Once More with Feeling.

On the Day That You Were Born the Angels Got Together...

Your birthday story.

Dear Care,

Because you can't pick your parents, I am regret to inform you your story will include some profanity. Your mother's profanity. And as you will one day later know, I didn't even push. So, yeah, ...yaw blessed.

Okay, Carolyn-

So your Dad & I took a risk. We wanted to be parents. Your parents.  One day I'll explain it, but know that we so wanted to know you, we took a big risk. And man, I still cannot believe this life we have because of it.

I've taken 2 pregnancy tests after trying to make a baby. The first time I took it alone, thinking "nah, no way but what the hell," and lo, we were pregnant right away with Daniel. I swore to myself the next time I did this, I would make sure I wasn't alone because me + what I think is a positive test+ all alone =  IS NOT SOMETHING THAT SHOULDN'T BE WITNESSED. I quietly spazz and pace the house with the need to unload and carry on with a string of "Oh My Gods" and "No ways" as I cannot be burdened to carry that level nervous  joy and anxiety  alone for much longer than, I don't know, 2 minutes? Long enough to Google the test brand's website to make sure I'm reading it right? I don't know.

But when I found out with you, once again I was alone and felt another "ha, what the hell" bravery because of the "it was just one time we tried" and sure enough, there was a very, very faint line and I was like,"I swear I am the poster woman for 'it just takes one time.'" A cameraphone photo or 2 later sent to "the consigliere" as your father calls it, just to make sure I wasn't seeing things (it was one of those  early tests so  I convinced myself that maybe I'd wanted it so badly I was, in fact,  just seeing things), The Consigliere deemed I was seeing nothing other than a positive you.

28 weeks and you already know your angles.  Miss Tyra would be so proud.

Carolyn, thrilled does not begin to express it. We were cautious, sure,  but my pregnancy with you, though filled with some unfortunate toilet-centric events in the beginning (I still harbor some resentment over your father's ill-advised tuna sandwich which I could smell from upstairs which forced an impressive sprint to the bathroom), and some dire, looney need for Devil Dogs in the end, it was pretty event-free as far as these things go.

Because you were a planned c-section, we found out your birthday about 2 months in advance. June 22nd.  It was to be exactly 2 days after Father's Day and 2 days before your Dad's 40th. For this, you got me off the hook for about finding the perfect gift or having to find the energy of  throwing a surprise 40th in my last trimester.  So thanks, I owe you one.

The very top of the day you were born, 12:01 a.m., your mother could be found in the kitchen, alone, boiling bottles. Yes, this is when I thought it would be a good idea to finally open the packages of new bottles and inherited pumping equipment I'd never bothered to look at and sterilize them. Not that I really knew what I was doing (how long should they be in there before they're considered ok?) but instead of getting my last good night's sleep for a long time, I was trying to clean bottles and pumps over a few boiling pots on the stove. And doing my laundry. And packing my bag.

OKay- I'm going to level with you-  this is how I roll, have always been,  and I'm sure this'll come into play and impact your life at some point. What I'm saying is, your dad will be in charge of being up in your face about getting college apps  in on time.

I don't know what time I got to bed that morning, but I had to be up at 4:30 a.m. to be out the door by 5:30 to be ready to check in for 6:00.  I shaved my legs and even manged to get the curling iron to my head. Never think I didn't care about our first meeting. Not ever.

Smile, bitches! It's 5:30!

We checked in ready to be the first surgery at 8:00 but someone else needed the OR ahead of us, and since you were in no hurry to get out (and actually 3 weeks early), we waited for about an hour longer than was planned. In that downtime,  I took the time to check out my digs and take my last photo of me pregnant.

Pre-iPhone. Apologies for the Amish quality.

When they had decided to get things going, they had to put in the  dreaded IV.  Care, your mother has a terrible track record with the IVs. Last time I had one put in, I bit your father. Twice. Like he was a leather strap.   They then had to have another doc a 3rd try because the nurse couldn't do it. Good times, that.

So to say I was not looking forward to this part was a bit of an understatement, and begged that they just but it in the crook of my elbow. No dice, but luckily this time, your day, they at least got it on the first try - but not without me breezily commenting, "Fuck,fucking fuckfucker, FUCK!"

The nurse looked up at me and laughed, "I have to say, I didn't see that coming from you." I think it was the dainty pearl earrings that threw her off.

From there, I was transported to the OR.  More prep. Some small talk with the nurses. They asked me what I had in mind for names. I said we'd come in with 2 and were still deciding. I told them the two, and one nurse said to me, "I don't know if you can hear it, but the radio is playing "Sweet Caroline" if that helps." I felt like that was a sign- and if nothing else, you have a story.

More needles. This time in my back. This time be a VERY important needle and one I needed to hold very still for. I was informed that I was getting Very Important Back Needle from a resident, so, a doctor who works under the supervision of another top doctor. I wasn't exactly thrilled with this, although I understand that this is how things go, but honestly, I wanted to get the Top Cheese of Needle Experience doing this. Call me old-fashioned. I zipped the lip on my feelings and could feel him cleaning  my lower back off. This was not my first time,  I knew the drill, but as I am waiting for my warning, the doc just sticks me! Can you believe that guy? My involuntary response to get away from pain kicked in and I jumped a little forward, almost off the table.

"Woah, woah, woah, doc- you gotta count me off before you stick me."

I think Supervisor Doc gave him the "yeah,dummy"  nod. We go again, he counts me up,  and I only blurt, "BALLS_BALLS_BALLS_BALLS"  this time as he's doing it. Because I am a lady.

This cracks up the entire OR. I tell them that was me actually cleaning up my language, based on what the poor nurse had to put up with for the IV and the doctor says to me, "Go ahead, if there's one place where swearing's acceptable, it's in here."

From there it's the matter of waiting to become numb.  Numb enough to cut, sure, but also, to insert the catheter. Again, my self-protective instincts kick in and I tell them for I and only *I* will give the green light for this part, as this involved my lady parts and a tube. Hand to God, I pushed them off like 3 times. I somehow feel this is a bragging point.

Waiting for numbness, waiting, oh shit, I think I'm gonna puke, puke, feel better, okay, here we go, we're getting you out...

9:44 you were born weighing 7-11 (I will buy you your first Slurpee, and it should be a blue one.).

My first words upon seeing you wiggle in the doctors hands as he lifted you up over the sheet and hearing you cry:

1. Oh my God.

2. Is she okay? (I just needed to hear you were totally fine)

 (a little crying from me)

3. GO TO HER.

(Not pictured: My guts.)

"...and decided to create a dream come true."

 

"You are the one that I have always dreamed of, I knew it from the start. I saw your face and that's the last I've seen of my heart."

Look, you got your Dad to smile a nice (normal) smile. You got skills, kiddo.

"I can feel you heart beat through my shirt. This is all I ever wanted. All I want."

Happy birthday, sweetie.  Love,  Mom

Missing You

Not sure how to follow that. That wasn't exactly light material, in subject matter and the fact that you might have well thought I was getting paid to write by the pound (3,200 words according to this thing. Maybe next time I'll just write the dictionary.) But believe me though when I say, "and that's the abridged version."  Two weeks in a hospital, I tell you: you see some stuff.

But it wasn't all  "A Very Special Episode of..."  content all the time.  In that downtime, I could find something  odd or funny despite the "A Very Special Episode of..." turn my life was taking.  For example, you might recall me mentioning a major component of the pre-eclampsia is (was) the blood pressure,  and  I had arrived with a life-threatening level and then was able to maintain a relatively healthy one for 2 weeks with a lowest dose of BP medication. This was an incredible accomplishment in and of itself.  However,  I kept recalling an episode of The Office where the office tool Dwight raved about his brain's superiority as compared to  the lemmings he was forced to suffer daily.   So through all the  checks and charting, I kept hearing Dwight's braggery to Jim & crew on how he could raise his blood pressure at will, because his mental fitnesss was such, was so increbibly advanced, that he could manipulate involuntary bodily responses any which way he pleased.   So when Jim sarcastically asks him, "Annnnd why would exactly you want to raise your blood pressure?" Dwight's  rebotically responds, "So that I can lower it."

I may have used that bit once or twice with the staff.

Anyway, I needed to get that out of me since it's been sitting with me for 2 years. My secondary thought was maybe (maybe, maybe,) since  Interwebz is forever(-ish), one day some pregnant or one day would-be pregnant lady will read it and not be inclined to self-diagnose , or brush it off, or suck it up until the doctor's office opens.  And maybe,  if that were to happen,  it's possible to think one person might be spared a horrific outcome.  If that were to happen, ...well, that would be a comforting thought.

But even with Daniel's birthday looming  (which honestly for the majority of the day I was surprisingly okay), this has not been a good month.  A lot of waterworks and snot, crying in places where I just assume not give in to the ugly face.  Maybe you read my post about going to the dentist office two weeks ago? Reception got the ugly face that day (I so ever  grateful to be the only patient in the waiting room). The last time I had been there I was a few months pregnant with Daniel and loved getting to tell them (since they ask when they take x-rays) that yeah, there was a possibility that I was pregnant, since hi, I was due in the summer. In addition to the  emotional landmine of the office, for the few days prior to the appointment, I had just spent those trying to recover what is now a permanently erased a voicemail  I'd saved from my mom on my old cell phone, a result of switching to the iPhone (this futile act included many embarrassingly tearful calls and conversations to various level Verizon employees and the third party company  who does their voicemail). And  just before my appointment,  my sister had told me that our Mom's blog had been deleted. So losing that voicemail and her blog was like losing her all over again.  All these things kept pushing and pushing on me,  so when reception of dentist day asked, "How old's the baby now? Getting big?" and I said, "Nine months" and then I immediately thought they meant from the last time I was there a few years ago, so I foolishly started to back track and tried to explain about Daniel and then...

...I choked. It was too much. My voice cracked and I couldn't hold it in. I quietly bawled to the receptionist as I explained my son died, and I haven't been to the dentist because I had an appointment scheduled while I was on leave, never kept it, and never made another appointment, and-  and- oh my God, isn't the dentist gonna kill me when he sees what I'm bringing him.

(and what I would be "bringing him" would be his summer home's down payment. Holy Christ).

Like I said, I've never been so grateful for an empty waiting room. It then occurred to me that Mike & I have the same dentist's office, and he of the non-skipping of appointments probably filled them in about Carolyn. I had blanked on that piece of important data. Oops.

Today, April 27th, is my Mom's birthday, a woman whose death of 15 months ago- 9 months after Daniel's and 6 months before Care's birth, I can't really fully explain now.  The complexity of our relationship would easily exceed 3,200 words, and the impact would be,  God, I can't imagine that word count on that.   She didn't know about either of my children, but I was trying to find a way to get to the point where I was going to tell her about Carolyn. And then she died.   Our last face to face encounter on Thanksgiving ended with a  hug & and kiss, and I had a phone conversation with her on Christmas. Two moments I try to hold to.

It goes without saying give anything for her to to be here. Her death tragic and sudden and there was so much I wish I had said and done.  I would jump at the chance for her to see her youngest granddaughter, play with her, and for her to see me in the role of Mom in stead of just kickass Aunt.  She would get a kick out of Care's  fake sneezes and whistling, and be endeared by the fact that the first song I sang to Care was "You Are My Sunshine" only to be followed up with "The Muppets" theme song. 

There is no neat bow for to end this one, but I felt as though I should write something on the woman-who-gave-me-life's birthday. The same woman who had explained to me when Tara Dooley called me a 'dipstick' that it really meant nothing, since she was talking about a part of a car (and then proceeded to pop the hood to our station wagon and pulled out oil-covered metal piece all, "See Jen, THIS! THIS is a dipstick!")

("A" for effort, Ma, but Dooley still had it over me with the insult as it is, afterall, a classic.)

Two

He would be walking.

Or off running.

There would be talking.  I'd hear "Mama." He would be repeating "No" or maybe a series of "Whys?"

He would be going to Lowes with his Dad. And Dunkies. "Helping" him in the yard.

Instead,  he's in the next town.  In a container, underground,  smaller than some of my larger pocketbooks. A small, Styrofoam cooler, really. He has a photo of the 3 of us taped to his casket.

This is my reality.

Our reality.

I'm not sure what I can say or add about the grief of losing a baby. A baby I only got to know for 6 1/2 months "on the inside" and three hours out.

Two years ago today I gave birth to him. Diagnosed with severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP Syndrome which  landed me with an emergency c-section, I can remember everything like it was yesterday.

Two weeks before delivering, nearly 24 weeks pregnant, I was sitting in bed watching American Idol.  I was feeling well and enjoying being pregnant that night.  So much so that I made my first, stereotypical pregnant lady gesture and leveraged my delicate condition to have Mike go out to get the soda & ice cream for a Coke float.  Mike asked, "Are you serious?" just to make sure I wasn't just trying to be funny. He obliged with the trip to 7-11, came back and made me one.  I guzzled it down.

Shortly after drinking my Coke float, I started to feel some pain in my ribs/chest.  I wasn't sure what was going on, although I had experienced something very similar 2 weeks prior.

The pain of 2 weeks prior to the Idol night  I'd described  like a straight shot down my lower esophageal region and straight down my chest. I took a shower, thinking that would relax pain in my chest. At some point, I threw up once. Maybe twice.   I did eventually fall asleep, but would wake up again. After being unable to get comfortable for the night, I went to the ER where they thought maybe a gall bladder issue.  Of course I had started to feel better when I got there. After running the standard tests, and an ultra sound on the gallbladder,  they said they saw nothing. My BP was a little elevated- 140/80-ish, although that can occur when a person is in pain. I was showing some protein in my urine, but not a high enough level to cause concern, and it was also brushed off since it was the early a.m. urine, which tends to be more concentrated and give an overstated result.

Back to the night of Idol, the pain was similar but this time was going under my right breast, in the ribs.  Once again, I couldn't find a comfortable position and again. I started to vomit.  Based my experience of the  night/E.R. two weeks prior (and had had another occurrence between that point, that was relieved with a hot shower), I thought, as everyone had thought and told  me, that this was probably severe heartburn. Maybe throwing back a large Coke Float like it was a shot hadn't been my best idea.

This time though the vomiting and pain kept coming, despite all the showers I took. I couldn't sleep.  I was pacing the house,  going from bed to the couch and back.  Midnight, 1:00 a.m., 2:00, and on, from the couch,  I'm trying to keep hydrated  but I couldn't keep a few bites of Popsicle down. A bucket was now next to me. Later, a bathroom event where both ends were jockeying for the toilet position.  I was really uncomfortable and  getting into weird positions, including child's pose trying to stretch out the pain, to make it stop. I decided I'd call the doctor "first thing" in the morning.

No, I don't know what the hell I was thinking either.

The symptoms had started at around 10 p.m. Wednesday night. A little before six in the morning, I called my OB's office and got the answering service.  I explained my symptoms: the pain in my right ribcage, the constant vomiting, not being able to get comfortable and that I was about 24 weeks pregnant with my first.

The OB who returned my call on call was not my doctor. Focusing on the detail of the pain in the chest lead her to believe I needed to be seen by... my primary...for a chest x-ray. I would be remiss if I didn't say this makes me bitter, since I was actually giving her some clear markers of pre-e/HELLP: pain in the right rib area, vomiting, first pregnancy.  I called my primary, got the answering service, they called back. That doctor, knowing nothing of my medical history, demanded that I get myself to the E.R. as fast as possible, do not bother showering, nothing. And no, I was not gong for a ridiculous chest x-ray. Looking back, I think they knew.

After the calls back and forth with OB and primary doctors' offices, I arrived at the local hospital around 8 a.m. A full two hours after I called, and now 10 hours after the initial onset of physical symptoms.

Let it be known, a pregnant woman complaining of chest pain will cut any waiting line.

I gave a urine sample and eventually got  a bed and my blood was drawn.  They  hooked me up to a BP monitor.  The on-call OB, a kind man who was the hospital's high-risk specialist, and a doctor from my OB office who happened to be at the hospital that day, were in my room. The  BP monitor gave the reading: 190/101.

Stroke high.  Seizure high. Coma high.

Two pairs of doctors' eyes bulged at each other. The set me up with an IV of magnesium sulfate.  "The Mag", as it's known, was to keep me from having a seizure.

Urine showed protein, and the blood work showed high liver enzymes  and low platelet counts.  I was really bad shape.

I'm told I have severe pre-ecplamspia and HELLP syndrome.  I didn't know what that really meant, since I didn't get that far in the books or likely I glossed over any of those details.  I'm confused,  in denial, or both, because I'm a really healthy woman.  How can I be in bad shape?

I'm told they're doing their best to buy me time. Hours, not days or weeks.   Words like "edge of viability" are thrown at me. I don't really understand, since two weeks ago I had pretty much the same deal and they sent me home.

 A steroid shot was given in my butt to help develop his lungs. I'm in a dark room now, my sister  also with me now and I'm trying to keep it together. The doctor,  about to step out of the room for a minute, hears me squeak, "Doctor, do you think there is  there any chance you might be wrong?"

In a most compassionate, soft tone, "Jennifer, I have been doing this for many years, and when I see something like this, I know I'm right, but I hope I'm not."

I start to cry.

The good news, if there was any to be had,  I'm not only not getting worse, I am, in fact, stabilizing.  The Mag is working, and my BP is brought down to a somewhat acceptable level.  A really bad migraine started to emerge, but the nurse said that was expected given how high my BP had just been.  I mentioned to her that I had been getting them the past few weeks, and I'd needed Tylenol with Codeine to cope.   Those were likely early warning indicators of the pre-e, she says.  I see an ultrasound of my son being active and normal.

The kind doctor says I need to be transferred where I can be monitored for high risk pregnancy 24/7. I make the decision to go to Mass. General.

I get my very first ambulance ride.  I make chit chat with the nurse who's riding with me, since I am feeling better and convincing myself that this is somehow a temporary blip to recover from.  Despite the sirens, traffic into Boston slows the ride considerably, but as luck had it,  a state trouper  was in that traffic and I receive a free police escort for the rest of the way.

At MGH and out on the stretcher where all the ambulances are, they detain me, shielding me from another ambulance's patient. Apparently what was coming in was something too gruesome of heartbreaking for me to see. "You don't want to see that."

On the Labor & Delivery floor, I'm given raw, frank data of  my condition and my baby's chances of survival. The bottom line is, at 23 weeks, 5 days pregnant, they're going to round me up to 24 weeks and try to keep me pregnant. Babies delivered prior to 24 weeks, the benchmark for "Edge of Viability"  do not typically survive, and the risk too high for the mother to try to keep them inside.  It would not take much less for them to delivery me right then and there. I've responded to the Mag well, but really, I'm being given a chance to keep my baby alive because of the ROUNDING ISSUE.  A decimal point.

This is also remarkable considering the only way to "cure" pre-eclampsia and HELLP is to deliver.

I see the next day, and am given another shot of steroid for the lungs . Twenty-four hours later I will be considered "Beta complete". I'm taken off the mag drip, and on the lowest dose of BP medication.  My BP behaves. I do a 24 hour urine sample.  I'm still showing protein, but my blood work is showing signs of recovery to acceptable levels.  I still have occasional headaches, but not as intense.  The high risk OBs start to wonder how this is possible,  as  it is not normal pre-e/HELLP behavior for someone who arrived so extremely ill to bounce back with so little intervention or without delivery of the baby.   So they begin to test for viruses, since they now have the time to do so,  including Cat Scratch Fever. I don't own a cat.

I've met with the neonatal doctor and given percentages on survival rates and health stats. The fact that I am "Beta Complete" is a start, but the gestational age, his estimated weight (around a pound) and the fact that he is a male, Caucasian baby (the most vulnerable in terms of survival) are all going against him. The best number I'm given during my stay was 15% survival- and even at that, not without the likelihood of severe disability.

For most of the next 2 weeks, there's not much in terms of excitement, and I settle into a routine. No excitement= good news.   I become an expert of numbers for various blood stats and chart my BPs. I am comforted that  I am puzzling the team of high risk docs. I am Super Woman. My body has  defied the logic of this disease. I mentally fist pump myself for confusing intelligent people and cruel diseases. I'm determined not to be a statistic.

 I go through 2 roommates - one who went into labor while I was zonked out on Ambien.  There were the small victories that came with being stable like not getting blood drawn multiple times a day to only a few times a week, or being taken off the BP cuff that went off every 20 minutes. I get permission to shower and and get fresh air.  As time goes by, I'm more confident that I'll ride out a good chunk of my pregnancy until he was born, safely. I eye 28 weeks.

 One advantage of the hospital bed rest & surveillance was I  got to see my son  everyday with ultrasounds, getting  scores of consistent 8/8s, the highest he could get for his age.

There was one small thing, literally:  he wasn't gaining any weight.  When my BP shot up as high as it did, there was damage to the cord that was feeding him.  It constricted the capillaries.  The damage was done.  The blood was being pumped out twice as fast as it was coming in. The analogy used to explain his daily ordeal was that he was having to run a marathon every day to get the nutrients just to survive. I dream their measurements are off in his favor.

The morning of April 23rd. A Thursday. A full two weeks after admission. 25 weeks, 5 days pregnant.

I have a blood draw very early in the morning and I go back to sleep.  They come back for another draw and I, for reasons I couldn't even tell you then, get up out of bed to get and eat a single peanut M&M from a bowl by the window.  The nurses advises me after seeing this not to eat anything. Something is up. Why do they care? Breakfast is coming soon.

The early a.m. blood showed bad things: dropping platelet levels and liver enzymes going back up. If confirmed by the 2nd draw that morning, I'm going to deliver.

The 2nd blood draw of the morning confirmed their initial finding.  I am getting very sick again, even though I feel perfectly normal. However, the delivery plan has a little wrench in it, as that 1 peanut M&M at 8:00 a.m. pushes the surgery back because the requirement of 8 hours empty stomach. I had not eatne anything before breakfast for 2 weeks. Today I have 1 piece of candy.  Had I not had eaten it,  I would have delivered around noon.  That 1 M&M bought me about 4 more hours with my son kicking in my belly.

I cannot tell you how stupid yet profound that scenario reads back to me.

A single M&M bought me a few more hours with my alive son.

I kept in my mind that I would not freak out until there was something to freak out about.  I remember I watched Ellen while awaiting the 2nd draw's results, trying to keep my stress level low. She had Lindsay Lohan on that day, which was good, because Ellen called her out on her going to the clubs even though she was supposedly getting sober/in recovery. I love people like Ellen calling bullshit on people like Lindsay.   There was also a silly bit of women in Sumo-like costumes chasing a football which had me laughing pretty hard. I prayed that my son could hear his mother's laugh, and not feel worried. I didn't want to send him a bunch of stress hormones, and I heard laughter is good for a person's well being, and this was all I could do for him at this point. I later told kid-appropriate jokes to Mike during surgery, so he also wouldn't worry about me.

I see how that can sound really, really  dumb and naive, or lacking of feeling or I lived in some fantasy world,  or I don't know, unprepared, but you don't know until you're in the spot.  This was all I could do for him: provide a place where his mom wasn't freaking out. I didn't want him to hear me sob or become hysterical. If shit got bad, if he was to die, I could breakdown later.  It wasn't over til it's over, as far as I was concerned.

I delivered my  boy, Daniel. It bothers me I still can't call him Dan or Danny or D-Money. He's Daniel to me for some reason.  Born a  tiny 1 lb., 2 oz., just over 13 inches at 4:22 p.m.  He never cried. His heart rate was not strong- around 80 bpm, but it was beating. He was not dead.  They performed CPR to increase the HR. The doctor informed me he was likely to die in the OR.  As he was telling me this, my son's HR improved and the team called him over. Once again, I fist pumped my logic-defying DNA I'd clearly passed on to him.

They had to rush him to the NICU, but before they did,  they stopped by my head so I could see him in the isolet.  I looked at him, he looked at me. His eyes were open.  It is a moment I can still replay in my head.

In shock,  and time seeming to stand still,  all I could muster was a series of "Oh my God"s.  I'm not sure I even said, "I love you."

They left for the NICU.

Post-delivery surgery took longer than expected due to a bleeding fibroid. Once back in a recovery room, my body temp dropped and  they have to wrap me in warming blankets to get me back to normal.  Mike eventually was given the green light to leave me to be near Daniel. By the time Iam  moved to see him in the NICU, he has passed away. Two hours and 58 minutes later.  I hold him.

I sob and become hysterical.

The rest of my story is about as shitty as one could expect, since a parent isn't supposed to bury their child.  As I said I can't really add anything of value to what grief is or how to cope with such a loss. It's different and yet the same for everyone. People comment about God's Plan but I can tell your grieving parents think their plan was better. Go home with a baby, not a memory box.

I wrote this for a few reasons. 

 The pre-ecplampsia/HELLP syndrome stuff - Rare enough but present enough I should have known. I didn't really remember seeing too much on it, maybe I remember reading about severe swelling, which I never had at all. And typically do not show as early as they did for me. I didn't have any really at-risk ractors:

• First pregnancy (excluding miscarriages)
• High blood pressure, kidney disease, lupus, or diabetes prior to pregnancy
• Gestational diabetes
• Multiple gestation (eg, twins or triplets)
• A family history of preeclampsia in a sister or mother
• A previous history of preeclampsia
• Age under 20 years and possibly age over 35 to 40 years
• Obesity

Okay, this was my first pregnancy but I was otherwise perfectly healthy and then 35 when I got pregnant. I don't see how one can get around "first pregnancy", so it's safe to say, even if I was educated, I would have been looking out for this. Now future preganancies I am considered "at risk.".

After he passed, I remember reading  a comment left on a blog from an OB  nurse that said those offices don't mind the multiple calls from the hand-wringing set;  they worry about the ones that don't call.  I can't say if I had called or gone to the E.R. much earlier if that it would have changed the outcome, but the fact that I can't say definitely 100% one way or the other is something I carry with me.  I really wish I had called sooner. This was not the time to suck it up or try to deal with the pain on my own, even for 8 hours.

Mostly though, I wanted to write this because of this fragile, sweet, beautiful boy who mattered. He was here,  meant something to quite a few people, was so wanted and so fiercely loved. I just wished I could have been his mommy, here in the tangible sense,  for a whole lot longer.

 

Baby Carried a Watermelon, I Swallowed a Basketball.

There are many things to say to a woman in the earlier stages of her pregnancy. "Can I hold your hair back?"  "So you know, I can call a guy who "knows people" to take care of that guy who made the tuna." 

As time passes into the early 2nd trimester, and the green face goes back to her normal "beyond the pale", there's not much to report and, to my mind, not much to comment on.  It's a few weeks of a  holding pattern time in gestation. Looks-wise, you thicken up a little, like maybe you did on Spring Break or a semester at college. Well, that's been my experience. I look like I should switch to lite beer.

Spoiler alert: I've just crossed into the 2nd trimester of my 2nd pregnancy.  The first pregnancy ended last April with me getting very sick and hospitalized with severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome. After 2 weeks of hospital management and bed rest, I had to have an emergency c-section and lost my dear son, Daniel, who lived a short 3 hours.  So here my husband and I are, hoping and praying lightening doesn't strike twice and break our hearts. We are hopeful yet cautious to think that perhaps my body will not dick us over a second time.

Anyway, with this pregnancy, it has been a pretty different experience. I have been puking sick or had times of no appetite whereas last time I felt no differently. On The Nausea/Feel-Like-Ass Richter Scale, probably not a 10 on a 1-10,  but I would say there were 3 weeks I was and 8.5 (yeah, Thanksgiving was a blast - watching people eat) and then worked down  to a 6-7 for another 3 weeks.  As of today I am finally back to my pre-pregnancy weight but have a little pudge. Lah-dee-dah, I know.

At work, I'm a pretty private person. I have a few people I share stuff with, and given the sensitivity of having a high-risk pregnancy coupled with losing my son last Spring, I haven't exactly been chomping at the bit to tell everyone at work I'm pregnant. A few people were told - my manager, my "work husband", and 2 other colleagues (1 was told because I was so sick, I blurted it in a moment of vulnerability (swearing her to zip the lip); the other was just the other day - as I said to her I would officially announce it soon).

Now I want to play take-backs on that last idea of telling people. As I was explaining some work-related issues with a co-worker, out of nowhere she says:

    "Jen, you look like you swallowed a basketball."

People, I am 15 weeks pregnant.  Yeah, sure -  some shit has moved around and not looking too cute, but when you account for the 0 lbs change on a 5'7" frame, ...FOR THE LOVE. A BASKETBALL? I look different but I don't look DIFFERENT, if you know what I mean.

So without missing a beat, I grunt, "uh-huh" and continue right along with my work issues.

She knows - I heard there's been some chatter. Maybe someone in the Trust Circle of Tree blabbed or maybe someone overheard something or put 2 + 2 together on one of my bad days. I do not know. P.S. I do not care. But I think if you want to open the diologue for a woman to say, "hey, I'm pregnant", here's a thought:

Don't insult her. 

So, fuck it. Not telling her or the people around her desk. I will suck it in as long as I can. Or I will get so big to the point it's comical and be all, "well, I guess I could be hitting the gym a little harder."

As a result of that gem, what I've decided to do here is to take the remark (and my pettiness) and turn it into useful information. Consider the following a Working Pregnant Dictionary of Sports Equipment Metaphors. If you've read this, there's no reason to fuck it up anymore. Pay attention.

(I would like to thank my husband Mike, who busted me in the earlier stages of this documentation, and helped me take the majority of the photos here.)

(Also, please note theses photos were taken on the day of the comment, after which I put on tighter clothing, watched some Idol, ate dinner, flossed, and then did these. This is the day's worst case scenario.)

Fig. 1: The Players

Left to right: Football, deflated Soccer ball, Ab Slide, Softball Glove with Softball, Basketball (regulation size), deflated volleyball.

Fig 2: The Pregnant Model with Absolutely No Modeling Experience.  (no, really):

Figure 3: "Mama's swallowed a softball" baby:

Fig 3.1 Homage to Heidi Montag-Pratt "I'm not addicted to plastic surgery. I'm just obsessed. BIG DIFFERENCE, YOU GUYS."

"I swear, that 3rd boob just came out of nowhere." 

Fig. 4: "Awww, it's a softball glove. How cute are you?":

Fig. 5: That Pats are a touchy subject 'round these parts. Let's just move on, shall we? (aka The Football):

My husband thinks I'm weird. I wonder why that is.

Fig. 6: In the year 2000, in an effort to help her out, I once lied on my sister Em's resume and stated under "Interests" that she played volleyball. Both this photo and that resume have two things in common: 1. the volleyball and 2. they're both padded.

Fig 7: OKay, so the Ab Slide was a little tricky

Fig 8: The Soccer Ball:

Look as the model spontaneously commits to an action shot. A natural.

Fig 9: The ACTUAL BASKETBALL. PAY ATTENTION, FRIENDS.:

Fig 10: For handy comparison, again - the "work basketball":

At the end of the day, none of these comparisons matter. Really.  So long as by June, me and my abdominal region are looking something like this, I will be bullet proof to any comparison you throw at me.

Do I What?

For those of you who don't look at my Flickr photos or are not one of my many (Oh, so, SO MANY!*) besties on Facebook, the current situation is this:

I'm pregnant.

Twenty-three weeks tomorrow, to be exact.

For the majority of these past 23 weeks, it's been a pretty easy going pregnancy...that is, until mid-March hit and my health decided not to play it cool anymore (most of which were your virus/upper respiratory related crap, not the kid). March made me its bitch,  landing me in more doctors' offices then I have seen in the past 5 years combined (at least). For that, I'm telling March to go fuck itself and begging April to be "the cousin for me".  I have a post written in my head about March, but  I'll save it for later.

Instead, I ask your indulgence for  the Weird Shit/Advice People Say to the Knocked Up .

Alright, so technically thus far I haven't gotten too much with the weird shit because my change in girth has only just started to look the part and my weight gain negligible. Therefore, my temporary "celeb status" at work, of being the only one in the "delicate state",  hasn't really hit its full stride just yet.

I did, however, receive this gem....which...I'll let you judge:

    Gal at work (had baby last year), walking towards me and I her: So, are you waddling yet?

    Me: Um, no.

I've read many a site and comments about stupid shit people say to pregnant women, but this, to my best recollection, is a first.

And, let's connect the dots here, shouldn't the Gal at Work be able to empirically derive whether or not I am waddling? Particularly given that I was, you know, WALKING TOWARDS HER?

I think this Gal at Work (GaW) is excited for me, but man, ...I dunno. Weird. And I know I wasn't going to be immune to The Stupid Shit (and I bet I could have made a comment that chapped someone a little despite my best intentions) but seriously? Do I WADDLE? 

Not quite on the High Score List for originality,  but she was also was the same woman who, when she asked what I was taking for maternity leave, I said 12 weeks (I think that's my plan anyway), laid into me that I should be taking more!, 12 is not nearly enough!, it goes by too quick!, for the first 6 weeks she felt like crap trying to heal!, you need to bond with baby!, and so on.

Well, maybe she is right.  I mean, she could be. I just hope she doesn't freak when I forward her my mortgage bill.

Anyway, I open the comments to add your gems, either directed at you or crap you've heard second/third hand.

* okay - FINE, I come from a large family.  WHAT OF IT?