MOM OF A MIRACLE

How I became a mom of a miracle - written by a severe IUGR, PCOS, and anxiety fighter.

[momofamiracle]

i will try to fix you.

We used to pray to hear Connor cry. We scoffed at other parents complaining about their newborns’ incessant crying. As parents of a child who was silent for about seven months, we didn’t know if he would ever make noise. If he did, we didn’t know how loud it would be. We were told he’d never be an opera singer - that was for sure.

Today, hearing his screams fill the room as if they would knock the walls down with their shear force, I can’t help but think of the days we didn’t know how much pain he was in because his voice wasn’t there to tell us. Being the parent of a special needs child, especially one like Connor, is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, every time I look at Connor, I am filled with such gratitude that he’s here with us - alive, mostly healthy, and happy. On the other hand, this child endures so much more than a child his age should, and I can’t help but feel guilty. Guilty that my body did this to him. Guilty that I’m not able to get him to eat. Guilty that maybe I’m not working hard enough to get him to talk or walk. I also can’t help but feel angry. Angry that my pregnancy was ruined and cut in half. Angry that Connor’s infancy was spent in a hospital. Angry that Connor’s toddlerhood will be spent attached to a feeding tube. Angry that doctors don’t seem to have the knowledge base or the will to figure out why Connor can’t keep food down, can’t gain weight, can’t grow. Angry that I spend every free moment I have researching possible diagnoses and treatments. Angry that I can’t fix him. Angry that most other parents never have to worry about these things. Angry that most parents feed their children so effortlessly and naturally, while I have to celebrate every time Connor sticks his tongue out to lick something, never mind eat it. Then, once the anger subsides, I go back to feeling guilty because I should feel nothing but joy that Connor is here with us, that he’s so feisty, that his smile lights up every room in every building, and that he is showing small steps towards normalcy. It’s this constant richochet of emotions that keeps me trapped all day long.

So, while I was planning on writing my next blog post about Connor’s birth date, I need to vent. I need to release all the anger and guilt I feel before I explode. More importantly, I need to get these feelings out here so Connor never feels a single negative emotion from me. No matter how sad, angry, or guilty I feel, I make sure to only show Connor happiness and pride. Thanks for listening so that I can continue to do that.

[momofamiracle]

the longest week.

I know it’s been forever since I posted last, but I’ve been busy with Connor at home and baking as much as I can! When I last left off, it was the beginning of my time inpatient. To say that my time admitted to the hospital was hell would be an understatement. Time stands still when you’re in the hospital, especially when your thoughts are all consumed by the baby you’re carrying that may not make it. My days consisted of being woken up at the crack of dawn for vitals, breakfast and doctor’s rounds. Then, I would be hooked up for the non-stress test. Usually I would then be escorted to an ultrasound to make sure the baby was still okay because the NST wouldn’t give a great result. After that, John could come and stay with me, and we’d lay in the tiny hospital bed, watch tv or read. If I was lucky, it would be a nice day, and we could sit outside. Sometimes we’d just walk the halls of the hospital. Then, I’d need to be back in my room for another set of vitals. The days were monotonous, and the nights were stressful. Usually around 5:00 PM I’d start to feel anxiety about the night that was to come. At 7:00, I would be hooked up to another NST. By this point, the usual doctors and ultrasound techs had left for the day, so when the baby mishebaved for the entire hour, sometimes two, that I’d be hooked up, I would need to be sent to the labor and delivery wing where they could monitor me.

This happened a few times, none of which were pleasurable. Usually, I would need to monitored until a doctor could come and do an ultrasound to confirm everything was okay. Then, after an entire night of being kept awake, I could go back to my room and start the day’s routine over again. However, there was one time in the labor and delivery room in particular that really pushed me over the edge.

So, I had written this post once before - and at this point I had gone into excruciating detail about my worst night inpatient in the hospital. However, the draft of this post didn’t save and I lost everything after this point, so I’m going to do a quick timeline instead:

7 PM: Get strapped to the Doppler for the nightly non-stress test (supposed to only last for twenty minutes.)

8 PM: Still hooked up to the Doppler because baby is too busy bouncing around to get a good reading.

8:05ish PM: I hear and see baby’s heart rate plummet into the 50s and 60s (normally 150+).

8:06 PM: I panic and press the call button for the nurse.

8:07 PM: Nurse comes rushing in as baby’s heart rate returns to normal.

8:15 PM: I get wheeled over to the labor and delivery room for more monitoring and possible prep for delivery. (I can’t eat dinner, just in case).

8:20 PM: I am hooked up to IV fluids and another Doppler. My eyes don’t move from the monitor that show’s baby’s heart rate. Doctors put me on a clear liquids only diet in case we need to deliver.

10:30 PM: Baby’s heart rate has dipped a few more times. Still hooked up to Doppler. Eyes still glued to monitor. Doctors order blood work.

10:40 PM: Blood work is taken after missing my veins about four times (not exaggerating).

11:45 PM: Blood work is normal. Continue to monitor baby’s heart rate via Doppler. Nurses come in to try and reassure me that everything’s fine:

1:00 AM: More blood work. More missed veins and bruises. Doctors perform an ultrasound to check on baby. They see low amniotic fluid, which could explain dips in heart rate.

2:00 AM: Doctors decide to do the glucose test. Nurse gives me gross orange drink. Still hooked up to Doppler. Beginning to go insane from watching monitor and listening to every single heart beat.

3:00 AM: More blood work. So far everything is normal. Still monitoring heart rate.

4:00 AM: More. blood work. Still hooked up to doppler.

5:00 AM: Glucose test results are in - everything is normal. Still hooked up to Doppler. Haven’t slept all night.

6:00 AM: Still can’t sleep. I just watch the monitor and pray that baby’s heart beat doesn’t drop.

7:00 AM: Mom comes back to the hospital. I burst into tears from exhaustion and worry.

8:00 AM: More blood work. Who knows what they’re even checking anymore. Mom asks nurse to turn the sound off the monitor so I can try to sleep.

9:00 AM: Doctors round. Attending wants to continue monitoring in case baby is in distress and needs to be delivered. I am to stay on a clear liquid only diet, and I need to get magnesium in case they decided to deliver (mag protects the baby’s brain from bleeds).

10:00 AM: John and his parents get to the hospital. Everyone tries to help me relax so I can sleep. I can’t sleep.

11:00 AM: My IV is blown, and they need to get another one in. The nurses try and fail, and then they try and fail again. Balloons of fluid get pushed under my skin and each time, I feel excruciating pain. Yes, I tell them, my veins are tricky. STOP TORTURING ME.

12:00 PM: A trained phlebotomist comes to insert my IV and gets it on the first time. Praise the lord.

1:00 PM: Time for the magnesium. I am to be hooked up to this for six hours.

1:05 PM: I feel like hot lava is dripping into my veins, not magnesium.

1:10 PM: My body is on fire. I need ice on my body. I need ice chips in my mouth. I need my fan on me.

1:20 PM: I’m covered in sweat. I can hear my heart beat. My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. I think I’m going to puke.

1:30 PM: Did they just inject me with the flu? How am I going to do this for 5 and a half more hours?

2:00 PM: I’m starting to cool down. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I need sleep.

3:00 PM: The doctors come in. One of them is going to insert a catheter, and the other one is going to check my cervix.

3:05 PM: Holy f*cking shit. I’ve never felt more pain than when the doctor checked that my cervix was still closed.

3:10 PM: The catheter feels like a dream compared to what just happened before (although it’s still very uncomfortable).

3:30 PM: No. No more bloodwork! I cry because everyone is torturing me. I just want to sleep. I just want to go home.

5:00 PM: I am almost done with the magnesium. I’ve been crying all day. My arms are bruised, my body hurts, I can’t move strapped to so many things. I’m worried about the baby. I want to go home. I’m hungry. I’m exhausted.

6:00 PM: I am past the point of breaking down. I’m in full blown hysteria. I’m sobbing. I’m telling John to get me out of there, to take me home. I’m yelling, “I can’t do this!” John’s mom tells me I can, and I have to. I tell her I can’t. I want to go home. I WANT TO GO HOME.

6:05 PM: Mid-break down. Someone comes in to take more blood. I tell her no. I refuse to give her my arms, and I sob. Finally, I give in, and she notices that there are no more places to take blood from. I have bandages and bruises all up and down my arms and on both hands. She decided to try the wrist. Shockwaves of pain shoot from my wrist up my arm. I’ve been electrocuted, or so I think. She hit the nerve. It hurts like hell to bend my wrist. I sob more.

7:00 PM: The doctor comes in to tell me he’s not going to deliver me today. We just need to keep s close eye on the baby and amniotic fluid.

7:30 PM: Nurses tell me I can go back to my room, but my roommate had a baby so there’s a baby in there now. I cry again. How am I supposed to sleep for the first time in over 36 hours with someone else’s screaming baby in there?!?

8:00 PM: They found another room for me with a different roommate (hey, Tabitha, if you’re reading this!). John needs to move all my stuff into my new room. Best blessing in disguise ever. Tabitha, you kept me sane!

9:00 PM: I am wheeled over to my new room and introduce myself to Tabitha (hope I didn’t scare her with my appearance). I told her how I’d just been through hell.

10:00 PM: FINALLY SLEEP.

1:00 AM: Panic that something’s happened to the baby and ask the nurse to hook me up to the Doppler again just to hear the heart beat.

2:00 AM: SLEEP AGAIN. For real (until vitals check at 4 AM).

And there you have it. My worst night inpatient at the hospital.

[momofamiracle]

inpatient.

admission.

When I last left off, I had just arrived at the hospital where I would remain inpatient for as long as I possibly could. John and I rolled my suitcase and carried my belongings to the labor and delivery wing of the hospital. When they first saw me, they thought we were in the wrong place. It looked like I had packed for a vacation and that I was looking to check into my hotel room. Once they realized that i was being admitted, everyone was very welcoming. I don’t know if it was the fact that my face was blotchy with tears, redness, and whatever makeup had streamed down my face or the just the fact that I was in a less than desirable situation, but it seemed like everyone I came into contact with was doing everything they could to be upbeat and make me comfortable (which was very much appreciated). They had me change into a gown and placed me in one of the labor and delivery rooms. The plan was for them to get vitals on me and the baby, and then once we were both stable, they would send me over to the maternity ward where my actual room would be. The baby had other plans. 

the stressful non-stress test.

The doctors and nurses strapped me to a fetal doppler, which is basically a round disk attached to your belly with a few straps. It measures the baby’s heart rate for a test called the NST (non-stress test). As I’ve mentioned before, I had a home doppler, so I was pretty familiar with where to find the baby and what I should be listening for. At first, they couldn’t find the baby’s heart beat, which of course panicked me. Then, when they did find it, the baby would only stay in one place for a few minutes at a time. The point of a NST is to measure the baby’s heart rate for twenty minutes straight and make sure that there are appropriate accels and decels. Accels are when the baby’s heart rate speeds up, and decels are when the heart rate slows down. The doctors wanted to make sure that the baby’s heart rate increased when he or she was moving and decreased when he or she was resting. Of course, this is impossible to measure when the baby is darting around your uterus like they’re trying not to get stung by a bee. 

To add to the stress of the non-stress test (ironic, huh?), I was told that the baby’s heart rate was too high, which could be caused by dehydration. Therefore, I was hooked up to IV fluids which made me feel like I needed to pee every five minutes. However, for a NST, you are not supposed to move until the baby’s heart rate has been recorded for twenty minutes straight. So, there I was, strapped to a hospital bed with a full bladder, unable to move for twenty minutes at a time, nothing to do but listen to the thumping of the baby’s heart rate and pray that he or she would cooperate. Whenever twenty minutes were up, nurses would come in to check the print out of the test, which basically showed the baby’s activity level and corresponding heart rate. Each time they checked it, it would either show that the baby would not stop moving for the entire time (typical Connor) or that the baby had moved out of range of the doppler, and they didn’t have enough data. Either way, it meant that the test had to be redone. And redone again. And again. All. Night. Long. The tests started at 10 PM, and I was finally allowed to go to sleep at 5 AM. Somewhere around 1 AM, I told John to just head home. There was no point in both of us suffering. Even when I was allowed to go to sleep, I was still being pumped with fluids, so I had to get up and roll the IV pole with me every five minutes to get to the bathroom. Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep that night. 

This picture was taken at 4:50 AM that night/morning. 

maternity ward.

The next morning at 7 AM, I was greeted by some residents who were to perform a BPP on me. A BPP is a biophysical profile on the baby - it measures things like amniotic fluid, heart rate, whether the baby is practicing breathing, whether there’s movement, and a few other things. The highest score you can get on a BPP is 10. Anything above 8 means your baby is healthy. Our score was a 7 because of the low amniotic fluid and persistent-absent blood flow in the umbilical cord. The good news was that the baby was moving and practicing breathing - all good signs. 

A few hours later, I was finally allowed to be transferred to the maternity ward, which was where I would be staying indefinitely. The downside of the maternity ward was that I would have a roommate, and that roommate could have a newborn with them. I remember becoming extremely emotional once i got settled into my bed in the maternity ward. I was on the left side of the room, so I didn’t even have a window to look out. The thought of spending weeks and weeks stuck in that bed, in that room, away from home made me physically ill. Tears welled in my eyes and the nurse checked in with me, and she could tell that I was about to lose it. It didn’t help that I was already exhausted from the night before. She told me “I know, I know - it’s hard” in the most comforting voice she could muster. My family members kept asking me why I was crying, and I couldn’t even explain it. It was just this feeling of hormones, exhaustion, homesickness, anxiety, and dread of what was to come. I remember when John had gone home that night, he sent me a picture of our dog, Guinness, and I just wept. I wanted to be home with them. 

To make matters worse, when the doctor came in earlier that day, he said in a jovial tone, “Get comfy! This is your home for the next couple of weeks!” He meant it in the friendliest way possible, but to me it felt like he was telling me I was being sent to prison. Thankfully, all of the nurses and staff members were so friendly and so uplifting. My family was amazing, doing the best they could to stay with me as often as possible. Despite all that, I was still in misery. 

I was only inpatient in the maternity ward for ten days, but it still feels like an eternity when I look back on it. More on my maternity ward stay to come!

[momofamiracle]

july 6th.

Exactly one year ago today, at this exact time, I was being checked in to the maternity ward of Westchester Medical Center. July 6th, 2018 was definitely one of the worst days of my life. I remember the events leading up to my hospital check-in like it was yesterday.

the day before.

On July 5th, I had an ultrasound to monitor the baby’s blood flow through the umbilical cord as well as to measure the amount of amniotic fluid. Since I needed to get these ultrasounds done every other day, I was used to the routine. I learned what forward blood flow (which is good blood flow) looked like on an ultrasound. I knew what the numbers meant when the amniotic fluid was measured, and I knew if I was going to be told it was normal or low before the doctor even came in the room. As I said in my last post, I had at least made it to one criteria of viability: 24 weeks. In my mind, as long as the blood flow continued to be forward, the baby’s heart kept beating, and there was enough amniotic fluid, I just had to wait it out until the baby reached at least a pound in weight. I left that appointment feeling confident that we could just keep going at this pace for another couple of weeks. If the baby could make it to 28 weeks gestation, I was told he or she would almost certainly survive. 

the appointment that changed it all.

The next day (July 6th), I had a consultation appointment with an MFM (maternal fetal medicine doctor) at Westchester Medical Center. The goal of the appointment was to basically transfer my care to them so that whenever it was time to deliver, I could do it at the medical center. I knew I wanted to be near the Level 4 NICU at Maria Fareri Children’s hospital, which is a part of Westchester Medical Center. Although I had become comfortable with the doctors and routine of my current OB & MFM office, I knew I needed to do what was best for the baby.

I remember it was a beautiful day, and I remember thinking that maybe after the appointment we could get dinner with some friends or go see a movie. SInce I just had an ultrasound done the day before, I wasn’t really nervous. I assumed they would do their own ultrasound, and then they would ask me a bunch of questions. 

When it came time for the ultrasound, I remember thinking that the ultrasound tech wasn’t particularly friendly. She was very matter-of-fact as she bluntly remarked, “This is a really tiny baby.” As soon as she measured the blood flow through the umbilical cord, she said “I’m warning you right now, she’s going to want to admit you.” I tried to remain calm as I asked, “Is there absent flow?” She confirmed my fears as she told me that the flow through the umbilical cord was now persistent absent, which meant that the baby was only receiving blood through the cord about half of the time.  Not to mention, the baby was only estimated to be about 13 ounces, which was still a decent amount from a pound. When the ultrasound was finished, we were asked to wait back in the waiting room for the doctor. 

As soon as we made it outside the ultrasound room, I burst into tears. There were so many thoughts going through my head - it was too soon, the baby was too small, I didn’t want to live in a hospital for what could be months, I wanted to be home, I needed my own room, I needed my husband near me, I needed my pets, I needed my life. I didn’t have a “go bag” ready. I didn’t have anything with me that would make the hospital feel like home - I didn’t even have a change of clothes. The thought of living in a hospital room, a shared hospital room at that, scared me to death. I had never even visited the hospital -- this was the first time I was even meeting the doctors. The news of admission was so unexpected that all I could do was sob and think about everything that was going wrong. People stared at me in the waiting room, and I didn’t care. John tried to comfort me, but he was visibly upset. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, he was shaken. 

I called my mom from the waiting room and told her that they were admitting me. She sounded relieved, which was the complete opposite of what I was feeling. She said it was good that I would be getting round the clock monitoring and that being in the hospital would be the safest thing for me and the baby. With that, she packed up all her things for the summer and started the drive up to New York from Florida. 

By the time we were finally called back in to meet with the doctor, I was a disaster. It definitely wasn’t the first impression that I would have liked to make. She also remarked about how small the baby was, but she tried to comfort us by telling us that he or she had made it six weeks since we learned about the IUGR, and most babies wouldn’t have made it this far. She said we must have a fighter on our hands. She confirmed that she wanted to admit me, and she made a few phone calls to the hospital to be sure they would be ready for me. She asked me what time I would like to check in, and in my head I was thinking “never.” We chose 9:00 at night because I wanted to spend as much time as I could at home for the last time in who knew how long. 

After all the arrangements were made, we met John’s family in the lobby, and I cried as I hugged his parents. John immediately tried to get in touch with our current doctors and ask them what they thought about all of this. They agreed that the blood flow could change very quickly, and that if they thought I should be admitted, I should go. 

the last hours at home.

I panicked about my decision to change hospitals last minute, and I asked John if he thought we should go to Columbia instead. We decided that I’d try out this hospital, and if worse came to worst, we would have our doctors transfer us to Columbia. As we mulled this over on the ride home, I could not stop crying. I was too hormonal and too stressed to be calm. I just kept thinking about how I would be locked up in this hospital room all alone while John would be home without me. I needed him with me - I needed someone with me. As a compulsive planner and type A personality, the fact that I didn’t prepare for this moment had me reeling. What did the rooms look like? How many roommates would I have? What would I do all day? Will I get to see the NICU before I deliver? Are the doctors competent enough? Will I be able to sleep at all? 

Every trivial and non-trivial thought came to my mind in the hours before I was admitted. Being at home made me even more depressed because I kept looking around at all the comforts that I wouldn’t have near my anymore. I hugged our dog, I snuggled our cat, I stared at the TV on our couch with tears in my eyes. I laid on our bed and snuggled with John in privacy for the last time before Connor would be born. Then, I packed a bag filled with whatever I could quickly get together. I was hyper aware of the fact that the next time I would be home, I would be changed forever - either I would be a new mother or I would be a bereaved mother. 

Once the sun had set, John and I reluctantly gathered my things and trudged to the car. Tears had not stopped welling since the doctor’s appointment. My face was red and puffy, my hair was stringy from the rivers flowing from my eyes, and my head was pounding from the speed at which things all around me were changing. The ride to the hospital was quiet and depressing. I kept reiterating that I didn’t want to be left all alone at the hospital, and John insisted that they would let him stay just for this night. I kept saying, “But what if they don’t?” 

arrival.

When we arrived at the hospital, the sun had set completely, and the nighttime added a gloominess to the already mournful mood. I still remember eyeing the expansive hospital facade towering over me in the parking lot. I was filled with so much dread and anxiety, and the hospital felt like a prison. Every time I pull up to that hospital these days, I always remember that moment on the night of July 6th, 2018. Now, I feel such fondness towards Westchester Medical Center - I actually think of it as a second home. It’s so crazy to think that a year ago, I was thinking that the hospital was the furthest possible thing from home. Little did I know that after I entered the doors of that hospital, I would meet some of the most amazing doctors, nurses, friends, and parents that I would ever have the privilege of meeting.  

To be continued. 

[momofamiracle]

roid rage.

For those of you who read this, sorry it’s been a while since my last post! With Connor being HOME and becoming a celebrity ;), it’s been extremely busy! 

It actually feels painstaking to go back in time to almost a year ago when it was getting very close to Connor’s grand entrance. I’m dying to jump ahead and let his stories and our hospital stories steal the show, but as I’ve said before - I go into the excruciating detail of the pregnancy itself so that other pregnant women in my shoes know they’re not alone. 

Last I left off, I was 22 weeks pregnant, had every test done in the book, and was praying that our baby would miraculously have a growth spurt and make it until at least 24 weeks before he had to be delivered (and weigh at least a pound). 

At every ultrasound I would hold my breath until we heard a heartbeat. Then, after the initial relief of the “thump-thump-thump” we would hear, my anxiety would return while waiting for the baby’s measurements that day. If there was a tiny amount of growth, we had to consider it a win. We kept waiting for the baby to reach the one pound mark, but we were still far from it each time we went in.

At 23 weeks, I was not in a good place. The baby was measuring at well below a pound, and the hospital we were planning to deliver at told us they couldn’t resuscitate a baby less than 750 grams (more than a pound). Our doctors were encouraging us to deliver at Colombia in NYC when the time came. They assured us that they would be the most capable to handle a baby as tiny as ours. I just didn’t have a good feeling about delivering a baby that would clearly need months of care so far from home, especially in an area where finding a place to stay nearby would not be easy. 

I started researching every NICU nearby, reading previous cases of micro-preemies and where they were delivered, and calling NICUs to see if they had a weight limit to resuscitate a baby. Finally, I found a story about a baby girl weighing only about 10 ounces delivered at Maria Fareri Children’s Hospital at Westchester Medical Center. I was shocked to read of a baby similar in size to Connor surviving, and I just felt compelled to deliver Connor at that hospital. However, that would mean switching doctors, finding an entirely new practice, and convincing my husband that this would be a good idea. Westchester Medical Center hasn’t always had the greatest reputation, but if I could deliver there, the baby could be easily whisked away to their Level IV NICU (the highest level) at the connected Children’s Hospital in minutes. 

I was warned by our doctors at the time not to deliver there. They promised that Colombia would be our best possible option. They seemed flabbergasted that I would choose to deliver anywhere but Colombia, nevermind a hospital with a less than stellar reputation. My gut told me I needed to do it. I would be closer to home, closer to family, and closer to the best NICU in the tri-state area. Not to say that Colombia’s NICU wouldn’t be amazing, but even they told us that to resuscitate a baby, he would need to be at least 500 grams, which our baby was not. 

I ended up making an appointment for a few weeks from then to meet with their doctors and at least get an in with the practice in case we decided we wanted to deliver at that hospital. For the time being, nothing was urgent, but I knew I had a ticking time bomb in my belly. 

I had a growth ultrasound at 23 weeks and 6 days, and everything was status quo - the baby was small, the heartbeat was strong, blood flow through the umbilical cord was normal, and amniotic fluid levels were still in normal range. It seemed like we would just truck along like this for the next sixteen weeks - if the baby could gain an ounce every week or every two weeks, he’d at least be over a pound at full term! 

The next day, at 24 weeks exactly, the maternal-fetal-medicine doctor called and said that I would need to get steroid shots in case we needed to deliver the baby in the near future. I immediately got nervous and assumed that he saw something the day before that made him think steroid shots were a necessity. He assured us that the steroid shots were just a precaution. The goal of the steroids is to mature the baby’s lungs faster so that in the case of extreme prematurity, the lungs would at least give the baby a fighting chance. 

The steroid shots are no joke - I still remember the searing pain from the first one (of four) that I got while pregnant. The nurse asked me where I wanted it, and I just assumed like most other shots, I should get it in my arm. As soon as the shot was injected, it felt like someone had both stabbed my arm and punched it HARD. The pain was so strong that it shot down all the way to my fingertips and rendered my arm basically useless. I remember telling him that it was a good thing he drove, because there was no way I’d be able to move my arm enough. 

Despite the pain, I was hopeful. I had read accounts of women whose babies were suffering from IUGR that upon receiving the steroid shots experienced a growth spurt. I also felt like our baby had finally reached one checkmark of viability. He had made it to 24 weeks, which made him technically viable. WIth the steroids on board, he had a fighting chance. For the first time in my pregnancy, I didn’t feel helpless. Two days later, I received the second dose of steroids. I hoped and prayed that they were giving our little peanut the boost he needed to make it to a pound. 

To be continued! 

[momofamiracle]

two weeks later.

Two weeks after our 19 week anatomy scan, I had to return to the doctor’s office for another growth ultrasound. For the past ten days (the days since my insomnia attack), I had been feeling pretty optimistic. When I wasn’t feeling optimistic, I would repeat the things my therapist told me to say: “The baby is going to grow. There is nothing wrong with my placenta. I am doing everything I can.”

I spent my days leading up to the ultrasound cramming as much protein and calories as I could into my diet. I would eat at least 100 grams of protein and drink around 100 ounces of water a day. I would rest as much as possible, try to sleep, and try to stay positive. As long as the doctors saw two weeks worth of growth, everything would be okay - the baby would just be small.

Before I knew it, it was the day of the ultrasound. My mom surprised me by coming in for the appointment since she knew how nervous I was. Sitting in the waiting room listening for my name to be called was agony. After what seemed like years, I was lying down in a familiar position, trying to get comfortable on crinkly paper. As the ultrasound tech moved her wand over my belly, I stared at the computer screen as if my life would end if I blinked.

At first, I felt relief as the tech played the baby’s heartbeat for us to hear and noted that the baby was active. Then, as quickly as the relief came, the despair washed over me. I saw the measurements appear on the screen as the tech painstakingly measured each of my baby’s body parts. 18w1d. 18w5d. 17w6d. 19w2d. Remembering the measurements from two weeks ago, I knew that the baby hadn’t made two weeks worth of growth. At the last ultrasound, the baby was measuring two weeks behind. Now, the baby was measuring three weeks behind. The growth was slowing, and I was inconsolable.

Bewildered, the ultrasound tech and John wondered why I had suddenly burst into tears. Through sobs, I brokenly explained that the baby hadn’t grown enough. The tech tried to console me by comparing this week’s measurements to those from two weeks ago. Yes, the baby had grown, but I knew it wasn’t enough. The baby was measuring at 8 ounces (supposedly - spoiler alert: ultrasound measurements can be off). For babies to be viable, most doctors tell you they need to be at least 500 grams, which is a tiny bit over a pound, and at least 24 weeks gestation.

Here we were, three weeks from what should be viability, but the baby was only half the weight he needed to be to viable. From this moment on, I was officially considered “high risk,” and I needed to be monitored very closely. The plan was to do weekly or biweekly growth ultrasounds, routinely check blood flow through the umbilical cord, and run every genetic screening test created. I was also sent to Colombia in the city for another opinion/set of eyes.

At Colombia, I got another ultrasound (again, not much growth), saw a geneticist, got more blood drawn, and got an amnio. The amnio was probably the scariest part solely because of the size of the needle. It was painful, but I was more concerned about how close the needle was to the baby and how much amniotic fluid they were stealing from him or her.

The doctors at Colombia confirmed that blood flow through the umbilical cord was good, which was a positive sign. They also confirmed that although 24 weeks gestation is considered viable, the baby would also need to be 500 grams in order to intubate him or her. We were still a while away from 500 grams (or a pound), so I left that visit feeling pretty discouraged.

All in all, I was twenty-two weeks pregnant, I was trying to be the best incubator I could be, I was eating all the protein I could stomach and drinking all the water my bladder could handle. I spent my days teaching, praying, crying, giving myself pep talks, force-feeding myself, monitoring every little kick I could feel, routinely checking the baby’s heart beat with the Doppler, and counting down until the next growth ultrasound in a week.

[momofamiracle]

insomnia.

It’s been a while since I last posted! We thought Connor was coming home, but now our discharge date has been pushed off indefinitely. More on that later. When I left off, it was the day after my anatomy scan, and I was distraught. I hadn’t slept at all the previous night, and the weekend ahead was looming over me.

When it came time to sleep that Friday night, my mind was still racing. My parents were flying in the next morning for the gender reveal party, and I felt sick to my stomach about celebrating when I had just received worrying news about the baby. I lied in bed, trying to will myself to sleep. Finally, I got frustrated and decided to try my luck on the couch. I tried meditation, listening to calming music, watching TV, lying in complete dark and silence - nothing helped. All the Benadryl in the world couldn’t make me sleep that night.

By the time the sun rose, I was desperate for sleep, if only to get a break from my relentless thoughts and anxiety for a few hours. I called the emergency number for my doctor and cried as I told them I just wanted to sleep. My doctor prescribed me a sleeping pill for that night, and she said that if I still couldn’t sleep and continued to get worked up, I should go to the emergency room.

I felt calmer once I had the prescription for the sleeping pill (that had to put me to sleep, right?). That morning I wandered around like a zombie as I got ready to pick up my parents at the airport. Once we got back home, I spent the day trying to nap. My mom tried lying outside with me on a blanket, I tried sleeping on the couch again as everyone watched TV. I just couldn’t do it. Every time I started to drift off, my body would jolt me awake as if something terrible would happen if I fell asleep - as if I would miss something. I don’t know if this is how other people get, but when I haven’t slept in a while, my body feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out. I can almost hear a humming inside me, like every cell in my body is strung out. Between the anxiety, the vibrating, and the startling awake, the sleep just couldn’t come.

I was a mess - I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop stressing, just wanted to sleep. Finally, I decided to cancel the gender reveal party for the next day. I was in no shape to pretend like everything was okay. I couldn’t fake a smile as something as trivial as the gender was revealed. How could I feign excitement as part of me would wonder if there would even be a baby boy or girl in our lives for much longer? I felt guilty for cancelling a party that everyone had been looking forward to for months. I mourned the fact that I couldn’t indulge in the fun, exciting, “gimicky” parts of pregnancy.

As the day wore on, I waited patiently until nighttime so I could take my sleeping pill. In the meantime, I read the warnings that came with the drug: Fall asleep within thirty minutes of taking [whatever sleeping pill it was] - staying awake could cause hallucinations. Is it just me, or is that a terrible warning to give someone who already has insomnia? I was already anxious about going through another sleepless night of wandering through my quiet, dark house alone. I didn’t need to put a thirty minute time limit on my ability to fall asleep with the risk of hallucinating. I got myself so freaked out about taking the pill, that my mom had to basically force me to take it. She stayed in bed with me that night in case I needed her.

I fell asleep within thirty minutes of taking the pill, but my mind was fighting it. I had only been asleep for an hour or so when I was forced awake by my own body. As I opened my eyes, i felt like I was in a Salvador Dali painting (pic below for reference). Everything was distorted, and the bathroom door looked like it was melting in front of me - twisting and turning. I remember yelling out for my mom and asking her to turn on the light. I was stuck in between this false reality and broken dreams for a few hours, unable to sleep but unable to comprehend what was actually going on. Finally, when I was fully awake and the hallucinations were gone (sometime around 3 AM), my mom decided to take me to the emergency room. We didn’t know what they would be able to do for me there, but we just had to get out of the house and try something.

My time in the ER was basically spent being monitored in a room while they tried to get me to fall asleep. If I couldn’t fall asleep in my own bed, I definitely wasn’t going to fall asleep in an ER. My heart rate and blood pressure was pretty elevated, but the baby appeared to be fine. The doctors told me that I could only take melatonin or another over the counter sleep aid. They suggested meditation, reading, listening to soothing music, etc - all things I tried already.

By 6 AM, we decided we should just go back to my house and try to get me to sleep there. I was starting to get delirious. It had been three nights without sleep, and I could barely function, not to mention the depression of going through the day in a haze rather than at the gender reveal party I had excitedly planned and mournfully cancelled. The day was spent trying to sleep in my bed, sitting zoned out on the couch, and forcefeeding myself for the sake of the baby. By bedtime, I could barely keep my eyes open. My brain was so fried, I don’t think it had the capacity to fight sleep anymore. It was Sunday night, and for the first time since Wednesday morning, I gave in to sleep.

For the next couple of weeks, my sleep was still broken - I would average a couple of hours a night, but after that weekend, a couple of hours felt like a lifetime. On the Tuesday after Memorial Day, John called the doctor and told him he couldn’t speak to me like that again and that I didn’t sleep for three nights after our appointment. Even now, if I have trouble sleeping for a few nights, I start to get panicky that I’m going to go through another insomnia spell.

After that sleepless weekend, I had ten days to wait for and agonize over my next ultrasound to see if the baby had grown enough. Stay tuned!

[momofamiracle]

anatomy scan (part two).

When we got home, I was determined to eat a huge, nutritious dinner and give the baby as much protein and calories as I could. I still had absolutely no appetite, and the thought of eating turned my stomach, but I had to do it. I made a huge plate of food and resigned myself to finishing every last bite. By the time I made it halfway through the meal, I was running to the bathroom to vomit. Tears streamed down my face as food that was meant for my baby left my body. I was so upset from the day we had, that there was no way to keep food down. I decided to make some protein shakes and drink as much as I could. I brought a shake up to bed with me and sipped it as I researched all of the information we received earlier.

As I was researching, a term surfaced: “IUGR - intrauterine growth restriction.” IUGR results from genetic abormalities or placental insufficiency. Although the doctor never used this term with us, I knew this is what was happening to our baby. The more I read, the more grim things began to look. Since our growth restriction was noticed so early on, it was considered “early-onset.” Also, to my horror, since our baby was measuring less than the first percentile in every way, it was considered to be “severe IUGR.” From what I read, the chances of survival for a fetus with severe early-onset IUGR were very slim. As the night went on, I scoured the internet for stories of women that had been in my shoes. I was looking for comfort and positive outcomes, but most of what I found were stories of still birth, extreme prematurity, and ultimately births resulting in angels, not babies. I read medical journals, forum posts, articles, and anything else I could possibly read about this condition. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, the testimonials and statistics I had been reading were all I could see. I stayed up to monitor any little kicks or flutters I could feel just so I could be sure the baby was still alive. I was paranoid that the baby’s heart would stop beating at any moment, just like most of the other babies’ hearts did when they were in his condition.

By the time the sun rose, I could barely see through the tears and puffiness in my eyes. I anxiously counted the minutes until John woke up so that I could use my home Doppler and check the baby’s heart beat. Stillbirth. Termination. Stillbirth. Angel baby. My fears were so loud that I couldn’t even hear myself think. I felt like a ticking time bomb was in my uterus, and at any moment I could lose this baby I already loved so deeply.

When John left for work, I began to panic. I couldn’t go to work, not in this condition. I called my supervisor and sobbed into the phone. I am forever grateful for my work family, but more on that later. Next, I called my mother-in-law (mind you, it was only 6 AM), and told her that I wasn’t doing so well. She said she would come right over. Waiting for her to come was excruciating. When she arrived, she hugged me as I sobbed into her shirt. I told her everything the doctors told me, and she stroked my hair as she tried to soothe me to sleep.

When sleep failed me again, I forced myself to eat. I told my mother-in-law that I didn’t think I could go through with the gender reveal. If I found out the gender, I would be even more attached to the baby. She said “Honey, you’re already attached.” Through tears, I told her that if the baby didn’t make it, I couldn’t bare to deliver him or her. All I could picture was holding this tiny lifeless baby in my arms. These are dark thoughts, and I know everyone always says “Don’t think like that! Stay positive!” but after the night I had, all I could picture were my worst fears coming true.

When John finally came home, my mother-in-law went home. I was starting to get anxious about nighttime again. I was exhausted and yet I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. I didn’t want to go through another night of sitting by myself in the dark with nothing but my thoughts, fears, and worst of all, lack of control. There was no way to know how my baby was doing inside me or how long he or she could hold on for, and there was nothing I could do to influence what was going to happen.

Even though I couldn’t see my baby, I knew he or she was in trouble, but there wasn’t anything I could do aside from hope and pray for more time and eat as much protein and drink as much water as I could. I think it was the feeling of being powerless that kept me up at night.

[momofamiracle]

anatomy scan (part one).

17w1d. 17w5d. 16w6d. These were all numbers and letters appearing briefly on the screen as the ultrasound tech punched her keyboard keys and rotated the ultrasound probe on my belly. Click, click, click. Images, measurements, numbers and letters being saved in rapid succession, almost as if the tech didn’t want me studying them for too long as she gathered them. Being the hypervigilant researcher that I am, I already knew what the numbers and letters appearing on the screen meant. 17w1d meant whatever body part she was measuring was the size of a 17 week 1 day old baby’s. Our baby, however, was 19 weeks gestation. Knowing this, and knowing what the measurements on the screen meant, I hesitantly asked the ultrasound tech if it was okay that the baby was measuring small. She said she didn’t know, and that she would get the doctor when she was done. I went into panic mode, and even as I’m typing this, I feel as if my throat is closing and my heart is pounding. This moment was the moment everything changed. My pregnancy was no longer normal. My anxiety was no longer unfounded.

I thought of the gender reveal we had planned that weekend. Today was supposed to be the day that the ultrasound tech would write the gender on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope. John and I would hand over the envelope to someone we trusted, and they would be the only ones to know the gender before the reveal. The plan was to have a small party at a local winery. We would have cute snacks, blue and pink cups and plates, and games guessing what the gender was. Then, John and I would take a black wine bottle filled with either blue or pink water, and pour it into a wine glass, revealing the gender of our sweet baby. My parents were even flying in for the weekend so they could attend.

Now, sitting in the small dark ultrasound room, listening to tense keyboard clicks and awkward silence, it felt impossible to think of the party we had planned. Gender was the last thing on my mind. I had come into this exam selfishly thinking of myself - how could I get them to prescribe me anxiety medication? How could I get this anxiety to subside so I could continue with the pregnancy experience everyone else got to partake in? As soon as I knew something was wrong with the baby, all thoughts of my issues dissolved. By the time the doctor came in to talk to us, I didn’t even remember I had anxiety issues. I just wanted to hear that this was normal - everything with the baby would be okay. That wasn’t what we heard.

When the high-risk doctor came in, it was clear that he was concerned and that he didn’t have great bedside manner. He reviewed the ultrasound images and performed an ultrasound himself. Then, in an accusatory tone, he asked me a series of questions: “Do you eat a lot of salt? When was the last time you ate? Have you been under any stress?” My answers to each of these questions elicited a hostile response, and I was becoming more and more unraveled. When asked about the stress, John mentioned that I’ve been having terrible anxiety, and the doctor abruptly asked me why I hadn’t been taking medication for it. I timidly responded that my OB had wanted me to avoid medication. He said “Well, I’m an OB, and I’m telling you you need to take medication.” With that, I managed to get the prescription I was looking for, but not at all in the way I had wanted it.

When my interrogation was through, the doctor told us a few of the reasons why the baby was measuring small. It could be that the baby is just small, and we’ll just have to monitor him or her. It could be that the placenta is insufficient, and the baby isn’t receiving adequate nutrition. It could also be that there are some genetic abnormalities, and “if we want to terminate, we need to decide soon.” As soon as termination was mentioned, I lost it. The doctor kept going on about all the tests we needed to get done - various screening tests, a fetal echocardiogram, and possibly an amniocentesis. I was now considered high risk, and I needed to be monitored closely.

It was also noticed during the ultrasound that the umbilical cord was only two-vessel. Normal umbilical cords have three vessels, so our baby was already battling the odds by receiving less blood flow. By the time John and I were escorted to a normal exam room for blood draws and more conversations about the possibilities, I was already picturing the worst. The uncertainty in the doctor’s voices and the possibilities of everything that could be wrong were looming over me, suffocating me. Tears streamed down my face, and the doctor that had just been berating me softened his tone a bit and tried to console me - “Maybe the baby will just be small like you.” We we’re told that I’d need to come back in two weeks for another growth ultrasound. If the baby made two weeks worth of growth, there really wouldn’t be much to worry about because he or she would be following his or her own curve. If the baby’s growth continued to slow, it would be much more concerning.

By the time the doctor’s visit was over, we had been there for almost three hours. I was emotionally and physically drained. With ultrasound pictures and an envelope hiding the gender in hand, I felt removed from my body and removed from the pregnancy. I couldn’t even look at the ultrasound pictures for fear of becoming even more attached to a baby that may never see the light of day. Genetic abnormality. Echocardiogram. Two weeks behind. Termination. All the information that had just been hurled at me swirled around my brain like a tornado. The ride home was torture as I called my parents and explained what the doctor said between sobs.

[momofamiracle]

shame, embarrassment and guilt.

I’ve been intentionally putting off writing this next post because the next part of the timeline of my pregnancy is one I am most ashamed of. I’m ashamed because I spent weeks fifteen through nineteen of my pregnancy focusing on myself rather than my baby. When I think about those weeks, all I can do is plead temporary insanity because it feels like I was possessed by someone entirely different than myself.

I’m not going to go into excruciating detail because I honestly cringe thinking about how I acted, but suffice it to say that I was facing a health scare during these weeks - a scare that was merely a scare, nothing more. However, my mind twisted it into something much more serious, and I became obsessed with it.

I don’t know if it was the fact that I was off my anxiety medication or the fact that hormones were pumping through my body, but I became all consumed with fear over this particular health issue. I didn’t completely ignore the fact that I was pregnant - I listened to the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler, took my vitamins, and avoided foods that were bad for the baby. However, I was so scared that because of this (non-existent) health issue, I would need to terminate the pregnancy, that I was trying to keep thoughts of the baby off my mind.

Instead, all I could focus on was this health scare. I became obsessed with researching online and going to doctors. I felt nauseous from worry from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep. According to the doctors, the only thing I could take to help me sleep was Benadryl. I started to count down the hours until my nightly Benadryl dose. The only relief I got from the anxiety each day was when I slipped into a Benadryl haze and fell asleep. Nothing could distract me - not TV, books, John, family, the baby, work.

I couldn’t keep it together. I was crying all the time, convinced I was dying. Eating was a chore, and I only kept up the minimal amount I did eat because of the baby. I didn’t want to be alone, not even in the shower. This was a low I had never hit before. This is why when I first started this blog, I said that there’s anxiety and then there’s ANXIETY. For me, this was ANXIETY. I didn’t know what to do to break myself out of this hypochondria spell. I had never felt this way before, and I felt out of control. I seeked the help of therapists, and I was advised more than once that medication would probably be my only hope at this point - talk therapy wasn’t going to cut it.

I did my research on pregnancy-safe anxiety medication, and I became resigned to asking my OBGYN for a prescription at the anatomy scan.

This post is difficult to write for a few reasons. First, I have to acknowledge that for a few weeks, I lost my mind. I became a different person, and I wasn’t able to function. It scares me that I ever got to that point, and I don’t usually let myself think about that time of my life because I’m scared of becoming that person again. When I think back on it, it’s like I’m thinking from the perspective of a different person, and that’s terrifying.

Second, that time of my life was also the most shameful time of my life. I put myself over the well being of my child, and I cry about this almost every day. The guilt I feel, especially considering the events of Connor’s birth, will never dissipate. I’ve been told time and time again that mothers of preemies almost always feel guilt for their bodies failing their babies. It wasn’t my body that failed him, at least in those few weeks, it was me. I can’t believe people when they say that what happened with Connor isn’t my fault. I still believe that to some degree, it is. I allowed this mental illness of mine to torment me, change me into a different person, and selfishly put my needs before Connor’s. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about how anxiety-ridden I became when I had another person relying on me, feeling my stress from the inside. I tell myself that I did the best I could at the time, and I hope I’m right.

I tell Connor every day that I will spend the rest of my life making up for everything I put him through during those weeks. I mean it.

[momofamiracle]

weeks 7-12

Even though I haven’t been posting very frequently, every day I think about more and more details that I want to write when I have the time. I’m dying to write about present day because sometimes I feel emotions so strong, I feel like I’m going to explode. However, I feel like I need to go back in time and write about this entire journey, not just for me, but for other women or parents who find themselves where I’ve been. No matter how embarrassing it is to share some not-so-flattering things about myself, I want others with the same insecurities, thoughts, and pregnancy issues to know someone else has gone through it.

Anyway, after our first ultrasound at 6 weeks, the weeks that followed were a blur of blood test, repeat blood tests, and ultrasounds. Before every ultrasound, I would go through the same cycle of emotions. I would count down the days, excitedly waiting to see another picture of our baby or hear the heartbeat. Then, when the day of the ultrasound finally came, I would work myself into a bundle of nerves, terrified that today would be the day they found something wrong. I would wait in the doctor’s office bouncing my legs up and down, holding my breath until the picture appeared on the ultrasound screen. Sometimes it felt like my heart was pounding so hard, I couldn’t even hear the doctor’s words as he was explaining what we were looking at. I could only relax once the doctor found the heartbeat each time. Then, a flood of relief would pour over me, and I would hold John’s hand as we got weekly glimpses of our little peanut growing right before our eyes.

In between doctors visits, I would spend my time taking vitamins and hormone supplements, researching every single thing before I ate it, and looking up ideas for nursery decor and gender reveals.

During these weeks, everything was normal, for the most part. Connor was always measuring correctly, his heart rate was perfect, and he was always moving around as he should. The one concerning thing we noticed in these early weeks was an SCH, which was basically a pocket of blood that was hovering right near the amniotic sac in my uterus. The doctors assured me that it was normal, but each week it would grow more and more in size. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get freaked out and google everything I could about SCH’s. Looking back on it, that fear was such a small blip on the grand scheme of worries to come. Eventually, the SCH reabsorbed, and much bigger problems came into view. More on that later.

Around the 12th week of pregnancy came one of the big scans - the nuchal translucency scan. Basically, at this appointment, the doctors would be looking for abnormalities that would indicate Down syndrome or another genetic abnormality. The ultrasound was accompanied by bloodwork, and the results take a few days to get. Usually, after this appointment, people announce their pregnancies to the world, and this was our plan as well.

I had my usual jitters before the appointment, but I was also excited to see how much the baby had grown since the last time. (I also wasn’t as nervous because I bought a home Doppler a few weeks prior and checked the heart beat before the appointment). When the ultrasound picture appeared on the screen, Connor was upside down, all curled up like a cat. We were all laughing as the ultrasound tech tried to get him to move by pushing on my belly with the ultrasound probe. With every push, Connor would wave his arms around as if he was angry about being woken up from his cat nap. It took a full hour before Connor cooperated and moved into the position they needed him in. Of course, as soon as he moved, he covered his neck with his hands, which completely prevented them from being able to do the measurements they needed to do. The ultrasound tech joked that Connor was the most stubborn baby she’s ever scanned. This was our first glimpse into Connor’s hilarious personality. After about an hour and a half, the scan was finally complete and everything looked normal. I also left with my first pictures of Connor where he looked like an actual baby and not a gummy bear.

(In the pictures below, the first is of Connor when the ultrasound began, and the second is when he finally decided to cooperate.)

All we had to do was wait for the bloodwork to come back, but the doctors assured us that based on the scans, they didn’t expect to find anything abnormal. I felt like I could relax. I was heading into the second trimester with good news. In a few days, we could announce the pregnancy, and I would spend the next six months reading baby books, preparing the nursery, eating ice cream, and feeling kicks through an enormous belly. I was so wrong (except for the ice cream - that was accurate).

[momofamiracle]

week 6.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but Connor was moved to a new hospital, and we’ve been adjusting. Last I left off, I had just gotten my pregnancy confirmed with blood tests. On that day, we decided to announce the pregnancy to our parents. I finally used the onesie I sent to my parents’ house back in August, and we got a new onesie for John’s parents that said “Little Peanut.” Now we know how appropriate that onesie was!

Since the pregnancy was officially confirmed as viable via blood tests, I was able to schedule an ultrasound for when I was six weeks pregnant. As I said, and I sound like a broken record, my anxiety was through the roof. Many people (if there are even any people reading this) might be wondering “If you suffer from such bad anxiety, why don’t you take medication?”. Good point. The truth is that I had been taking medication before we started trying. The medication definitely curved my anxiety and made me feel more like a worrier than a person about to have a panic attack as soon as the sun started to set. However, once we started trying, I wasn’t able to take my medication anymore.

I remember waking up and feeling my heart pounding as soon as my eyes opened. I remember feeling nauseous before bed every night, and not in a nauseous-from-being-pregnant way. I was terrified that at any given time my body was finding a way to destroy the fetus growing inside me. The lack of control and lack of psychic abilities was wreaking havoc on me.

I tried meditation, listening to calming stories, deep breathing exercises, and a myriad of other ways to keep myself calm. When I finally made it to the day of the ultrasound, I was so busy telling myself “It’s going to be okay, It’s going to be okay” that I’m not even sure how I managed to teach children for seven hours.

Before the ultrasound, I googled pictures of six week sonograms so I knew what I should look for. I knew it was very early to hear a heartbeat, so I told myself not to freak out if they couldn’t find one. I met John at the doctor’s office, and he was as calm as could be. Like I told John in my wedding vows, he’s the calm to my storm. As I sat in my paper gown, nervously perched on the edge of a stiff foam bed like a child about to jump off a diving board for the first time, I asked him over and over again, “Are you worried?” I can still picture him slouched in the chair beside me, aimlessly thumbing through his Instagram feed. “Nope, there’s nothing to be worried about. Everything’s going to be fine.”

And it was. We saw a gestational sac, a yolk sac, and a tiny little fetus that looked like a grain of rice. We even got to see the heartbeat on the screen, even though it was too early to actually hear it. I felt so relieved as soon as the image that appeared on the screen resembled the ones I had googled hours earlier.

When we left the office with our first pictures of Connor in hand, I was finally able to notice that it was a beautiful, sunny day outside. After that visit, it became my crazy superstition that if the weather was good on the day of an ultrasound, we would receive good news. Welcome to my insane, frustrating mind.

[momofamiracle]

Dear Connor,

For every pill I took,

And every worried look,

For every needle stick,

And every little kick,

For every doctor’s visit,

And every anxious minute,

For every leap and bound,

And every ultrasound,

For every diaper change,

And every ounce you gained,

For all the blood we shed,

And all the prayers I said,

For every nervous jump,

And the tiny baby bump,

For all the early kisses,

That another mother misses,

For every sleepless night,

And your amount of fight,

For all the tubes and wires,

While your spirit never tires

For all the laughs and smiles,

That make this all worthwhile,

For every gentle cuddle,

And every treasured snuggle,

For every finger hold,

And every time we’re told,

That you are like no other,

I am thankful to be your mother.

Nothing will ever be more true,

I am forever thankful, thankful for you.

[momofamiracle]

[momofamiracle]

blood tests.

As I said earlier, I needed to get the pregnancy confirmed by blood tests - an initial test and then a repeat test 48 hours later to confirm that HCG had doubled, just like with my first pregnancy.

While I was waiting for the first blood test to be taken, I was compulsively taking home pregnancy tests. I would study them to be sure that the little pink line was getting darker as the hormone levels supposedly were getting higher. One morning, it appeared as if the pink line was lighter than the night before, and I went into full-blown panic mode. Remember from my previous post, anxiety is my nemesis. I was terrified that another miscarriage was imminent, and I was taking pregnancy tests like a lunatic every couple of hours to compare them. Eventually, the lines did get darker, and I calmed myself down.

The next morning, I went for the first blood test to confirm the pregnancy. Later, the results came in as I had expected - I was pregnant. This test was the easy one. Now I had to wait 48 hours until the repeat test could be done. With my first pregnancy, I just assumed the second test would show that the HCG has doubled, and I’d move on to an uneventful pregnancy. This time, I was terrified that my HCG levels would drop or stay the same. I continued to take pregnancy test after pregnancy test, trying to reassure myself that everything would be alright and that my HCG was rising as it should.

Finally, on a Saturday morning, I went for the blood test. After the test, I was so nervous that I couldn’t eat, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t read, couldn’t do anything but watch my phone. Eventually, John had to take my phone from me because I was so anxious waiting for the phone to ring that tears were streaming down my face. As the hours passed, I became more and more convinced that the test results would be unfavorable. Just as the doctor’s office was about to close, my phone rang. I felt sick to my stomach, memories flooding my mind of the last time I answered this call. As the nurse spoke, I analyzed her voice for clues about the news I was about to receive. After seconds that seemed like hours, I learned that my HCG levels had not only doubled - they had tripled. I could finally take a breath. The next step was to schedule our first ultrasound.

The relief I felt was indescribable. For the time being, my anxiety vanished. This pregnancy would stick. I managed to stay sure about that for about eight hours. That’s how long it took for anxiety about the possibility of losing this baby to return.

[momofamiracle]

anxiety.

Even though the home pregnancy test was positive, I still needed to get it confirmed by my doctor. The doctor’s office wanted to wait until it had been exactly 14 days since the procedure, so I needed to wait until that Thursday to get the test done. My anxiety kicked in as soon as that home pregnancy test was positive. Although I was overjoyed, I was also terrified of another loss.

I have to backtrack a little to talk about my anxiety. I’ve learned through my own experiences that there’s anxiety and then there’s ANXIETY. I’ve felt anxiety for as long as I can remember, although I never really put the label on it until I was older. When I was little, I would need to get picked up from sleepovers in the middle of the night because I would feel uneasy and sick to my stomach, and I just wanted to be home. When I would go on vacation with my family, and we would be out at night, I would feel relief when we would head back to the hotel because I felt anxious in new places at nighttime. At times, I would actually vomit because I would feel so uneasy about something, that my stomach couldn’t take it. In milder cases, like when I would have plans to go do some social activity instead of just staying home, I would feel those butterflies in my stomach. Throughout my life, I learned to just push through my anxiety. I would just do whatever was making me anxious, and I would feel better when it was over. Or in the time period leading up to whatever was making me anxious, I would picture doing it over and over again so that every eventuality had been worked out, and I was prepared for anything. I know that makes me sound crazy to a lot of people, but it’s who I am, and it’s who I’ve always been.

Now to take somebody who has always felt some degree of anxiety and then put them in a situation where they have absolutely no control, it really takes a toll on them. That’s exactly what happened with this pregnancy. It started while I was waiting for the blood test to confirm it, and it hasn’t ended yet.

This post is only the beginning, but it’s all I have time for before heading to the NICU. To be continued.

[momofamiracle]

trying again (part two).

After the first round of femara didn’t work, it was back to being poked and prodded for more blood tests every couple of days. The dose of femara was increased, so I also had to get ultrasounds every few days. I would rush over to the doctor’s office and get there as soon as they opened at 7 am. I would pray they could find my veins quickly and that the ultrasound would only take a few minutes. Then, I’d speed over to my school and get there just as my students were arriving. Every day, I waited for blood test results or for the ultrasound to show that the medication was working. The new plan was to monitor me until at least one egg was matured and my body was gearing up to ovulate. Then, I would need to inject myself with HCG, which would trigger ovulation. 36 hours after that, I would go to the doctor for an IUI procedure.

I had gotten used to ultrasounds showing no follicle growth, which meant no eggs were maturing. Then, one morning, the ultrasound showed one large follicle. That meant one glimmer of hope. It was finally time to use the HCG. This next part is funny when we think about it now, but it was far from funny at the time.

That night, John and I watched YouTube videos showing how to inject the HCG. We had three bottles of HCG, which were meant for three different cycles. We were only supposed to use one bottle that night. It seemed simple enough, but nerves got the better of us. You know that part in movies or TV shows where doctors tap the syringe to get the air bubbles out? It seems so easy. No matter what we did, we could not get the air bubble out of the syringe. The more we tried to get the air out, the more we wasted the HCG. We decided to give up on that syringe and start over with the second bottle (one that was meant for a different cycle if this one didn’t work).

Once again, we had the same problem. I was frantic because we were supposed to do the injection at a very specific time so that it lined up just right with the IUI. I was also frantic because we were blowing through all the HCG we had, which was supposed to last us three months. John and I were arguing about whether or not he should inject me with a needle that had air in it. Tears were streaming down my face out of frustration and desperation.

Before trying one last time with our last syringe, we decided to call the on-call nurse at our doctor’s office. Thankfully, she talked us through it. By the time I actually had to get a needle stuck in me, that was the least of my worries. Finally, the needle went into my stomach near my belly button, and I felt a slight warming sensation. After all that hype and over an hour of preparation, the injection was over in a second.

Despite being glad it was over, I was also anxious about the fact that we had just used three months worth of HCG. I felt like this was our only chance to get it right. The pressure was enormous.

36 hours later, we were in the doctor’s office for the IUI. It was relatively quick, and I remember lying there for 15 minutes afterward, hoping something magical was occurring within. By this point, it seemed like a miracle that anyone manages to get pregnant at all.

After the IUI, I needed to come back in a week to get my progesterone and estrogen levels checked. I was told to continue taking estrogen to help things along. When I went back a week later, the tests shows that my progesterone levels were okay - not great. The doctors prescribed me progesterone suppositories. I’ll spare the details, but they aren’t pleasant.

Because of the low progesterone, I didn’t feel like we had been successful this time. I also kept trying to find any possible pregnancy symptoms, but failed each day. The first time I had gotten pregnant, I remember noticing subtle signs. This time, I felt nothing. 8 days after the procedure, I couldn’t help myself. I started taking home pregnancy tests. I knew it was ridiculously early, but it was still disappointing when they came out negative. With the pregnancy in August, I tested positive 9 days after ovulation, and I expected the same results this time.

I was convinced the procedure didn’t work. I was already making plans for the next round, trying to figure out how much more HCG would cost. Despite being sure I wasn’t pregnant, I continued to take cheap pregnancy tests - hoping to be proven wrong. On super bowl Sunday morning, I could have sworn I saw the slightest, and I mean slightest, second line on the pregnancy test. I squinted at it, took pictures of it and adjusted it, held it up in different lights, and basically made myself crazy. I told myself I was seeing things, and I went to brunch with my friend. She could tell I was down, and I was complaining how frustrated I was with the whole process.

On my way home, I grabbed a more expensive pregnancy test, and I figured I might as well see if I get a clearer answer. Here I was, back in my bathroom with the door locked. This time, the test wasn’t digital. I was waiting to see either a minus sign or a plus sign. After a few minutes, a light plus sign appeared. I still didn’t believe it. I thought it was too light to be positive. I figured I’d wait a few hours and take another one. That night, before the super bowl started, I took another test. This time, the plus sign was darker.

Against all odds, it worked. I was pregnant.