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you call earlier? Get to the hospital now! Stat!”

Throughout my pregnancy, I’d worried about the moment I would travel to the hospital for delivery. We live about 35 minutes from the hospital, and my husband worked evenings. I just wasn’t sure who would take me in an emergency. And there I was, not going to the hospital to deliver, but still pretty sure I shouldn’t drive myself 35 minutes in traffic to the hospital.

After calling my husband and parents, they decided, due to where everyone was at the time, my parents would pick me up and Mark would meet us at the hospital. While I waited for my parents, I packed a bag with some extra clothes, a magazine for Mark and toiletries, I gave my cats extra food and water, took a shower and shaved my legs. Just in case, you know.

I checked into the hospital that night and had the painful experience of getting an IV. Painful because nobody could find a vein. I was that puffy. Not that they didn’t try. Oh, they poked and prodded my hands and arms and finally, my neck. Thanks to an hour of work from an anesthetist with steady, cold hands.

At some point that night, a nurse brought a big black case into my room labeled, “Seizures,” and placed it on the counter. Directly across from my bed. All I could do was laugh, because that was probably the least comforting thing someone could have done after telling me that my blood pressure was spiking like crazy and oh, by the way, pre-eclampsia can cause seizures and yes, even death.

Awesome.

October 5

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Last year on October 5, I went to the hospital and I didn’t go home for eight days. For eight long, scary, crazy days, I lived in the hospital. Here’s part of my story.

For two days I’d been on mandated bed rest – sitting on the couch, making lists and plans, and finishing projects for the job that was no longer mine. On Thursday, I started feeling some heartburn, a symptom they’d warned me about on Tuesday, a feeling I hadn’t had during my pregnancy. I wasn’t worried. After all, it was probably just the power of suggestion. And besides, my friend, Mandy, had terrible heartburn during the entirety of both her pregnancies. I could hardly complain if it started in my third trimester.

But by Thursday night, I was so uncomfortable that I couldn’t sleep. I finally fell asleep for a couple hours on the couch, but Friday morning came too quickly.

To compound my physical discomfort, Friday was the day I had to train my manager on Quark Xpress, the software I used to lay out our monthly newsletter, a project she would take over in my absence. So, sitting on my couch with my laptop, my cell phone and a program that allowed me to see her work computer screen on my home computer screen, I tried to train my 60-year-old manager on a software program.

My manager is a lovely lady. But that afternoon really tried my patience. We were on the phone – her trying to figure out which questions to ask and me watching her painstakingly move text boxes and photos into place – for over an hour. By the time we got off the phone, the heartburn was bad. And the Rolaids weren’t helping.

I complained to my husband, but he thought the same thing I feared – that I was just a big baby. That the shooting pain in my chest and side was normal heartburn that other, stronger women just deal with. He was sorry I felt bad, but he had to leave for work.

I thought about calling my doctor (they’d said if I had any of a list of symptoms – including bad heartburn – to call), but by then, it was after 5. I told myself to just suck it up and deal.

Thankfully – God and His mysterious ways – my friend, Amy, called just then to check in. When I vented to her about my heartburn and being after doctor’s hours, she reminded me that I could still call the office and the on-call doctor would call me back. I didn’t want to bother anyone, but she reminded me that this is what they’re paid for. As I thought about how much I’d already paid out of pocket for this pregnancy, I decided she was right.

So I called.

October 4

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Before I was born, my parents had a baby. His name was Michael, and he was born in March 1976. He also died in March 1976, due to a genetic spinal disorder called anencephaly. This greatly influenced my family, especially my mom and how she related to my dad, my younger brother and me. So I’ve always been a little nervous that it could happen to me. My mother’s warnings of taking folic acid to prevent the disorder since I got married didn’t help to ease my fears.

Unfortunately, even knowing what I did, I still didn’t take folic acid supplements. (I don’t drink juice with breakfast to avoid its empty calories, and vitamins are just too yucky to take with water. I know that’s not a good excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.)

So when I found out I was pregnant last March – unexpectedly expecting – I immediately went into panic mode. Some of that adrenaline rush was normal: “How can we afford this?” “Our house isn’t big enough.” “What if I turn into my mother?” “What color should the nursery be?” “I hope Mark is happy about this.” But underneath the usual concerns was a layer of dread. A fear that history would repeat itself and we would have a baby with that disorder.

And yes, a good deal of my fear was based purely on the fact that I had not been taking folic acid supplements. I know it’s irrational, but I felt guilt along with that dread and fear.

Thankfully, a friend shared a reminder with me that worrying would not solve anything. (Yes, sometimes I need that reminder, even though it’s a pretty obvious point!) She pointed me toward Matthew 6:27, which says, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?” God had a plan for the baby I was carrying, and nothing I could do – from taking enormous prenatal vitamins or thinking repeatedly (not even really praying), “Please, please, please let my baby be healthy!” – would change His good plan for my life or add an hour to my baby’s life.

I should also have remembered and focused on Psalm 139:13-14, which says, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

These promises should have comforted me. But they didn’t. I know that God works all things together for His good, but I was so desperately afraid that His good would involve painful things for me. I know that’s selfish. But it’s how I felt. I was also afraid of the decision I would be asked to make, should my baby have the disorder my older brother had.

See, my mom knew for the last three months of her pregnancy that her baby would die. She chose to carry him to full term. What an amazing choice! And so devastating. To this day, my mom feels the effects of that decision. And she’s shared with me that she’s not sure she would make the same decision today. Knowing that, knowing how deeply she was hurt, my God-loving and Bible-reading mother, I was terrified of being asked to make that decision. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough. Or strong enough.

You’d think this would have pushed me toward God’s promises. But it didn’t. I spent the first half of my pregnancy paralyzed in fear. Once we had an ultrasound and a few tests that came back negative (which is positive), I finally let myself breathe. And start to come to grips with the fact that I was going to have a baby. I was going to have a baby! Only then did I register at Babies R Us and begin to decorate the nursery. And thank God for His unending patience and undeserved blessings.

Of course, letting go of that fear didn’t help me sleep better. (And my aching back and sore hip didn’t help, either!) Because now I could no longer put off coming to terms with one, big scary fact: I was going to be a mother! I was going to have a baby! YIKES!

October 3

[This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

Before last year, I’d heard about the nesting instinct, the urge many pregnant women get to prepare their homes for the new baby. Honestly, I was hoping it would hit me hard, forcing me to clean the house and organize my life with a previously unseen passion. While I can’t say that did happen, I can’t argue with this site that says, “Nesting brings about some unique and seemingly irrational behaviors in pregnant women.”

For me, I was driven to making more lists than ever. (And for those of you who know me, you can imagine just how many lists that was.) Here’s a sample of the lists I made last year while I was pregnant:

• Projects around the house (new carpet in the nursery, fix the drooping siding on the front porch, put in new outlets and buy safety covers)
• Things to buy for nursery (bedding, paint, shelves, chair, pictures for the walls)
• Books to read about parenting (BabyWise; Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child; Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy; What to Expect When You’re Expecting)
• Healthy habits to start now (exercise, taking vitamins, stretching, eating vegetables)
• Other random, very important things to do (show Mark how to pay the bills, finalize my spreadsheet of addresses for baby announcements, organize the pantry, clean out the garage, make dozens of meals to freeze for later, put all my recipes in a binder, finish every scrapbook I ever started, sign up for that scary childbirth class, pay my library fines)

For the record, I did not accomplish all of these things. Partly due to an early delivery and partly due to a stubborn case of procrastination that can beat even the strongest nesting instinct.

October 2

[Today marks the one-year anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]

One year ago, I left my office for the last time. A few weeks earlier I’d been told that due to budget problems, my position at the health charity I’d worked at for just 16 months was being eliminated. Out of a four-office staff of about 25, my position was the only one to be cut. Despite rave reviews about my abilities and work from both colleagues and supervisors, I was being laid off.

I was laid off when I was seven months pregnant.

To give credit where credit’s due, my friend and colleague fought the decision with every bit of middle management authority she had; my supervisor, Sally, hugged me and made nice sounds about being sorry; and the executive director promised a reasonable severance package while joking about me suing the company. And I smiled and reassured everyone that I understood. That I’d be fine. That no, I would not sue the organization.

And then I got in my car and yelled. I went to dinner with my husband that weekend and cried. I questioned why this would happen to me, what I ever did to deserve such treatment. I asked God when I was ever going to get what I deserved – a good job where I was appreciated as a person and respected as an employee. I crunched numbers and made plans and applied for jobs that I wouldn’t be able to start until my maternity leave was finished.

This is what happened when I got laid off when I was seven months pregnant.

I began preparing my co-workers for a more permanent absence than a two-month maternity leave – lists of projects in progress, procedures to follow, programs to maintain, and people to contact. I listened to my boss tell me she’d write me a recommendation letter and my manager describe being laid off as a rite of passage for young professionals. I watched my friend cry about the unfair and unwise decision, and reassured my colleagues that they’d be fine without me. Without my position.

Then I contacted everyone I know to start networking for a new job. Again. And I regretted our decision to buy new couches with some extra “found” money over the summer, knowing that money would have come in handy as I tried to make ends meet, feeding and caring for our newly expanded family with half the income needed to pay our monthly bills.

One year ago, at 32 weeks pregnant, I went to the doctor for a routine appointment. That morning, I deleted my personal e-mail, made a final list of projects to be finished and packed up most of my personal belongings. Though I’d had a healthy and fairly easy pregnancy, lately I’d been feeling bad – puffy, tired, achy – and suspected my doctor might suggest bed rest. It turns out I was half right. My doctor didn’t so much “suggest” bed rest as she did demand that I go straight home without passing go or returning to my office.

So one year ago, I left my office for the last time. Because I’d been laid off.

It still hurts today. I went through the stages of grieving; I believe they’re the same no matter if the loss is your grandpa, your cat or your job. For me, it was a job that I’d wanted and worked toward for years, a job that I’d done well and enjoyed, a job that I resisted becoming attached to but did anyway, a job that I believed was respected as a necessary component of our organization.

Since then, I’ve worked hard to resist bitterness about the decision my boss and the board of directors made. Most days I succeed, but occasionally resentment sneaks up on me. Days when I dislike my current job, days when my husband expresses frustration about the state of my career, days when my former co-workers send me donation requests for upcoming events, days when I learn that while I was at home with a newborn wondering if we’d ever be able to pay our bills again, my co-workers were receiving a Christmas bonus. Those days still hurt.

But overall, I can say that God has taught me so much about remaining faithful and confident in His power and His plan, that my husband and I are closer than ever thanks to weathering this situation, and that I am thankful I was laid off when I was seven months pregnant.