I woke up on Tuesday and the first thing that came to mind was, “ugh, I got my period.” And then I woke up a little more and remembered that I was pregnant so there were no periods coming that day. And then I woke up a little more and thought, crap. The irritability is back. I took both of my anti-contraction meds and tried to focus on the day.

Mike and I went to pick up Rigby and ended up waiting more than an hour to retrieve her because all the vets and techs were in an emergency (doggy hit by car). While we sat in the waiting room, my cramping started to get worse. Just as I was about to tell Mike that I needed to leave, the vet brought out Rigby! She was so happy to see us. She had a little bandage wrapped around her right front leg from where the IV had been, and a huuuuge scar on her belly from the surgery. The vet went over everything with us (the stones were struvite, diet should keep them away, more antibiotics), and then she was free!

Rigby is clearly very happy to be home, but she’s definitely still recovering.

We also caught her trying to lick her scar on several occasions, so she now has a lovely new accessory:

pretty sure she’s gonna run away from home for this one.

The cramping, unfortunately, sent me to Labor and Delivery again. Dr. Risky’s nurse practitioner sent me there before I even saw Dr. Risky for my usual appointment. I wasn’t really happy about that – I felt like it was the golden opportunity where the car is actually making the funny noise for the mechanic, you know? But off I went to labor and delivery. I was lucky enough to avoid a sterile speculum exam this time, but I still got all the other goodies – two different ultrasounds (you know, one outside, one inside), and a cervix check.

Seriously now…how the HELL do you women in labor stand a cervix check? Holy crap.

The resident that checked my cervix pronounced it closed, but soft. When she told me that, I sighed, because I knew Dr. Risky wouldn’t like that. After the residents and nurse left my room, I made myself comfortable and tried not to think about how many people had been all up in my vagina since Saturday.

After what felt like forever, my nurse came back in the room to tell me what Dr. Risky had decided. The contraction monitor had showed more irritability, even after the nifedipine dose I’d taken. Dr. Risky realized I was playing catch up with my contraction meds, so now instead of taking them as-needed, I am to take the anti-contraction meds around the clock.

The nurse then said, “Dr. Risky also wants you to lay down as much as possible, and really only get up to go to the bathroom.”

Me: *silence* *pause* *beat*  You mean, bed rest?

Nurse: No…I asked her that, and she said not to say “bed rest” to you.

I had to laugh at that, like my brain would explode if I was put on bed rest again. Although, maybe it would, I don’t know. But basically, I have to “lay down as much as possible” until I see Dr. Risky next Tuesday. I really wish I could have seen her on Tuesday but I guess Dr. Risky figured the 87 residents who had their hands in my vagina were enough for one day.

So, let’s go over the similarities between me and Rigby – we’re both on special diets, we’re both on meds, we both have scars near our lady parts, we both have to lay down all the time, and we’re both only allowed to get up to pee. It’s practically impossible to tell us apart.

UPDATED:

By popular demand

California Octobers have the kind of weather that our colder northern neighbors would most likely envy. Most days the temperature sits around 80 with a warm breeze. But those warm breezes can also bring disaster. This October, there have been wind-blown wildfires that have destroyed beautiful hills and homes. When I took this picture, I remembered the last time I saw the sky like this – it was last October, and I was being driven to the hospital while fires burned in the hills and valleys of LA. The smoke in the air and the setting sun made it look like the sky was on fire, too.

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t thought much about the events of last October. I was still on bed rest, only allowed to stand up long enough to use the toilet or take a five-minute shower. I never knew what the days or nights would bring. Every time Maddie kicked in my belly, I had anxiety. Every time she didn’t kick, I had anxiety. I could only sleep for an hour or two at a time. I would watch fire coverage on TV at 3 am and I’d see the looks of fear and anxiety on the faces of the residents whose houses were dangerously close to being enveloped by flames. I knew that look. It was the same one I would carefully cover with a positive expression during the daylight hours.

I entered the hospital on October 24th, my mom’s birthday. I’d been throwing up and had stomach tenderness and a growing fever. I went to the hospital for overnight IV fluids, and I didn’t leave until 36 hours after Madeline was born. Some people would think entering the hospital would be the worst part of the pregnancy. It wasn’t. Every time I’d see my OB or specialists and they didn’t admit me to the hospital, THAT was the worst part. It was like being one of those residents with a house about to go up in flames. It’s scary, but if there’s a fire crew down the street you know they’ll be there with the hoses to put out any fires. I longed to have my emergency crew nearby – I wanted skilled doctors and nurses right outside my door.

Reading through the archives of my hospital stay, I surprised myself when tears came to my eyes. I was transported back to those days and all the things I didn’t say. The seagull that used to sit at my window reminded me of how it comforted me when I was alone with my thoughts. The three-day massive migraine that my nurses and doctors feared could be a sign of Pre-Eclampsia, something I kept to myself. That being diagnosed with gestational diabetes scared me more than anything, because I honestly didn’t know how I would manage to eat my required 2,500 daily calories without ice cream and apples – literally the only things I could manage more than two bites of before I’d get nauseous. I didn’t write any of this stuff down, and I’m trying to remember WHY. Was I protecting my worried friends and family? Was I in denial? Or was I too afraid to document the volatile emotions that swirled inside me like sparks in a firestorm, unsure of the damage they could cause?

I’m supposed to see a therapist to help me with my postpartum issues. I have the number of three Doctors who specialize in PPD, but I have yet to call any of them. I haven’t wanted to delve into my pregnancy. I haven’t wanted to relive all those feelings. Even though it’s been a year, I just need more distance before I can go back to the scarred terrain of October 2007. The grass and trees are starting to grow again, and I’m rebuilding, but it’s a slow process.

Two mornings after Madeline was born, I was in a hospital room on the general patient floor, shivering. I’d checked out against medical advice the night before because my husband called to say our baby was dying. I’d only seen her for a second, and I couldn’t let her pass without me. She stabilized after I arrived at the hospital she’d been transferred to (the one I’d delivered at didn’t have the high-level NICU she required), and it was only then I let myself feel the physical pain that came with an emergency c-section after ten weeks of bed rest. I had to go back to the hospital for pain management and observation. Unfortunately, for reasons still unknown to me, I couldn’t return to the postpartum wing.

The nurses on the general level were not prepared for a woman in my condition. When I buzzed for pain medicine, it took them 45 minutes to respond. A nun who came to bless me (it’s a Catholic hospital) got more than she bargained for when I burst into tears and asked her to pray for my baby. Even if I hadn’t gotten the call, I knew I couldn’t stay on that floor any longer.

I was forcing myself to walk, so I could start the healing process and be well enough to go to Madeline’s hospital. My mom, who was with me, had left my room to find a nurse about those pain meds. My cell phone rang, and it was Mike:

Heather. When are you coming? The doctors said Madeline isn’t going to make it. Babies with her problems rarely come back. Are you coming?

I hung up with him and said to the emptiness, today is the day my baby dies…soon I will no longer be a mother. I decided she would be buried with my grandmother, her namesake. I finalized her funeral in those moments I was alone, the moments that felt like hours.

My OB discharged me, and as I stumbled past her she said, “if you don’t need to breast feed, bind your chest and use ice packs.” Her words were ice cold, cutting through me. So thoughtless and uncaring, but they made me feel when I had been so numb.

My memory of the four mile car ride to the hospital is lost, but I remember arriving. My mom had to drop me off to park her car, so I had to make my way to the NICU alone. It was the most I’d walked in ten weeks, but I was determined to ignore the pulling of my incision and the bleeding in my uterus. I brushed by my in-laws and walked right into the NICU to my daughter’s isolette. I stood next to my husband and took his hand. I didn’t expect to see my little daughter alive. I felt heavy. I wondered if I would sob.

She didn’t look tiny. Her body was swollen from the medications pumped into her bloodstream through what remained of her umbilical cord. I stared at her cord and cursed my body for failing her. I prayed my husband would forgive me.

The nurses and doctors spoke to me, but all I could hear was the hum of the high frequency oscillator giving her 500 breaths per minute, and the alarms. The alarms that meant she was dying. I looked around, and all I saw were faces. All looking at us, but none making eye contact. They all knew she was going to die. The other parents were told leave the NICU. Never a good sign.

The night before, I’d been told not to speak to Madeline because preemies can’t handle too much stimulus. That morning, I didn’t care. I started whispering to her, even though I was far away.

Mommy’s here, Maddie. Please be strong. You can do this. You are the bravest person I know. Please be strong for your mommy. She needs you.

Mike and I stood there for moments, hours, minutes. Her vital numbers improved. The doctors and nurses heaved sighs and sat, exhausted. The other parents trickled back in. We didn’t dare hope, we kept holding our breath. Six months later, we still haven’t exhaled.

The internet is so amazing, the endless possibilities at your fingertips. Once I had a name for the reason I was on bed rest, I spent the remainder of my pregnancy with my hands on the keyboard. I sought answers, odds, and facts before Madeline was born. After her birth, I needed stories. I needed to know how people got through it. That’s when I found a whole community of women grappling with loss and the fear of the unknown.

Many of the sites I visit have experienced the loss that slipped through our fingers. I was commenting on one today, and I was struggling to find the right words. I sat back for a moment and tried to consider why I was compelled to comment in the first place. Her words were beautiful and moving, why did I think that I, as the mother of a survivor, could say anything that would make her feel better? Yet, her story was haunting. It was almost me. But it wasn’t. By some miracle, my baby survived. Why was I the lucky one? Why not her? I realized then I have major survivor guilt.

I’m writing all this because, as time stretches on, the details of those early days and weeks get dim. I never want to relive that fear, but I never want to forget it. Not that I ever could. I also hope that revisiting this will help me deal with the guilt I feel. The world is so random. I will never know why our baby survived where others don’t. I can’t change the outcome but I hope that I can comfort those who suffer. I ache for them. I touched their loss. I briefly let it envelop me when I walked into the NICU on the day my baby was supposed to die.

I will try not to feel guilty anymore.

When the hectic hospital day gives way to night, most normal people succumb to the fatigue they’ve been fighting off for hours. I have that fatigue, but I find it almost impossible to fall asleep. When I was in the hospital on bed rest only five months ago, I would turn up the monitor on Maddie’s heartbeat with the hope it would drown out my thoughts. I had so much fear then, I would have to block out everything to manage a mere 40 minutes of sleep – I would try to ignore the squirming baby in my belly and let the swishing of her heartbeat lull me into a trance. Just when I’d be nodding off, Maddie would shift and her heartbeat would fall off the monitor, and the silence would jar me into a state of panic. “She’s laying on her cord!” I’d think, “the doctors’ predictions have finally come true, and something has happened and my baby has died.” A nurse would almost always come in at that point and find Maddie on the monitor again, but the terror that would grip me during those moments of silence will never leave me.

There isn’t ever silence in the pediatric unit. A few nights ago, a baby was laughing with unrestrained glee into the wee hours. The night before that, a child was crying out in pain and frustration. Right now, I am listening to the familiar gurgle of Maddie’s humidified oxygen, but I’m also hearing the gurgle in her chest with each breath. Occasionally, an alarm goes off on her monitor, her blood oxygen saturation has dropped below acceptable levels. I can also hear another monitor going off down the hall, and the commotion in the nurses’ station as they rush to that room. We’ve been around hospitals long enough to know that sound – someone’s heart has stopped. Hopefully it’s a false alarm, but I find myself reflexively looking at Maddie’s monitor every few seconds to assure myself that it is not, in fact, her heart that has stopped. I can’t help but think about the parents of the child attached to that monitor. They’re feeling frightened, like the room has run out of air, and time is spiraling out of control. When I close my eyes, I’m transported back to first night I saw Maddie. I had checked out of the hospital against medical advise only 26 hours after my C-Section because I was told my daughter was going to die at a hospital three miles away. The alarms going off were overwhelming, the pitch of their beeps piercing. I won’t ever forget whispering to her, “be strong baby, mommy is here,” only to be told, “don’t talk to her right now, her senses are overloaded and she needs to focus all her energy on living.” I never want anyone else to feel like I did at that moment.

The hospital at night can really mess with you. I wish I could turn up a heart monitor on Maddie again, and drown out everything but the sound of her life.