Not Unless You REALLY Want To Know Me Right Now

Here we go again. I have a new psychiatrist now. Not by choice. My insurance ran out and to see Dr. Hudepohl at the hospital is almost $200 a visit and I’ve been going once a month. Fortunately, Rhode Island has some pretty amazing health resources available. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist at the Butler Residents Clinic and due to my uninsured status, it is free. Without it I would be going without therapy and without medication and I think we all know how that would turn out. I’ve only had a few visits and I haven’t made up my mind about it, but it’s different than the visits I’m used to. She doesn’t necessarily agree with a diagnosis of bipolar II but also said she wouldn’t rule it out. It’s possible it’s because the medication actually has the manic depression under control, but I still don’t feel right. It sucks because you feel on the up-and-up, start to feel more like yourself again, and then next thing you know you live in your pajamas again and are completely useless again. She thinks there’s definitely depression in some form at work, but she thinks I don’t need as much psychiatry and medication as much as I need regular therapy for anger issues. When she first told me that I thought that was so stupid and there was no way she was right. I monitored my moods and behaviors after she told me and I realized she MIGHT be right. I had told her that I’d been having issues with impulse control.

I’m not even sure how long ago I started writing this post. I’m guessing about a month. I stopped because writing about this is so emotionally exhausting for me. I think I’m struggling more and more. I don’t feel like a worthy human, a worthy mother, wife, I feel unworthy of trying to bear God’s name. I don’t want to get out of bed (but I do) but find myself not wanting to go home if I’m out by myself. Not to go anywhere. But to just be on my own. I’ve often thought of driving down to the ocean and listening, partially because the ocean holds so much peace and partially because I’m curious to see how long it would be before my husband called to see where I was. I feel like I don’t even know how to be human anymore. I’m constantly overwhelmed inside my mind and I’m often confused and scared. I feel like the alien bug from Men in Black that takes over Vince D’Onofrio’s body and keeps asking the wife for sugar water. A fake person in a human skin trying my best to pass as functional. I often want to cry, but I can’t anymore. I haven’t in months and even when I want to, I try to but it won’t come out. It’s like when you have a sneeze and you have that stupid look on your face until the feeling either goes away or you actually get it out. I haven’t been able to get it out. It’s hurting my marriage. It’s hurting my relationship with God. I haven’t been able to pray properly. I try and my mind goes elsewhere and my heart doesn’t know what it needs.  I haven’t been able to think straight. I’ve had headaches for three days straight, I haven’t been to work on time probably since I went back to work. I’m continually waiting for a reprimand from my boss and preemptively trying to come up with a way to explain that I really am trying but I guess I can try harder? Maybe that one time when I tried to get there early because I knew we were going to be super busy. I didn’t manage early but I did manage on time that day. I can’t stop spending money that we don’t have. On nothing in particular either. DVDs. Lots of DVDs. Clothes for babygirl, though to be fair she didn’t really have warm enough clothes in her size. Small furniture purchases. Lots of miscellaneous stuff from Amazon. I just want to be okay again.

The Bad Time

Here we are. The two year anniversary of the worst day of my life. Honestly, it may have even passed me by unnoticed except for the posts in remembrance of my grandfather. But since I have been reminded, today has been tough. I wonder who Atticus would have been by now. He would have been 16 months old. I’ve been trying to keep super busy at work and I’m playing loud, fun music. Now I’m sitting down to lunch and it’s quiet except for my munching. I don’t like it; at least not today.
I do think my subconscious knew what was going on. I’ve had my head up my butt all week, making big mistakes at work, which are rare for me. I’ve been scatterbrained and kind of sad all week. I’m in what I call “manic panic.” It’s not anxiety or a panic attack, but a high energy feeling like I have to rush for no reason. Like adrenaline, maybe? I’m moving too fast and causing myself problems. Maybe once today is over I’ll go back to my version of normal. I hope so because this sucks. I’m not used to being a train wreck at work. My boss bestows the honor of The Knucklehead Award when you screw up. I’ve always been able to reason my way out of being the knucklehead of the day, but I’ve earned three that I couldn’t argue with this past week. (Don’t worry, it’s all in good fun. It’s basically an informal way of saying, “yeah you screwed up today. Try to do better tomorrow.” Even my boss has earned it.)
I have an extremely casual relationship with my boss as well, so I told him that I figured out why my head has been up my butt all week. When I told him why he responded that it did sound like one of the worst days he’s ever heard of, losing a grandparent and unborn baby the same day. he followed it up with a statement I’ve heard quite a bit: “You’re looking at it the wrong way. If you hadn’t gone through that you wouldn’t have Fb. You’re probably a stronger mom because of it.” I love Fb with all of heart and would do just about anything for her, but she didn’t replace Atticus. If I could have both right now, I would. I think people that have never lost like that have a hard time wrapping their heads around that concept. They would never say it if he had been born, but because he wasn’t born, he was never real to others. He was real to me, he was real to God.
Forgive me, but I just needed a self-pity party for a little bit today. Hopefully I can snap myself back to the plastered smile and too-loud happy music again. Fake it til you make it.

Long Story. Part 4.

Mom life is hard. I told you about my treatment in Part 3, but I didn’t walk out magically cured. I’ve heard people say that once you get through the first few months, it’s a cakewalk. Yeah. Not to be a downer, but that’s not the case for me and probably many other women out there. I still have days where I feel like a horrible mom. I lost my milk supply before she was 5 months old so she’s been on formula since then, I always forget her sun hat, I feel like I don’t read to her enough, am I feeding her the right foods, I play on my phone too much near her, I didn’t know I was supposed to introduce her to sippy cups months ago. I had one day where Fb was playing on the floor in her room and I was laying on her carpet crying. The things going through my head as rivers flowed out my eyes: I hate being a mom. I am doing everything wrong. What have I done? I wish we didn’t have her. I love her so much but I ruined my life by having a kid. I’m not good enough to be a mom. I’m not mom material. This was all a mistake.
Now please don’t judge me. Yes, these are terrible things I was thinking at the time. To be fair though, I struggle more with mental illness now than at any previous point in my life. These thoughts are not a reflection of my rational self. They did go away quickly, though I do still very much struggle with the responsibilities of motherhood. Not to mention that it was before we had found the right mediciation balance for me. Even now that my medication is the closest to right as it’s been in a long time, I. Still. Struggle. Some weekends I just want to sleep in. Hubby is the greatest because he gets up with her almost every morning between 5 and 7. I have to get up for work around 7 anyway but he takes 95% of early mornings with her. I’m pretty lucky. Sometimes, though, I just want to eat my food without sharing bites. Sometimes I want to just go to Target by myself. Sometimes I wish it would be okay to leave her sleeping in the car so I can run a literal 2 minute errand. (Which obviously I won’t do, but yanking my sleeping baby out of the car so I can grab the photos I had printed when all the other errands are done is such a drag.)
I don’t even think I’ve mentioned that Fb is a really, REALLY good baby. She has a lovely disposition, is almost always a smiley little buddy. She started sleeping through the night around 5 months. Occasionally she regresses a little but it’s typically short lived and very easy to get her back down. She’s never been fussy. To all moms out there with colicky, cranky babies: I salute you and admire every minute you manage to keep yourself together. I can’t imagine what it would have been like going through all of my drama if she had been hard to deal with. You are heroes.
I think I’m finally getting it though. I’m getting better at timing errands with feedings, diaper changes, and naps. I actually go on errands! I put clothes on, brush my teeth, get the baby ready, and voluntarily leave my house!
It is still the hardest thing I have ever done. I know moms say that all the time, but it’s something you will not understand until you do it. With PPD/PPA/PP OCD, the first.... 8 months(?) were unbearable. I had to shut down so I wouldn’t cry all the time. You have to do so many things you don’t want to do and can’t do things you really want to. Bedtime is 7 and staying out later makes for an overtired nightmare baby. You have to read the same animal book over and over and over, despite the fact that she closes it, yanks it out of your hands, throws it, and then hands it back to you to start again.
A lot of parents say, “It’s hard but it’s so rewarding!” My husband even said it the other day. Personally, I’m still waiting for the rewarding stage. I know it will come, because I do feel the shift in my own outlook on parenting, but I’m not totally there yet. I would like to think that’s okay, because I do love her and I do take care of her and try to make her happy. It’s also okay to love your baby the most when they’re sleeping. I love her the most when she’s laughing her head off. It’s infectious and you can’t help but laugh back. Her nose wrinkles and all three and a half of her teeth show and her eyes scrunch up. It makes my inner cup of happiness overflow. My second favorite time with her is nap time.
The hardest part of being a parent is living with your heart outside of your chest. When she stays with Grammy and Grampy overnight I can’t help but miss her even if I’m having fun playing a drinking game at a party. I can’t help worrying about her every time I leave her with a babysitter so I can go to work. I love getting pictures of her while she’s playing with the babysitter. Usually I can last until 11:30 before I ask how the day is going. It’s hard to feel the guilt of also being relieved that I’m  away from her for a few hours. It’s so contradictory, but it’s the truth, and I know I’m not the only one. But as long as you love your baby, do your absolute best to do the things you don’t want to, and take care of yourself so that you can adequately take care of someone else, it’s okay. It’s so hard, but as a mom or dad, you’re doing great.

Long Story. Part 3.

Parenthood begins immediately. The hospital I was in does not coddle you. No “leave the baby in the nursery and get some rest.” So I held her. I didn’t put her down. I did not willingly put her in the bassinet even once. The nurses offered to take her at the point where I was falling asleep holding her because I was actually afraid to put her down. In retrospect, that was a huge red flag.

 On a side note, did you know that pneumonia is a risk from abdominal surgery like a c-section? I didn’t. So they like to make sure you use your lungs so as soon as you can feel your legs again, they’ve got you up and walking. I got a reprieve since I had been awake for 24 hours. Like I said, though, I couldn’t put her down, so the nurses borrowed her for a few hours. I think I woke up around 7 am and they had me using one of those breathing thingies that you blow into until you cough. Except coughing was THE WORST with my brand new 8 inch incision. They said if I didn’t do it then I had to walk to make me breathe faster. So I did. I wasn’t allowed to carry her through the hallway though, and since I wouldn’t put her in the bassinet (that I could push through the hallway), I made hubby hold her while I walked to the juice fridge and back. 

Anywho, the purpose of this three-part (maybe 4, we’ll see how it goes) story is about how being a parent is harder than I ever imagined. So baby girl lost 12 ounces while we were in the hospital, which when you only started at 5 pounds 12 ounces is pretty significant. They refused to discharge her until she started steadily gaining. We were there for 6 days, which I think helped me tremendously. I don’t know how they expect women to breastfeed successfully when they’re discharged before their milk comes in after the colostrum. I didn’t get the hang of it until the day we left, with a full team of nurses and a lactation consultant right there to help out for every single feeding. Without that kind of help, I can see why women give up. The mom guilt is real though. I was staunch in my belief that she would never have a sip of formula in her life before she was born. Then I was trying to feed her and she was losing weight, the inside of her little mouth felt so dry, and I wasn’t giving her enough yet. She’d been alive for 3 or 4 days and I already felt like I was failing as a mom. I also feel like her latch was never quite right, which contributed to later issues. 

My milk came in after half a day of supplementing with formula and in a few days she gained the 4 ounces she needed for us to go home. Going home is terrifying! I’ve been checked on every hour for the past 6 days and now I need to go home and take care of a baby like I know what I’m doing?! Who’s going to tell me when to take the percs and the Tylenol? Who am I going to ask to show me a proper swaddle for the fiftieth time in a row? Who is going to tell me everything will be okay?! We do it though, obviously, because insurance doesn’t cover living in a hospital for fun. We bring our baby home. 

We’re greeted by a ten pound lasagna as soon as we arrive because our neighbors are awesome. I plunked on the couch, held my baby, ate some lasagna, and hubby took her so I could sleep. The cat woke me up when she walked on my incision. But that’s neither here nor there. For some reason it doesn’t occur to us that babies should have bedtimes. I mean, she slept constantly anyway, but developing the routine is supposed to start early. Oops. Because I held her. I would doze off holding her, wake up, keep holding her. It’s 10 pm, 11 pm. Still huddled on the couch clutching my precious tiny human. I didn’t eat or drink unless hubby brought me food or water/seltzer. I only got up to pee and that was only if I felt like I was going to burst. I might have showered a few times. I know I went outside at least twice because there are pictures. But I wouldn’t do anything because I never. Put. Her down. Hubby went fully back to work after five or six weeks. He works for himself so I was lucky enough to have him as long as he could stand not working, though he did work here and there during the first few weeks. I still huddled on the couch, never letting go of baby girl unless I had to pee or thought I would faint from hunger. This went on for 12 weeks. 

At my 12-week post-surgery checkup, my doctor was showing me pictures of his awesome vacation. Amazing hotels, watching hurricane Harvey go by, champagne, wine, this crazy sushi place that serves you 21 courses of whatever the chef wants. I tried my best to act like I cared about any of it. I was trying to keep up with the banter, smile and laugh in all the right places. I was evidently not convincing. He told me that based on previous visits he had concerns about me and wanted me to go for a psychiatric evaluation just in case this was (dun dun dun!) postpartum depression. I didn’t think it was necessary and he said, “of course you don’t!” He then picked up the phone, dialed a number, handed me the receiver and told me to give my intake information and make my appointment. “Don’t try to cancel it. They’ll tell me and I’ll just make you reschedule!” If all doctors were like Dr. M1, the world would be a much better place.

I had no idea what I was walking into, mostly because when it was explained to me I wasn’t listening because I didn’t care. The first appointment I went to was a simple psychological evaluation. They determine whether or not you need treatment. There is the option of no treatment, outpatient therapy, partial hospitalization, and full hospitalization. I was sure my evaluation would result in me being sent home after wasting their time. Outpatient therapy being recommended at worst. I was very surprised when they not only recommended the partial hospitalization (called the Day Program), but didn’t even put me on the waiting list and had me attend the remainder of the sessions that same day. Yikes.

I guess the Day Program is not something available country-wide. Women and Infants hospital is the only location I know of and people are sent to the program from hours away. Maybe farther, I don’t know. I have heard about a similar program being developed in New York and I sincerely hope that’s true because this program was essential to my (ongoing) recovery. 

This is how it works: You are expected to arrive every day for 9 am. You get to bring your baby. There is group therapy that is held in segments like classes. For example, from 9-9:30 we discuss the goal(s) we set from the night before, whether or not we accomplished them, and if not, how we can accomplish them in the future. The goals are usually simple. Show up the next day, or be wearing different clothes, or make sure I take a shower, or go for a run. Then 9:30-10:30 could be learning about self-care, what it means, why it’s important. Then the next is about how to maintain healthy relationships, etc. It changed every day, but the basics were always discussing how to cope with life. There was obviously a lunch break (with meals provided because most of us couldn’t manage to eat if food wasn’t put in front of us) and more sessions until 2 and then we’re dismissed for the day. If you don’t show up, they call you and ask where you are and why you’re not there. I had to take a day out to bring Fb for a checkup, but I let them know ahead of time. There is a nursery with lovely staff to keep an eye on your baby if you need a break. 

At some point during the day you’re pulled from the group for your individual therapy session. I loved these. It made me feel validated. If medication is involved at all, it’s followed up with a psychiatrist. Through these sessions I was told that I was presenting postpartum depression, anxiety, and OCD. I was also diagnosed with Bipolar II after a few months with Dr. H. I’ve always struggled with these things, but being a new mom made it completely unmanageable. I couldn’t put Fb down, I wouldn’t eat, I didn’t shower, it was a miracle if I brushed my teeth. I would stare at her to make sure she was breathing and I couldn’t sleep because I was SURE she would be dead when I woke up. There were no what-ifs. It was when, in my mind. Then the intrusive thoughts were just unbearable. If you’re not familiar, intrusive thoughts are those weird moments where you think something horrible and follow up with, “why did I just think that?!” I had them about smacking her little head on our coffee table, putting her in the refrigerator, accidentally stepping on her (since we mostly just change her diapers on a pad on the floor). I couldn’t just brush them away and say it was weird. I would watch them in my mind over and over again thinking about what a terrible person I am, a horrible mother, an awful wife, the worst daughter. It’s not that I actually wanted to do these things, it was just a moment where the image passed through my head. Intrusive thoughts are usually related to OCD. I’ve had them my whole life but post-baby they were exponentially worse in so many ways. 

So they have you following this routine for as long as they feel you need it. Typically it’s 2 weeks. Some are there longer, some are there less. I went for 2 and a half weeks. I feel like being accountable to someone and having to leave the house every day did wonders for my mental health by themselves. When they discharge you, they have you come for a follow-up to make sure you’re going to the outpatient therapist they helped establish for you. They also continue your psychiatric visits until baby is about a year old when they transfer you to a non-hospital psychiatrist. Fb is 11 months old and we have FINALLY found a drug regimen that works, that I can afford, and that doesn’t have crazy side effects. 

I stopped seeing my therapist when I went back to work after 16 weeks. I initially went back three days a week and I felt so guilty for loving being away from the baby. I was sort of regular me again, doing my thing, being awesome at my job. Previously I had been some level of workaholic and I’ve always been a perfectionist so being back in my element was such a relief. I’m not in my element as a mom. How do I take a shower when I can hear her crying? How am I supposed to make food for me when she cries if I put her down? Like I said, she’s 11 months old and I am still struggling with this. My husband reminds me of what we said in therapy, if I can’t take care of me how can I take care of my baby? She’ll be ok if she cries for 3 minutes while I make a sandwich and grab a glass of water.

Long Story. Part 2.

Have you read part 1? If yes, please continue. If no, go back. I know, I know, it’s long. You need the backstory, though.
So I’m pregnant, we’re not getting a dog, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been a deer in the headlights for days.

So there’s a lot of disbelief, excitement, fear. What if something happens to this baby, too? Could I handle it? Obviously there’s nothing I can do about anything so I just keep taking care of myself and hope for the best. I still had loads of anxiety and I had a ton of horrible dreams about her dying, but I did the best I could.
Everything went exactly as it should. At thirteen weeks, we found out that yes, it’s a girl! Everything was going swimmingly. I had to switch doctors for a reason the first one never explained well, but I was happy because the new doctor was exactly the type of practitioner I was looking for. Pro natural birth, was ecstatic that I read Ina May’s book, had a doula, etc. Then at 28 weeks I started bleeding. Not a lot, but enough to freak me out for certain. Two in the morning we head to the ER. That night nothing was found; my vitals were great and so were hers. The bleeding stopped and I went home. Then at 34 weeks it happened again, but worse this time. Also at 2 am, which is still weird to me. I sat up for about an hour in hopes it would just stop on it’s own like the last one, but it didn’t, so again off we go to the ER. Again, they find nothing with all preliminary tests and the doctor on call (I love you Dr. Ryan!) said, “this is her second time in for the same problem, why don’t I have a record of her last ultrasound?” Because they didn’t do one.
Off I go to get my ultrasound and what do they find? A low-lying placenta. Now, at 18 weeks they saw I had a marginal previa which is when the placenta is close to the opening. There are more severe types but mine was the type that typically resolves itself as the pregnancy progresses. My following visit they told me I was in the clear, it had resolved itself. I’m glad I switched doctors offices because if I hadn’t had those bleeds and gone on to try to deliver naturally, my baby and I could have died. Likely would have because I refuse the use of blood transfusions. This is the point where it was decided I was probably going to need a c-section. I was so bummed. Of course it had to be that way if it was safer for us both, but I was really disappointed with the turn of events. I’m put on pelvic rest (nothing up the vajeen!) for the remainder of my pregnancy. That sucked.
Armed with my new information, I go about reading and researching. I make some requests about my delivery and to my delight, my doctor has all the things I want come standard with a c-section package. My doctor pioneered the concept of a gentle cesarean, allowed skin to skin in the delivery room immediately, and sews the uterus back up in two layers of muscle instead of as a single suture. He said doing a single suture saves all of five minutes and makes the possibility of a future VBAC more dangerous. (I love you, too, Dr. M1!)
We get to the end of week 36. My baby shower was held at 36 weeks and 5 days. It was huge, and fun, and I can’t believe how generous all of my guests were. We felt so loved. In the evening I was exhausted. My sister and mother laughed and said, “at least now if you go into labor, the shower is over!” Cue dramatic music.
That night, guess what time it was? Did you guess 2 am? Yup! You were right! Another bleed! Off to the hospital. I’m hooked up to all the monitors and have IVs and I’m so tired and I fall asleep. One of the monitors had been showing tiny contractions that the doctor said was normal for nearly 37 weeks. I fell asleep and evidently I slept through some big ones. The doctor came in the room and watched me sleep through a few and when I woke up she looked amazed.
After shift change, a midwife came in to do an exam. I won’t lie, I hated her. She needed to do an internal exam and just had me roll back and hold my knees because pulling the stirrups out was too much of a pain. Honestly, I wanted to kick her in the face. I look like I’ve eaten a basketball and she tells me to roll back and hold my knees. She decides everything is good and clears me to go home at about 3. My husband and I were starving.
I’m super uncomfortable and kind of afraid but we leave and stop to pick up Five Guys. I just sit in the car and wait. We get home, my husband goes to talk to the next door neighbor, and I go inside. I sit down on the couch, finish my burger, and peed my pants. I thought. I waddle to the bathroom, and on the way I’m thinking, “I can’t believe I just peed my pants! Oh my god, no, what if my water just broke?!” It was neither of those things. Blood was absolutely pouring out of my body at a rate that felt like I was peeing. I pull myself together, go outside and yell, “dude, we’re going back NOW.” Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to grab his food. This was around 4 pm.
We drive to the hospital, I call the maternity ward to let them know we’re coming back, and I keep telling my husband not to drive like an idiot. We’re really close and everything is going to be fine. I was weirdly calm, which is what I do in emergencies. I stay calm, get stuff done, and when it’s all over, I collapse into a ball. Sometimes with tears, sometimes not. Anyway, we get there and since it’s not the middle of the night, I refuse to go through the ER because I don’t want to wait for anything or anyone to come get me. Sent hubby off to park and I (half squatting, half doubled over) walk to the elevator, get to the second floor, went left, left, right, and walked into the maternity ward. The nurses looked at me like I was crazy but I did what I needed to do. By the way, while I was in the elevator (TMI ALERT!!!!!) I felt something slide out of me and I was convinced it was my dismembered baby’s foot coming out. Turns out it was a clot the size of a baseball, which was super disturbing but at least it wasn’t a piece of my baby.
They set me up again with all the monitors and IVs, and Dr. Ryan came to see me. Thank goodness that midwife was gone. I get yet another internal exam, but she can hardly see what’s going on for all the blood. She determined I was a centimeter dilated and the end of my placenta was hanging out. Which explains all the blood. While this is happening, hubby is eating his burger. At least he got to
eat despite the wreckage of the day. After all, this began at 2 am, we slept for maybe four hours at the hospital that morning, and here it is at 6 pm, and he finally gets to eat his burger while my blood is all over the place and the doctor is talking about my placenta falling out. She then wants to confer with my doctor and his associate (who would eventually be the baby’s pediatrician. Love you, Dr. M2!) to discuss what to do with me. She came back around 7 pm.
“I talked with the others and we all said the same thing. Strike three, you’re out, and you are having a baby tonight.” I felt like David at the Dentist. “Is this real life?” Then Dr. Morton and Dr. Magee showed up, said hi, let’s do this. It’s so weird to see your doctor in street clothes, isn’t it? I’ve only ever seen them in lab coats and scrubs, and here I go, pulling them into the hospital when they’re running around being regular people!
Everything goes underway, I’m about to go into the OR and one of the nurses is laughing and says, “I have never seen a woman being wheeled in for an urgent c-section looking so calm and.... almost happy.” Honestly, after all the bleeding drama, I was (kind of) ready. Ready to be not pregnant physically, I suppose you could say. I’m pretty sure that I hadn’t yet processed what was actually happening, though.
All the prep is happening. I’m in the OR getting my spinal block and Dr. M1 was hugging me to keep my back hunched at just the right spot. Man, it was so weird losing feeling in my feet. You tell them to move and they just DON’T! Then they swab your forehead to feel the temperature of an alcohol swab, then do your chest. When the temperatures feel vastly different, you’re ready. Hubby and my doula (Suzie) joined us. They start up my music playlist and Dr. M1 is jamming out to Stand By Me. Then, after all sorts of weird sensations, there’s a baby crying. MY baby. They put her on my chest, but I didn’t realize what was happening. By the time my brain caught up, they were taking her away because she wasn’t clearing her lungs fast enough. They worked quickly, and she was perfectly fine. 5 pounds 12 ounces of a tiny person that I grew! It was mind blowing.
I wanted her back, but they had to take her to the nursery to make sure she was 100% stable and hubby got to do skin to skin while they stitched me back up. I was so glad my doula was there to talk to me and keep me occupied, otherwise that would have been the longest hour of my life. Baby girl was born at 9:09 pm. When all was said and done, back in my room, with those weird balloons keeping my legs from getting clots, I got to meet her for real, I think close to midnight. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

Long Story. Part 1.

My last post was November of 2015 and had crazy baby fever. Guess what? July of 2017 I became a mama. I have a little girl now and she is a ray of sunshine.

HOWEVER!

Man, everyone tells you parenthood is hard. Nobody could possibly describe how hard it is. 

In early June of 2016 I got pregnant. On purpose! Jon and I were thrilled. Excited. Happy. Over the moon. All sorts of things. Had the appointment set up for the first scan a few weeks later. I mean, I was trying to get pregnant so the second a pee stick showed two lines I could have only been about 4 weeks along. 

(This is where it feels like I’m going off track, but bear with me. It all comes together in the end.)

A little earlier, my grandfather had been diagnosed with kidney cancer and it wasn’t found until it had already metastasized to his brain and lungs.  We had been planning a trip to Indiana to see good friends and this revelation threw our plans in the air for a little bit. My family assured me that it was fine to go, so we did anyway. About 4 hours into the drive I get a call that Grampa had a catastrophic fall. “Still go, it’ll be fine. I just wanted you to know.” Okaaaaayyyyy....

Got to Indiana, had a grand old time. Told our friends our big secret. They are the only two people in the world privy to the information. We called the baby Science. Not that that would be the real baby’s name but it was a good way to name the baby without giving away the real name. “Baby Hawk,” “the baby,” and “it” aren’t our style. 

We return home and Grampa took a turn for the worse. He was now in home hospice and not expected to last long. He lasted two weeks and in that time he had almost 150 people visit him. That doesn’t count the people that showed up more than once. We were there every day after work for two weeks. In the middle of those two weeks I started bleeding. I left work crying without explaining anything to anyone and went to our women’s hospital ER. I had blood work. I had an ultrasound. The nurse practitioner told me they couldn’t find a heartbeat but that it was possibly too early to find one and to keep up hope. I laid there crying on the exam bed and she brought me a can of ginger ale and a  blanket that was kept in a warmer. Two days later I returned for my second set of blood work. It took four days for my OBGYN to get in touch. He confirmed that I lost the baby as I was sitting in my car crying already because my grandfather had passed earlier that day. That was July 19, 2016. It was probably the worst day of my life. I received a double blow but nobody but my husband knew what was happening. They thought I was just taking the loss of Grampa way harder than when I lost my other grandparents. 

I told my friend in Indiana what happened since she knew I was pregnant, but that I couldn’t talk about it. I did end up telling my sister, too, so I could have some familial support and an uncle who gave us some spiritual advice and direction. They knew on the day of my grandfather’s memorial service that I was inwardly grieving my own baby at the same time. We don’t know for certain, but I think it was a boy. His name would have been Atticus. 

In my own traditional fashion, I became a zombie. For months. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t really cry. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t really sad either. I was in my own little box keeping all feelings away from me. I couldn’t handle them yet. And then one friend delivered her baby. Another announced she was pregnant and due the same time I would have been. And ANOTHER friend announced she was also pregnant with the same exact due date as mine! I became so angry. I hated these happy people so much even though I knew I couldn’t make the world around me stop having happiness just because I was disconsolate. I learned to pray a lot during this time. I prayed for the people I was so angry at to have happy, healthy children and beautiful families. I think it helped a little. 

Slowly feelings came back. Only a little at a time. It was still too much to process all at once. I grieved for my grandfather, but it wasn’t all bitter. He led a full, happy life with a family that loved, him and many friends. Everyone was sad to see him gone. I then got to grieve Atticus. I found out my boss’ daughter in law was also pregnant, due two weeks after I had been. He didn’t tell me because he knew the state I was in. A perk to working with people you have a good relationship with, I guess. She stopped in with my boss’ son and I saw her belly, said congratulations, and ran to shut myself in a closet where I curled up and weeped for 15 minutes. I pulled myself together enough to go back to work. 

At this point, my boss, the secretary (his wife,) and my coworker all knew that I had lost a baby and was having a hard time coping with it. A few days later my coworker tells me, “Guess what!” I knew immediately. Her sister in law was pregnant, and I so desperately didn’t want to hear the words. “My brother and his girlfriend are having a baby!!!!” She kept on about the good news and what details she had while I had a smile plastered on my face, trying not to cry, feeling sick to my stomach. For weeks my gut sank the moment I walked into work and she had more to tell me. I started having heart palpitations driving to work. I finally told her I couldn’t handle it. I cried and told her I couldn’t talk about everyone else being happy and having babies while mine was gone before I even knew him. I needed to get away.

With the information I now have, I realize I was about to hit a manic spell. My husband and I, along with his cousin because why the hell not, planned a trip to Iceland. Three weeks out. My sister plans trips a year ahead of time, so she planned her trip to the Grand Canyon in October 2016 for September 2017 at the same time I planned a trip to Iceland in November 2016. I’m normally a planner so I was definitely in some sort of state. But it turned out amazing. We had some hiccups for sure, (our 2-bed AirBnB ended up being one bed and one flip couch. Not a pull-out couch. A flip couch. Sorry Caleb.) We saw waterfalls, calderas, went in hot springs, saw the Atlantic Ocean from a different perspective. We went to Reykjavik and tiny towns with names I can’t spell or pronounce.  We ate a ton of burgers and went to a handful of museums (including the famous Phallological Museum. It was great.) I wish we’d gone longer than a week and prepared for sightseeing a little better. 

Like I said, though, I was in a manic phase. We came home, and I decided we were getting a dog! Yes! We have two cats and at the time had two chickens but a dog was exactly what we needed! It would totally fix this horrible mental state I was in wishing I had a baby instead of feeling dead inside! Yeah, a dog would totally fix that! I went on a ton of websites seeking the right adoptable dog.   We found him. His name was Tramp, though I decided I would change it to Wilson as soon as he was mine. He was a rat terrier jack Russell mix. Everyone said he would be so hyper but when we met him, he was the best. Dog. Ever. Jon was still not convinced that a dog was a good idea yet so he said we would talk about it that night and if we really think it will work we would fill out the paperwork the next day. 

We go home, talk about it more, I had to pee mid-conversation. I had one last pregnancy test left over from June and I figured, hey, it’s the last one. Might as well pee on it because LOL I can’t get a dog and then have a baby at the same time, that would suck! My exact words were, “Um. We’re not getting a dog.” That was December 10th. On Christmas Day, I wrote in a journal, “I think you’re a girl.”

Out like a light

So I have been known to go through rounds of baby fever where my brain says, "sleeping in is the best," but my ovaries are like, "but lookit da widdle fat cheekies and chubchub legs!!" I'm 26, its biological and it's not my fault. Usually I just wait until my brain is functioning louder than my egg sacs and continue on with my spawn-free life. It doesn't take long. 

A friend of mine asked Lovie and I to watch their kids tonight. C is a 2.5 year old über boy, and A is a precious chunka 5-month-old bebby girl. Honestly, I thought this would be a "dear lord, I hope my uterus shrivels before I ever make one of these nights." Not because I dislike children. I just feel like two at this age spread would be difficult. C has a lot of energy and really enjoys crashing his trucks; usually into your gut. And A is a baby. Poop, eat, cry. 

It was incredibly stressful. A is normally very calm, hardly makes a peep. She wouldn't. Stop. Crying. The down from the gut, to the top of the lungs, actual flowing tears crying. Jon got her to sleep then as soon as she went down into her bassinet she popped awake and freaked out. It went on long enough that C started saying, "will that noise stop? It's really scary!" Poor thing. That's in addition to C being a little ball of boy energy already, so he's running around crashing his ambulance into our legs and stuff. He's not a bad boy, he's just two and a half. (Moms, how do you do this x100 every day?!!!!) 

Eventually A got out a bunch of huge burps and passed out. So I sat in the rocker with her for about an hour. Despite the shrieking from before, and her brother being a little bundle of lightning, I was kind of in heaven. Watching her perfect little peaceful sleeping face and the occasional gasps of air, it was so peaceful that my ovaries were like, "SEE?! You want thiiiiiis!" 

And I finally get around to putting her in the bassinet without her waking up, and her brother is coming up the stairs and says, "I'm sleepy. Can I go to bed now?" Like... what? 

Long story short: I still have baby fever and I really, really need to wait until my brain starts being louder than my reproductive organs again.