Incoherently Yours

Dear Parker

2012-01-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Parker,

I missyou, Parker Marie! I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. I think you are apretty cool little kid. I miss seeing your dance routines and your funny faces.I miss hearing your jokes and your giggles and laughter. I even kinda misswatching you put your parents through the ringer with your super amazing tempertantrums. I’m still waiting for you to turn green and go all “The Hulk” oneveryone. Unfortunately, one day you’ll learn you are only allowed to do thosesort of things in your head, and it’s not nearly as fun.

I loveyour smiles and hugs and how we can tell you we only love you a little bit andyou’ll say, “Noooo! This much!” and spread your arms as wide as they can go. Ilove how whenever you have a sleepover at my house we read the cookie pop-upbook and before we turn the last page when the gingerbread house pops up welook at each other and grin and ask, “Ready?!” I also love how you now thinkyour daddy should buy you a gingerbread house to live in.

I’vebeen wondering and imagining what it would have been like for you if Rory hadn’tgone to heaven. I know you were so excited to meet her and to hold her. WhileRory was in the hospital you would pretend you were holding her in your handsand taking care of her. You even gave your Mom crap one time because you wereconvinced she had dropped your pretend Rory. Your mom told me one time shecaught you having a tea party with Rory. I love that you love her.

Wheneveryou are with me you are always willing to sit and look at the Rory book withme. You love to slowly flip through the pages and point to her and say thingslike, “So cute!” and “Beautiful Rory.” And how you think it’s so hilarious inone picture where Rory is facing the other way and you giggle and point andsay, “Rory’s backwards!!” And then sometimes you’ll look at me and sigh andsay, “Rory died.” And I’ll say, “Yes, she did, and that’s very sad. But she’sin heaven with Jesus.” And then you say, “I’ll hold her next time.”

I lovethat. Next time. Yes, in our next life, in Heaven, in eternity. Next time. I know right now you are a little obsessed withdeath and trying to figure out what it all means. I know in your own littleway, you are grieving. You were playing at my house, playing with toys when allthe sudden you let out one of your big dramatic sighs. Your mommy asked youwhat was wrong and you said, “I’m sad.” Your mom asked you why and youanswered, “Rory died.”

I’m sadtoo. But you know what soothes my heart? Knowing that you remember and loveRory. Even though you never met her, she will be a part of your earliestmemories. You know she is a part of our family. You know she always will be,and she will always be remembered and missed.

So here’sto you, kidlet. Auntie misses you! Thanks for being so awesome. Love you lots.

Love, AuntieKatie (Or Auntie Keys, or whatever it is you are calling me these days. <3)

It's Called Grieving.

2012-01-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

Many of you won’t get this. In fact, most of you won’t.That’s a good thing. Because if you truly understand everything I’m writing, itmeans you have been here, and here is a place no one should ever be. And maybethere will be some you say “I get this!” and then I’ll write another post thatcompletely contradicts everything I’ve said in this post and you’ll want tohave me institutionalized. So. You’ve been warned.

I think I try in my writing to end off even the mostmelancholy post with a hint of hope at the end. What people may not realize isthat this is mostly due to the fact I am terrified people will show up to mydoor ready to stage an intervention if I say completely what I’m feeling in themoment. Often I write after the storm has passed. After I’ve wiped my eyes, gota drink of water, had a nap, and groped around blindly for some perspective.

I’m afraid of writing in the storm. Sometimes what I writein the aftermath is depressing enough. But the purpose of me writing, and moreso, of sharing what I write, is so that people can come to understand. Notcompletely, mind you. But to gain some insight, some awareness, and just somegood old empathy.

It’s not something I really thought about before Rory, butnow I truly think our society has watered down grieving. It’s like everyoneexpects you to hop, skip, and jump through all the stages of grieving andvoila! In a few months, everything is back to normal, your loved one is in abetter place, so everything is hunky dory.

Uhm, no.

I love to blame society. It’s such a generic and abstract concept.A way to point a finger without really offending anyone. But really, I’m partof the cycle. I don’t know why, but as soon as I step into someone else’s house,I put a smile on my face. I go through the motions, I chit chat, I laugh atjokes, I express interest in other people’s lives. Occasionally the mask slips,and a snide, cynical comment slips through, or an “inappropriate”, innerthought is vocalized – much to the discomfort of others. At which time somepeople use such openings to talk about Rory, or find the underlying dark humourand laugh, or change the subject, or chastise me for thinking and feeling theway I do.

I sometimes wish my go-to face was a big, weepy, wailingmess. I wish people thought THAT was normal and be pleasantly surprisedwhenever I pulled myself together to act normal in social settings. Instead, mygo-to face is a lackluster smile that people come to expect (though it probablydoesn’t fool those who really know me) and even I’m horrified at the thought ofbreaking down in front of them.

Why? My baby died four months ago. It’s ok to not be ok. Ikeep telling myself that. I’m not sure if it’s my own expectations I’mprojecting on people, or if people really do think I should be fine by now, orif, like Sheldon says, acting like everything is fine and adopting a “life goeson!” mantra is so deeply engrained in us, we don’t even know how to grieveproperly in front of people.

Sometimes when I come home, to my safe place, where I canthink and say and do exactly whatever I’m feeling that exact micro-second,that’s when I realize it. I realize I’ve been acting all day. I realize I’vebeen putting on a brave face. I realize I’ve been on autopilot. And I realizehow absolutely exhausting it is. But in the moment, in the moment when I’m justtrying to enjoy the company of family, just grasp that normal minute of fun,just trying not to make anyone else uncomfortable, I don’t even realize thatmany a time, it’s all an act. It’s all for the benefit of others. That makes mesound unselfish. Rest assured, I’m not. I’m as terrified of people attemptingto deal with me in my raw, open state as much as they are terrified of havingto attempt it.

Well, I didn’t say this post would make sense, did I? And Iam quite within my rights to contradict everything I say. Mixed messages, yousay? NO KIDDING. You should be inside my head. Mixed emotions is theunderstatement of the century. That’s the point. Grieving is not a straightline. It is not one step in front of the other. It’s back and forth, it’szigging and zagging, it’s thinking you are getting better and then wonderinghow you are going to get through another minute. It’s finding joy in a moment,and it’s finding sadness in the joy. It’s raw, it’s unpredictable, and it’smessy.

So for anyone thinking GET OVER IT (… I’d love to thinkthere aren’t actually any people in the world thinking this…) – No. You getover it. You get over the fact I am not ok. I am not fine. When I say I’mhaving a good day, imagine your worst day, times it by ten, and there you haveit. My good day. Because I am living every moment without my baby girl. Andthat has affected every single aspect of my life.

I am broken. I am heart sick. I am soul weary. I amdisillusioned. I am exhausted.

I’m not saying it won’t get better. It will. I’m not sayingthe hurt will get easier to bear. It will. I’m just saying in this fast-pacedworld we live in, grieving is one of those things that cannot befast-forwarded. You cannot skip scenes to get to the good stuff. I am goingthrough this, take by take, and I won’t color it any other color than it is.

And if I could think of a better ending to this post otherthan crossing my arms, blowing a raspberry, and saying, “So there!” I would.But that’s all I got. So… there.

Dear 2011

2012-01-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

Dear 2011,

As with everything these days, I have mixed emotions about you. Perhaps my New Years Resolution should be to try and feel only one emotion at a time – but I think I’ll just stick with “surviving”, as that’s taking up all of my energy and then some.

You were a year of excitement and newness. After 2 ½ years of waiting, with extensive doctor/specialist appointments, medication and drugs, I got pregnant. Finally, Sheldon and I were expecting our own little bundle of joy.

You were the year I gave birth to my daughter in an ambulance. You were the year Sheldon and I got to name our baby Rory Rose. You were the year I became an NICU mommy. You were the year I held my baby in my arms, skin to skin, and heart to heart. You were the year of hopes and dreams, of fear and faith. You were the year of devastation and despair. You were a year of grief, mourning, sadness, and strength. You were the year my baby daughter was born. You were the year she died.

You, 2011, were the worst year of my life. You were full of pain, heartache, and sorrow. You dashed dreams, you crushed hope, you banished happiness and you destroyed my life.

And you, 2011, were the best year of my life. You were full of happiness, joy, and anticipation. You were full of hope and dreams fulfilled by Rory. You were the year I found out what a mother’s love truly feels like. You were the year my faith was tested, tried, shaken, and strengthened. You were the year I began to learn what it means to go on, to put one foot in front of the other, to take that next breath, and to find the strength to rebuild what was destroyed.

I am so ready to be done with you, 2011. There is a fragile, uncertain hope in the start of a new year. I already know 2012 will be a year of grieving and sadness and loss. Because losing a child is not something you ever get over. But I want to see the hope and happiness a new year has the potential to bring.

So here’s to you, 2012. I hope you bring good things with you… and if you do… I hope those good things come to stay.

A Sad, Merry Christmas

2011-12-23T22:32:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming.

Usually that is said with more excitement and joy and less tears and foreboding.

I remember hanging the decorations as we were setting up our Christmas tree last year and telling Sheldon, “Maybe next year we’ll have a baby!”

I became pregnant mere months after that hopeful statement.

And now Christmas is here. And I have a baby. A tiny baby girl with long fingers, big feet, dark brown eyes and a nose like mine. But she’s not here. My baby is a Heaven Dweller. She didn’t get a first Christmas. Sheldon and I have to figure out how to celebrate without her.

We made it through the Christmas shopping. We bravely made our way through stores that seemed to be filled with things specifically for little girls. We decorated. We bought an ornament for Rory. It doesn’t say Baby’s First Christmas. It says her name and it hangs on our tree. I did Christmas baking. Auntie Chelsey made a tiny cookie and dubbed it a Rory cookie. I kept it. It’s in my china cabinet.

We went to our church’s candlelight service. Sheldon was brave as soon as we got there, but my courage fled as soon as we walked in the doors. I guess that is what makes us a good couple.

I’m sad this Christmas. I’m so, so sad. I miss her. I wish she was here celebrating Christmas with our families instead of spending it with Jesus. Holidays seem to accentuate my empty arms and broken heart.

I wish I was more excited about Christmas. I wish I could make myself do more than just go through the motions. Though, truth be told, I’m quite proud I’ve even been able to do that.

I am grateful for Christmas. Jesus came to earth as a baby and died as a man for the sins of the world. That’s why Rory is safe in Heaven. That’s why I know I’ll see her again one day. And that’s why, in my sad little way, I’ll be having a Merry Christmas.

Well Then...

2011-12-14T13:17:00.000-08:00

I was going to write a Pity Party Post about my newly discovered hiatal hernia and all the infininte joy it is bringing to my life, but I stumbled across a document I wrote at least a couple years ago whilst trying to organize the chaos that is "My Documents".

Here it is.

FAITH

I’ve been thinking a lot about faith lately. It seems to be popping up everywhere. The old hymn Trust and Obey is one that I haven’t heard sung in over a decade, yet that song is constantly running through my head. “Trust and Obey, for there’s no other way, to be happy in Jesus, but to Trust and Obey.”

My Bible study is going through the life of Job. He was a man of faith. His life that was once full and amazing was turned to a desolate waste. His children were killed, his wealth disintegrated. His health rapidly deteriorated, and his wife turned against him.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t acknowledge his life sucked. He knew it. He felt it. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. He never pretended to know why tragedy befell him. He did however, accept it. He felt that God was God, and that was enough for him. He gives and takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

Wow.

He didn’t rationalize, he didn’t analyze. He just knew God was God and He would do whatever He would do. He was content knowing he was a mere man, unequal to God. He didn’t feel he had the right to know God’s mind or to question His ways. Who was he to ask God, “What are you doing?!”

He had faith. But not necessarily faith that God would bring good out of a situation, not even faith that everything would work out alright. He simply had faith God knew what He was doing; and as the Almighty God He would work it all out according to His purpose.
What faith is this that trusts in God’s plan even when it brings pain and suffering with it? What kind of faith can accept the harshness of life and remain humble to God’s supreme authority? I want it. I want that kind of faith. To be able to say no matter what happens, no matter what situations, no matter tragedy, unfairness, or loss: You Are God. I want that to be enough for me.

**********

I don't even know what to say to that. Be careful what you ask for?! But really, this is what I have been clinging to. God is God. In the midst of confusion and pain, in the middle of being broken down and in a desolate, dark place, I have a found an absolute, unshakeable truth. God is God. And it is enough for me.

Stubborn

2011-11-15T10:21:00.001-08:00

I may be known for being a tad bit stubborn. But I think being stubborn is helping me through this. The day Rory died was not the hardest day of my life. Living without her, day after day after empty day, is the hardest part.

That day in the hospital, as we held her and loved on her and released her from the pain forever, was a strange day. A day full of love, stubborn hope, fear, sadness, and strangely, peace.

My stubborness could not keep Rory alive and well. But my stubborness is helping me cling to all I know to be true. There is a song by Selah called "I Will Carry You". The song is written by a family who also went through infant loss. When they told the mother her daughter would not live outside the womb, she said, “I think that my Jesus is the same as He was before I walked into this room.”

There is another song called "No Matter What" by Kerrie Roberts. This song pierced me to the core and before we had even concieved Rory, it became my anthem. An anthem of faith, of surrender, of trust. It's not an easy song to sing. But it's right. Because at the end of the day God is God.

No matter what.

Even if I never get pregnant.

Even if I miscarry.

Even if my precious Rory dies in my arms.

No matter what.

Is it faith? Or stubborness? Perhaps a bit of both.

So now that the worst has happened, my baby girl has died, my worst fear realized, my nightmare my reality - my stubbornness grits my teeth and glares Heavenward and whispers angrily, "No. Matter. What."

Late Night Theology (Alternate Title - “Will This Make Sense In The Morning?”

2011-11-07T11:24:00.000-08:00

This God stuff is a pain in the butt to work through.

I have noticed over the years that my theology has changed. I don’t think that is a bad thing. I think as we learn, we grow. As we mature, we realize that what we once thought was a cornerstone of salvation may just be a sidenote. Things we may have once been pretty much willing to fight to the death for become things you’re willing to just wait and find out once you’re in heaven with the person you disagree with. (Doesn’t stop you from imagining saying, “Haha! Told ya!” though does it?)

Anyway. The devastating event of losing Rory has forced me to once again contemplate my theology. What do I believe? What can I still believe? What is still true?

There are things that are concrete for me. God is God. God is love. God loves me. I am saved. The Trinity. Heaven.

These things are black and white for me. Other things may be a grey area, and heck, some areas are flippin’ rainbows, but I am grounded enough to know that circumstances, no matter how horrific, do not change who God is.

I’m still not pretending things are all hunky dory between God and I. Truth be told, I’m in a dark place right now. I suppose I have started talking to God. If you can call accusations, tears, questions, and simply asking, “How could You?” conversations.

But my faith is still in tact. I wouldn’t have anyone to be mad at if it weren’t. I still believe God will make it right one day. I do not believe that day will be on earth. I know it won’t be.

I think sometimes living in Western Civilization our theories get a little skewed. Our expectations of a good life are pretty high. When things go wrong we immediately want to say, “Well God has a plan!” or “This has a purpose!” or “This must be God’s will!” or something equally droll and infuriating.

What is it with us needing to think everything on this earth has a purpose? Didn’t God kinda hand over the reigns to Satan? Evil is allowed in this world. God created a perfect world, sin screwed it up and yes, Jesus came and created a way to make it right (one day) but the world is still screwed up.

I know we want to cling to that verse in Jeremiah about God having good plans and a purpose for us like a drowning man clings to driftwood, but I don’t know. Either that verse is misinterpreted, misdirected, or it is pointed to the life after this one. Because guess what? Good plans don’t involve your baby dying. Rory’s future was stolen. All the hope in the world didn’t save her. Rory being gone is not God’s perfect, good will. Bad things are allowed to happen in this world. I don’t believe God is orchestrating them. I do know sometimes he intervenes miraculously. I am also too well aware sometimes He doesn’t. I don’t know the rhyme or reason. I don’t know the formula. I doubt there is one. I do believe it makes sense to God, and whatever is left undone on this earth will be made right in Heaven.

I do know beauty can, and often does, come from ashes. But there are still ashes. I guess what I’m trying to say is, God’s ability to make good come from the bad does not make the bad, good.

Rory dying is a terrible thing. I imagine God was weeping with me. I don’t know why He didn’t stop it from happening. I know He could have. But I guess He had His reasons. But see, I don’t see His reasons as the same as His plan. I can’t imagine Him sitting up in Heaven, writing my Life Book and being all, “Oh, I know! How about we let her baby die and see what she does!”

No. But I do think that Satan has some say. He has some freedom. Maybe God isn’t the only one allowed to write in my Life Book. Maybe because of sin, Satan has some say in the evil that touches me. Or maybe it’s not even Satan himself, but just the course of sin ruining the world. Maybe the Consequence of Sin gets to write a few pages. And then God does some tearful rewrites and brings those beautiful things from those heartbreaking ashes and whispers, “I’m going to make this right in the end, child. Trust me.”

Maybe all the promises in the Bible about a good life aren’t talking about this life. Maybe it’s the privileged, less-common-than-we-think way of life we live that makes us think God is going to protect us from all the bad things, or at least most of them. But maybe the promises we try to cling to aren’t about now.

Sometimes trying to piece together my theology is like trying to do a 100 piece puzzle while only having eight pieces.

I guess in conclusion I can say I believe in the promises of the Bible. I just don’t necessarily believe I had the timeline down quite right. I believe God could have healed Rory, I know He didn’t, and I believe in Heaven I won’t even care about the why and why nots. Everything will be right and perfect. I believe we live in a broken, sinful world that spun off the right track before it had barely begun and will never spin back again. I believe I live in a little spot of the world that often forgets that.

I guess, right now I believe that God has to let sin run its course. I won’t pretend that I get why sometimes He intervenes and sometimes He doesn’t and that’s where the whole anger issue comes in. But truly, I do believe it’s His love for us that compels Him to reach down and do some damage control. I can’t wait to see the beauty that rises from these ashes.

Disclaimer: I apologize if none of this made sense. This is what you get when you try to follow the theorizing, theological brainwaves of a grieving mother. Interesting, no?

Look What I've Been Up To

2011-11-01T12:34:00.000-07:00

Sheldon's side of the closet. Complete with two IKEA PAX systems.

My side of the closet. Complete with two IKEA PAX systems. I love the pants hanger thingers. And my shoe racks. Ok, I love it all.

The middle of the closet. Yes, I have triple the amount of clothing Sheldon has. And yes, those are a bazillion stuffed cows up there.

I made it a perty entry to my perty closet.

My window seat will hopefully be getting finished soon, but I put up the window treatments while I'm waiting!

Keeping busy helps.

Can't Say Can't

2011-10-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just want to throw my hands in the air and scream,
"I CAN'T. I cannot do this."

But it seems I can, and so I do.

All the while wishing I didn't have to.

Should've...Would've... but Isn't.

2011-10-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

She would have been two months old on the 26th. I would have been posting pictures on Facebook, showing the world how much she’s grown and how quickly she was catching up. She should have had the chance to grow up.

We should be breastfeeding rockstars, getting our routine down and settling in at home. She should be keeping us up at night and cuddling on our chests. She would have loved her bassinet, her blankets, and her stuffed animals. She would have looked so cute in her cloth diapers.

She should be the reason her Daddy can’t leave the house. She would be the reason he comes home early. She should be the sun my world revolves around.

She should be here.

Should. Would. The words that color my world.

Life

2011-10-24T15:28:00.000-07:00

Rory chose to fight for her life. Victory was not guaranteed and no, it wasn’t achieved. But she fought. She wanted to live.

So how can I choose not to?

I’m not talking about suicide, for all you nervous nellies out there. I’m talking about living my life waiting to die. That’s not what Rory did.

Time and again Sheldon said Rory was just like her mom. I guess it’s my turn to be just like my daughter. I’ll fight to live. I will wrestle every good thing out of life and truly live it. Because that’s what she would’ve done.

And at the end, when it’s all over, I’ll look back on a life well spent. A life not wasted. And I’ll smile and sigh and get my “well done, good and faithful servant” and scoop Rory into my arms and smother her with kisses and we’ll reunite with family already there and wait for the rest.

I will be living my life waiting for eternity. I will be homesick. I will miss her. But the point is; I will live my life. Because she tried so hard to live hers.

Confessions of a Grieving Mama

2011-10-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

October 17

Confessions of a Grieving Mama

• I don’t know what to do without her. The past three years of my life have been all about her. Trying to conceive, getting pregnant, trying to stay pregnant, early labor, early delivery – all these things were all about her. Rory. My Rory. She was my life before she was even born.

• There are still days when I simply don’t care that I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to care about it. I don’t want to look ahead to tomorrow, to next week, to next year, when I can barely make it through the minutes of today.

• I am okay with how I am grieving. I am a person of intense emotions. Feeling things in extreme measures is not new for me. I need to feel. I don’t want to be drugged to make the emotions more manageable, the days more bearable. Yes, many times life is unbearable. But that’s the way it should be. That is the correct response. Rory is gone. For now, I need to be allowed to feel despair whenever I want to.

• Sometimes I am afraid to smile. I’m afraid to laugh or appear to have a good time. I don’t want anyone to think I’m ok with Rory being gone. I am not ok. I will never be ok. I will simply adjust and live for the day when I see her again.

• I am not on speaking terms with God. Maybe it’s because I’m angry. Maybe it’s because I’m just so sad. Or maybe it’s because I just don’t know what to say. I know it won’t last forever. It’s not that I feel disconnected, because I do somehow still feel Him. I know people are praying for me, standing in the gap and lifting me up. One day I will find my way back to prayer. I will learn to trust again. But I am not going to stand here and pretend I am unshaken. Hope has been murdered, faith has been tortured and happiness has been exiled. This is a season in my life. This is a darkness I have to walk through. I’m not going to bound through and pretend everything is fine to make other people more comfortable. I am grieving my way.

• I don’t feel the need to have a plan. A job, a career, a hobby, a time-killer – I am not ready to move on. I am beginning to feel ready to take baby steps. I’m writing this. I’m thinking about my over-due assignments. I went to a birthday party. I’m getting out of bed every day. I’m eating. I’m showering. I’m talking. I’m cleaning. For right now, that’s enough.

• Moving on. Moving forward. Just thinking about that kills me. As much as I know Rory is no longer here, thinking and planning for the future makes me feel like I am leaving her behind. No, it’s not true and no, it’s not logical, but it is how I feel. And I am entitled to that.

• I don’t want anyone to ever forget about Rory. She is so important to me. She has changed my life forever. She made me a mama. I will always be Rory’s mommy. She is a part of me.

• I do want more children. I cannot imagine my life without children. But they will never replace Rory. Rory is my firstborn. My first daughter. I would love for her to have some siblings one day. They will use her cloth diapers and share her crib just like they would have if Rory had lived. They will know about their older sister and know our family will finally be complete once we are all in heaven.

Gone

2011-10-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

October 4th

I’ve forgotten how to pray. I feel like God hates me. I know He loves me. Maybe one day what I feel and what I know will once again line up.

In some ways I feel this would be easier if I wasn’t a Christian. If I could just blame some callous deity I didn’t really believe in and direct all my pain and hurt in that direction. But the God I am angry with is my God. Though He slay me, yet will I serve Him. I can’t speak to Him at the moment, but I feel Him. He is my comfort and strength. But He is also the source of my pain.

God let my baby die. I don’t know how to process that.

I know the Sunday school answers. I know the platitudes. Sin is the reason bad things happen. We live in a broken world. God weeps with me.

It’s all crap.

Rory is gone.

I can’t reason that away. My feelings refuse to align with what I know to be true. And I’ve decided that for now, that’s perfectly alright. God has big shoulders. He can handle my deep, indescribable sadness and He is not afraid of my anger and confusion. And I am confused. I don’t understand. She was prayed into existence. A miracle baby from the start. She was prayed for during my entire pregnancy. She was prayed for when she born. When she got sick. Right up until she died.

And now people pray for me.

Sometimes I wonder what the point is. As a miracle baby, as a helpless infant who fought so hard, as an answer to prayer, as my deepest dream and most fervent desire come to life, didn’t she deserve to live? Why her? Why us? It would’ve been so easy for God to spare her. To heal her. It would have made perfect sense. My whole world was praying for her, yet somehow that didn’t matter. I’m not saying God didn’t answer some prayers. I’m not saying God didn’t answer all prayers in the end. I’m just still reeling from the fact that He said no.

why say yes in the first place? Why did I receive a miracle with an eighteen day expiration date? Why did my miracle baby suffer more in 12 days than most people will in a lifetime? Why wasn’t she protected? Why wasn’t she spared? Why wasn’t she healed? And why do I think knowing why will make any difference? Rory is gone.

I don’t know how to process that either. My whole body aches. I can almost hear it screaming, “Where is your baby?” She’s gone.

I know people will say, “At least she’s in heaven.” As if that is supposed to somehow be comforting. Yes, I guess compared to the alternative I am very happy she is in heaven. But she’s supposed to be here. With me. With Sheldon.

She’s supposed to be coming home this week.

It’s just so, so wrong. I know one day it will be made right. One day Sheldon and I will be reunited with our daughter. One day I will remember how to pray. To say my faith is unshaken would be a lie. But I still have faith. To turn away from God just because He tells you no doesn’t make sense to me. So, even though my world has been shattered, I can’t let go of the One Who is holding on to me. Even though I’m angry and afraid and sad beyond measure, I know I am safe in the beauty of grace. I miss my little girl. I miss her and all the hope and happiness she brought with her and then left with.

God promised one day He’ll make it right. I hope that day comes soon.

The Rory Story - Part III

2011-09-20T18:52:00.000-07:00

Friday, September 9

It felt like we were getting our miracle. At rounds today the doctors told us Rory was stable enough to be moved to the UofA and she would probably have surgery within 24 hours of arriving.

My stomach churned.

“Do you think they’ll let me ride with her in the ambulance?” I ask Sheldon

“Hopefully.” He says and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

We were having breakfast in the cafeteria of the hospital. We had called our parents to let them know the good news. The transport team had been arranged for. Rory would be on her way sometime today.

Or at least that’s what we thought. Nothing could have prepared us for the news we received when we walked unsuspectingly back into Rory’s room.

A doctor we had never seen before was standing over Rory. He walks over to us and introduces himself as a surgeon from the UofA. And then proceeds to tell us he will not be doing the surgery and Rory isn’t going anywhere.

Because the small bleed in her brain turned out to be not so small. In fact, it turned out to be the biggest brain hemorrhage the doctor had ever seen in an infant. The left side of her brain was completely dead. Her brain was swelling, applying pressure to the right side. And they didn’t think the bleeding was done.

All this was delivered in a rather callous five minute monologue.

Sheldon and I stood there, stunned and uncomprehending.

This cannot be happening.

As the UofA doctor left, Rory’s usual doctor and staff came up to us and apologized for us finding out this way and once again led us into the poorly named “Goldfish Conference Room” to discuss what this would mean for Rory.

(Please note I am not responsible for what I may do if I ever see a goldfish cracker. I have a sudden and probably violent aversion to all things goldfish.)

We sit in the conference room.

“Do you understand what this means?” Rory’s doctor asks.

I don’t answer. I don’t want to understand. I just want Rory to be well again.
“The bleeding in her brain is quite extensive. Operating on someone when they are bleeding internally simply means they will die on the table. They will bleed out.” The doctor explains.

“What about when it stops bleeding?” I ask desperately.

The doctor shakes his head, “To find a surgeon who would be willing to do the surgery on a baby will that much brain damage is highly unlikely. He would most likely feel it would not be in the baby’s best interest or that he was merely extending a life by a few months rather than saving it.”

This cannot be happening.

He continues, “The bowel surgery, as you know, is not just one surgery. There are multiple surgeries needed. Many tests performed. She would have to be handled and checked and poked.”

I cringe. The way her face screws up with pain any time she is assessed or change is not something I am able to ignore. Her pain medication is supplemented by boluses anytime she needs to be handled but I can still tell she is uncomfortable.

“It is not my belief that the surgery would be in her best interest. Medically there is nothing more to be done. I do not believe we can save her.” The doctor says

I nod, because they seem to be waiting for some sort of response.

“You need to think about what’s best for Rory. Maybe we should start making her more comfortable. Perhaps taking her off the ventilator and then you can hold her and treat her like a normal baby without all the tubes and wires attached.”

I stare at him, “You want us to take her off the ventilator? She’s maintaining her BP and her heart rate and she’s breathing above the ventilator. Why would we take her off? And even if we did, I don’t think she would just stop breathing.”

“No, you’re right, she’d probably keep breathing for a time. I think we just need to be focusing on keeping her comfortable.” He says.

“So we would switch her to the CPAP?” I ask

“If that’s what you choose, yes.”

We leave the room and head back to Rory. I take her hand. Her fingers slowly curl around mine. I look at her monitors. Her heart rate is fine, her blood pressure is good and she’s still taking 20-30 breaths over the ventilator.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she doesn’t seem any different if half her brain is dead. I don’t understand why they are in such a hurry to pull the plug on her.

“Why are they giving up on you, baby?” I whisper and proceed to cry all over her isolette. (*Isolette – her little incubator/bed/thing.)

Sheldon and I head back to our room trying to figure out how we are going to call our parents. We had just called them 45 minutes ago with the news Rory was heading to the UofA.

My parents turn around from their roadtrip and head back. Sheldon’s parents head in to the city.

We tell them we are thinking of taking her off the ventilator so we can hold her and so she’s more comfortable.

“If God’s going to heal her, He can do it whether or not she’s on the ventilator.”

Saturday: September 10

It wasn’t until the wee small hours of Saturday morning that I dared mention the ventilator to Rory’s nurse.

“Yes, we would take her off the ventilator and you could hold her. We would get a private room for you guys to be in and she wouldn’t have all these tubes and things attached to her so you could treat her like a normal baby.”

Wait. What?

“Take her… to our room… to… say good bye?” I ask, incredulous.

The nurse nods.

“So, if we take her off the ventilator and put her on the CPAP it is with the understanding that we are holding her for the last time and saying goodbye?”

“Yes.” The nurse answers gently, “Taking her off the ventilator would indicate you are letting her go.”

I gulp. “Oh. I didn’t realize that’s what the doctor meant. I thought he meant she would survive indefinitely on the CPAP. Not that we would be holding her for the last time and saying goodbye.”

I turn to Sheldon. “Did you know that’s what he meant?”

“No. I didn’t realize he was meaning take her off the ventilator and say goodbye.” He answers.

“I’m not ready for that. I don’t want to do that.” Panic makes my whispered voice go all squeaky.

Sheldon shakes his head vehemently. “Neither am I. I don’t get what their hurry is. She looks no different than yesterday. She opened her eyes and looked at us for 15 minutes yesterday. And what, they just want us to pull the plug and walk away? I don’t get it.”

We head back to our room to catch a few hours of sleep until it’s time to meet with the doctors again. It’s the weekend so a new doctor is on call.

“Why don’t you tell me what you understand about what Rory’s situation is?” she asks kindly.

“We understand Rory has suffered extensive brain damage. We know her having surgery is now out of the question. We realize that medically there is nothing more to be done for her. We understand she could die at any time, so everyone can stop telling us that.”

The doctor nods and cracks a smile, “Alright. That’s why I wanted you to tell me so I wouldn’t be repeating what you already know. You seem to understand the situation.”

“We are also not ready to take her off the ventilator. If she starts showing signs she is in pain and you aren’t able to manage it for her then we will make a decision then. But we just want until Monday. We want the weekend for family to come and see her. We are waiting for a miracle.”

They nod and take notes.

“If… if she has another cardiac arrest… you don’t have to try to save her.”

I don’t know where I got the strength to say those words. No one should ever have to tell someone not to save their baby.

“Leave her on the ventilator. Her stats are so good with it, we just can’t justify taking her off. Make her comfortable. Don’t let her be in pain. But if… if she’s leaving… you don’t have to try to make her stay.”

The doctor nods, “So what I’m hearing is that we won’t introduce any new treatment.”

I nod.

“We will of course manage her pain and make her as comfortable as we possibly can. But I really think you should hold her now.”

My head jerks up. “I can hold her? With the ventilator?”

“Yes. She was too sick and unstable to be held before, but now I believe the benefits, for all of you, outweigh the risks. I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been on you and she knows she hasn’t been held in over a week. She will be the most comfortable with you.”

We held her for over three hours that night.

“I guess God just wants to heal her Himself and that’s why she’s not going to the UofA.” Sheldon says hopefully, cuddling Rory to his chest.

I squeeze his hand and nod. There is always hope. We will keep hoping until the very end. God can do anything. Nothing is impossible with him.

But there was something we noticed that day. Something we could barely admit to each other.

Rory had barely opened her eyes that day and when she did, she stared blankly. For the first time we had to admit our little girl wasn’t really there the way she was yesterday. It felt like she was slipping away.

Sunday: September 11

More family came to see Rory on Sunday. They brought with them their hope and prayers for Rory. For Sheldon and I, who were watching her heart rate slow and her breaths decrease, we thought maybe God was going to save her in the eleventh hour. Then no one could say it wasn’t God who saved Rory.

By the evening Rory had stopped taking breaths on her own. She was relying completely on her ventilator. When she settled on my chest that night, she started breathing again for about an hour before it was too much for her and she went back to relying on the ventilator.

Sheldon and I took turns holding her all that night. I sang her lullabies and we read her stories. We napped restlessly and watched her monitors. We hoped. We prayed. We waited for our miracle. We watched helplessly as her heart rate dropped to below 100. (When well it has been between 140-160 and just a few days ago it had been 120-140)

She did not react when she was transferred between us. She didn’t try to wrap her hand around our fingers. In many ways, it felt like she was already gone. We had asked God to make it perfectly clear to us if we were supposed to let her go. Our hearts were breaking as we received our answer.

This could not be happening. I remembered Sheldon hugging me tight and telling me, “She’s going to be ok. She has to be. God wouldn’t do this to you.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about Job. I couldn’t stop thinking God gives and takes away. I couldn’t stop thinking about how we can’t boss God around and how He does things no one understands.

Oh God, are you really going to do this to me? Are you taking her back?

It didn’t feel like we were going to get our miracle. But as fragile as hope is, it’s hard to kill. And we had to have something to hang on to.

Monday: September 12

We didn’t want it to, but Monday morning came. Rory continued to rely completely on the ventilator and have a low heart beat. No miracle had happened in the few hours of sleep we had tried to catch.

“We’re ready.” We told the team, and they began to prepare to bring Rory to us in our room.

What a lie. We weren’t ready. We would never have been ready. You cannot ever be ready to say goodbye to your child. But we couldn’t just let her lie there, alone and isolated in her little bed. We couldn’t just watch her deteriorate and slip away without someone holding her. We were keeping her alive without truly knowing how much pain she was in or how much of her was even still here.

It was time. Either we were getting a miracle or Rory was leaving. Either way, it was time.

They brought her to us. I wanted to hold her, skin to skin. So we did. They laid her on me and wrapped blankets around us. The ventilator came with her into the room. They left her hooked up to it and left Sheldon and I alone with her.

We read to her. We sang to her. We talked to her. We held her tiny little hands and teased her about her big feet. We cried over her. We prayed.

We called the team back in. I wrapped my hands around her tiny body and held her close while they took the ventilator tube out. They left the room. I heard Sheldon whisper brokenly, “It’s not too late, God.”

We held her and cried.

She had only taken two breaths once the ventilation was removed. She was gone. All of the pain that had creased and wrinkled her face in ways I hadn’t even noticed was gone. Rory was completely pain free. Happy, comfortable, and peaceful. She had been healed. Just not in the way we had begged for.

Rory was our miracle. I could never go back and choose not to have known her. Even if I had known she was just on loan for eighteen days I could never choose not to have her. She was our miracle baby and she always will be.

We miss her. We would give anything to have her back. But at least we know we will see her again. She’s in heaven, terrorizing the angels and being super cute and waiting for her mommy and daddy. And let me tell you, we cannot wait.

P.S. Dear angels, I did tell Rory not to pull on your wings, but… I also told her she wasn’t allowed to be born yet and… well, we all know how well that worked out.

The Rory Story - Part II

2011-09-08T16:47:00.000-07:00

Friday and Saturday: September 2 – September 3

Everything happened so suddenly. One minute it seemed as though Rory would be breaking records for getting out of the NICU early and the next we were forced to face the possibility of losing her.

Sheldon and I had gone home Thursday night after Sheldon had held Rory for the first time. I wanted to get my nails done quick Friday morning and get back to her. It sounds so trite now, but I wanted my nails nice and short because I was handling her more. Changing her diaper, wiping her face, and giving sponge baths.

Friday morning at 7:30am I got a phone call. Rory wasn’t acting like herself. She was irritable and seemed to have a tummy ache. With a sigh I relayed the message to Sheldon, saying it looked like Rory was going to have “one of those preemie bad days” and I probably wouldn’t be able to hold her that day. I went to my appointment and called the nurses a couple of times to see how she was doing. They told me they were taking her off of her feeds and she just wasn’t acting like herself.

I had planned on doing some errands before heading in, but I decided to head straight to the hospital. As I walked into her pod I was shocked to find at least eight people by her bedside. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my cry of alarm and stood still, watching and waiting.

They finally noticed me.

“We are putting her on a higher ventilation machine. She wasn’t getting enough oxygen with the other one. We had to re-intubate her as well. This machine shakes her a little a bit to get the carbon dioxide out of her blood.” They explained

But... but... Sheldon had just held her last night with her on low-flow oxygen. I had held her for hours yesterday morning with the CPAP. What happened?

I left the room to call Sheldon.

“She’s bad.” I whispered, still in disbelief.

“I’m coming.” He replied.

The volume of people around her bed did not go down. I saw her belly, looking incredibly distended and sore. Her belly was practically glowing. The skin was stretched so tight her tiny veins looked huge. Tubes and I.V.’s surrounded her. She looked sick. Very sick. Was this even the same baby?

I’m not even sure what happened in the next couple hours. Her alarms kept going off and people were huddled up discussing things in hushed voices.

“When will your husband be here?” the doctor asks me

“He just called. He’s in Morinville. He should be here really soon.” I answer

“Can you come with me please? We need to talk to you.”

Dread floods my veins. He holds the door open and I walk woodenly down the hall with him and a nurse. As they open the door to a tiny conference room I want nothing more than to run away. I don’t want to know what they are going to say.

I sit. I can feel their sympathetic eyes on me. I’m concentrating on breathing. I don’t want to cry. Tears slip silently down my cheeks anyways.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says, “This doesn’t usually happen so fast. And it doesn’t usually happen in babies this size. Usually it’s smaller babies.” She shakes her head sadly.

“We think it’s either an infection of the blood or an infection of the bowels. It could be necrotizing enterocolitis. I think it is something to do with her bowels because her stomach is so distended. Whatever it is, it is very, very serious. She is very, very sick.” He pauses and looks straight into my eyes. “She could die.”

His words paralyze me. I can almost feel them coming at me and I want to somehow dodge them, to somehow make them unsaid. He is waiting for a response. His eyes are kind, sympathetic, and sad. His cruel words and his eyes don’t match.

I nod slowly. He is a medical professional. It’s his job to prepare people for the worst. I risk a glance at the nurse. She’s looking at me with those same solemn, sympathetic eyes.

I swallow hard. They think my baby is going to die. They knew Sheldon was only twenty minutes away and they chose to take me in here and tell me this because they aren’t sure if she will still be here when he arrives.

There is nothing more to be said. I return to Rory’s side. Rory’s nurse, Valerie, comes to my side.

“I’m not sure what your religious background is...” she begins.

“We are Christians.” I whisper

“We do have pastors on hand who can come and perform a baptism...” she trails off as I shake my head.

“We don’t do baby baptisms.” I say simply.

They all think she’s going to die.

I cover my face with my hands and a ragged, sharp gasp of agony bursts out.

“Jodi!” Valerie calls helplessly and the nurse who was with me in the room comes and puts her arm around me.

“I’m so sorry. This doesn’t usually happen.”

I regain my composure. I leave the room to go call Sheldon again.

Frustration rings in his voice as he tells me he is stuck in traffic and he’s trying his best to get there.

I say nothing. How can I tell him what they told me? How will I ever be able to tell him?

I return to her bedside. A social services lady comes in the room. She is much too cheerful and smiley for my liking. She again mentions the baby baptism. I resist the urge to start shouting at people to shut up about baptisms. It’s like planning a funeral while she’s still alive. She sits and talks for awhile. I have no idea what she said. I remember nodding and trying to smile politely.

I’m standing by her bedside when I feel a hand touch my arm. I jump and spin around. It’s Sheldon. I fall into his arms and burst out, “They told me she could die.”

His arms simply tighten.

We wait. She is not stable. No one can seem to resist telling us how serious and critical her condition is.

The hospital staff assign a family room across the hall from the NICU. They want us close by. Just in case.

Finally around one o’clock in the morning we leave her side and collapse on to bed. I close my eyes and suddenly its six hours later. We go to her room and find she is worse than the day before. She is scarily unstable. She is very, very sick. The doctors and nurses walk around with furrowed brows and sympathetic eyes.

We are in our room talking when the phone rings. I answer.

“You need to come. She’s worse.”

“We’re coming.” I say and we run out the door.

By the time we reach her room there are at least half a dozen people surrounding her. Alarms are blaring and people are talking loudly to one another.

“Apply pressure!”

“Get me calcium!”

“She’s crashing! She’s crashing!”

Sheldon and I stand by a pillar. Sheldon locks trembling arms around me as my legs start shaking. They are performing CPR on my baby.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. I’ve forgotten how to pray. I can only repeat that over and over.

“She’s back.” Someone says. The alarms are silenced and the staff works to resume some sort of stability for Rory.

More waiting. More meetings. More bad news. More warnings. We know no one expects her to make it. We are grasping at faith with fearful hearts. I want everyone in the world praying for my baby. Surely God can’t ignore the combined prayers of believers asking for the same thing. Save Rory. Heal Rory.

Lunchtime arrives. Eating seems ridiculous, but we need to keep up our strength. We decide Sheldon will go find some lunch, eat, and then bring something for me to our room. Then he will stay with Rory while I eat.

The nurses scrub up and make preparations to change an I.V. I pull up a chair beside Rory. Suddenly an alarm starts blaring.

“She’s brading!” (*brading – heart rate is dropping – short for bradycardia.)

“What on earth?” the head nurse says in disbelief

I stand and take a step back as suddenly a team of medical staff arrives and surrounds her.

“There’s no hearbeat!”

“Apply pressure!”

Rory’s nurse, Valerie, takes a hold of Rory’s tiny chest and starts doing CPR again.

My world is spinning. Then I realize Sheldon’s not here.

I dart to a phone and am about to pick up the receiver when Sheldon comes running in. Another nurse had gone to find him. “They can’t find a heartbeat.” I tell him as we once again stand by the pillar by her bed, using it to prop ourselves up as they fight to bring her back.

She came back for the second time that day.

The surgeon from the UofA came in and put a small drain into Rory’s distended abdomen to take the pressure off and drain the icky-ness seeping from her bowels.

Saturday was a day I would never wish upon anyone.

Sunday: September 4

The downward spiral came to an abrupt stop on Sunday. Rory found her groove and started to stabilize. I held her hand while they did an assessment and for the first time her vital signs didn’t drop while they handled her.

The doctors had been afraid of kidney failure. She hadn’t peed for so long. All of facebook seemed to be praying for Rory to pee. She did and she hasn’t stopped.

A name was given for her distended tummy. Necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC). Her bowels are very, very sick. At this point they don’t know why it happened. NEC doesn’t usually happen in babies of her gestational age, nor in babies her weight. It could be her body suddenly couldn’t handle the milk (although she was almost up to 12 ml every two hours) or it could be an issue of infected blood or blood clotting that cut off the oxygen to her bowels, causing them to stop working.

They told us she needed an operation she was too sick to have. She wouldn’t survive the transport let alone the anaesthetic.

But she started to regulate her blood pressure and keep stable. At the very least, she had stopped deteriorating and was facing the right direction.

Monday: September 5

Monday brought about more improvements. Rory continued to pee, regulate her blood pressure and rely less on the ventilator. They started weaning her off of her blood pressure drugs as she seemed to be improving.

An x-ray showed her lungs and heart had recovered. Her peeing showed her kidneys were functioning.

“It’s quite surprising that her organs were able to recover if her bowels have as much damage as I suspect.” The doctor mused

Sheldon and I smile. So many people are praying for our baby girl, it’s not really surprising to us.

“She’s improving.” He admits and smiles at us.

He immediately goes into a long list of complications and possibilities and scenarios, but something has happened to both Sheldon and I over the weekend. It’s like our faith muscles had been through an intense work-out and were strengthened. We prayed for more faith and received it. When we felt hopelessness crowding in we could feel the prayers of our friends and family (and of people we don’t even know) upholding us and keeping the faith when our grip seemed to be slipping.

She’s improving.

Sheldon drew me in for a hug and whispered in my ear, “Our little girl is going to be okay.”

Tuesday – September 6

I keep hearing the words, “It’s quite surprising...” and “That’s rather unusual...” and “We don’t usually see...”

Rory keeps on surprising the doctors with her resilience and determination to keep improving.

Her belly is not as distended now, but due to the massive amount of swelling over the weekend she is blue from neck to groin from bruising caused by the skin stretching. She is the most beautiful little blueberry.

Finally the doctors have changed their tone and stopped warning us she may not make it through another day. They elude to the future. They are thinking she will be transferred to the UofA any day now.

God is working on my baby girl and I know He’s not finished yet.

Around nine o’clock that night Sheldon and I went in to see Rory. A new nurse was on duty and had just finished an assessment and diaper change.

She nonchalantly said, “I just have to go weigh the amount of pee and stool in the diaper.”

I stared at her, “Stool? As in poop?”

“Uhm, yes...”

“From...” I can’t seem to articulate anything.

“...her...bum...” the nurse finishes hesitantly.

“But her bowels aren’t working.” I reply, willing her to understand the situation.

“Oh, well, it came out when I was changing her bum and it’s probably been there all along since she was healthy and it just came out now.”

Right.

We heard the doctors opinion of this today (Wednesday). They looked surprised, offered vague explanations of that little poop being there from when she was well and just working its way out, and proclaimed it “Unusual but not unheard of.”

Fair enough. I wonder what God is up to.

Wednesday: September 7

A brain ultrasound found bleeding in Rory’s brain today. On closer examination the doctors believe Rory suffered a stroke from a blood clot blocking flow to her brain. This discovery makes them think maybe a blood clot in her abdomen started this whole mess in the first place.

Tomorrow another brain ultrasound will be done. We are praying God simply heals her brain and the doctors find an unexplainable, healthy brain with no damage.

They have told us Rory is at high risk for developmental and physical handicaps due to the stroke. For some reason this news didn’t really rock our world. Sheldon and I nodded calmly. When we discussed it later we found we were thinking the same thing.

Just one more thing for God to heal for His glory.

Thursday: September 8

Rory has been switched over to a different non-high frequency ventilator. She not only is tolerating it, she’s telling everyone she loves it. They are giving her 50 breaths per minute and she is breathing up to 30 breaths above that one her own. She’s keeping her blood pressure stable and one of her BP medications has been weaned off.

It looks like tomorrow we will be heading to the UofA if everything goes according to plan and Rory has a good night.

This little girl has changed our lives. She’s changing everything. We know God is at work in her life, but we see Him at work in our own hearts and even in the hearts of the people praying for her.

God is good all the time.

Please continue to pray for complete healing.

The Rory Story

2011-09-01T23:12:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t until they were loading me into the ambulance that I truly believed I was having a baby. Up until that point I had believed they could do something, anything, to stop the labor. But now the contractions melded into one another, filling my body with pain and my heart with fear. It’s too soon, much too soon.

I suppose it all started three weeks when I began having Braxton Hicks. As time progressed I had more through-out the day and they began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. I had a doctor appointment on a Wednesday of the following week and mentioned it to the doctor.

My doctor had been on holidays for two months and so I was seeing another doctor. We shall call him Dr. Nobody to protect the not-so-innocent.

Upon telling him I had uncomfortable Braxton Hicks, especially when I was doing any sort of activity, Dr. Nobody's reply was to mumble something like, “Well then lie down.”

Ok then.

“I feel like I’m running out of room.” I told him, referring to my bicornuate uterus and the resulting cramped housing for Bean.

“Shit happens.”

His reply shocked me into silence. I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t even want to know what he would say if I said I was feeling strange.

The following day Sheldon was going with his parents to tour the countryside and look at some pieces of equipment. I decided to tag along. Through-out the day I was feeling crampy and uncomfortable, but that was nothing new, so I basically just ignored it. Well, I ignored it until I could ignore it no more.

As the afternoon progressed I started feeling it more and more. Sheldon kept looking at me and asking me if I was ok.

“Of course I’m ok. I’m only 30 ½ weeks along. Everything is fine. Braxton Hicks are normal.”

Before long it became apparent to my in-laws that I was in a considerable amount of pain. Mom Blum kept asking me if I needed to go to the hospital.

“No, I don’t need to go to the hospital because I am not in labor.” I insisted, as if sheer stubbornness could stop what was about to happen.

By seven o’clock we were almost in Westlock I finally decided that maybe, just maybe I should be timing these cramps. To my dismay, I discovered they were seven minutes apart.
“If these things are practice contractions, I’m going to flippin’ die.”

We pass by the hospital in Westlock and Dad Blum glances in the rearview mirror, “Do I need to pull in?”

“No, no. I’ll just keep counting and see if they really are coming at regular intervals.”

We stopped at Boston Pizza and sat down to order. I was still counting and the contractions were still coming right on time. I’m fighting another contraction along with a wave of panic and I burst into tears. Before I know it, keys are being shoved into Sheldon’s hands and I’m being escorted to the hospital.

“This is not happening.” I inform Sheldon.

He says nothing.

It’s around 8:30 by the time we are seen at the hospital. I’m hooked up to a stress test and a doctor comes in to run a test to see if I’m in preterm labor and to check me.

“Your cervix is opening a little.” The doctor says. “We just have to wait to get the results back from the test then we will see what we have to do.”

I already know what they have to do. They have to stop whatever is happening. I refuse to call them contractions and I refuse to say the word labor. I am not having this baby right now.

From nine until ten, my contractions are coming every five minutes. Sheldon stays by my side offering to let me squeeze his hand. I don’t. All I can do is lie there and try to breath. I’m getting tired of the pain. I want to ask for drugs, for an epidural, but who needs an epidural if they aren’t in labor?

The nurse comes to check on me. She sees the contractions are more intense and coming closer together. “We’re just waiting on the test…”

Finally, around 10:30, the doctor comes in.

“The test came back positive. You are at high risk of preterm delivery.”

I say nothing. I can’t. I’ve just had two contractions back-to-back. I squeeze my eyes shut, forbidding the tears. Maybe they can still stop it.

“We’re calling the ambulance. We don’t have the facilities to take care of your baby. We are going to take you to the Royal Alexander Hospital.”

The one doctor leaves to make the phone call.

We wait for the ambulance. I call my Mom. Sheldon calls his parents.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I whisper in between contractions.

Sheldon looks helplessly at me.

The ambulance arrives and two paramedics come in. The are talking to me, asking questions about my pain level and if I feel pressure. I ignore them and their stupid questions and concentrate on breathing through another contraction.

When I get to the Royal Alex maybe I can have an epidural. Epidurals sometimes slow down labor, right? Maybe they can stop this.

A different doctor comes in. He checks me again as a contraction subsides.

“She’s six centimeters dilated. I can feel the head.”

The head?! Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is not happening.

I manage to scoot myself on to their stretcher. It is decided that Sheldon will follow behind in the truck and meet us at the Royal Alex so he has a vehicle.

They load me up into the ambulance and the doctor hops in.

“Coming along, doc?” asks the paramedic.

The doctor just nods and grabs a bag with the words “Emergency Delivery” on it.

Crap.

It’s hard to panic and breath at the same time, so I opt for breathing. The paramedic stands by my head and tells me I’m doing good, just keep breathing.

I am not doing good. Apparently I am having a baby at 30 weeks. That is not good.

“Let us know if you have to push.” The paramedic says.

Push. I am not going to push. We are not at a hospital that can help my baby. I am definitely not going to…

“I think I have to push!” I suddenly cry out and panic wins.

“Keep breathing, keep breathing.” The paramedic says.

“Try not to push.” Says the doctor.

Ok. Ok. Try not to push. Try not to push?! I didn’t even know I knew how to push!

Breath, breath, breath.

“I think I’m gonna – ” I’m interrupted by my body taking over. I struggle to stop pushing but as the contraction eases I realize I have no control.

The doctor straddles my bed and unstraps me, checking me again.

I can hear myself saying “No, no, no.” and struggle against him.

With a tone of resignation the doctor tells the paramedic, “She’s fully dilated. I can see the head.”

No, no, no.

“Try to get us to the Sturgeon in St. Albert. We aren’t going to make it to the Royal Alex.

Seriously? Sheldon is most definitely heading towards the Royal Alex. The paramedic tries to get a hold of him.

I’m pushing because I can’t help it. After every push I’m whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I can’t have this baby yet. This baby needs medical help this ambulance doesn’t have. I can’t push. I can’t.

My body isn’t listening.

Suddenly my water breaks and with one last push it’s over. There is micro second of instant relief. The pain is gone. But almost instantly waves of panic wash over me. I am acutely aware of the silence, of the harried movements of both the paramedic and the doctor as they murmur to one another.

How could I? How could I push the baby out before we got to the hospital.

“God please save my baby. God please save my baby.” I repeat this over and over out loud as fear and shock wash over me.

I refuse to look over at what they are doing. I don’t know what I’ll see.

The paramedic leans over me, “I know we’re ignoring you right now. We’re just working on your baby.”

I look straight into his eyes. “Is it alive?”

He looks surprised, “Yes.”

I shudder with relief and get the courage to look over. I see the tiniest little ear. The doctor has a mask over the face and is pumping air.

“What is it?”

“Let me check.”

The paramedic leans over to see and I fully expect in that moment to hear it is a boy.

“It’s a little girl!” he says.

Surprise and then joy fill my heart.

A little girl. I hear a small mewling sound. She is crying. I’m filled with wonder. I know her crying is a good sign.

They decide the time of birth was 12:05am. I find myself wondering what the date is.

All at once we are there and the doctor is jumping out of the ambulance. The paramedics are unloading me and wheeling me through the corridors of the hospital.

“Massage your tummy.” The paramedics encourage, “The placenta needs to come out.”

Right. The placenta. Because I just had a baby.

Wait a minute. Where is Sheldon?

“I haven’t got a hold of him yet. I left a message.” The paramedic says.

A message. How bizarre.

I’m transferred into a bed and a young nurse comes in. She’s kind and gentle and within moments the placenta in delivered and I’m waiting for Sheldon to make an appearance. A nurse pokes her head in, “Your little girl is doing good.”

My little girl.

Finally Sheldon arrives and a doctor comes in to take a look at me and stitch up a small tear.

I learn they are taking my little girl to the Royal Alex and they probably won’t bring her up before they go. I plead with the nurses to let me see her before she goes and since I’m feeling so good, not bleeding much and rather chipper, they bundle me in blankets, get me a wheelchair and wheel me down to meet my daughter.

Sheldon met her when he arrived. The nurses from the Royal Alex were there, getting ready to transfer her.
My eyes fill with tears as I look at her.

Is she really mine?

“She’s so small.” I say, feeling as if I’m in a dream

“Yep! 2 lbs 14 oz!” they reply

“I wanted to see her before she went. All I saw in the ambulance was her ear.”

Such a tiny, tiny ear.

Before I knew it they were loading her up and I was taken back to my room. I took a quick shower and started the rather daunting task of becoming friendly with a breast pump.

The doctor came in and upon discovering how well I was feeling, informed me that he was discharging me at 5:00am so that I could follow my baby over to the Royal Alex. At that time it was 3:00am on August 26th. .

I love that doctor.

I try to rest. Sheldon zonks out in the chair. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m already dreaming. Nothing seems real.

At 5:30am we are discharged and on our way to the Royal Alex.

“Her name is Rory, isn’t it?” I ask Sheldon

He smiles and nods.

Rory Rose Blum.

So that is the Rory Story! Rory is doing amazing. They took out her intubation tube the same day she was born. She is only on a CPAP machine and when we hold her she goes on low-flow oxygen. All the nurses call her the feisty one. She has no trouble letting people know when she is unhappy.

We are doing lots of kangaroo care and taking one day at a time. We are hoping to be home by Thanksgiving.

Katie's Crazy

2011-07-21T14:35:00.000-07:00

I've decided that blogger is dumb because it won't let me reply specifically to someone's comment. That or I'm too dumb to figure out how.

Also, guess what I did today? I ORDERED CLOTH DIAPERS. Really, it is completely crazy for someone to be as obsessed as I've been lately regarding diapers. I can't stop googling. But I found some (hopefully...) FABULOUS ones that my sistet's friend uses on her baby, for less than half the price of other cloth diapers. And they come in super cute prints. EVEN COW ONES. yAy! And they really are not scary at all. I can totally cloth diaper. Well. I can if the diaper is one of those new all in one, basically the only difference is wash it instead of throw it away, ones. I am not a foldy, foldy, pinny, pinny, plastic covering type girl. No. Wanna see, wanna see? clothbytel.com Squee!

I feel like a ball of nervous energy. That may not be the best way to describe it, because I don't feel like I'm stressing. I do however think of this baby every second of every day. My mind is so full of what I want to do, what I'd like to do, getting the house in order, organizing and being SUPER PREPARED.

I really don't know who I am anymore. Sometimes it's a bit frightening.

I started a sentence last night with, "So!..." and Sheldon stopped and looked at me and asked, "Are you gonna start talking about diapers again?"

Well. I was.

I think I may have a problem.

Then at 12:30 last night we're laying in bed and all the sudden I start asking him if he can build something to go in the china cabinet to I can rearrange my souvenir shot glasses and whether or not he thinks certain shelves will "go" in the living room or if the wood is the wrong color.

I think by the time this baby comes I'm going to have driven MYSELF crazy, nevermind Sheldon.

BUT I'M SO HAPPY.

It's exhausting.

*happy sigh*

SQUEE

2011-07-14T11:53:00.000-07:00

YOU GUYS. Guess what, guess what, guess what! In like, 15 weeks *I* am going to have a baby.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

A baby, a baby, a baby for meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

So yes, very excited. But also, uhm... terrified. I keep telling Sheldon, "Y'know when we are holding babies and they start to cry and we hand them back to their mothers? PEOPLE ARE GOING TO BE DOING THAT TO US."

I also told him, "I'm kinda scared of my baby."
Him - "What??"
Me - "They are little. What if I drop it? Or it won't stop crying. Or it doesn't like me? Or I don't like it??"
Him - "You're crazy."

Well, yeah.

Lately, since two days ago, I've been going into nesting mode. Sigh. I am not a good housekeeper. And I am messily organized. Apparently the impending arrival of Bean is changing all that. But hey, it's the motivation I need to get everything where it's supposed to be. Sheldon may be spending more time outside as I may, uhm, possibly be making to-do lists for him. :D

I sat down and made a list of all the newborn stuff I'm going to need for baby. Things I am going to use and want before any baby showers are had. I know my mom-in-law wants to buy us some stuff, so I am compiling a Baby Bean Wish List. I basically sat down and visualized taking Bean home from the hospital, changing Bean, bathing Bean, breast-feeding Bean, putting Bean down for a nap - and all the things I would need in order to do that.

SQUEE.

Oh and I've lapsed into a new stage of weirdness. Now the taking care of a newborn portion of my book freaks me out more than the labor section.

...hmm?

2011-07-07T16:54:00.000-07:00

Hello!

So. Uhm. Yes. I have post ideas. Things I've been meaning to write about. But I have not.

I will soon be writing about this year and how it is basically a year of experimenting with faith for Sheldon and me. Pretty scary and exciting and well, cool.

Also, an upcoming rant about a pet peeve of mine that is becoming bigger and bigger. And you know what it is? People saying "Oh my God." Yeah. I know. Some may think I'm insane. Or nit picky. Or too religious. Blah blah blah. But you know what? Soon I will have a child learning to speak. I'd rather not hear OMG every time I turn around. It's irritating.

ALSO, a..well... I guess it would be a rant about how it seems everyone else is allowed to post, talk, rant, stand-up-for ect. for what they believe or do not believe in. Such as abortion or gay marriage or other controversial issues in which the "open minded" are supposed to condone everything. And you know what? Everyone IS entitled to their say. HOWEVER. *I* am allowed to say I don't believe in abortion, that I don't agree with gay marriage and that I think allowing teen sex is ridiculous. If others are allowed to be all gung ho about it, which they are, then I am allowed to not like it. People are all about rights until someone disagrees with them. If people think I'm stupid for believing the way I do, well guess what? Right back atcha. If I can keep myself from calling you (them...) names then you can do the same for me. You want me to be gracious with yours views? THEN BE GRACIOUS WITH MINE. Anyways. I may not have to write this particular post anymore... because I think I just did. Oops.

Also, I'm thinking about my sister today. She had a cyst rupture, lost an insane amount of blood, and ended up miscarrying in very early pregnancy. She has two IV's in her arms to keep her hydrated and has had four bags of blood. That just goes to show how much she lost. She way dying. It's so scary to think that. Mom is looking after the little dude, and I have the three year old here with me. Hopefully Sister is able to come home tomorrow.

A grouchy ranting venting hormonal rant. Enjoy.

2011-06-04T21:48:00.001-07:00

I am so grouchy today.

SO grouchy.

I feel like I’ve been running around like a crazy person – AND OHMYGOSH PIPPIN STOP SQUEAKING THAT BALL BEFORE I TURN YOU INTO A PAIR OF SLIPPERS – ahem. As I was saying. Uhm. Busy. Running. Tired. Felt like crap yesterday. Had to get up early today. For a good reason.

I will take a moment from my grumpiness to exult about my new camper we picked up. A 2008 Starwood fifth wheel camper. We be high fallutin’ farmers. We are now wussy camping in style. I am thrilled. We also got to go shopping to stock the trailer… which was supposed to be fun… and it was some of the time.

Minus not being able to find what I wanted at Walmart and storming around the storm cursing the stockers for not stocking shelves in any logical manner. Luckily I found what I wanted at Canadian Tire. Though at both places I had to wait (I know. I had to wait. My life is terrible, no?) at the counter because of course, something we pick up doesn’t have a sticker price on it. So let’s stand there and call someone, and then that someone takes a year to get back to you and then I finally decide to just GO DO IT MY BLANKITY BLANK SELF. Ugh. You know what I say? If you have failed to properly mark your merchandise – TO FRIKKEN BAD – it’s free, it’s mine, you suck, goodbye.

Also, I’m swearing off McDonalds for the duration of my pregnancy. Let’s just say there were some harrowing moments when I was not sure I was going to make it to a bathroom. And using public bathrooms in… emergencies… is just ever so fun. So, yeah, thanks for that McDonalds.

AND, city drivers – is there something wrong with your signal light? I swear the next person who does not signal, I’m going to go all The Rock on them and take a bat to their lights seeing as they aren’t using them anyway.

Oh, and I have an idea, how about people NOT talk on cell phones whilst in a public washroom stall. Because, really? Ew. AND WASH YOUR HANDS.

And Porky, P.S. a moving vehicle means move away, not towards, said vehicle. Thanks for giving me a flipping heart attack and making me forget I’m pregnant and start running and screaming and using up my energy for the next ten years. I’m not sure I even love you right now.

Pippin. You are loud. That’s all.

Polar and Pepper. You guys are the most freakin annoying, needy dogs I have ever met. I realize I don’t take a lot of time out of my day to pet you, but have you ever thought that’s because you are annoying to pet? I try to pay you attention and you start pawing at me, and trying to grab hold of my sleeve so I never leave and just being generally annoying. I am far too needy myself to deal with you. In short, LEAVE ME ALONE.

Also, WHY is my house always a pigsty? You’d think I’d learn to clean up the little messes but no. I just wait until it’s all gone to crap and then spend hours cleaning. Ugh. Of course, it doesn’t help when you are only home here and there and piles just keep getting shifted because you don’t have time to go through them but FRACK. UGH.

I think I need to go visit my punching bag.

Well thanks for tuning in to my hormonal rage rant. It kinda made me smile writing it. Of course, I have no desire to smile right now, because hello – I’m grouchy, and rather enjoying it.

Of Bean and Brain Cells

2011-05-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Bean,

While I felt prepared for the havoc you are/about to wreak on my body, well, nothing can really prepare you for that first pregnancy. And that's the way it should be. I'm good with that. I know you are going to awaken faded stretch marks and turn them purple. I know you are going to relocate my center of balance (which was never that great in the first place). I know that soon enough, my hips will start to prepare for delivery and they will start to ache and my back will start to ache. I know there's a good chance my feet will swell and I will wonder what growing a baby has to do with my thighs getting bigger. I know I have you to thank for the surplus of goat hair on my chin, for the acne flare ups and for constant desire to nap. Of course, I may not feel the need to nap so much if you weren't causing me to get up at least twice in the night to pee.

But that's to be expected. And honestly, little Bean, I don't mind. I wanted you for so long, you can pretty much do whatever. I'm kinda sad that my boobs will never be the same. (P.S. I didn't really need any help in that department... but uhm... thanks anyways, I guess.) I will breastfeed you and endure the saggy boob syndrome until I'm done having your siblings and we're rich enough to hike them up off my knees and staple them to my chest where they belong.

I'm not really complaining about any of these things. How could I? You are my baby. All mine. Well, you are your Daddy's too, I suppose. I haven't even met you yet and I know you will be more than worth it. This is a dream come true. Sometimes I can't help but smile when I'm not feeling good, or tired, or feeling fat, or even in pain... because I know you are in there. You are forming and growing and getting ready to be my own personal answer to years of praying.

So basically, love you lots, little Bean. It'll be interesting to see what you do to me during this pregnancy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love, Mom

P.S. Ok. That may be a lie. There is one thing. One little thing. My brain cells. I really don't understand why you being in my tummy is making me dumb, but it is. I start sentences and trail off because I have no idea what I was talking about. I miss things completely. Things go completely over my head. Sometimes I can feel my own brain skipping and reeling and I'm like, "whoa. I. Am. Dumb." And the worst part is, other mother's tell me babies don't even give the brain cells back once they are born. So not nice! I had my blonde moments and laughably idiotic times before... but I definitely do not need "Baby Brain" to make it worse. So if you must use my brain cells for...whatever... could you at least give them back when you are done?

Oh, the joys...

2011-05-05T17:28:00.000-07:00

So much to say. So much to tell! Where do I start? For starters, April was a month of insanity. There were church building celebration suppers, charity concerts, doctors appointments, my birthday, Leanne and Bryce over for a few days, Easter dinner at my house, big Blum Easter on Sunday, equipment hunting all over the country-side, family dinners in the city, River Dance, a pregnancy spa with Larissa, ultrasounds… and that’s all from the top of my head.

The past few days have been full of some much needed relaxation. I had a pretty rough week last week. As mentioned before, I had some spotting during week nine. I had a doctors appointment and ultrasound and everything was hunky dory, and no explanation was really given. The spotting was brown in color, which means it is old blood, and thus, not that bad.

On Friday I noticed some discomfort in my lower abdomen. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. It wasn’t pain. I had been “brown smudge spotting” for a few days, but there really wasn’t much to speak of and I had already been told not to worry about it unless it turned red.

Saturday morning that discomfort level rose, and by the afternoon I was cramping painfully and the spotting had turned red. I didn’t freak out, my sense diagnosis was that the left, empty side of my uterus was attempting to give me a period and all the joys that went with it. I did enjoy Riverdance and a meal at the Keg with my parents, but by the evening I had called Chelsey to cancel on helping set up for a bridal shower the next day and sleeping over in the city. Sheldon and I decided to stop at the hospital on the way home. I was thinking it was more “me” having issues that anything being wrong with Bean – but self-diagnosis based on nothing but internet research and a gut feeling is not the way to a healthy pregnancy, so we stopped for a professional opinion.

Upon arrival, we were escorted rather quickly to the back and waiting for the doctor. The doctor on call was not my doctor and he said that bleeding with my abnormal uterus is quite normal and proceeded to look for the baby’s heartbeat. I swear those are the longest ten minutes of my life. He went and got a bigger, supposedly better, machine to try to track it down. Bean wasn’t cooperating. The doctor told me he was scheduling me for an emergency ultrasound, but that he was pretty sure he heard the heartbeat twice, it was just that baby was moving around too much to get a good reading.

Alright. Fine.

Saturday night and Sunday as well as Sunday night were pure hell. I have never been in that much pain in my life. Kudos to all the girls who have horrific cramping during PMS. I rarely did, and on the occasion when I did, I called up my sister, asked her if this was normal, pretty much OD’d on Midol, and went to bed with a hot water bottle.

Well, guess what? Pregnancy and drugs don’t mix too well. And since they warn against hot tubs, Jacuzzis and warm baths because you don’t want to raise the baby’s body temperature, I’m pretty sure that pressing a hot water bottle against Baby’s hotel would be somewhat frowned upon.
So. Yes. Excruciating, immobilizing cramps… for two days without drugs. Feel sorry for me. I know I do.

Monday morning I got a phonecall from Barrhead. Their ultrasound room is too booked up for emergencies so it’s off to Edmonton I go. Sigh. Barrhead is so well equipped to handle high risk pregnancies, don’t ya think?

As I thought, Bean was perfectly fine, swimming around, wondering why people were once again poking and prodding at his/her little home.

All I know is I have a lot to discuss with my doctor on the 19th. I am going to make him discuss my risks with me! I am not one of those people who are going to freak out about what could happen. I am well aware of the risks associated with my condition…(s)… I am not really all that worried. I am more worried that he, the doctor, does not know how to handle my condition, more so than my actual condition. I’m not certain if that sentence made any sense, but I’m too lazy to try to rewrite it.

Tuesday and Wednesday were much better. Only occasional cramps and the bleeding has eased up. I was never gushing by any means, but lemme tell you, seeing blood when you’re pregnant is not that thrilling of an experience.

I’m just glad I’m feeling better. And I’m hoping this doesn’t happen every four weeks. Because that would suck. A lot. But at least it doesn't seem to be affecting baby, and really, that's the most important thing. Baby is doing ok. <3

I love...

2011-04-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

Milkshakes
Flipflops
Slushies
Water parks
Movies
Live theater
Reading
Writing
Shopping
Zoos
Cotton candy
Swing sets
Pretty fingernails
Mascara
Lip gloss
Dipped cones
Waffles
Pictures
Pencils
Notebooks
Walking
Swimming
Apples
Grapes
Surprises
Flowers
Mini eggs
Elephants
Kissing
Holding hands
Cuddling
Travelling
Holidays
Fast internet
Netflix

Contentment

2011-04-03T20:23:00.000-07:00

I leave my pregnancy books (yes, that is plural. Ok, it’s only two. Well, plus a pregnancy journal.) out and about. They are usually flipped open to whatever page I was browsing. I never thought much of it.

Until one day out of the blue, Sheldon starts quoting it.

“Exactly how much water are you drinking?”

“Did you know you are supposed to be eating rice and pasta and dairy and just where exactly are you getting the iron you are supposed to be getting if you refuse to eat meat half the time?”

And then he goes through my regular vitamins and pre-natal vitamins and says, “Ok, you’re off the hook. Your pre-natal gives you 35 mg of iron and you only need 30.”

I love this man.

He really is quite super awesome with this whole pregnancy thing. He does kinda treat me like glass. But, since I am higher-risk and have been spotting for awhile, I can’t blame him. He doesn’t let me lift anything. He has no problem with me sleeping in and napping. He also knows I sometimes have trouble sleeping and so even when I’m restlessly tossing and turning in bed and only leaving him six inches of room, (in our king sized bed. I am talented.) he won’t wake me up because he wants me to rest. When I suddenly tear up because I can’t make pancakes or because… because… well there really is no reason, he just hugs me and laughs a little and he knows me well enough to keep a chocolate stash.

When I’m not eating much because my appetite has left, he encourages me to eat and when I’m being snacky he tentatively asks, “Is that good for baby?”

*contented sigh*

That really just says it all.

Dear Spring,

2011-03-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

Where are you? I am not usually one to complain about the weather. IN fact, it usually irritates me to no end when people can't find anything better to do than whien and complain about weather. I feel like shouting "DUDE. You live in ALBERTA. This is normal. This is how it's always been. DEAL."

However, I have lost hope. It feels like spring is never coming. There is snow everywhere. And not pretty snow. No. Snow covering up ice, dirty snow, snow with puppy ickiness all over it. BLECH.

I am over winter. I am having issues dealing with it. And so I have momentarily joined the complaint wagon. Because UGH. I miss the sun. And green grass. And flip flops.

Dearest Spring, please don't forget to visit. I've always believed in you. Don't let me down.

HUZZAH!!!!!

2011-03-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

Baby Blum is doing good. He's ALIVE!!!! YAY!!!!! And he's measuring perfectly for nine weeks. Muhahahaha. Good job, baby, good job. And he's already cute. A very cute little baby blob. Maybe next time I see him he'll have arms.

I'm gonna have a baby! I'm gonna have a baby!

2011-03-22T14:45:00.001-07:00

I’m pretty sure being ridiculously excited is zapping all my energy.

Well that, and spending the whole day running around Edmonton yesterday.

I predict a day of napping. Glorious napping!

I saw him* yesterday. My little magic bean. My tiny miracle baby. So small. So tiny. So real. He doesn’t quite have a fully working heart yet, but his cardiovascular system is in the works, and we could see the miniscule little flicker.

We did it. We are going to have a baby. God answered our prayers. He said yes.

I am so happy. It doesn’t matter that science still calls him an embryo. And then a fetus, and THEN a baby. He is my baby. Right now. From the moment he was conceived. He already knows a mother’s love.

Ok, ok, enough sap.

I gots a baby in my belllyyyyyy. So. Yes. Eight weeks. And I had to buy maternity pants. Dear baby – WHAT IS UP WITH THAT? Is it because you are a magic bean you are taking up so much room? Hmmm? In my book it does say some women show early if your abdominal muscles were not toned (which they were most definitely not) and the little bump can also be blamed on bloating and such. But oh well. When I’m at home I wear my comfy pants, and now when I go out I won’t feel my jeans digging into my tummy. Hurray for maternity jeans!

Lalalalalalala! So! Last year on my birthday I was going through a very painful procedure called an HCG to see if my tubes were all working and such. NOT.FUN. This year on my birthday I have my first maternity doctors appointment. SQUEE!

Now excuse me whilst I go look at the picture of my blurry baby blob. I love my magic bean.

*We do not know what the baby is, nor are we planning on finding out. I just find it annoying to type out “the baby” all the time, and for some reason, “he” sounds more generic than “she”.