Ten Minutes

I had accomplished so very much that morning... baked fresh bread, brownies, and more. Sorted, boxed, and labeled six sizes worth of girls' clothes. Vacuumed. Two loads of laundry. Clipped and organized coupons. My, my, wasn't I an impressive one.

It had to be done, see. I knew I had errands to run that afternoon, after nap and school.

Hurry, hurry, rush, rush. Go play now, kids. Yes, I'll help with the princess dress. Yes, that is a corner piece for puzzle. Yes, I'll fix your headband. Now, run along now, Mommy's working.


I had half an hour before I had to pull lunch together. Half an hour where I could get all that laundry folded and put up. Half an hour where I could mop the kitchen floor that sorely needed it. Thirty minutes to pour one more cup of coffee and then scrub the pot.

I gave them each ten minutes.

Ten minutes of uninterrupted Mommy time. Ten minutes to do whatever each wanted with me. Their choices. My time.

And, oh, how much focus they put into their decisions. They pondered. They weighed and, finally, selected...

I read Elmo's 12 Days of Christmas... many, many times.

I helped bring a giant coloring page to life...

I sorted edge pieces so we could put the Transformers together.

The laundry, my dirty floor, and the stained coffee pot? They're all still there. They're not going anywhere. But there will come a day when my ten minutes might not be viewed as such a treasure...

Best half hour I could have spent.

Linked to Finer Things Friday.

Making Room For a Little One

It was Christmas Eve, 2005. It was evening and a heavy wet snow was falling.

In the wee hours of that morning, I had given birth to our second child. A girl. One pound, five ounces. Less than a foot long. Against all odds, she lived...

In my own hospital room, recovering from a massive, messy, emergency c-section, I sat with my husband, opening Christmas gifts that had been mailed to us from my out-of-town family.

Maternity jeans.

A cute velour maternity top from Old Navy.

I should have had four more months of pregnancy ahead of me...

I cried. A lot.

And then, I unwrapped a gift for my not-yet-eleven-month old son. A book.

I turned the pages and gazed upon the most beautiful illustrations I had ever seen. So soft. Soft lovely. It was like they were illuminated from within.

I read the words...

There's always room for a little one.

I sobbed.

And as I reached the last page, I choked out the words,

"That cold winter's night, beneath the star's light, a little one came for the world."

To this day, Room for a Little One is my very favorite story to read at Christmastime. It is simple. It is beautiful. It gets right to the core of it without overwhelming tender young hearts and minds. And it is true...

There's always room for a little one.

Linked to TILT

*If you purchase this book through the link above, I will be happy because the book is so very special. But I will receive nothing. Why? Because I am hopeless at figuring out affiliate links. :) But I'm okay with that.

"My Story..." Monday: The Hospital Calls

It had been close to a year since we had had much to do with the children's hospital. Yes, we had a few follow-up outpatient appointments, but those were all housed in a different section of the building and didn't really stir up any angst or resentment despite the hellish ride we had been on.

While I would, of course, never forget Riley- both for our amazing NICU team and our horrible broken leg adventure- I certainly didn't think about the hospital on a daily, or even weekly, basis. And I definitely had stopped worrying about being in any kind of "trouble"...

One day in August of 2007, when my former micropreemie was about 20 months old, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Maureen. I work with Riley Children's Foundation."

"Oh... hi. How are you?" (I swear, I've been known to even ask telemarketers how they are... these things are so ingrained in my head. Tell me I'm not alone.)

She went on to tell me that she had gotten my name from the hospital...

And my heart stopped for a moment.

For just a brief second, I wondered if something had come up and they were going to open up a whole new series of investigations about me. While I still really didn't care if they wanted to check in on me, I was terrified that they were going to put my sweet little girl through more unnecessary tests. I forced myself to keep listening through the buzzing in my ears...

"Dr. L. gave me your name. He told me that I simply must talk to your family."

I relaxed a bit. If she had gotten my name from Dr. L, the odds were good that it wasn't anything bad.

"I'm calling because Riley is launching a new series of commercials. Our campaign is 'Hope Happens Here'. We're wondering if you'd be willing to share your story."

"As part of a collection? Did you want some quotes from us or some statements about why we loved Riley?"

"We want to do a commercial about your family. How do you feel about that?"

Thinking of the NICU team that saved our tiny baby girl... Dr. L. who stood by our sides when the going got tough... our amazing pediatric ophthalmologist who is the reason my daughter is not blind...

I did not hesitate.

"Sure. We'll do it."

to be cont.

"My Story..." Monday: Rotovirus in a Cast

(If you missed the beginning of this story, you can find parts 1-6 here:

• Part 1: She Got Hurt
• Part 2: Facing Judgment
• Part 3: The Hot Pink Cast
• Part 4: Brittle Bone Disease?
• Part 5: No One Knows Anything
• Part 6: Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick

C. was doing alright in her massive pink cast. She was angry that she couldn't roll from back to tummy and that she couldn't sit up. It was difficult to sponge-bath around the cast and it made our arms ache to hold her for very long... while our little girl was a tiny little thing, the cast was amazingly heavy. But we were ok. Things just took a little more planning.

And then... the rotovirus arrived.

I'm not sure if you've ever had a child with rotovirus, but it is essentially the nastiest stomach bug you'll ever deal with in your life. My first child had also had it (while we were living in the Ronald McDonald House after C. was born) and it was terrible then too. But he wasn't in a cast...

I knew we had a problem when C. woke up crying one morning (not typical) and I rushed into her bedroom. I was immediately assaulted by a horrible smell. Rotovirus diapers do NOT smell like normal messy diapers. I am absolutely serious when I say I think I could diagnose a baby with rotovirus using only my nose... it is THAT distinctive to me.

I removed the way-too-big sleeper we had put over both baby and cast and surveyed the scene. She had leaked, but just a little. I attacked it with wipes and felt like I did a pretty good job. Once she was all cleaned up, I didn't notice any lingering stench.

The day went on.

I gave her Pedialyte in a bottle and, though she would eagerly drink it, I could literally hear it go straight through her body. Sometimes I would have to stop her mid-bottle to change her pants. I would diligently try to make sure her diaper was perfectly tucked into the cast opening but, alas, every time she would leak, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.

We battled sickness for almost four days. By the time it was done, the cotton around the edges of her cast was stained and reeking. To be frank, it was difficult to be in the same room as our precious baby girl, let alone hold her. The stench was overwhelming.

I called the casting clinic and spoke to a nurse. "Please," I begged her, "tell me there's something I can do to help this situation!"

She advised rubbing the cast all over with dryer sheets. Not a bad idea. It helped... a little bit. I still can't smell Snuggle Emerald Isle fabric softener without going back in time...

C. had had her cast on for just over two weeks. The doctor had suggested that one month would be when we would look at getting it removed. We had about two more weeks of horrible, nasty stinkiness to endure. We could do it.

And then I noticed the rash. Getting C. dressed one day, I saw the edge of her back under the gap between the cast and her skin. It was covered with dime-sized angry red sores. I flinched when I saw them- they were that painful looking.

I called the casting clinic again and they asked that I bring her in the next day... if it was really that bad, they said, she may need to have her cast replaced.

Sigh.

So we did. We drove her the two hours back to the children's hospital and, upon examining what skin they could see, the nurses knew the cast had to come off. Before removing it, they took an x-ray and forwarded it to the orthopedic surgeon who had casted her weeks before. (He was in surgery at the time, but they sent it to a computer in the room there- isn't that wild?)

While we waited for his response, the cast came off...

C's entire backside- from the top of her thighs to her lower back- was covered in large red open sores. Some of them were weeping. Others had crusted over.

I wept when I saw her. I had never- and have not since- seen a worse rash on a baby. Even the nurses cringed a little.

The phone rang. It was the orthopedic surgeon...

Her leg had healed. Completely. She didn't need another cast. She didn't need anything. Somehow, some way, our baby girl's broken femur had been healed in only two weeks. We would be heading home with a free-legged baby. Hallelujah!

Still, the nurses joined us in eyeing that nasty rash. The more experienced of them told us, "It's a yeast infection. We'll give you prescription strength anti-fungal cream. It'll look better by tomorrow. It'll be gone in five days."

Hard to believe.

It was gone in three. And life went on.

C. has not broken a bone since. And I have never been under any kind of investigation.

The End.

(Would you like to hear another story starting next week? I have lots of them. :))

"My Story..." Monday: Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick

(If you missed the beginning of this story, you can find parts 1-5 here:

• Part 1: She Got Hurt
• Part 2: Facing Judgment
• Part 3: The Hot Pink Cast
• Part 4: Brittle Bone Disease?
• Part 5: No One Knows Anything

I made my way back to C's hospital room. My husband still held her in the rocking chair.

"Did you find her?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"I ran into some of the people from the NICU snack hours I used to go to. Remember those? They were really sweet, but I don't think there's anything they can do over here in Pediatrics..."

I took over the rocking of C. and we sat and waited some more. Not too much time passed before yet another doctor came in. We looked up quickly, anticipating results.

Nope.

He had just come in to tell us that they wanted us to schedule an appointment with a neurosurgeon in a few months. They had spotted a cyst in C's brain and, while they weren't particularly concerned about it, they thought we should have a follow-up just to see.

Okay.

"Have they read the results from the bone scan yet?"

"No. They may not get to that until Monday."

He left.

I cried. Again.

A couple minutes later, someone else was walking through our door. It was the family support coordinator, Susan.

"JessieLeigh?" she said.

I turned and saw not only her friendly face but also the face of a man I adored- the head of neonatology, Dr. L.

Susan continued, "I ran into Dr. L. in the hallway and I was telling him your story and he said he just had to come down here..."

I turned to him and he smiled, then said, "I was just wondering who I need to tell how wonderful you are."

I burst into tears again and explained that, really, we just wanted to find out the results of her tests. That, if they didn't need to do any more things, we wanted to be discharged to go home as a family. I blubbered around and asserted, as I had numerous times throughout the week, that they were welcome to nanny-cam my house or pay me surprise visits. I had nothing to hide.

Dr. L. touched my arm and, in a quiet voice, said, "I'll be right back."

Less than two minutes later, a nurse hustled into our room and declared, none too kindly, "They're filling out your discharge paperwork right now. You can start packing up if you'd like."

Immediately behind her was the doctor we had seen before Dr. L. arrived. "Um, her bone density tests were fine," he told us. "There is no sign of Brittle Bone Disease."

And right behind him? The doctor in charge of investigating suspected abuse cases. Remember her?

"Mrs. S., you and your family are free to go. We have elected to not file any report with child protective services as there is no evidence that you caused your child deliberate harm. We had to run all the tests to keep on record should we ever be questioned as to why we did not report the incident."

Okay. Did you follow all that? All those tests? They weren't necessarily done because anyone ever suspected they'd find anything... they were done so the hospital could cover their tail if it turned out I DID do something to hurt C. in the future. They needed to have the documentation that showed why they had decided I did not seem to be an abuser. While I was, of course, grateful that they realized I had not hurt my own child, I was angry that they had let us believe that they truly thought our daughter may have a terrible disease. We had fretted needlessly.

But... we were free to go. A one minute conversation with the department head of neonatology and things got moving oh-so-fast.

Have you ever heard the expression, "Speak softly and carry a big stick"? Well, Dr. L. is the embodiment of that. He is a small, slim, quiet, white-haired man. He is gentle. Kind. Humble. Understanding. And highly, highly respected. I think so very highly of him and I am blessed that that feeling is mutual.

We thanked our beloved Dr. L. and Susan. We gathered the various items that end up strewn around a room that you live in for a few days. We loaded up our baby girl in her bulky pink cast and the special car seat we would have to use to accommodate it. We drove the two hours home.

We settled in to a new "normal". It wasn't easy, juggling errands and activities with a baby in a cast... but we figured it out. It wasn't easy, doing sponge baths and changing diapers with a spica cast... but we figured it out. We figured it all out...

Until the rotovirus.

to be cont.

"My Story..." Monday: No One Knows Anything

(If you missed the beginning of this story, you can find parts 1-3 here:

• Part 1: She Got Hurt
• Part 2: Facing Judgment
• Part 3: The Hot Pink Cast
• Part 4: Brittle Bone Disease?

How was this even happening? How had it come to pass that our precious baby girl had gotten SO hurt from such a small fall and now we were learning that she had previously chipped a bone in her arm? And how could we have MISSED that?

The doctor with that news offered little information and little comfort... she let the news of C's chipped humerus hang in the air and then left. We had no idea what would be in store for us next.

It was Thursday afternoon now. We had been at the hospital for almost two full days. We were struggling to adequately comfort our poor little girl in her giant pink cast. We were also having a hard time keeping our one year old son happy and occupied in the tiny space of the hospital room. Blessedly, my sisters-in-law tried to provide some relief in that department and would pick up A whenever they got the opportunity, even if it was just to take him shopping at Walmart with them. I'll never forget the cute baseball sneakers my one sister-in-law (a mama to all girls) just couldn't resist buying for him on one of those expeditions...

Anyhow, that afternoon the hospital was to perform the bone density scans. We were allowed to go into the room and stay with her until she was sedated. The anesthesiologist warned us that her eyes would probably roll back in her head and that she may briefly convulse. Not surprisingly, this is disturbing for many parents. Nonetheless, we stayed. And our sweet girl just closed her eyes and was out. And we were asked to leave...

One of my husband's sisters decided to take our son home with her that night so we could both be with C.

It was another long night.

What I remember most about that one particular night is sitting in the rocking chair with my baby daughter, trying desperately to soothe her off to sleep. It was well after midnight and I had just given her a bottle of her special formula. (We had none of my frozen expressed breast milk with us, but I had stopped pumping months earlier. That was just another knife in my heart- the fact that my baby got NONE of my milk while in the hospital because it was over two hours away...) Not surprisingly, straight formula was a little tougher on her tummy than her usual "breast milk with a tablespoon of formula powder" cocktail. She spit up a big chunky mess all down my blouse--the only shirt I had, for the record... have I mentioned this??? But she was exhausted. And, after getting sick, she collapsed and fell asleep. And so I sat, sticky and stinking to high heaven, all night long while my precious girl got some zzzz's.

The next morning, I showered and begged my husband's dress shirt off of him and he wore just his white undershirt. We likely looked ridiculous, but that was really not a big concern of either of us.

It was Friday.

A doctor came in and we both looked up, waiting to hear the results of the bone density tests. This would be the most revealing test in terms of the potential Brittle Bone Disease diagnosis they had kicked around...

Instead, he shared this with us,

"Mr. and Mrs. S., since you didn't know how C. might have chipped her humerus, we spoke to a doctor from the infant ICU who suggested it may have happened while she in the NICU. Babies born as early as your daughter was have very fragile bones and, with all the needles and lines going in to them, apparently chipped bones aren't all that uncommon. Since they heal up on their own, nothing is generally done about them. Often they aren't even noticed."

We asked him about the bone density tests and he replied that he knew nothing about those and, by the way, why were they even conducting them? We explained the Brittle Bone Disease hypothesis and he basically scoffed and said,

"Unlikely."

And he left.

One thing I'd like you to know is that, in the two and a half days we had been there, we had never seen the same doctor twice while in C's room. And we got different stories from everyone. It was maddening. We would just about come to terms with one idea and a new doctor would show up and tell us that, no, it wasn't that, it was probably "xyz".

We continued to wait. We bought coffee and waited some more.

It was getting late in the afternoon. On Friday. We knew full-well that if someone didn't read those tests soon, we had no chance of being released until Monday. The thought of spending the entire weekend in the hospital was dismal at best.

My husband was rocking our daughter and our son was with my mother-in-law. Suddenly, I stood up, tears streaming down my face, and announced,

"I'm going to the NICU. I'm going to find our old social worker. I'm going to find a way to at least find out what's going on."

I think my assertiveness may have surprised him a tad, but was very supportive and nodded.

Off I went.

As I turned down the hall of our old familiar stomping grounds, I ran into the First Steps (Indiana's early intervention program) intake coordinator. She was excited to see me until she got close enough to see my distress.

"What happened? Are you ok?" she asked.

I started sobbing in the way you do when, all of a sudden, you are shown compassion.

"C. broke her leg... And the doctors in Pediatrics think... either I did it... or she has... Brittle Bone Disease... I'm wondering if Mrs. V. (our previous social worker) is around..."

She ushered me into a room where I saw another familiar face-- the Family Support coordinator. I asked about the social worker.

"Oh, JessieLeigh, she's on vacation until next Thursday," she said sadly.

My face fell.

"But let me see if I can help."

to be cont.

"My Story..." Monday: Brittle Bone Disease?

(If you missed the beginning of this story, you can find parts 1-3 here:

• Part 1: She Got Hurt
• Part 2: Facing Judgment
• Part 3: The Hot Pink Cast)

I was getting used to having to tell the story of how C. got hurt. It never got easier, but it almost became routine. I think the biggest saving grace for me through all of that was the fact that I had SO many people who actually knew me and not one of them doubted that it was just a horrible accident. If my husband or my family or my in-laws had ever suspected that I would intentionally harm my child, that probably would have just done me in. But they did not.

A different doctor came back in the room a couple of hours later. I still wasn't really sure why we were still stuck there but, because I was the one under investigation, I didn't feel it was my place to question. This new doctor told us:

"If we are to accept the story you've given us, Mrs. S, and, at this time, we haven't found evidence to the contrary, then we have to find out why your daughter was injured falling such a short distance. We need to conduct further testing. We will be doing a full-body scan to look for any signs of previous breaks or injuries that were perhaps not reported. We also want to run some bone density tests to see if C. has brittle bone disease- that would help explain why her leg would break more easily."

And, without another word, she left.

We were shocked.

I fully understood that they wanted to this whole body x-ray scan because they still weren't convinced that I hadn't hurt this baby before. They were still looking for evidence that she was the victim of abuse and this was a good way of checking for past injuries. I didn't like the idea of all that radiation exposure, but I was also pretty confident that nothing was going to turn up. I, of course, knew I had never hurt our baby girl, and I was quite sure I would have known if she had somehow gotten hurt previously.

But...

Brittle bone disease???

We were silent for a long time. Then my husband spoke,

"Wouldn't they have noticed something earlier? During all those months in the NICU? At all those check-ups with Developmental Pediatrics?"

"I don't know..." I said quietly.

"That would change her whole life... I can't imagine." He hung his head.

We had several more hours of trying to entertain our son and rocking our awkward, casted baby daughter. And worrying.

Yet another doctor walked in. He was there to explain the risks of the procedures and to tell us that C. would be sedated and intubated for the tests... and also that the tests would be on different days, meaning she would be put to sleep and put on a ventilator TWICE.

I burst into tears.

You may think that it would be easier for parents of a preemie who had spent weeks or months on the ventilator to hear that she would need to be intubated... after all, we'd been through all this before.

It is not.

Preemie parents spend SO long waiting for our babies to breathe on their own. Once they are finally weaned from the vent, it is cause for celebration. And also fear... we worry, unendingly at first, that any day could be the day she has to be re-intubated. No one wants to have to go back there. We were so afraid that she wouldn't "remember" how to breathe on her own...

The full-body scan was to be that evening. Long after radiology was closed for the night, our little girl was wheeled down there. Our son explored the toys of the waiting room while I flipped listlessly through a Highlights magazine from 1994...

When it was over, my husband headed out to stay with our son. I hunkered down to stay with our baby girl.

It was a long, sleepless night.

One of the doctors came back in the morning, her face set in a stern line.

"Mr. and Mrs. S... it looks like the humerus was chipped awhile back and has since healed. Are you able to tell us what caused that?"

We had no idea.

to be cont.

"My Story..." Monday: The Hot Pink Cast

(If you missed the beginning of this story, you can find parts 1 and 2 right here:

• Part 1: She Got Hurt
• Part 2: Facing Judgment)

I answered my phone on the first ring.

"Mrs. S.? This is Riley Hospital. We're wheeling C. in to meet with the orthopedic surgeon and we're just wondering why you're not here."

WHAT??? Why wasn't I THERE??? I wasn't THERE because they told me they hadn't scheduled her yet. I wasn't there because, when I had called forty minutes earlier, they had told me to call in a couple more hours...

We scooped up A. and flew out the door, grateful we had had the foresight to check out of the hotel before breakfast.

It was a solid twenty-five minute drive to the hospital and, again, I was a sobbing mess. Not only was I the one responsible for this poor baby getting hurt, I was now the mother who wasn't even there for her at the hospital.

By the time we flew through the doors to the orhtopedic surgery wing, our baby girl was already covered, ankle to chest, in a hot pink cast. The pictures I have from that time are forever trapped on an old broken laptop... but here's an idea what it was like:

Hers was like the one on the right, including that lovely bar that held her legs apart. At this point, you're likely wondering how on earth diapering worked. I don't blame you. We wondered the same thing. So I'll go ahead and answer that question right now.

We used a diaper one size smaller than usual. For our almost-1 year old that meant using a, believe it or not, newborn sized diaper. Our little baby was still in a size 1. So, we would take that newborn-sized diaper, rip the tabs off the sides, and kind of jam it into that opening you see there. We then had a diaper harness, which was really just a system of elastic straps with velcro, that we fastened around the diaper area and cast to help secure the diaper. It was, by no means, perfect, but it worked reasonably well.

Now that we've covered that, back to the story at hand...

I was torn, emotionally. On the one hand, I was so blessedly relieved that our little daughter had not had to have any surgery before having her leg set- a situation that had been a very real possibility, according to the emergency room doctor. On the other hand, I was devastated that our precious little girl had had to go through all this without her mama or her daddy by her side. It broke my heart that... we weren't there. How many times was I going to have to beat myself up for not being in the right place at the right time??? But there was nothing I could do.

The orthopedic surgeon was a very kind man. He was optimistic that C. might even be able to get out of her cast in a month. That seemed extraordinarily fast to us but, apparently, babies heal much faster than older children or adults. He smiled and said he thought a pretty little girl might enjoy the pink and that's why he had chosen it. If he could see our pink-loving C. today, he would know that he had most certainly been correct.

As far as he was concerned, we were done. He wanted us to come back in four weeks. As far as her broken femur went, C. had received the treatment that she needed.

But we were not released.

C. was taken back to her room and we went too. It was Wednesday now.

We took turns holding our baby girl in her awkward cast in the uncomfortable rocking chair in her room while we waited. Whoever wasn't rocking tried to entertain A. We called one of my husband's sisters and begged her to bring size 5 diapers and a change of pants for our son. And we waited.

It wasn't too long before someone else came to see me. She was the physician in charge of abuse investigations. I'm quite certain she had a more innocuous title than that but, for the life of me, I can't remember it. And, really, why sugar-coat it? She sat down in front of me with a clipboard and a black pen and said,

"Okay, Mrs. S. Take it from the top. Tell me how it came to pass that your infant daughter was brought to us with a spiral fracture of the right femur..."

And I told my story again.

to be cont...

"My Story..." Monday: Facing Judgment

(Oh me, oh my, how did I forget that Monday was a holiday this week?? And, something you should probably know about me- when my hubby's home, I sometimes forget all about what I'm 'supposed' to be doing, blog-wise. As a result, I made y'all wait even MORE than a week for the next installment... my apologies!! But, here we go. If you missed part 1 of this saga, you can find it here...)

I had been in touch back and forth with my husband throughout the day, filling him in on how C was doing. At this point, I had to call him (again) and give him the horrible news that our baby had a broken leg... and the doctor was advising us to take her to Riley, the children's hospital in Indianapolis where she had spent 3 1/2 months in the NICU.

He left work immediately to come and meet me at the doctor's office, but it would still be a good 45 minutes before he could get there. It was a pretty October day, so I took the kids outside in the double stroller and walked. And sobbed.

I called my mother. And sobbed.

I kept on walking. And sobbed.

When my husband arrived and helped us into the car, I sobbed, clinging to C's x-rays in my hand.

I sobbed. And C slept.

It took us about an hour and a half to get to Riley and, when we did, we hurried our little ones inside to get C into the ER. It was late evening by now.

They got us back into an exam room very quickly, but it took hours for them to actually come in and evaluate her. During this time, my husband and I took shifts walking our (by now) fussy one year old son up and down the hallways in his stroller while the other sat with C. She never cried during all this. Tough and stoic she always was as a baby... I think she got that was from enduring so much in her earliest days.

When the doctor did come in to examine C, she brought with her a resident who was just beginning her training and a social worker. I watched the doctor check out my tiny daughter and listened to her words to the resident...

"... spiral fractures are usually caused from someone grabbing and twisting the baby's limb... want to check the mouth for signs that a bottle has been shoved... often small lacerations... examine for scarring or past injuries... chronic abuse..."

It didn't much matter that there was no evidence of any of these things. I was devastated. The thought- the mere thought- was so sickening.

After that, the young, weary-looking, dark-haired social worked sat down across from me.

"Tell me what happened," she said.

I did.

Her face remained impartial, unmoving, through the whole tale.

"It's likely more people will want to talk to you about this," she finally said.

I nodded, "That's fine. Whatever you need."

Then the doctor spoke.

"Your daughter will be admitted and an orthopedic surgeon will be setting her leg in the morning. She'll need a hip spika cast- that's a cast that will go from her ankle up most of her body. You can call starting at 5 am to find out what time she's scheduled for. You can't stay with her and you need to get your son out because we're well past visitors' hours. The social worker can help you find a hotel."

She walked out.

It was after 11 o'clock. Our son was sipping milk from a carton a sweet nurse had brought to him. Our little girl was, again, sleeping.

Hearts broken, we headed out to find a place to stay for a few hours before we come could back to be with our baby. We hadn't had to leave her since her NICU days and it was a bitter feeling.

Eventually, we collapsed on the king-sized bed of a Comfort Inn with our son in between us and slept, fitfully, until my alarm woke me just before 5 am to call and see what time she would be meeting with the orthopedic surgeon...

I called from the bathroom so the light wouldn't wake my toddler.

The nurse who answered checked her chart...

"I'm sorry, Mrs. S... she's not on the schedule. Maybe try back in a couple hours?"

We woke up A and got him some breakfast in the lobby of the hotel.

As he munched on Froot Loops (oh, the horror!), my phone rang...

(to be cont...)

"My Story..." Monday: She Got Hurt

It has been a very long time since I wrote a "My Story..." Monday post. I guess I felt like I had pretty much exhausted the tale of C's birth and the NICU journey. Don't get me wrong... there are always more stories to tell, but I thought I covered it pretty adequately.

And then something occurred to me...

The story didn't end there.

The consequences of her prematurity didn't end and our hospital visits were not over. So, today, I'm going to start the story of one of the darkest weeks of my life...

I'm going to tell you about when C. got hurt... under my watch.

*****

I woke up that Tuesday morning and set about my busy daily routine just like usual. I had fed both my babies-- then nine- and nineteen-months, respectively-- and was getting them dressed and ready for the day. I was tired. No surprise there... I had two very little ones to care for and, as so many of you know, being mommy can be an exhausting job!

As I finished getting A. dressed, I heard the coffee maker shut off. Thank heavens. I poured myself a cup and carried it out to the living room. I set it on the top of the bookshelf, well out of the reach of either of my children.

We had had family visit a month or so earlier and we still had a mattress on our living room floor. I kind of liked having it there because it was a convenient place to play and snuggle with the kiddos. We loved to stretch out on it and read together. Anyway, I also liked to use it as a place to get C. dressed and changed. I set about doing just that.

A flash of red caught my eye several feet away...

My son was climbing the bookcase! I could see, from my spot by the mattress, the scalding hot black coffee starting to slosh over the top of the mug. I panicked. I could see an immediate dangerous situation and I reacted...

I rushed across the room to move my coffee and pull my 1 1/2 year old off the shelves.

I turned my back for a second. I admit it. And that's when it happened...

C. rolled off the mattress.

It was only a mattress right on the floor... less than a foot high. But she rolled to where she was trapped between the mattress and a desk. She shrieked- only once- and then cried.

I scooped up my precious tiny baby girl... because, really, at nine months she was just barely moving out of 0-3 month clothes. I held her close and her sobs started to ease. I held her up to let her "stand" on the table- something she had always loved- and she pulled up her right leg and refused to bear any weight on it.

Crying myself, I called the pediatrician. I described what had happened and how she was acting. The doctor felt it was highly unlikely she was very hurt, most likely just scared, but advised me to observe her behavior throughout the day.

I fed her a bottle of her specially thickened milk (the reason C could never truly breastfeed) and she drifted off in her morning nap. I played with A. and tried to feel optimistic.

When she woke up, I again tried to hold her up on her feet. She pulled up her right leg and cried out.

I called the pediatrician back and they told me to come in.

The doctor's quick evaluation still seemed to indicate that C. was fine, but- just to be safe- she ordered x-rays.

Our ped's office was adjacent to the hospital so it was a quick trip to get the x-ray done. I went back to the office to wait for the results.

The doctor walked out, knelt down before me, and took my hands. She looked me in the eyes and said...

"It's broken. Spiral fracture of the right femur. I am SO sorry."

(to be cont... next Monday, of course!)

"My Story..." Monday: Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- The Pregnancy

Well, now that I've walked you through the couple years leading up to my third pregnancy, we're left at the point when I found out that I was indeed pregnant. Happily, I can report that the pregnancy went well and I am the happy mommy of three now, my youngest having recently turned nine months (a day whereupon my five-year old son sang, "Happy Change of Months Day to you!!!").

If you weren't around the first time for it, you can read a little about how things were during my pregnancy in these posts:

How This Pregnancy Is Different

Anticipating Restrictions

A Personal Milestone

Why I Think I Went Into Pre-term Labor

Getting Further Than Last Time

Having A Happy Third Trimester

Being Full-Term

Getting pregnant again after having given birth extremely early is scary. Super scary. And a big leap of faith. But, oh, was it ever worth it...

"My Story..." Monday: Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- The Fear Sets In

The first thing it seemed like I needed to do was convince my doctor's office that my pregnancy test had not, in fact, been "inconclusive". It was Tuesday morning and I was scheduled to go in for surgery at 5 am on Thursday. While the nurse had told me that they would be doing another test as part of surgery prep anyway, I really did not want to have to go through that whole hassle.

We had a school meeting that morning for our soon-to-turn-three-year-old daughter and, as a result, my husband had taken the morning off from work. It was nice to have him by my side as I called the doctor's office and made arrangements. This time, the nurse I spoke to apparently FOUND my records and she told me that she could see, plain as day, that the pregnancy test was positive and she said that they had already cancelled the surgery. In lieu of that appointment, she scheduled my first prenatal visit.

Next up? Telling our moms. We definitely had to tell my mother-in-law since she had planned on coming to our house Wednesday night and staying over to be there with the kids the next morning when I went in for surgery. My husband called her and told her that we didn't need her after all. When she wondered why not, he told her, "Because you're going have your ninth grandchild this summer!"

I wanted to call my mom too, of course. Not only did I just want to share the news, but I also had to tell people earlier since everyone was expecting me to go into surgery in two days! I called and told her that we had gotten the results of my pre-op lab-work and I wasn't fit for surgery. She was a little concerned and asked if they were planning to do it later on then. I answered, "Oh, yeah, I imagine they'll take care of it during my c-section..."

It became more and more real the more people I told.

I mentioned before that I had lined up some excellent guest posts to run during the week after my surgery. I realized that I should let these other bloggers know that, while I would welcome their posts, it was no longer critical that I have them. And so I emailed Ryann, Jessica, Amy, and Tiffany. I was delighted when they all sent me pieces to post here anyway.

If you have a second- especially if you missed them the first time around- please take a moment to read what these amazing women have to say about their own personal struggles with getting pregnant, staying pregnant, and caring babies safely to term:

• Infertility: Out of the Trenches from Amy
• From Worry to Wonder from Jessica
• Pre-eclampsia from Ryann
• HELLP: Tiffany's Story from (surprise!) Tiffany

Reading these stories was a definite reminder to me that pregnancy isn't always a walk in the park... and I'm not talking about morning sickness and swollen ankles. Things don't always go smoothly and sometimes there is devastation to face.

I was so excited to be pregnant with our third baby...

And so scared.

"My Story..." Monday: Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- The Surgery

I enjoyed my last weekend before surgery. It was a fun time with my family! Throughout it all, though, one little thought kept nagging me...

Could I be pregnant?

You see, during my pre-op work that previous Friday, one of the questions the nurse asked me was a common one- When was your last menstrual period?

"October 3rd," I'd answered. It was November 7th. Now, that didn't necessarily mean much. I realized I was a little late, but that wasn't unheard of, especially given the fact that I was nervous and under a lot of stress about this whole surgery. I figured it would start some time over the weekend.

It did not.

One of my lab tests had been a pregnancy test, so I decided to call the doctor's office to get the results on Monday. Keep in mind, I had not told my husband ANY of this whole saga yet. I dialed the doctor's number Monday morning and was informed that the office was closed until 1 PM. Grrr.

That morning felt very long but, after lunch, I dialed those digits again. This time, I was able to speak to a nurse who pulled out my file.

"Hmm, Mrs. S., you say they did a pregnancy test?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Well, let me see... um... it looks like maybe the results were inconclusive."

"Inconclusive? I've never heard of an inconclusive pregnancy test. So what does that mean?"

"Well, don't worry about it. They'll do another test first thing in the morning right before your surgery to be sure."

"Oh, ok. Well, thank you."

I hung up the phone. I was pretty sure that this woman hadn't been able to find the results and that's why she had given me that whole "inconclusive" response and all. But it didn't really matter why she'd told me that, the fact was... I still didn't know.

I also didn't want to wait until Thursday. If I did happen to be pregnant, what sense did it make to have my mother-in-law come over to babysit, go to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, and get prepped for surgery only to have them send me back home?

I took a deep breath and dialed my husband's cell number. I prayed for his voice-mail and let out a little sigh of relief when that's what I got. After the beep...

"Hey, hon! It's me. I just got off the phone with the doctor's office and apparently the results from the pregnancy test they gave me on Friday were inconclusive and they say they'll give me another one right before the surgery but that seems kind of silly to me to wait until we're at the hospital and all before just finding out for sure so would you mind running across the street to CVS and picking up a pregnancy test before you come home today?Okay, thanks, love you, bye."

Click.

He didn't call me back, but when he walked in the door, he hugged me and handed me a bag.

I finished making dinner and we all sat down and ate as a family. After I'd cleaned up the kitchen, I went into our bathroom to take the test.

I walked back into the living room, where my husband was playing with the 2- and 3-year olds. I handed him the test and said, "Well, that's the fastest positive I've ever seen."

In that moment, our eyes met we both realized we were facing something much bigger- and better- than the surgery I'd had planned.

I was officially pregnant after a preemie.

My Story Monday... Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- Not Trying... And Not NOT Trying

When C. turned two, I was in excellent shape. That past summer, we had purchased a tread mill and I had put it to very good use. I also had a balance ball that I worked out on regularly and I had the abs to prove it. I felt wonderful and strong. Truthfully, I felt like I had back in the early Spring just before I got pregnant with my first child.

I remember that time of my life as being very content. We were all healthy and happy. Our just-turned-three son had finally (!) started to talk and that eased a lot of worries we'd been having. C. no longer needed any extra doctor visits for anything, save the eye doctor. My husband's job was secure and predictable. I had actually made a mommy-friend through preschool and was feeling less disconnected than I had in years.

THIS was the time when I started thinking I might be ready to have another baby. I wasn't in a rush, but I felt like, should it happen, I would be fully happy and ready. I also thought the likelihood of my getting pregnant had probably gone up significantly since I was no longer under great stress and I was in good shape.

But I didn't get pregnant. And that was okay too. I never felt desperate or depressed about it.

Life went on with our sweet little family.

Until C was 2 1/2 and I noticed a lump in my lower right abdomen. A lump that caused me a great deal of pain and would sometimes bring me to my knees. A lump that, eventually, caused me to see both my general practitioner and then my OB/GYN.

We scheduled surgery... and I signed the paper giving consent to the removal of my ovary if need be.

I was devastated.

My surgery was scheduled for November. I lined up guest posts so I could recover. We arranged child care for A. and C. so my husband could be with me. He took time off work so I could rest for a few days post-op.

On November 6th, my brother came to town and took my kids and me out to lunch. It was wonderful to see him and a great distraction from the pre-op tests and blood work I had to have later that afternoon! We had some yummy food and good laughs and then I rushed home to meet my husband so he could watch the kids while I went to the lab.

I breezed through all the surgery prep with no issues and headed home.

I was ready to enjoy my last weekend before the operation.

My Story Monday... Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- Pondering #3

My little girl had just turned one. My son was about to turn two. I was in no way feeling "baby crazy" (and I was still taking an antidepressant- I was told not to go off of it during the winter months), but I was starting to think I might not be done having children.

By then, my body was fully healed. I had long since gotten into the routine of caring for two very small children and C. was thriving- she was no longer on oxygen, no longer on an apnea monitor, and no longer needed an NG-tube to eat. As you can see from her birthday shot- she had no trouble eating whipped cream!

I think a lot of people assumed I would be done having children for one of two reasons-- my last baby had been born so, so very early and, probably just as significant for many, I already had a boy and a girl... so wasn't my family complete? I wasn't so sure.

I was also very scared. The cause of my premature labor had never been determined. There wasn't anything specific to monitor or any preventative steps to take. I had carried one eight pound baby to 41 weeks and delivered a one pounder at barely 24. MY health had never faltered. I had absolutely no clue what a third pregnancy might bring.

One thing I DID know was that, should we decide to have another baby, I would have no choice but to have another c-section. The classic c-section I had needed to ensure C's safety meant that I could never, ever, ever attempt a vaginal delivery again. The risk of rupture is just too high. (Somewhat random side-note: One of the hardest things for me has been the number of women who try to tell me I could have done a VBAC- or scoff at the c-section I had in the first place. I appreciate what you're all trying to say- truly. Please trust me when I tell you that I had excellent doctors who knew what they were doing.) I wasn't scared of having another c-section. I would have SO preferred a vaginal birth, but I knew I could handle a c-section and the thought of a planned one versus a wild, middle-of-the-night Christmas Eve surgery sounded very do-able.

I started doing research, even though I knew I wasn't really quite ready to be pregnant again. I learned about perinatology and went on some prematurity boards to ask other women about their experiences with perinatologists. I even went so far as to get a recommendation for a good one from our beloved pediatrician. I filed all this information away and carried on with parenting my two-under-two.

If I'm honest, I'll admit to you that I didn't do the very best job taking care of myself during this point. I put on some weight... not enough to ever make me "overweight" by those charts or the doctor's standards, but enough that I felt out-of-shape. I wasn't exercising regularly. I was grabbing whatever I could to eat whenever I could with little thought to its nutritional value. I felt like I was so busy juggling my two babies that I didn't have time... in reality, I should have just planned better and made it a priority. Hind-sight is 20-20 and all that...

The point is-- it wasn't really a good time for me to be having another baby just yet. And I didn't But in my mind, the seed was planted...

It would be another year before I felt "ready".

My Story Monday... Getting Pregnant After A Preemie- Not Just Yet

I mentioned last week that we brought C. home with a whole variety of tubes and wires going on. It was a challenge to manage her care, but no where near as challenging as it had been to have her in the hospital. I'm not sure if caring for a preemie with all these special needs was easier for me because I'd already been through all the "typical" baby worries before or if it was more difficult because I had a fourteen month old to care for as well. It hardly matters how it compared to someone else's situation- it was mine.

Anyway, suffice it say, I was in no position to have another baby right away. My hands were extremely full. Added to that, my body was still in need of recovery. I had had a classic c-section which involved being cut both vertically and horizontally. It was done as a speedy means to provide C. with the safest possible delivery- my health and healing were not the primary concerns at the time. I've had a vaginal birth and the more usual transverse (just horizontal) c-section. Please trust me when I tell you that neither of those recoveries was anywhere NEAR as difficult as my recovery from the classic.

Finally, I was also in a delicate state emotionally. I've talked candidly about dealing with post-partum depression before. It is not something to take lightly. When I realized that my thoughts had taken a scary turn, I sought help and I agreed to take an anti-depressant. I was on Zoloft for about a year and a half. While they assured me that it was still safe for me to pump breast milk for my preemie daughter while taking the medication, I did not feel that I wanted to get pregnant while on an anti-depressant drug regimen.

For all these reasons, I knew that, should I ever have a third baby, the spacing between two and three would be greater than the less-than-eleven month gap between one and two. I still wasn't even sure a third baby would be in our future, but I wasn't ruling it out.

I had a lot of healing and thinking to do. A lot of "weighing the odds." A lot of caring for two babies.

It was shortly after C's first birthday that I was able to start thinking about it.

My Story Monday... Getting Pregnant After A Preemie: Deciding To Have Another Baby

Over the next several weeks, I want to focus on our decision to have another baby- on the fears, the risks, the uncertainty, the pros, the cons, and the decision-making. Ask most women who have given birth to a preemie-- particularly those who had their babies extremely early or who suffered severe medical complications-- and they'll tell you that deciding to have another baby is a scary decision. As someone who has made that decision and, happily, gone on to have a healthy, full-term pregnancy, I'd like to talk about it...

**********************

When you have a baby, one of the questions they ask you is:

Did you want to have your tubes tied?

Now, with my first baby, I didn't see this coming and it completely floored me. Unsure what our family size would end up being but confident we weren't planning on an "only child", I shook my head vehemently and declared, "Absolutely not!"

My "tubes", if you will, remained intact and I went on to get pregnant again just a few short months later. This second baby is the one who arrived so very early.

I wasn't as surprised to hear them ask me if I wanted a tubal ligation with this second child, but, at the same time, it seemed somewhat bizarre and cruel that- in the same breath- the doctors told me my baby wasn't likely to live and would I like to make sure I had no more babies after this one? I declined the procedure- again- and gave birth to my micropreemie who defied the odds and is now a happy, thriving four-year old.

We had always talked about having "two or three " kids. I can remember, vividly, thinking as they whisked me off to the OR...

"Well, I guess I'll be having two kids. Because- if this baby makes it- he or she will probably have such significant special needs that we won't be able to manage caring for three kids. And, if this baby doesn't make it, I'm not sure I can handle more than one more pregnancy..."

Three and a half months later, we both were out of the hospital and at home-- me, with my ability to have more children still intact and her, with a feeding tube, supplemental oxygen, and an apnea monitor...

This time, I wasn't quite so eager to do it all again.

to be cont...

"My Story..." Monday: Her Name

I always think it's odd when parents don't have a name picked out for their child. Yes, I realize it's a major decision and it takes time to pick "just the right one". And, yes, I also realize that sometimes mom and dad just can't seem to agree on the best name. I'm also well aware that some people like to "wait and see their baby" to decide. (For the record, this is a little odd to me just because brand-new newborns bear precious little resemblance to the babies they will become but, whatever...)

Anyway, it has always seemed to me that you should have a name ready when your baby comes. I can't remember at what exact point we settled on our "girl's name" and "boy's name" for our first child, but I know for a fact that that entire last month of my pregnancy I knew exactly what we would name our baby as soon as we found out the gender at birth.

With this baby who just arrived in the wee hours of Christmas Eve? It was a tad different. Born almost four months early, she shocked us both with her early arrival. Who truly thinks they have to have a name all settled upon by 24 weeks into the pregnancy? We sure didn't. Yeah, yeah, we had definitely "talked names" and kicked around some ideas. There were some true front-runners. As I mentioned earlier, I had also declared upon realizing our baby would arrive on Christmas Eve that, should we have a girl, I wanted her middle name to be Noelle. And it is. My husband did not deny me that...

What's interesting is that, while I was being asked, "Do you have a name for her?" in the OR, my husband was being asked the exact same question en route to the NICU.

Even more interesting? We both answered the question without hesitation. And we both gave the exact same name.

We hadn't discussed it. Truly, we had had scarier and more pressing things on our minds the last couple of days. But, somehow, we both just knew that this little girl was to be our C. (Side note- Want to know something odd and kind of eerie? The NICU nurses at our particular hospital reported to us that, in their opinion, the worst name to give your micropreemie daughter is "Miracle"... none of them had ever had a baby given that name survive... strange, eh?)

And thus began our journey as the parents of a micropreemie. The roller coaster was just getting started.

**I only use initials throughout my blog, but if you're particularly curious about C's name, I will tell you this much.... we shot a commercial and her name is in it. You can see some of the extra footage from that commercial in my right side-bar. In it, I say her name. ;)

"My Story..." Monday: "It's a ...?"

When the OR went eerily silent, I panicked. After all, there were eighteen people (nineteen now that the baby was born!) in that room. It had been noisy as all get-out. Suddenly, the only person making any noise at all was the very tiniest... our newborn.

"What's happening? What's wrong?" I asked, turning from my husband to the anesthesiologist and back again, "Why isn't anyone saying anything???"

My husband just shook his head.

The anesthesiologist leaned down and said in my ear, "It's because she's crying; 24-weekers never cry."

But cry she did... all the way down the hallway where they took her to stabilize her before making the trek to the adjoining children's hospital.*

I smiled as I heard that cry then and clung to my husband's hand. Suddenly I looked up at him...

"We don't know if we had a boy or girl!"

"Nope," he replied and gave me a little half-smile. Mostly we were both just so incredibly grateful that our child had made it through the birth!

The anesthesiologist heard this conversation and asked the OB's. They had no idea what gender the baby was-- their focus had been solely on a safe delivery and transfer of the child over to the neonatal team. The fellow called down the hall, "Can we get the gender for the parents?"

I heard a woman's voice echo back...

"It's a girl!"

And that's when we knew. We had a little girl. A precious tiny daughter who had such a fight ahead of her.

When you have a baby, you feel a rush of endorphins that flood your body with a kind of super-hero feeling. There is a kind of victory and triumph and sense of achievement that- for me, at least- goes along with giving birth that is unmatched by any other accomplishment. Every woman is different, of course, but- for me- I still had that feeling. Those early hours were ones of joy and wonder and celebration. I was never ignorant about the peril of her situation... it just wasn't at the forefront. And, for that, I am wonderfully thankful...

A few moments later, when our baby girl was stabilized, they invited my husband to accompany them on the transport over to the children's hospital. The doctors continued their work on putting me back together.

As they stitched and repaired, the head OB asked me...

"So... do you have a name for her?"

to be cont...


*Foot-note: I was extremely blessed to give birth in a city hospital connected to the children's hospital. It took mere minutes, by foot, to get my daughter to the NICU. The hospital has since further improved this by establishing a high-risk OB wing right in the children's hospital. The less travel the better for these teeny-tiny babies!

"My Story..." Monday: She Cried

I last left off telling "My story..." here...

It took less than thirty seconds for the medical team to rush me into the operating room. I didn't think much of that at the time but, having had a subsequent NON-emergency c-section (where I did not commence the journey in the OB ICU), I now realize just how ridiculously fast that really was.

There was already a large team in place there. In addition to the seven people who came with me were nine others. Sixteen doctors and nurses would be on hand to attempt to bring my way-too-early-baby into the world safely.

When we had discussed whether or not I wanted to attempt the c-section I had asked a couple of questions. One of them was this- and this is exactly what I said-

"So I do have one really selfish thing to ask... I know this all needs to happen really fast and all but I'm just kind of curious... will you all be giving me anything for the pain? I mean during the surgery?"

Looking back, it was an absurd question. I mean- I was having major surgery. This wasn't the same as electing to have a natural birth. The fellow nearly laughed at me, I think, but maintained a straight face as he replied, "Heavens, yes. In all honesty, they'll likely have to give you general anesthesia and put you out. You can't sit up for a spinal- you're completely dilated and the baby could slide right out."

The anesthesiologist was already there when I arrived in the OR. He had all sorts of things on hand, including a ventilator should I need to be intubated. He took one look at me and said, "You're awfully skinny for a pregnant lady," (I had gained all of 4 1/2 pounds in that nearly 24 weeks), "I think you might just be able to curl up on your side and I'll do the spinal- then you could be awake for your baby's birth."

That anesthesiologist became my best buddy throughout that whole surgery- you'll learn more about that later on.

With his help and the help of the fellow, I was able to curl up and he administered the spinal. I don't remember feeling anything when he did it, though I'm sure there was some kind of discomfort. They quickly rolled me back onto my back and he started pricking me to determine where (i.e. "how high up") I was numb. Once I could feel nothing up to my shoulders, they knew they were good to go. Of course, as sensitive as I am and always have been to anesthesia, I also started to vomit. The anesthesiologist deftly wiped me up and suctioned out what I didn't have the strength to spit. He also administered an anti-nausea/anti-emetic cocktail that helped me get past that phase.

While the numbing was spreading, they taped my arms and legs, both splayed wide, onto the table. As they wiped my belly down with iodine they realized the table was much too high. The position resulted in the doctors having to "reach up" at an unnatural angle. When they tried to adjust it, they realized it was broken. One of the nurses called to see about getting a replacement. She yelled across the room- "They say they can have it here in three minutes!"

The head OB shook her head, "That's too long. We'll stand on stools."

And that's just exactly what they did.

As the fellow started to cut, the anesthesiologist asked, "Is there supposed to be a father here?" and the nurse who had promised not to forget him cursed quietly as she rushed out the door. They both returned about 30 seconds later. My husband has since recalled that it felt like he was stuck back in that room forever...

With the anesthesiologist at the left side of my head and my husband at the right, I tried to focus and pray for my precious baby whose life surely hung in the balance...

"Please, God. Please, God. Oh, please, God..." It was all I could come up with. I didn't make any promises or utter any fancy words. Just "Please, God" over and over.

Other than that repeated litany, I remember two big things happening during the surgery:

Number one, my nose itched. The anesthesiologist told me that that was a rare side-effect of the anti-nausea medicine. Wouldn't have been a big deal except for the fact that my arms were taped down. As a result, I spent much of the surgery begging my husband to "Scratch my nose, please... please, can you scratch my nose again?" Sounds silly, but it was remarkably irritating at the time. He obliged.

Number two, I saw, clear as day, an image of a tiny headstone with the name we had chosen should we have a baby girl flash through my mind. It chilled me to the bone and I remember rationally trying to accept the reality of what we may be facing while simultaneously rejecting the vision as simply unacceptable. I hate to talk about that (and I don't often), but it's the truth.

I don't actually know how long the surgery took, but I know it was far shorter than the c-section I had this past June. I remember seeing the neonatal team leap forward and spring into action as they passed my baby- still intact with the bag of waters- over to them. They actually delivered her from there OUTSIDE my body, which is a little odd.

When they did, at 12:32 in wee hours of Christmas Eve...

She cried.

And the room went silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

to be cont.