Delayed

As you may know, I made the call to have Zach evaluated for speech. He just doesn’t say enough to mesh with my ideas of what I think he should be saying. I made the call, and they told me a couple of things. First, he has to be a few months behind in order to qualify for services through our state’s early intervention program. If there is too slight a delay, I can still get him help, albeit privately. Second was that, despite the fact that Zach is almost 2 years old, they are continuing to adjust for his prematurity by subtracting the number of weeks of prematurity from his chronological age, then rounding down the next whole month. So while Zach is 20 months old, as of this next week, they assessed him as a 16-month-old.

Until I got the letter.

I thought it was just speech.

They said no, that he is delayed in communication and fine motor skills.

AND  that he is delayed enough for services.

They weren’t supposed to say that. They were supposed to tell me everything is just fine and I am just a worrying mother. Not that my worrying is right on target.

Here in a few minutes, I am going to get up from this desk and do a quick dusting in the living room and maybe vacuum because the case coordinator is coming by today to meet us. To explain how this all works–physical therapy and speech therapy for Zach. Further testing, even, to ensure that it is only prematurity that has caused this and not some other issue. And about a million thoughts are swimming in my head.

What was it? The breathine? Mag Sulfate? Indocin? What about the damned pain medication that I didn’t want to take but had to in order to survive that ordeal? And not only am I wondering which drug I was given, but which dose? Which injection, pill, dosage increase did the trick? Or what if I would have been tougher and held on a little longer? And if so, how much longer would have been enough? A day? A week? Where did we fall short of that threshold where everything woulld have been okay.  I thought it was all fine. Zach is almst 2 years old, and I thought I was finally past all of this. That we made it through, completely unscathed. This is so fucking unfair.

And Evan. Having a child–any child–with an autism spectrum disorder makes you much more likely to have another with an ASD. Are both of my precious miracle boys disordered?

I cannot even think about it now. Right now, I am going to put down the textbooks for a little while and pull myself up by the bootstraps. And help my Zachy.

What I Have in Common With Michelle Dugger

Okay, I don’t know where to start with this one.

Michelle Dugger (Duggar? Hell, I don’t know) is pregnant again, this time with Baby Number Twenty.

Holy shitballs.

I won’t forget her last one. I watch the show on occasion out of freaky curiosity. They don’t get welfare or anything. They support all of their children themselves and appear to do well. The kids all appear to be well-adjusted and well-mannered. But I cannot get the last one out of my head. I was just beyond the first trimester with Zach, and looking back, it was about a month before I went into preterm labor for the first time and my problems started. All I had to go on was that I had this complicated history with my pregnancy with Evan and was foolishly hoping it would be different, though all signs said it wouldn’t be. I had already suffered a placental tear. And I watched as they delivered her 19th baby at 25 weeks. I cried. I cried as a pregnant woman fearing for her new baby. I cried as a NICU RT who has had a hand in resuscitating preemies. Most of all I cried because I was watching a family go through what we could have gone through with Evan and mercifully escaped.

And my first thought when I just found out she is expecting the 20th was, “how fucking irresponsible of them!”. I mean, yes, the 25 weeker is now almost 2 years old and doing well. They credit God for that, and I credit modern medicine. I’m glad the baby is okay. I can see how this would give them license to do it again. But then again, she came close to death multiple times. She could have been horrifically disabled and had the quality of life of a rock. She didn’t die, she has a shot at a decent life, but she almost didn’t. Why tempt fate? Why have another one, given that you have already gone through this ordeal, and chance doing that to another baby? And doesn’t the likelihood of complications increase with maternal age?

Oh.

Maybe this makes me an alarmist. Maybe it makes me practical and concerned for a yet-to-be-born child. Either way, it makes me the biggest hypocrite I know.

I haven’t had 20 kids. I have 2. The oldest almost didn’t make it into this world. The last one was a complete surprise, but we armed ourselves with the “every pregnancy is different” mentality until it proved to be the same horriffic experience. My doctors advised me that I shouldn’t have any more. Not that I couldn’t. Big difference. But then they later retracted the statement and now joke with me that it is time for another when they see me at the hospital. And just three days ago, John ‘fessed up that he really wants another one. Truth be told, I do too. We agreed that it shouldn’t be now, considering our current financial slump. I should complete my MBA first. We need a bigger house and a bigger car. We want Zach to be out of diapers and the issues with Evan to be somewhat stabilized. John needs to be working to offset some of my income in the event that bedrest happens. It needs to be done in a very controlled manner, with me starting off the pregnancy on the kind of footing one doesn’t have when it comes as a surprise. We want to first visit the OB practice and request that, since it doesn’t seem to help, I not be placed on strict bedrest, but am allowed to work as tolerated. And I will say no to the brethine pump and uterine monitor that is behind 36 hospital trips and admissions. I will accept the progesterone injections because we have no way of knowing if they aren’t behind they fact that Zachy wasn’t born until they took him out surgically. And I absolutely have to be under the age of 40. I had problems in my mid-20’s, after all. Beyond 40 seems to be pushing it too far for someone with my hustory.

Am I as bad as Michelle Dugger? Isn’t this reckless of me to even think this way? To chance something awful happening to me or to another baby? Evan was born at 34 weeks and Zach at 33. What if a third one is born even earlier, per the trend?

But we want a girl. And we will try in a couple of years. We will do so with the hope that I won’t have the same problems. That if I do, the baby will have the same luck as Evan and Zach and suffer limited effects of prematurity. Maybe we are tempting fate a little too much, also.

Role Transition

So what’s happenin’? Well, A lot and yet not so much.

The NICU stuff is winding down as we get closer to the day where we will start keeping the really sick babies. When you have a baby at my hospital, they warn you to not let anyone without a specially marked badge in to take care of your newborn. OB staff and NICU staff, as well as Peds staff all have these badges. The core NICU respiratory team is o be no different. So today, I had to go and get a new badge. The special marking? A bright pink stripe. Mine used to have a lime green stripe. How did they know pink is my favorite color? Actually, when I got it, I was appalled. my title is written all extra ginormously and the pink is glaring. Proof?

Pink means "Gimme yo' Baby!"

So not a big deal, I know. it’s the little things. I also renewed my NRP–Neonatal Resuscitation Program for those of you not in the know. It’s the fourth time I’ve taken it and it won’t be my last, as it expires every two years. The video for it cracked me up. They actually included RT’s in the scenarios with the rubber babies. As in, “Call Respiratory Therapy STAT.” And the guy who is supposed to be the therapist shows up and says, in utter robot fashion, “I…am..the…resp-ira-tory ther-a-pist. How…can…I…help?” Yeah, whatever, Dude. That is so not how it goes. I don’t wait to be told what to do. I know my role and get to work immediately. I’ll throw elbows if I have to. Same as wih the adults.

I’m sort of nervous about the change in roles. I’ll still be taking care of adults, too. But I will be on my own with the sick preemies and it worries me. I will see what could have been with both of my boys, and I will be crying a lot. Maybe this makes me less fit to care for this patient population. Maybe it makes me more fit. I guess it’s a matter of opinion. But someone saw me fit to be placed on the team. And so I shall do my best for the little ones while I see Zach’s and Evan’s faces the entire time.

Grandma’s Mission

While we were at John’s mom’s house in Madisonville,Kentucky last week, she deemed it her mission in life to get Zachary to a point where he was walking consistently before we left. She tried. She tried and tried and tried. She held both hands, one hand, positioned him in front of cabinet doors to motivate him to take a step or two. She enticed him with snacks. She got down to his level.

All of it—every single bit of it—had the same exact result: Zach would take a couple of steps, and then sit down. We all enjoyed the sight of him walking while holding her one hand. It was adorable and I wish I would have gotten a photo. Chubby, still-bow-legged Zachy holding Grandma’s hand and walking by her side. I wish he would take off. I know he can. I’ve seen the balance he exhibits when he sits down in a very controlled manner when he decides he doesn’t want to take anymore steps. But on the other hand, he looked so grown when he was walking and my heart broke just a little bit. His baby days are behind us.

Zach will walk. As always, he will do it in his own time. Just like everything else. Yeah, Evan walked at 9 months. Zach isn’t Evan and Evan isn’t Zach. Evan also didn’t talk until he was two, and Zach is already saying many words.

Grandma’s mission wasn’t accomplished on that visit, but I think she really had fun trying, and that is what matters.

 

Where We Are

14 Months. That’s where we are.

This time a few months ago, I was worried that Zach wasn’t where he was supposed to be, develomentally speaking. I still worry. I think I always will.

Zach has 4 teeth now. He tries to walk a little bit. Most of his development has been in the cognitive realm. Zach knows that a cow goes “moo”, and will even make the sound. He also can identify a sheep, pig, chicken, and dog, and imitate their sounds as well. He cannot verbalize the names of colors, but if you put a pile of blocks in front of him and ask for him to hand you one of a certain color, he gets it right. At first I was sure this was a fluke, but he manages to get the color right every time. Maybe this is because, for the past 14 months, I mention the color of every-fricken-thing I touch in front of him. As in, “See the ball? The ball is green.”, “See the car? That car is red. Zachy’s red car!”. Yeah, I’m a mom, and I’m annoying as hell to be around. I’m  surprised I don’t find myself in the bathroom exclaiming, “See the poop. Mommy’s brown poop.” Seriously, folks.

I am most decidedly Mama. John is Dada. Evan has become Bubba (Because we’ve been referring to him as Bubby to Zach all of this time). Before it was cute, but I wasn’t sure if there were meanings associated with the babbling. Now it is very purposeful and the intonation changes with Zach’s mood and intent. Earlier, I walked around the corner to go to the bathroom and I heard his little voice, “Mama? Mamaaaaa? MA-Maaaaaaaa????” And he did the same while Evan was visiting grandparents. He would crawl around the house, looking for “Ba-buuuuuhhhhh?” John would look at him and tell him Evan went Bye-bye, to which he would reply, “BAAAAA-Byeeee” Followed by his interpretation of Evan’s name, which incidentally came out the same way Evan said his own name when he was really small: Eh-nun. I tell you, it is the cutest thing in the world, listening to babies learn to talk.

Walking is another story for another post. As is his temper. But otherwise, he is so happy and so content. If you speak to him, he will give you the biggest of smiles, even if you are but a stranger in the grocery store.He’s just Zachy. That’s all I can say. It is hard to imagine that there was ever a time when he didn’t exist.

 

>11 Months

>

Here we are. The last month of Zach’s first year. It’s hard to imagine that in just a year, we went from the wrinkly preemie who would occasionally forget to breathe to the chubby, robust baby who cruises and babbles. Mama. Dada. Bababa. I love hearing him “talk” in his lilting little voice. It truly is music to my ears. And the teeth have finally come, as well. He has 2 now, both on the bottom. They aren’t even all the way in, but two tiny little buds of teeth that show only when he gives us the biggest of Zachy smiles. This week, we are going to be making the trip to see John’s parents, and Zach is going to celebrate his first birthday with family. We’ll come home and celebrate his actual birthday here, with just the four of us. The way it all started a year ago. It seems appropriate. Fitting. After all, when we were going through the hell of his pregnancy, it was just John, Evan, and I, clinging to each other, just trying to get through. And after all of it, it will be Zachary with the 3 of us, celebrating his presence here in our lives.

I still swear he is an angel.

As far as Zach this month goes, he loves being outside. He loves the sun and the trees. It really is his first spring, and he is starting to absorb all that is around him. The chirp of a bird. The breeze on his cheek. 2 days ago, he went outside and we actually let him go in the yard, with close supervision of course. It was so fun to see him explore and learn. I didn’t even care about the dirty knees. I even sat down in the grass with him, watching him go.

He’s really starting to enjoy toys as well, and it is hilarious to hear him giggle at a noise one makes. His favorite is the baby laptop we bought him when he insisted on trying to get at mine everytime I would attempt homework.

On the food front: we went ahead and, after the last drop of my milk was gone, made the switch to cow’s milk this past week. He is doing great with it. No problems whatsoever. He feeds himself more and more. I only spoon-feed him the really messy stuff: yogurt, applesauce. He handles the rest. Most of the time, he eats in the buff because he has decided he hates all bibs except for the Bebe auLait reversible bib. If they have a velcro closure, they are coming off, and that is that as far as he is concerned.

He laughs and coos at Evan to no end.

He steals our hearts again every day.

He’s everything.

>Ending for the Third Time

>

I am finished with breastfeeding/ exclusively pumping. It was great. It was real. We did it. I’m glad we did and despite all of the trouble, there is no doubt in my mind that I would do it all over again. I love him that much. But it’s really over. I finally got myself down to where I can quit pumping. Yesterday, I pumped twice and only produced 1 ounce total, on both sides, for the day. Yes, I’m really done this time. And to tell you how really done I am…..(Erm, I should say “finished”, because the mix-up of finished/ done, as well as the exchange of good/well are just two of my pet peeves.)

So anyway, I was about to explain how finished I am.

I am so finished that I made a phone call to a local breastfeeding boutique tonight to see how I could go about selling my pump. The big MamaJamma. The Symphony. The one that retails for $2K. And at first the woman didn’t really believe that I bought one. She said that most people who have brought them in have stolen them, that they only own one themselves and the rest of theirs that they rent out are actually leases from Medela, etc. I gave her the serial number and she called Medela and discovered that it was indeed sold to a buyer by the name of Andrea XXXXX, that it is available for resale. And she offered me $1K (and another $200 in merchandise was thrown in), which I thought was pretty damned good considering I have used it for the better part of a year. And with my employee discount at the hospital, I only ended up paying $1600. So if you do the math, it cost me $400 to use my own Rolls Royce of breastpumps for 8 months. And so I met her this afternoon and sold my pump.

I sold it.

John couldn’t understand why I teared up as I was packing it up. Because he is a man and just doesn’t get it. I did everything. I really did. And we had a good run, Zach and I. I remember when he stopped nursing altogether and I thought it was over. And then the pride I felt when he drank a full bottle of my milk and seemed to prefer it to formula. When Zach was about 4 months old, I dropped down to where I was getting 1/2 an ounce total output for both sides and I thought it was over. And I kept on. We have toured every nook and cranny of Cincinnati in order to find obscure herbs recommended online by sites advising on increasing milk supply: teas and tinctures and capsules. I remember the day John went to run errands and came back to find me completely topless with Zach in just a diaper in his Moby Wrap while I was doing the dishes. Desperate for time to do Kangaroo Care in between my crazy pumping schedule, this was the only way I could manage to do it. He really did think I had lost my mind at that point. But if it was supposed to increase supply, I was going to do it. I didn’t care what it was.

I sold my pump.

I hated the damned thing. Waking me up every 2 hours. Sucking the life out of me in more ways than one. Making it so my life was consumed with pumping schedules and ounces produced and ways to get more, more, more. But I loved the thing. Because you cannot convince me that it would not have been over when Zach was just 2 months old if I hadn’t bought it. And I am so connected to this baby, and I believe this is why. Because while my body wasn’t tough enough to maintain him during the pregnancy, damnit I was strong enough to feed us both.

I sold it because I knew that I would always try to do better, try to do more. That so long as my body kept making mere drops of milk, I would try to make ounces. I had to close this chapter.

I sold my pump. This chapter is closed. I love you, Zachary.

>10

>Ten. 10 months. This week, I had to fill out my schedule request for the next 6-week schedule to come out, and I had to remember to mark myself off for the big day: Zachary’s first birthday is that soon. And then, as if I wasn’t already feeling that, today I got an email from the photography studio we use to recieve some discounts for his first birthday photos. And yesterday in Target, I saw all of the Birthday Boy stuff they have. And I started bawling in the middle of the store when I saw the little tee with a big blue 1 on the chest.

It was just yesterday.

It seems as if Zach’s first year is flying by even quicker than Evan’s did. As a matter of fact, next month, because of the way everyone’s work schedule is falling, we are going to be making the trip down to John’s parents’ to celebrate Zach’s birthday with them. There’ll be cake and ice cream, and of course presents. And we’ll sing “Happy Birthday” to him. And I will cry. Just like I cry every year with Evan. But Zach? This is hitting me even harder. Maybe it is because I’m getting older. Maybe it is because we always assumed Evan was to be the only child and Zach seems even more of a gift because of it. And more than anything, I don’t ever want that gift to leave me. Having an older child has shown me just how quickly it all goes by. And so while this is the first birthday of many, I know that 2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9…..that they will all whirr by me in rapid succession. The tee with the blue one on it for that day and then the next day he is wearing a cap and gown, or a tux for his wedding. And even then, it will still have been just yesterday.

Just yesterday that I felt the last of those horrendous contractions and I begged the NICU staff to bring him to me. Just yesterday that the days of new babyhood flashed in a blur of home and togetherness and cuddles. Just yesterday that I held him on my chest and cried from his beauty.

So today, Zach is 10 months old. For 10 months, my very soul has existed outside of my body. For ten months, I have witnessed a miracle daily. And I won’t bore you with milestones reached or new things he is doing, other than to tell you that we swear he said “Bubby” the other day, which is what we call Evan. This was the first time he made a consonant sound, and so now we know he is okay. Everything has fallen into place. He has escaped the debaucle of his pregnancy and premature birth literally unscathed, making him even more of a miracle.

2 months left of his first year…

I have loved being this little boy’s mother. I cannot believe that he was not always a part of the plan. John is my heart. Evan has been my life and my breath. But Zach? Zach is my soul.

>Another Chapter Ends

>

Where to start?

I remember when I started to get into the throes of my pregnancy with Zachary, and John and I started to make lists of the things we needed. And we got to feeding supplies, and we started to discuss whether we were going to go with breastfeeding. I wanted to with Evan, but his prematurity got in the way and neither of us ended up interested at all. Did I want to try it again? Not really, because I was kind of afraid to get myself invested in the idea. I had breastfed Ben for a couple of months, and when it didn’t work out, I remember crying the first time I gave him a bottle of formula. And with Evan, I just felt guilty that we didn’t give it more of an effort. But knowing how breastmilk is the best for the baby, and seriously thinking Zach was to be my last chance to do so successfully, I decided to give it a go. One more try.

Wow.

You start off with the idea of breastfeeding as being this remarkably bonding experience. With a mind full of rosy images of a tiny baby nuzzling at a mother’s chest. Of cuddling and warmth and a bond that can only be shared between mother and child. A bond that cannot be broken. And I think after the pregnancy horrors I faced, I really needed that. And then Zach was born.

It was never supposed to go like it has. I was not supposed to be separated from my baby immediately after his birth after only having a small glimpse of him over a surgical drape. And I remember John bringing pictures of him from the NICU for me to see while we were still separated, and it was so bizarre and surreal. I had endured so much for him and this is what I got? Some blurry images on a digital camera that John barely knew how to use? Was this little  person really my son? How could I be sure when I couldn’t hold him and touch him and smell his newborn scent? They said he was mine. And I could see a family resemblance, so it had to be true. He was beautiful, that was for sure. But really? I begged and begged for them to bring him to me. Everyone said he was doing great and had just needed a little longer to adjust to the outside world. So if he was fine, then he belonged with me. If he is mine, he belongs with me.

And just like that, he was with me. I kicked everyone but John out of the room as I stripped away layers of flannel blanket to look him over. So perfect. So so perfect. And then and there, we nursed. And all was right with the world. Suddenly it all was okay- the pregnancy, the time in the NICU. Suddenly, it was just Zach and I. I loved it. And I hated when the lactation consultant came in and told me he had to have formula and asked me what type I wanted them to give him. I hadn’t planned on that. And so my love/hate relationship with the pump began.

I hated that I had to pump at all. I hated that he got formula. I wanted to cry each time he took a tiny sip of it. 20 mL at a time at first. I gave him every bit of breastmilk I could. I wished they would have told me it was okay to stop the formula when my milk came in, but they didn’t until it was too late. And the supply issues started. I did everything I could and got most of it back. And then the latch issues happened, most likely a result of the bottle feeding he had received. Phrases like “nipple confusion” and “flow preference” entered my vocabulary. Still, I did everything. Always trying trying trying to get him off of the tiny amount of formula he was getting a day. And then when he wouldn’t nurse at all anymore and I learned what it meant to exclusively pump. And my reality became the breastpump, 15 minutes at a time, 8-10 times per day. I’ve kept that up since Zach was 4 months old. I hated it, but Zach was getting breastmilk. That was all that mattered. I still felt a deeper connection to him because of the months we spent together, nursing. That is how I spent the weeks of my maternity leave. And when I first returned to work, I would come home and Zach would nurse with me in the bed as I drifted off to sleep. Zach and Mommy. That’s all there was.

It has been such a difficult road. Difficult but rewarding. Worth it. I honestly can look at the differences in personalities between Evan and Zachary and I think the breastfeeding has something, if not everything, to do with it. Zach seems more content. More secure. I cannot help but think that this is because he had more of a connection to me.

So why am I writing this now? Because this afternoon, John helped me to gather up all of the supplies I have needed to exclusively pump. All of that equipment. And I cried as I made sure all of it was organized and packed away. This week and next, Zach will get what is left of my milk from the refrigerator and freezer, and that will be the end. When I initially started out, I said one year was my goal. In a perfect world, free from latch issues and prematurity, from supply issues and tongue-tie, I would have done one full year. I am pretty proud of myself that I made it this far in the face of all of the difficulties. By the time it is over, Zach will be 10 months old. He is to the point where he is getting more and more food from sources other than a bottle, and I feel like it is time to focus on enjoying the rest of his first year free from the stress of measuring every little ounce, from setting alarms to remind me to pump every 2 hours around the clock. I can spend time enjoying my baby boy and getting some well-deserved rest knowing that I gave him the best for 10 whole months.

So here is a picture for you. This is what thousands of dollars’ worth of breastpumps and equipment looks like. All of my work fits into this tote. Amazing. And the picture wouldn’t be complete without including in it the reason for it all.

>Delayed

>Evan is recovering nicely from his recent illness, which I’m thinking was viral. Zach ran a temp between 102 and 103.5 all weekend, and although it broke Sunday morning and has not returned, his inbility to tell me what hurts had me taking him to our family doc yesterday to be sure all is well. Yay for Zach! Everything checked out fine, so it was either viral or was caused by teething. (Nope, no teeth yet). While there, with a doctor I work with repeatedly in the ICU’s, we went over Zach’s milestones again. He’s so hard to gauge because I compare him to Evan, who did everything at the speed of light, except for speaking. And I have tried to be laid-back about the whole thing: Zach will do whatever when he’s ready to do it.
The moral of the story is that the doctor is worried not about Zach’s fine or gross motor development–those have a way of catching themelves up and any mild slowness has mostly been the result of prematurity or simply from baby chunk and resolves itself. But he was worried about the sensory stuff: that Zach still, at 9 months, gags on anything thicker than nectar-thick (the consistency of pudding is too thick for Zachy!), that he isn’t babbling mamama/ dadada/ bababa yet. And so the first step is an appointment with an audiologist at my hospital to ensure that there is no hearing impairment. I should mention here that we don’t think there is at all, but since it is the number one source of this sort of delay, it has to be ruled out. I can tell you that his newborn hearing screen was perfect, as was the more indepth one they did because he was premature. He has never had problems tracking us by the location of our voices. When we speak to him, he looks and smiles. We are both sure that his hearing is fine. It is more of formality than anything. Something we have to rule out in order to go to the next step.
So what is the next step from there? Well it could be one of two things. Given that Zach has always had green nasal drainage from birth, it is entirely possible, according to our doctor, that there is a pocket of fluid in his ears. It also is unlikely because he has never had a single ear infection, and usually babies with drainage problems will have fequent ear infections. We are really hoping this isn’t the case with Zach because it will mean he will need tubes in his ears. Surgery. I don’t even want to think about it.
So after both of these are ruled out, Zach will be seeing a developmental specialist at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center. I have mixed feelings about this. I hate that he has to even go there. This is where the overzealous doctor made the false allegation with Ben, for starters. It is also where Ben was treated by the team of pediatric cardiologists, and thus holds some very painful memories for me. And that place is terribly depressing. Nothing will make you appreciate your healthy children like a stroll through that place,where you are liable to see anyone from newborns to teens with these horrifying medical conditions. And then on the other hand, there is relief. Because while you never want to need them, you feel absolutely grateful that there is a facility a stone’s throw from home that breaks ground daily in just about any treatment for children imaginable. They even work in collaboration with Good Sam to do surgery in utero if need be (Yes, it’s called The Fetal Surgery Center of Cincinnati or something like that). (Good Sam is the OB Mecca I griped about while on bedrest if you followed my pregnancy blog. Gah! I hated going to that place!) If there is something wrong with Zach or he needs any sort of treatment or therapy, I can trust them not only to find it, but to be completely competent at treating him. And that is about the only ray of sunshine in this whole Godforsaken mess.
Because I cannot get it out of my head that this is my fault. That I should’ve lied about my contractions while pregnant. Because if I would have done that, there would have been no home uterine monitor. And thus no trips to the hospital. And no drugs. And no early c-section. But my God, the drugs…3 months of the Brethine pump, plus the oral form I took before the pump and the subcutaneous injections I got each time they sent me to the damned hospital. The mag sulfate–evil, evil mag sulfate. The indomethacin. The steroids to speed him up in there. The damned pain meds it took to get me through that last month, which my OB assured me were safe. And the progesterone shots. I keep wondering which one it was, knowing full and well that it is likely none of them that did this. Which brings it back to me. Which takes me back to those last months of my pregnancy and makes me contemplate whether I could’ve held on longer. It’s so easy to speak of this now when I have had nine months with my angel and am free from that pain. But then? If I put myself back in that place, I think I can honestly say that I did the best I could. Me and my uterus of which medical mysteries are made. I have to be nicer to myself about this. I was in an active labor pattern for months–literally–and I effing functioned like that. Yes, I did the best I could. And while I am not trying to stroke my own ego here, I think I would be hard-pressed to find many others who could’ve endured that for as long as I did. But still…
And John’s reaction! Argh! Since he dropped Zach and I off for the appointment that was supposed to be a routine check and ran errands with Ev, I had to explain all of this to him. And his response to all of this still infuriates me: ” ARE YOU TELLING MY SON IS GOING TO BE RIDING THE SHORT BUS TO SCHOOL??????” Seriously. And then: “We’ll have to get a ‘Slow Children Playing’ sign for the yard just for Zach.” I know he was just trying to make me laugh, but still. I could’ve killed him, I swear. Completely unhelpful and inappropriate, John.
So anyway…
I have to wait. I have to hope all is well, or that his delays are so mild that minimal therapy will fix it all. I still hate that we are in this place.
The ball starts rolling on February 28th, when Zach sees the audiologist…