Our High Risk Journey

December 7, 2015

It was 2:30am Monday morning. I am asleep in my parents' guest bed, with my husband, dog and my daughter in her toddler bed. We had just celebrated the life of an amazing woman, who had passed away a week earlier. After finally falling asleep, lost in memories of my Aunt Norma Jean,  I awoke to gush a of fluid. At 13 weeks pregnant, I assumed my bladder leaked. I quietly, quickly run to the bathroom. I quietly open the door, hop a baby gate and rush into the bathroom, leaving the light off, as to not wake anyone. I do my potty business and have a bad feeling that I need to "check" to make sure it wasn't serious. I flip the light switch and there is BLOOD everywhere.

I am in shock. I am miscarrying. I try to say loudly, but still softly enough to not wake the entire house, "Mom, you need to watch Arlyn, I am losing the baby and have to go to the hospital!!"

Within 10 seconds, my husband was dressed and beside me, and mom was out of bed helping me change my clothes. Like a zombie, I kissed my daughter, walked down the stairs, and out to the truck. I was in shock. I got in my SUV, my husband hopped in and I drove to the hospital. It was less than a 1/2 mile from my parents home.

I had a million thoughts rushing through my head. So many. I don't remember actually driving. I pulled into the driveway, which used to be the entrance to the ER. They remodeled. I couldn't see through the fog. I made my way to the Helipad. I decided the most direct root was best. So I drove through the grass until I reach the ER. (mind you, I was following other tracks that had apparently had my same problem)

We made it. I dropped myself off at the entrance, my husband parked the SUV. I walked into the waiting room, one other person sat waiting. I walked up to the desk. Told the nurse behind the desk, "I am 13 weeks pregnant, I believe I am miscarrying, I am bleeding." She coldly, and slowly told me I'd have to wait, there were no beds. If you don't know me well, I am very bossy, and very pushy. I can also be majorly loud. I proceeded to repeat myself, loudly and firmly, and then said "I want a room, I want a maxi-pad and I want a Doppler to check my baby's heart-rate. I may have a dead body inside me and I am not OK with that. Are YOU?"

She found some pep, and put it in her step and found me a bed, in a room and just so happened that a Dr. and a nurse were free. They came in, gave me a gown, and some absorbent pads, and drew my blood. My bleeding slowed, but hadn't stopped. They wanted to give me an exam, but I insisted on a Doppler first. No point in checking me, if my baby hadn't made it. They pushed an exam again, I once again told them, until they could let me hear a heartbeat, or determine that I miscarried they could just go back to whatever it was they were doing.

They "looked for a Doppler" but couldn't find one. I encouraged them to go to L&D and find one. They decided to leave me be until the ultrasound tech could see me. 3 hours later. Yep, they finally fit me in, about 6:00am. At no point did they ever check for a fetal heart rate. They were lazy, and incredibly insensitive.

By this point my shock had warn off, my bleeding had slowed and I was worried and angry. So many thoughts. So many emotions. It was a terrible feeling, laying in that triage room, wearing a hospital gown, bleeding, not knowing if the baby, the baby we had named, loved and planned for, was dead. Dead inside me. It is one thing to lose someone. It is a completely different experience to consider that thing you love so much is lifeless inside you. A corpse, in your body.

Finally, I was wheeled back to ultrasound. The lady was nice. She had no idea my thoughts or mindset, but she had obviously been through this before. She explained to me, that she would not allow me to see the monitor, and to expect no sound, as this was for the doctors and not for me. Meaning basically, she didn't want me to expect to hear a heartbeat nor to see my fetus, due to the likelihood that my baby had died. I explain to her, that I realize my baby most likely miscarried and I have no expectations, and just to get on with it, and let me know ASAP.

I closed my eyes and reminisced the story I had been told on Saturday at my Aunts funeral. She wasn't really my Aunt. She was my grandmother's best friend. She was an amazing woman. She was a hurricane. Not in a destructive way, but in a Bigger than Life kind of way. She was always happy, and always inviting. She made a boring day fun, and rainy day sunny and most of all she made you feel loved. I sat and thought about how her daughter-in-law shared with me that, the Saturday before her passing, she called the family together to talk and laugh. During that time, she excitedly shared the news with her kids that my husband and I were expecting! (At this point, we had only told our parents, and siblings. I had had morning sickness, and my grandmother caught me, and she was concerned about spreading my "flu" to my Aunt Norma Jean, who was being treated for leukemia. I swore her to secrecy to not say a word until we were passed 13 weeks..well she told my Aunt)

Aunt Norma Jean was so excited for us. We had no idea she knew, and it wasn't until this moment, speaking with her Daughter-in-law, that I realized how much she loved me, and my entire family. After the funeral, I began telling my family, who could visibly see my pregnant belly, the "good news". I found peace in knowing that Aunt Norma Jean knew and excitedly shared my news. It seemed fitting that she would find joy in new life as she slipped into death. She died on my birthday.

I was pulled out of my thoughts with a "fwoosh, fwoosh, fwoosh". It was my baby's heart beating. I was stunned. The tech turned the monitor around and there was my son. He was moving, wiggling and sucking his thumb. He was healthy, as far as the tech could tell. My world stopped. I had a little soul, living inside of me. I didn't have a corpse, I had a little soul. My little soul. My son.

I somehow, managed a miracle. Somehow, my Aunt Norma Jean worked a miracle for me.

The tech wheeled me back to my husband, who was anxiously waiting for me. He was studying me, trying to decided how to handle me. I told him "Our SON is fine." He was shocked. I'm not sure which shocked him more. The fact that our baby was alive or that I knew he was a boy. We were overjoyed.

We celebrated as the doctor came in and explained that I had Placenta Previa, and that I had a hemorrhage, which had no effect on the baby. However, I was placed on bed rest and was expected to see my actual OB as soon as possible. Luckily for me, I had an appointment already scheduled for the following morning. He explained to me that the placenta was laying over top of my cervix and that was dangerous for several reasons, but especially since I had already hemorrhaged.

We made our way to my parents house. We hugged our sweet daughter,  explained to our families what happened and packed our things to go home. On the two hour drive home, I had my files sent over to my doctor and spoke about my condition. They agreed bed rest with no lifting anything.

The next day, I saw my Dr. who basically explained that I was in a serious position, especially since I was still bleeding. She sent me to the High Risk Specialist that very day and I began the journey of my High Risk pregnancy. I continued to bleed for over 6 weeks. I had several ultrasounds and learned a new kind of boredom. I was reading entire novels in a day. Sometimes two. Christmas came and went and I was still bleeding. But baby was still healthy.

Finally, One day, the bleeding stopped. After a week of no bleeding, I was allowed to come off of bed-rest and was only on pelvic-rest. Which meant I could lift nothing over 5 pounds and nothing that required me to use my abdomen.

The weeks passed, my belly grew and life had a new normal. I pretty much could only do small task, for 10 minutes or less or I would feel sick, exhausted and have a lot pain in my abdomen. My daughter quickly realized the change and adjusted. We had several ultrasound and each one confirmed the condition was still present.  Each visit, they explained the seriousness and would tell me "if you see ANY blood, ANY, call 9-1-1, you have 12 minutes until you bleed to death." Comforting right?

For 4 months, anytime I felt anything, ANYTHING that could be misconstrued for bleeding, had me in a complete panic. It was hell. For me, for my husband and our families. If I breathed the wrong way, someone would ask "are you OK?". And everyone babied me. It was almost as bad as worrying about hemorrhaging.

Anyways,  yesterday, we had our "final" ultrasound. It would determine whether my Placenta Previa had resolved. If it did, we would be able to try for a normal vaginal birth. If it hadn't resolved, I would have a C-section before 37 weeks. We have had some other complications, but this would be the biggest hurdle.

My husband and I anxiously awaited the tech, and her determination. She did the normal anatomical evaluations and Baby was healthy and well! And I was Previa free! She even took some great 3D pictures of our precious baby boy.

However, we still have several complications that effect our delivery, but hemorrhage has been removed. This is such a relief and such a blessing. I may still be "high risk" but much of the worry is gone.

This entire experience, has given me a great appreciation for women who struggle with infertility, miscarriage, and those who have lost little ones late in pregnancy. I may be fortunate enough to still be pregnant, and looking to the birth of my son, but those moments, panicking at the thought of miscarriage, or hemorrhage are strong and vivid. They haunt me with an eerie reminder that that easily could of been me. For whatever reason, we are still fortunate to being carrying our sweet baby boy. And I am incredibly thankful for that.

3 Years Ago, Today

Three years ago, today, I was sitting in in a waiting room. I was angry, I didn't want to be there, but my husband, and my Dr. insisted. I had pushed the appointment back, now 7 days. They both were frustrated with me, I was frustrated with me. Why wouldn't this tiny human just come out already!?

I had passed my due date, which is normal, 41 weeks and 1 day is average. I knew that, but my tiny little human, who had decided my womb wasn't so bad after all, didn't. She planned to STAY in there. 

For the past week, I would labor from dusk to dawn. All night. Hard contractions, regular contractions. But just shy of what I needed, to go the hospital. We had trained for this event. We took natural birth classes (Bradley method of childbirth and I Highly recommend it), and planned to labor at home as long as possible... We wanted to go to the hospital, be there a short while and safely deliver under the guidance of our wonderful OB. But this was not what was happening.

Haha. Best laid plans right? Well after seven days, my OB requested I come in, just to make sure everything was OK. I mean seriously, I had worked right up until Monday, and finally decided this on and off labor thing and work was for the birds, and started my maternity leave. Today was Wednesday... And I was forcibly going to get checked. 

This entire child birth process is really barbaric if you think about it. Invading my personal space and MY PERSON!? Seriously, let's come up with a better and more friendly "downstairs and cervix" evaluation process. It's one thing to turn and cough for men, but it is a completely other story for PAPs, prenatal exams, progression checks and actual birth...

Anyways, now we're are sitting in front of the ultrasound machine, checking over my little one. Everything checks out fine. (Of course I knew that....) and then in comes the doctor. Of course, it's not MY Dr. It's the only persons in the practice I hadn't seen yet... She wasn't who I wanted to see, but who was available. Really sweet lady, but as sure of herself as a scared cat. I'd ask a question and she would answer all mousy, and then end with "if that's ok with you." Yea, that's fine with me, if it is the best medical advice you can give me....

Ok. Seriously. Let's get a move on. She offers to break my water to start labor or I could just go home. I opted for this baby to come on her terms and not mine. The Dr. Said "OK, if that's fine with you. We'll need to see you Friday" and then as I was standing up to get off the table I peed all over the floor. My first thought was "great!!! I wet myself like a baby, and in front of this lady. Lovely!" And I said, "sorry, I guess if there is first time, I'd rather pee my pants here than at home on than on my new carpet!" She looked at me. Reached in the cupboard right beside her and pulled out a little pH strip and stuck it in my pee on the floor (gross no gloves)....

"Well, you can stop being embarrassed, that's not pee, that is amniotic fluid. Your water just broke. You are my 6th pregnant patient that has had their water break in my office this month, I'm on a new record!" 

I looked at my husband and he looked at me. Both overwhelmed with fear and excitement. And then come a big gush of water, splattering all over the floor. The Dr encouraged us to stay as long as we wanted, since my water was all over the floor, to just hang out and let it do its thing, until we felt we could leave. After 20 minutes or so, I felt that most of the liquid had freed itself and I was safe to put my clothes back on.  After sticking several maxi pads in my britches, and covering the entire passenger side of the car with trash bags, towels and those blue hospital pads, I decided it was safe to drive 25 minutes home... We were good too. Until we rounded the corner to our house, and the flood gates unleashed! We had 45 seconds to go, and I jumped out into the drive way and stood there with water pouring out of my pants. It soaked my pants, socks and shoes and I had left a puddle in the driveway. It was gross. And my hubby just stood there. And laughed. After the flood turned to a trickle I ran in the house, with towels between my legs and hopped in the shower. I stayed in there for a few hours, going between warm and cool. I labored and waited and prayed. 

We waited for all the markers indicating it was time to go to the hospital. And was time. At this point my body had ejected so much fluid, my stomach was noticeably smaller. We got to the hospital and I was admitted. 5 cm. baby was healthy, and so was I. My parents, my in-laws, and my grandma and grandpa (who hadn't missed a grandbaby's  birth yet) all arrived after their nearly 5 hour drive. The men waited in the lounge and the ladies stayed in my jumbo L&D room while I labored.

My labor progressed, or so I thought. I was having difficulty Laboring through contractions and called the nurse in. She noticed my contractions had double peaked, which meant as I was having a contraction, at the point of relaxation, I would start a second contraction. She checked me. My cervix had started to close, which meant I had two options. I could have a c-section or I could try an epidural, and see if it would ease some of the pressure and  Pitocin to regulate my contractions.

 After several hours, they checked me again and my cervix had started to reopen. I had been at the hospital for at least 12 hours and now I was stuck in this bed, paralyzed while my body did whatever it was going to do, without my active help. This was not my plan. But it was what it was. 

It was at this point, I begin to get foggy on what actually happened. I don't know if it was exhaustion, birth or illness, but I will tell you what I remember. At some point, I dozed off. And I awoke to my husband shouting for a nurse, my blood pressure had suddenly dropped. They came in, worked on my meds and realized, I was ill. I had a fever, and my body was slowing labor. They spoke with us about a c-section, or pushing this baby out NOW. We decided push was better than cut. 

After pushing for three hours we were finally at the finish line. My dr. had toscrub out, as she had reached her max hours and another dr came in. He was known as " The forceps" because he would use has hands as forceps and pull babies out. "Lovely" I thought. I pushed some more and nothing was working...

He then told me I was at an emergent point. It was time to vacuum my baby out or cut her out in an emergency C-Section. Again, we decided, push was best. And with his magic and my fear of being cut open she was finally born. 36 hours after arriving at the hospital. 

 I remember little after this. My only memory following that moment, was thinking she was so blue. Like a little blue alien. And then I slept. For 12 hours.

The next day, I felt better, no fever. And she was still blue. But much more normal blue. My husband had cared for us, along with the nurses all night. My family was smiling and snuggling my new baby. 

It was a great moment, seeing and feeling how much we were loved, and how loved our little one was and continues to be.

Her birth story is more like her in more ways than I can count. She is tough, stubborn and going to do whatever it is she wants, on her own time. As I sit here and reminisce her birth story, I am looking to the future, with our son. He is due in a little over a month. His birth story has yet to be written, but it is weighing heavily on me.

As we celebrate tomorrow with my daughter, as she turns a year older, we will also be visiting a high risk specialist for the 4th time. This time hoping for a "normal" outcome. We will find out if my son will have the chance to come when he is ready, or if he will need a planed C-section weeks early.

I am excited for the celebration of my daughter and nervous for the outcome of tomorrows visit. But I know, either way, it is whatever it is. We planned and prepped for a little to no medical intervention birth with my daughter and my body failed me, and gave me a difficult and hard labor. This time around, I may need Drs to prevent my body from labor all together for the well-being of both me and my son. Who knows. But either way, it will be my story and his. He will be who is going to be, regardless of how he enters this world. I just hope it is with us all safe and sound.

To My Mother

Motherhood is hard. Motherhood is a daily battle. You never stop, once you become a mother, you always mother. Whether it is your children, friends or family. It becomes less of what you are, and more of who you are. It consumes you. I am in the early stages of motherhood. I have only been doing this 3 years. But my mother has been doing this for 35 years.

I am, in many ways, just like my mom. We look alike. We are both stubborn. Opinionated. Blunt. Fun Police... The list goes on. She was difficult to grow up with. Not because she lacked love, but because she required me, and my brother, to have integrity, morals and manners. She required us to be the best version of US. She made us make our own choices, be free thinkers. She never let us quit. Not at sports, not at anything, especially ourselves.

Growing up with a strong-willed, stubborn mom, was hard. The teenage years, were by far, the worst. She pretty much, ruined everything (or so I thought). I didn't want to be like her, nor did I want to be "friends" with her. It was terrible. Constant battles, fighting and "endless groundings".

Then I left home for college, 10.5 hours away. I was, for the first time, free of my mother. It was great!  For about one week. Then I missed her. Then I started doubting myself, and my decisions. I remember, calling her and telling how I was feeling and I expected the "You can come home" talk. Instead, I got the "we drove all the way to Tennessee, you took out thousands in student loans, and you are going to do this". I should have known better. I should have known she wasn't going to coddle me.  Let me quit. Or even encouraged my doubts. Instead, she forced me to face my fears, and as I look back, hers fears too. I ended up, as she suspected, thriving. I made great friends, did well in school and found myself.

My mother and I began to foster a much better friendship thanks to the long distance. She became my best friend. Gasp. Yes, my best friend. I began to see her less as a the villain in my story and more the woman she was. I learned about her, the way I would about any new friend. It was quite the journey.

During this time, I was moving my life forward. I was dating my future husband, we soon were engaged and planning a wedding. And I learned even more about my mother. She was wed at 16, to my dad who was 19 with my brother on the way. She never had a wedding, like what I was planning. Nor did she get the choices I did. She had a husband, and child, to think about. The wedding planning continued. Some things, like the color of my dress, the level of elegance required for my wedding, all matter so deeply to her. I realized, she was living some part of her "wedding fantasy" through me. And oddly, I loved it! She was like a child standing before the candy store, just giddy with excitement and joy. It was exciting to see my mother excited, and so fun.

Sadly, during this time, my mother's Father passed away. Well, her Step-dad, but as far as we were concerned, he was her father. My grandpa John, a man I admire and love dearly, had a profound impact on my mother. Losing him, is, as I witnessed and can imagine, was my mothers saddest moments. It was difficult to watch my mother suffer. She was lost in grief, and sorrow. She cried. She wept. She was silent. It was so far from the strong,  determined woman I was used to. How do I comfort a woman, who is always the rock? Always the one with the answers?

It was the first time, the first time I really remember, my mother being a real person. The first time I saw her as a whole person. Not my mom. Not my dad's wife. A hurting, person, trying to do the best she could, to be strong in a time of total brokenness. My heart was already broken, from losing my grandfather, but more than that it was broken for my mom. I had no idea how to comfort and support her.

I flew back to school, in my last semester of my senior year, with a brand new perspective of my mother, a broken heart for the loss of my grandfather and wedding to finish planning. I spent a lot of late nights studying and making sure to finish up strong, but kept finding myself thinking of my mom. Who was she? I really didn't know. I knew she was strong. I knew she was the glue that held my family together, but I didn't know her.

My wedding came and we celebrated, we rejoiced and partied. We had so much fun. So many memories made that day.  Then came the wedding night, the honeymoon, and then the big move. Yet again, I moved away from home. We settled in Michigan, newlyweds, trying to do our best to make the right choices and protect our marriage. With distance between us again, my friendship with my mother continued to grow. I learned more about her, and as wife, I grew to have a better understanding about her. I learned through family, and through the stories that get told at family events, the depth of love my mother has for me and my brother. She made incredible sacrifices for our family and as I lived through my own marriage I could now better understand some of her choices. I could truly put myself in her shoes. I may have been 7 years older, in much better circumstances, than her, but I found myself, becoming more and more proud of who my mom was. She isn't a superhero. She isn't some big CEO, but she was someone worth being proud of.

Fast forward to my next milestone. After taking our first vacation together, my husband and I, against statistical odds, found out were expecting our first child.

I. FREAKED. OUT.  (I can not express to you in words, the fear, hyperventilation and tears that overcame me for 24 hours..)

We had only been married 3 years. My husband was in his 3rd year of his Ph.D. I was working for a church, that was having financial difficulties. We were poor. And now were are expecting a baby.

Then I realized I had to tell my mom. I was so afraid. I was worried she would think that I had "made the same mistake" she had. (let me just state, no child is a mistake, nor does a mother feel that way about their child... but growing up with a mom who had her first at 16, she always encouraged us to not make the same choices, both for our future and for the sake of the child...) Anyways, the time came and I was scared. I was afraid she would be disappointed in us. But she wasn't. She cried. A LOT. But I think she was excited.

And again. I saw my mother through yet another lens. This time through motherhood. It is this lens, that I have really been able to understand who my mother is. Not all mothers are created equal. Not all mothers make sacrifices. But my mother did. And she didn't like us to know.

It wasn't until my daughter was born, and boy, is she a spitting image of me when it comes to her personalty, that I finally have come to terms with who my mother is. Every day is a battle with my daughter. She is strong-willed, stubborn, and her own little person. She is me and my mother through and through. And now I find myself being my mother, to me as a child. I find myself, in my mother's shoes. I now fully understand her choices, and am living with me as child.

So,

To my mother:

I must apologize. I am sorry for the endless crying as baby, (how we both survived.. I have no idea). I am sorry for always testing you, and my boundaries. I am sorry for always painting you as the villain and never seeing the sacrifices you made for me and for my brother.

I want to say thank you, for all you did. And for those struggles and sacrifices that I am still unaware of, and for the sacrifices I know that you made. You have been, and continue to be, a great mother. The more I mother, the more I realize the hardships you took on for me. The tireless nights, the stress of providing for us, and making sure we were prepared for the real world. It is incredibly hard. And I simply want to say thank you. We noticed. We appreciate it, even if it doesn't' seem like it.

So thank you for choosing us, even when it was hard. When it was easier to chose you. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for loving me enough, to make sure I turned out like you. Strong. Compassionate. Empathetic and most importantly. Brave.

I love you more than words can describe.

Your Daughter