Olivia and Charlotte

Still The Me Of Old

Oh, the horror.

I'm traipsing across the swinging, disintegrating rope bridge between gratitude and reality. After emerging from the tunnel of life and death still on this side, one feels a certain sense of obligation to be happy for the rest of eternity. One negative thought--one "Calgon, you ass, take me away" moment--and there you stand: stripped of any right to be overwhelmed in your pearls and your apron. This moment, after all--this jumprope and stilt-cup tornado of a moment--is what you've prayed for all year. How dare you think it? How dare you let that steely spine of yours slip? Chin up, ma'am. You asked for it.

I don't want to be one of those people who streams sentiments of "it could always be worse." That's no fun. Events like spilling breastmilk all over your computer (just as a random example) are catastrophic. When I--or, IF I--did such a thing now, I'd roll my eyes and say, "oh well, that sucks." But that's in Gratitude World. In Reality, it's momentarily devastating. Just because this baby miracle fell into my lap doesn't mean I won't meander into Reality at times and get really pissed because somebody ate all the Mr. Goodbars out of the Halloween candy basket (for another completely random example).

So I'm hereby giving myself permission to go on being normal me. Changed for the better in many ways since kicking butt in the Priorities 101 class I took this year, but still me. Still over-analytical me, silly me, bitchy me, empathetic me, at times melancholy me. . .you know. Me. Who I am. Just more of it.

Finally Home

. . .beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will. ~Sandra Bullock, Hope Floats

Our pot o' gold has been found. We brought Charlotte home from the hospital yesterday, Friday the 13th (who says it's unlucky?). She's 35 weeks, 4 days old in gestational days. She's (I cannot believe it) two months old, actual. And tiny! 4 lbs, 13 oz. In most ways, she's a newborn, but her milestones will happen as a catch-up game throughout her first year. I'm going to try not to worry about that, barring anything major, because I've done enough worrying recently. My heart is spent, so I have to pick my battles wisely!

The girls are thrilled and can't leave her alone. On one hand, she just needs to get used to it. On the other hand, she's a special case--any energy used burns calories, and for her, every calorie counts. Weight-gain is extra important right now. So the girls get their "sister time," but I have to limit the happy hysteria a little.

It feels great to have her home, though. A huge relief amidst huge fear. We have to get a grip and trust ourselves to know what's what with her. This isn't our first go 'round, after all. Special circumstances, yes, but still something with which we have experience. And success : )

Patti's Key Lime Pie (w/Special Sauce on a Graham Cracker Crust)

As stated in a previous post, I'm having a bit of an over-production problem. More supply, less demand. So I've invaded my neighbor's deep freezer where there are now several gallons of my milk stored. We think it seems a shame not to put it all to good use. Charlotte will use some of it, but hopefully she'll be nursing and we'll have leftovers! Lots, and lots, and LOTS of leftovers.

So here's the first recipe. Want to try it?! What? It's pasteurized. And you consume milk from a cow. What's the difference?

Key Lime Pie à la Boob

Take 2 cups of neighbor's breast milk out of freezer. Bring to slow bubble over medium low heat (trying not to gag). Reduce by 1/2 leaving 1 cup concentrated milk. Add 1 cup sugar and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Stir in 1/2 cup key lime juice and temper in 2 beaten eggs (the kind you get from the store not ovaries). Remove from heat when mixture coats the back of a wooden spoon. Chill mixture for 1-2 hours. When completely cooled fold in 1 cup Cool Whip and pour into prepared graham cracker crust. Refrigerate 4 hours then cover entire pie with Cool Whip.
Smile sincerely when serving this delicacy to your most cherished friends knowing you are keeping them healthy with this free-range delight: )

Challenging The Deep End

So the grieving process seems to take one step forward and two steps back. (I'm grieving the dream of "perfect baby-having," just so you know.) The five stages of grief are 1) denial and isolation 2) anger 3) bargaining 4) depression and 5) acceptance. Denial and isolation, mixed with depression, was me in the hospital. Bargaining creeps in all over the place, as does anger. I'm spending several days in anger, but I think I may have stuck my toe in acceptance today when I informed the rounding doctors and nurses that I no longer had any questions because, "what is the point, really? I never get the same answers twice, and this baby is no more than a bunch of lab results and educated guesses to you people." Oh yeah. I went there.

I'm not trying to be a bitch about it, you see. It's just that I was in the medical field for 10 years, and I know just enough to be dangerous to myself. Charlotte is in a giant, inner-city teaching hospital, and they don't know her. I know every detail about her and only her since the day she was conceived. They know about her condition: prematurity. They don't hold her in their arms and smell her head. They don't see her sisters' attributes blending beautifully into a unique new person. Her gas-induced smiles don't remind them that life is worth living. But I know that a blood infection can kill her. I know what it means to grow resistant to antibiotics. And I also understand that medical professionals develop an emotional distance in order to be logical in their proceedings.

I'm not the average dumbass for whom ignorance is bliss.

But okay. I give. Under the circumstances, I will give you people your space, and let you save my daughter without being constantly in your faces with my questions. I get it. You know what you're doing when it comes to treating her condition. Just keep in mind that I am the Ultimate Fighter when I have to be, and this child is not going to slip through the cracks on my watch. I see that I'm wasting energy on micromanaging her medicine, so I'm going to instead focus on her life. I, unlike some people, see the big picture. And she's in it. And it's really dorky, like hard-core Olan Mills-style. SO THERE!

No, the stages of grief aren't a linear progression neatly ending and beginning. They are pooled in a devoted heart that beats out a little of one or another in each moment. The little temper-tantrum in my last post (which was sooooo overdue) was just my mommy heart passing a clot. I feel better now. For the moment.

Lost

Charlotte's doctor (one of the many) said today that "it's usually around week 6 when parents start to lose it." Well guess who's in week six. Interestingly, it was my (fabulous, awesome) doctor who told me amidst my hysterical "I want to come home!" meltdown that it's usually around the end of week two on bedrest when preggos begin to lose it. That was on day 14 in the hospital. We (our family combined) are now on day 74. Lose it? Mother F*#$%&@, we lost it long ago.

Now let me give you fair warning. I'm in no mood today to extract tact from my brain. No one can ever say I'm not honest, and my truth is painful in this moment. So pop a Prozac before you read on if you're comfortably rooted in a manic episode.

I wondered on my way home from the hospital this afternoon if I would dress my girls in black for a funeral. "Why," they would ask, "do we have to wear black?" "Because we're sad," I would say. "Because we can't see our way out of the darkness." And of course, "because I said so." And then: stop it. Pull yourself together. Get a grip.

Do you realize how much of your life is dictated by a sense of control you have over it? Every decision you make gives you the pretense of power. What you really control is your reaction to what happens. But what if you can't control your reaction? What if pain or fear or whatever has a grip on your soul finally wins? What then? I think that's what I was most afraid of. Until today. Today I see that I lost control over my response to this situation weeks ago. And that brings me to the power of a good vent.

Our support system is outstanding. Our family, our friends, even strangers have stepped in to help us cope in ways I can't explain. Or repay. But there are a precious few who have scooped me off the floor just by listening. People, I cannot emphasize enough what a gift you give when you listen without judgment, without advice. PSMC (especially), LACS, LMHC, TRB, thank you for not only giving me this gift, but for always being on my side at the time. You are the fountain from which I drink my strength. When you are in need, you must call on me to be your mirror, to show you the powerful, compassionate, beautiful women you are. I love you all so much I could puke.

So here's what's going on as concisely as I can put it: things were rolling along smoothly and the baby was gaining an ounce a day. Then last Tuesday morning, we received a phonecall in the middle of the night from the doctor. Baby's showing signs of infection including increased apneas and a bloated belly. Must run tests. Blood cultures, urine culture, CSF culture (lumbar puncture to rule out meningitis), and she needs a blood transfusion. Well, three days, 8 IVs, several negative cultures and a chemical burn-level infiltration in her foot later, they have no idea what happened. "She may have just needed blood." "Maybe a virus." Maybe we'll never know. But her feeds were restarted and increased quickly because they were running out of places to put the IV. As her fluid intake increased, the IV need decreased. Since Saturday, she had been doing well and continued to gain weight. She was taking the bottle three times a day, although she pooped out before finishing the whole thing. They called all that torture a sepsis work-up to rule out infection.

Enter today, and we're starting from square one. Bloated abdomen only this time, x-ray showed that it was just expanded, gassy, but otherwise unremarkable. She threw up after her bottle feeds. Last night when I went in, the nurse who was responsible (and who the doctors admit was negligent) for her severe foot infiltrate was in charge of her. I freaked and micromanaged everything I could while I was there and asked them to change her nurses and to NEVER assign her to my baby again. Since no one was willing to switch their assignments, I had the doctor and the nurse practitioner oversee Charlotte for the night. Some good that did. It was never charted whether she tolerated her feed at 2 or 5 am. So did she throw up once this morning? Or did she throw up all night?

Now I'm just in shut-down. The me who's walking around maintaining daily business is just screen-saver me. I could rock this computer analogy into oblivion (viruses, log off, fatal error). I will try to bring good news in my next post, but as for this one, well. . . blame it on system overload.

Got Milk?!

I officially had to bag up my milk and schlep it across the street to P & E's Milk Bank for deep freezer storage. I'm out of room. It's really hard to believe that I produce so much dairy. Wait. . .DOES human milk qualify as dairy? If so, why doesn't the government subsidize it? Just last night, Jay was telling me that when he filled out forms for Charlotte's birth certificate, he had to answer questions such as, "have you ever accepted government cheese?" Boy, is that a loaded question.

Did you know that donated milk costs families and insurance companies (the few that cover it) five times more than formula? Ridiculous.

When I was nursing the other two girls, whenever I'd drive past a cow, I'd always say, "Hey Sistas!" Finally another way to relate to the bovine!