burnt toast life

something very bad will probably happen soon

This post has been floating around in my head forever. I guess it’s time it finally came out. Sit back and relax…it’s going to be a long one.

It’s actually quite exhausting to try to sum up what it’s like being related to my brother Eric (not to be confused with my husband Eric). The simple fact is that he has always been an exhausting person. High energy from the very beginning, really for as long as he has been alive. Outgoing, popular, self-confident. Always quick to make friends. But also selfish, demanding, and exceedingly self-absorbed.

Here’s an old story – I’ll never forget one year on our annual beach vacation when he decided he needed a very specific logo screen printed onto a t-shirt. I can’t remember what it was for, or why it was so important – rest assured that it was not required for any event or team, just that he got it in his head that he needed it. He couldn’t have been more than 10 at the time. We literally spent the entire week stopping at various print shops all over Maryland trying to find someone who could create this specific t-shirt he had dreamed up in his imagination. My grandmother, an artist, tried to draw him the exact logo as he described and even that wasn’t good enough. He talked about it day and night, and our planned family activities were all cut short in order to just “check out one more place to make the shirt.” Several shirts were made but none of them were just right, and so we had to keep trying, daily, for the entire week. In the end, I don’t think he was ever satisfied with the dozens of shirts that were printed for him. But also, more tellingly, he felt absolutely no shame over hijacking the entire summer vacation and ruining everyone’s good time in order to get what he wanted. In his mind, he was – and is – the only person who matters.

That my parents allowed him to act in such a way and endlessly bent to his wishes has always been a sore subject. He was for a long time the only boy and the baby of the family – the stereotypical golden child who could get away with anything. But then again, he was obnoxious to the point of delirium. If they hadn’t taken him to every screen printer on the Eastern seaboard, he would have just kept repeating himself and pleading his case ad infinitum, until we all wanted to jump off the 20th floor balcony of our beach condo (or just push him off – which in retrospect, would have solved a lot of future problems).

This is just one example of many to illustrate the sort of person my brother is and always has been. The first descriptor that comes to mind when I think of him is selfish. He is spoiled and selfish and for the past God knows how many years, he is also a drug addict.

And yes, these traits go hand in hand, though I think the selfishness in this case did precede the addiction. If you’ve ever seen an episode of Intervention, then you know that my family’s story is hardly original. (Though I do feel like, on Intervention, there’s always that moment where the text appears on the screen that says, “And that’s when Carrie’s dad left,” when you can say to yourself, ahhhhh, ok, now it all makes sense. In my brother’s case, I can’t think of any obvious moments like that.)

I come from an upper middle class family, a safe neighborhood, two loving parents and a relatively normal upbringing. We’ve always had more than enough and as I’ve already mentioned, my brother has always had even more than that. Naturally gifted and athletic, he was a nationally ranked wrestling star with a bedroom full of trophies and medals and more friends than I could ever keep track of. Despite the fact that I was seven years older, people would always refer to me as “Eric’s sister,” and most of them didn’t even realize he had two older sisters since neither of us played sports or stood out in any way – at least not compared to him. He was outgoing and talented and impossible to ignore. And then, at some point, it all fell apart.

Part of the problem is that we lived this nice, innocent, normal existence and really had no inkling of the warning signs of drug addiction until they were smacking us right in the face. Even then, it took my parents a really long time to admit how bad the problem was. They both worked long hours and relied on us kids to be self-sufficient – we were left home alone and expected to take care of our own after-school snacks, homework, and entertainment. My sister and I never had a problem with this. For my brother, the lack of rules and structure turned out to be disastrous.

Who knows how it started, when it started… at this point, I’m sure it doesn’t even matter. It’s been going on for so long that my memories of those early days are hazy and it’s really not worth going back and rehashing every painful moment (plus, my memory has never been that good). There are just a few things that stick out in my mind–

All the things he stole. Oh, did he steal. Things from my parents, mostly. Irreplaceable things. All of my mom’s jewelry, both my parent’s class rings, the silver flatware we used to eat Christmas dinner, phones, iPads, tools, cash, purses, televisions, car batteries… everything. Anything. Things we still don’t even realize we are missing.

Once he stole my father’s air compressor and sold it to a pawn shop. My dad went and bought it back. Then Eric sold it again.

The worst for me was when he stole my laptop, which had pictures I hadn’t backed up and would never see again. The next morning we brokered a deal with the drug dealer he sold it to and offered him $600 cash – no penalty – to get it back. We of course never got it, and the cash disappeared, too.

You know what, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when he stole my little sister’s gift cards that she got for her birthday party (maybe she was 4? 5?) and told her that he took them because he planned on taking her to the movies. He never took her to the movies.

All the times he has ruined. I guess the beach story was just a harbinger of things to come. He has a knack for choosing moments to ruin – mostly vacations, and always Christmas. Eventually it just became commonplace that he would fall asleep at the dinner table or need to borrow a car and go out on some urgent errand. That he needed money for the errand. That he would pester and plead and threaten and scream until you gave in and gave him what he wanted just so he would shut the hell up. Then he’d bring the car back with fenders missing or giant dents and no reasonable explanation, only that it “wasn’t his fault.” I can’t tell you how many of my parent’s cars he has ruined.

Or how about the Christmas when my mom was cleaning his room, getting ready for the guests we have every year, and pricked herself with one of his used needles. My mom is so strong but when I walked in and saw her crying, helplessly, I genuinely didn’t know what to say or do.

All the potential he wasted. You see stories of these kids, born into poverty, toiling day and night and to get into decent colleges and then working their asses off to become doctors and lawyers…my brother is the exact opposite of that. He was born with every opportunity, with so much talent and potential, on the fast-track to getting a full-ride to college on a sports scholarship and then doing whatever he wanted with his life. Making money, being successful, making his dreams come true. Instead, he got kicked out of high school, eventually did get a GED, and has had yet to hold down a real job. He mooches off my parents or whatever girl he happens to be seeing and has absolutely nothing to his name. You know what he has? He has one small duffle bag of clothes and a cracked iPhone. That’s about it.

There was a brief, shining oasis in the middle of this when I actually thought he was “cured.” I remember it was 2010 because they allowed him to leave rehab to be in my wedding – and he looked better than he had looked in years. He smiled, made eye contact, engaged. Didn’t disappear mysteriously. Acted like a normal human being. It was the longest I’ve ever seen him sober and the difference in his demeanor was astonishing. Naively, I allowed myself to imagine it was over.

It wasn’t. It isn’t. His drug of choice these days is heroin, and has been for a long, long time. Maybe I should just count my blessings because it’s actually much better than crack – crack makes him wild, crazy, uncontrollable. Heroin, at least he can function. He can pretend to the point that I wonder if he’s still doing it right up until the point that one of my parents mentions he’s in rehab – again.

Writing this post was supposed to be therapeutic but now I don’t even know. I’ve written this much so I might as well finish. There is no ending, no resolution – he still is who he is and I stay out of the drama as much as possible. It’s just a fact at this point – either he’s finally going to get clean, or he’s going to overdose and die. I’m not sure it makes much of a difference now.

For me, I’ve managed to distance myself emotionally, because what else can I do? He and I were never close – I’m 7 years older, and in general just a very different kind of person. He has always frustrated me, even before the drugs, and now I just can’t muster the sympathy.

I’ll be honest – I can be hard on people. I don’t understand weak personalities and self pity and addiction in general, despite the fact that I’ve known many addicts. I’m familiar with it – but I’m not the most sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I’ve been through some heavy shit in my own life and the most wallowing I’ve ever allowed myself are a few “woe is me” blog posts and some nights spent crying inconsolably. I’ve never numbed the pain with drugs and alcohol. I’ve always been of the mindset that life is tough, and you should buck up, work hard, and get over it.

The only people I truly feel bad for in this situation are my parents. I hate what he is doing to them. It’s funny, I often think of myself as more worldly, and more able to handle things than my parents – and in a way, like I need to protect them. Sort of like when I watch a movie and tell my mom it’s “too graphic, with too much nudity and violence” for her. My parents are former band geeks, high school sweethearts who have been married for 32 years and go to church every Sunday. My mom has never even smoked a cigarette. I really cannot fathom how they ended up with a son living this kind of life.

I think addiction is selfish. I do recognize that it’s a disease, and I respect that, but every time he goes to rehab (I’ve lost count, it has to be anywhere from 50 to 100 times by now), I expect things to change. He detoxes the drugs out of his system – gets sick – suffers. And then it’s a clean slate. A new beginning. Every. Single. Time. He’s lucky enough to have parents who are still supporting him (maybe not like they once did, but he is on their insurance, and has the opportunity to go to rehab in the first place). And yet, he comes home, and makes a call, and starts the cycle all over again. I just want to shake him. STOP MAKING THE PHONE CALL. START OVER.

So yeah, I’m tough, but I also don’t hold grudges. I will forgive and forgive as many times as it takes. If he were to get clean, for real, tomorrow, I wouldn’t constantly remind him of the past or harp on all the Coach bags that I still think about and will never be able to replace because they don’t even make them anymore. I would embrace him and forgive him and tell him he’s doing a great job. But with each passing day, I become less and less convinced that day will finally come.

My brother Eric is 24 years old and every year I doubt he’ll make it to the next one. This year he went really went off the deep end right before our summer vacation (of course) and we heard that whatever girlfriend he’d been crashing with had kicked him out and he was living under a bridge somewhere. I thought for sure we’d get *the call* while we were on vacation. (And even then I thought, yet another vacation ruined). But we didn’t.

These past couple months since we got back from vacation I haven’t heard much about him and I haven’t asked. It’s just easier for me not to know. Then this past weekend he was suddenly at our weekly family dinner, ostensibly making a 2-day pit stop at my parent’s house between detox and rehab. It was weird to see him. He didn’t know Molly could walk, didn’t know I was having a boy. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again.

And I might be too exhausted to care.

hospital captivity journal

It occurs to me that I really should have written this when it was more fresh in my mind, because now I’ve been home for 10 days and I’m fully immersed in baby bliss-dom. A.K.A., I’m not as distraught as I was when we were stuck in the hospital. However, I would like to try to record everything that happened, if for no other reason than to have it for myself for later.

It’s funny…I used to get annoyed at the new moms who stopped posting. I used to think, “What the hell are they doing, anyway? Home from work… sleepy newborn…good God woman, just give us some snippets!” I vowed to never become one of them. I vowed that I would blog more often on maternity leave, not less often.

And then I had a baby.

I can’t believe how much of my time I spend doing nothing of record. Breastfeeding is so time-consuming. When she sleeps, I usually throw her in the Moby wrap and rush around trying to keep up on chores – dishes, laundry, etc. A simple trip out to Target has become a carefully orchestrated event. And by the time Eric gets home from work to help me, I’m usually too exhausted to blog, plus I want to spend a couple of hours of time with him (at the moment, that means slogging through the 120 episodes of LOST. I mean, it’s a great show, but I didn’t realize the level of commitment it required when we started!).

So anyway. The thing that sucks is that I have so many posts in my head. Posts about breastfeeding, about our time home and our routine, about how my husband has stepped into his role of new father so well that it makes my heart hurt with happiness to think about it. That said – and I’ve said this before – I think this blog is going to be different from here on out. Not that I’ve forgotten where I came from. I’m still carrying these scars of infertility, and I always will. When it comes time to try to expand our family, we’ll need to contact New Hope and pay a few thousand dollars for another FET, not just go on a date that ends with a roll in the hay. That’s the painful truth. But for the near future, the things that I’m going to talk about will have to do with navigating the world of being a new mom, hopefully with a sense of gratitude and joy and a healthy dose of humor. So if you find that you need to stop following me for your own sanity, I totally understand. I just wanted to forewarn that baby-centric topics will most likely be the norm now.

And if you’re still with me… good! I have so much to say. I’m going to try to cram it into the next 30 minutes before it’s time for Molly’s sponge bath, because once again she smells like sour milk and we have a visitor coming in an hour. Apologies in advance for typos.

We left off right after the birth, when I was exhausted beyond belief, yet wishing I could bond with the baby. At that point it still didn’t feel like she was really mine. Unfortunately, that feeling would continue for the next few days.

Day 2 (Tuesday)

After a C-section, after your catheter is removed, they encourage you to get up and go for a walk. This is nice because for all the time you’re stuck in bed, they put these large cuffs on your legs to discourage blood clots, and the constant inflation of the cuffs every 10 minutes is super annoying. So being released from bedrest definitely comes as a reprieve (though I must admit, tired as I was, the catheter was actually a welcome apparatus. Not getting up to pee = the ultimate in lazy living).

For my first walk, Eric took my hand and gingerly led me to the edge of the bed. Together, we eased my feet onto the floor and I stood up. And I felt…good. Like, surprisingly good. I slid on my flip flops and started walking at a good clip down the hall. “How about you slow down a little?,” he said. “No, no, I feel really good!,” was my reply. I couldn’t help but wonder why people made such a big deal about C-sections. I felt like I was healed already.

Little did I know that I was still feeling the effects of really good intravenous pain medication (Morphine? Yes, please!). And that by the next day, I’d be downgraded to nothing but Percocet and Motrin. I had not made a miraculous recovery. I was just drugged out and didn’t even know it.

On the breastfeeding front, Molly was doing pretty well. She made good attempts at latching, but would detach often and never got a good flow going. She was still having lots of wet and poopy diapers, so I wasn’t very concerned.

Friends came to visit. I got more morphine. I only have vague recollections of our conversations, as I desperately tried to sound normal while feeling like my head was floating way above my body. The good news was that I felt no pain at all.

Day 3 (Wednesday)

This was when things started to go south with breastfeeding. Despite all the progress we had made, things seemed to get worse instead of better. She would attempt to latch, get frustrated, and scrunch up her little red face and scream at my breast. I cried. She cried. I’m pretty sure this is when she had her first low blood sugar reading, and coupled with her small size, the hospital staff started to get concerned. The lower limit for blood sugar range is 45, and her reading was 44. So it wasn’t yet a 5 alarm situation, but again… they were definitely concerned. People started showing a lot more interest in my feeding record and it seemed a nurse was always “conveniently” present when I attempted a feeding. Of course, the more they watched me, the more stressed out I was, and the worse we did. Eventually our hospital pediatrician insisted on supplementing with formula. Mama was not happy.

Here I should mention the pediatrician fiasco. Our family doctor is equipped to do pediatrics, and all along we had assumed we would just go to him rather than search for a separate pediatrician. I’ve been seeing him since I was a little kid. He knows me, my history, and my entire family and their history. Since Eric and I have been married, he’s been seeing Eric too. It was really a no-brainer. The problem, then, was that the hospital only had a limited number of pediatricians who visited the hospital and checked on the new babies, and he wasn’t one of them. Despite the fact that he would be seeing Molly once we were released, I was forced to pick one of their providers from a list, at least for the duration of our stay. I chose a group that another mom I know had highly recommended. Little did I know this would be the biggest mistake of my stay (cue ominous music here).

From here on out, we’ll call him Dr. Satan.

I can’t really blame him for insisting on the formula supplementation. Low blood sugar for newborns is no joke, and if left untreated it can lead to things like permanent brain damage. Was I upset that she’d be having formula? Of course I was. But in that moment all that mattered was getting her a stable reading that made everyone happy.

Here’s a fun fact about me: I am really good at producing colostrum (or as they call it, liquid gold!). While some women pump and pump and only get a few drops (which is usually sufficient, since it’s so packed with nutrients), I was somehow able to produce an ounce per pump session. The nurses all expressed their surprise and awe over this apparent miracle of my breasts. In this case, it was a real plus, because I got to mix my pumped colostrum with formula rather than just give her straight formula. When it was all said and done, she only received one ounce of formula total in her entire stay. The rest of her feedings were pure colostrum, delivered to her hungry belly via a combination of finger feeding and SNS (supplemental nursing system).

My pain levels were finally what they were supposed to be since my morphine prescription had run out. It hurt to bend forward, to walk, to sit, and to lay flat. It felt like my abdomen was way too short and they had stitched me too tightly. Plus, I found out that rather than stitches, my doctor preferred staples. The thought of seeing my lower abdomen all stapled up like Frankenstein’s monster was enough to make me glad for my big belly to hide it. I couldn’t bear to look. And it hurt just to exist. I’m officially not a fan of C-sections.

I’ve taken Percocet in the past when I got my wisdom teeth out, and all I remember is that it made me pass out into a deep sleep – HARD. I didn’t want to sleep like that because I knew I had this baby to take care of, and on top of that she was having issues. So I requested the Motrin. A few hours later, crying from the excruciating pain, I caved in and took one Percocet. When that made absolutely no dent in my suffering, I went for two. It did not make me fall asleep, but it did take the edge off enough so that I could function. For the rest of the time I found the perfect mix was to alternate between Percocet and Motrin every 4 hours.

Day 4 (Thursday)

Going home day…

…or so we thought.

Dr. Satan came into my room fairly early. He went over Molly’s stats… good, good, everything looked good. But then. Because of her low blood sugar, there was no way he could let her go home. He also couldn’t tell me when she might be able to go home.

This news was delivered nonchalantly, and I, in my incredibly hormonal, sleep-deprived, overwhelmed new parent state, immediately started hysterically crying. I mean, full on, borderline hyperventilation, uncontrollable sobbing. Did Dr. Satan offer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder? Did he try to explain further why they were keeping her? Did he even take a break in his spiel and acknowledge my distress? No, no he did not. He kept talking. When he finished, he stood, and without a backwards glance, exited my room. I was left alone and confused.

I immediately called Eric, who probably had a hard time trying to figure out what the hell I was trying to say as by that point I was totally freaking the hell out. At the time, he was busily loading up my car with the car seat, with every intention of bringing us both home in the morning/afternoon. But alas, it was not to be.

He came to the hospital and really just having him there calmed me down immensely. My nurse came in and immediately assured me that since I had a C-section, my insurance would cover the extra day, so no need to worry about that. We found out through her that every single feeding should be 30 mL minimum (1 ounce), and since it wasn’t, Dr. Satan was displeased. That along with those low blood sugar readings (though at this point she was back within range) and the fact that she lost 10% of her weight (within limits, but on the high side) made everyone nervous. So we were stuck.

This 30 mL thing came out of left field. I knew that for the one supplemental feeding that was the goal, but no one ever explained that every single feeding was supposed to be that much. As it was, she would sputter and choke if I tried to feed her too much. I mean, she was tiny. Her stomach was the size of a grape. It seemed logical that she wasn’t eating a ton.

The rest of the day was not fun. Eric was mad. I was sad. Molly was still being a fussy eater, and as much as I tried to breastfeed, she just wasn’t into it. Each time I fed her felt like a mini science experiment – I had nipple shields and SNS tubes all hooked up for every feeding. As soon as I was done feeding her that way, I’d pump and pump to assure I wouldn’t need to supplement any more with formula and that I’d always have an adequate amount on hand. I prayed desperately for my milk to come in, assuming this would make everything better.

The hospital allows you to keep your baby in the room, provided you put him or her in the plastic bassinet whenever you’re in the bathroom or sleeping. All night long I held her and cried, drifting somewhere between sleep and delirium. Every time a nurse came in, I faked being wide awake so they wouldn’t make me put her down.

Day 5 (Friday)

Pretty early in the morning Dr. Satan came in and made the call – he wanted to keep Molly another day. Since I was no longer covered by insurance, he talked about having her transferred to Pediatrics.

This time I was openly hostile. I explained that her blood sugar was still good. I explained that all of her feedings the previous day had been 30 mL, or pretty damn close to it, just as he had prescribed. Her weight had gone up, from 4 lbs. 14 ounces to 4 lbs. 16 ounces. I demanded to know why he was torturing us like that and making us stay. Again, rather than explaining anything, he simply said, “She must stay,” and left the room.

I think this is the point where I legit went crazy. I called Eric, hysterical again, and told him that this man was trying to steal our baby and keep her forever. In that moment, it really felt that way. The nurses (I seriously cannot say enough good things about the entire nursing staff at this hospital) came in and tried to calm me down. They promised that no one wanted to keep her, he was just being thorough, and that I would not have to leave her side, even if we were transferred to Peds. Unsure of what our rights were, we asked for a second opinion.

At some point Eric arrived. My head was pounding, my face was puffy, and thanks to clinging to my baby all night and nonstop feeding and planning for feeding, I’d slept a total of 2 hours in the past four days. To say I was a hot mess would be an understatement.

Our second opinion ended up being the hospital’s neonatologist, a woman who we shall call Dr. Angel. She had a soothing voice, a competent nature, and a calming bedside manner. While she essentially drew the same conclusions as Dr. Satan, she took a good hour to explain in-depth exactly why they wanted Molly to stay. She had charts and research to back up her decision. She commiserated with us. She also promised that Molly could potentially go home later in the afternoon or first thing Saturday morning if we kept doing what we were doing. I really should write her a review or send her a note and thank her – she managed to take me from crazy deranged mother who thought a pediatrician was trying to steal her baby to calm and determined mother who could form rational thoughts and sentences.

We kept feeding her and hoping that we would get discharged that night, but one of Dr. Angel’s colleagues came by the room a few hours later and said he would rather err on the side of caution and evaluate her first thing in the morning. He promised that her chances of going home Saturday in the AM were “very, very good.” For once I was not devastated to receive the news because at least it was coming from someone on Dr. Angel’s team and at least there was an end in sight.

Luckily, the maternity wing was quiet and mostly empty, so even though I was discharged as a patient, we got to stay in the same room. The nurses even encouraged me to quickly order myself dinner from the cafeteria and have a last dose of pain meds on the house before I was kicked out of the system (see, told you they were all awesome). That night I met a nurse who really helped me with the whole breastfeeding thing. I gave up on the SNS contraption and the finger feeding completely and just focused on her feeding with the aid of the nipple shield and nothing else. By this point my milk had come in, and feedings began to last longer and she managed to stay latched for the duration. I was still pumping just so I could keep an accurate record of how much she was getting, but it seemed like overkill. I was pretty sure we could switch to just breastfeeding by the time we went home.

Day 6 (Saturday)

The neonatology team checked on Molly early, at 7 a.m. This time her weight went up again – she weighed 5 whole pounds! Woo hoo! We got the all clear to go home soon after. I excitedly called Eric and told him to bring the car seat…for real this time. A few hours later and we were finally on our way.

Since coming home, things have been much, much, MUCH better. It’s only been 10 days since we left the hospital and already we have a great little routine going. Molly is still stuck on the nipple shield, which felt a bit like failing at first, but yesterday we had a lactation consultant come by and she assured me that some babies just need a little extra help at first. She said Molly has such a small mouth, and sometimes latching comes harder for smaller babies. She said she was confident that soon she wouldn’t need it at all.

I am happy to report that she is definitely getting enough to eat, and she’s growing! Yesterday was also her two week check-up with our actual pediatrician (family doctor). Babies are supposed to at least be back up to their birth weight by 2 weeks old, and Molly succeeded – she was 5 lbs, 8 ounces. She poops all the time (like, literally every diaper change) and has plenty of wet diapers too. It appears that our rough start in the hospital was just an adjustment period, and not an indication of things to come.

What else can I say? It’s still utterly surreal and magical. I still can’t believe she’s mine. I think I’m handling it all pretty well, and the only thing I do that I know I shouldn’t is hold her all the time. I really dislike putting her down if I don’t need to. When she’s sleeping and it’s just the two of us at home, she’s usually nestled against my chest in her Moby wrap (a new mom essential, as it turns out). When Eric comes home from work, he gets his turn. Even though we have swings and papasans and rockers and baby loungers, I find myself reluctant to put her down in any of them. I’ve just waited so long to hold my baby… I don’t want to waste a single second of it.

I’m sure there’s more to say but once again, this post is very long. I promise to post more updates soon. This weekend we’re going camping (yes, camping with a newborn!) and we’re also counting down the days until our family beach trip at the end of the month.

In the meantime, I’m just going to hold her.

DRAMAnda

No, not Dr. Amanda…Drama Amanda. Dramanda. Making mountains out of molehills since 1984.

As you may imagine, my beta was good today: 19,963. Not that it was an easy thing to get – I called the lab at 7:30 this morning and had them re-fax the results. Called New Hope at 9 to see if they got them…they didn’t. Called the lab back to re-fax ONCE AGAIN. Called New Hope. Alas, they had them! Not that they could tell me what they said. I begged the receptionist to hand-deliver them to a nurse and tell her to call me, “preferably before midnight.” I finally got an email at 1:30. Not bad. But by then my poor brain was about to explode. I was also experiencing cramps, which of course I talked myself into believing was the big M/C. But now that I have good news, I’ve managed to swing it around to “growing pains.” Hopefully.

So I live to see another day! But you know what this means…Ultrasound. Monday. And not at New Hope this time (because I don’t have any vacation time accrued yet). Instead, I’ll be going to a lab, where they won’t be able to give me results in real time. So I’ll have to wait for New Hope to call with the outcome (if they get the fax, of course). So I could potentially be sitting at my desk in an open cubicle and hear the “no heartbeat” news. What will I do? Get up and leave? Fall to the ground? No, none of these things. Because this baby will have a good, strong heartbeat and that phone call will be happy, happy, happy. Right?!

And in more overreacting for no reason news… I talked with HR this morning (or more accurately, pounced on the poor woman the moment she walked into the building) and confirmed that we do get maternity leave coverage separate from Aflac. So the whole 10 month thing doesn’t matter. Phew! Again, my overreacting caused a bunch of unnecessary freak outs last night. All over nothing. I still need to save up since obviously it won’t be my full salary (did you know that legally they’re not allowed to pay you full salary for maternity leave? That’s so ridiculous!) but at least I won’t have to save the entire amount. And I’ll get more than 2 weeks. Thank God.

I feel a little silly about yesterday. I think the stress of this is really getting to me. We’re reaching a critical juncture here – 7 weeks. Last time that’s when I found out it was over. So even making it past that date will be significant. 9 weeks will be SUPER significant. 12 weeks will allow me to start actually breathing again.

Eric is ready to strangle me. I think it’s because he’s usually the “freak-outer” and I’m usually the “let’s calm-downer.” When I freak out, he freaks out on top of that, and the result it two crazy people yelling at each other over nothing. That pretty much sums up my night last night. What I really needed was for someone to tell me, “Calm down, everything will be OK.” But that’s not his style. He probably fancies himself a pragmatist, but I say he’s more of a pessimist. Always anticipating the worst possible scenario. That is great for managing expectations and not getting hopes up (therefore avoiding disappointment), but not when you have a wife one step away from a nervous breakdown. My neuroses that I work so hard on maintaining manifest themselves as extreme “bitchiness,” as he calls it. I do; I definitely do take it out on him. Because he’s there. But I can’t help it. I just need to make it to December and I swear things will be so much better.

OK, I said the cramps were no longer worrisome but I totally lied. They’re freaking me out. Anyone else cramp up
around 6 weeks?

If anyone needs me, I’ll be hiding out under the covers for about a week. See ya.

hello, my name’s Amanda, and I’m addicted to ultrasounds

***Sorry for the long intros lately, but you can always rest assured that any post without the word “fucking” in the title has a semi-happy ending. Don’t worry.

I’ve figured out how I’m going to make my millions. Ready for this? Four little words: At. Home. Ultrasound. Machine. My market would be primarily infertiles wanting the constant reassurance that their little bean was still growing, and also any unlucky ladies who suffer from prolonged first trimester bleeding. It would have a giant, idiot-proof heart rate monitor that would immediately light up and say, “CALM DOWN YOU CRAZY BITCH, YOUR BABY’S HEART IS STILL BEATING.” I mean, really. In this day and age, shouldn’t there be an app for that?

I called my OB/GYN this morning and as usual, they were not as concerned as I was. They didn’t have any appointments but offered to schedule me an ultrasound at the hospital’s outside lab. I thought that was very nice of them. The nurse warned that they would not be able to give me results at the appointment, but would rather call them in to my doctor, who would in turn call me. In my mind I was thinking, “I’ll just cry and scream until they tell me what’s going on. I’ll refuse to leave.” She said sometimes they will point out the heartbeat, but it just depends on who I got. So I spent the entire day hoping I had a compassionate, caring person who wasn’t into the particular torture of not telling me whether or not my baby had a heartbeat.

The doctor’s office called a few minutes later and also requested that I go for blood work, just to make sure that was all OK. I thought that was a little odd (doesn’t the ultrasound show you more than blood can?) Apparently the doctor who I usually see requested it, and I winced at hearing her name. She specifically told me to wait a few months before getting pregnant again (she’s the one who did my D&C). I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m fully expecting a scolding when I do see her again. Especially now with all my issues. I can’t even pull the, “Oops, didn’t mean to!” I suppose I could say, “Oops, I accidentally got this embryo injected into my ute! I thought I was just getting a pap smear, dammit!”

Truth be told, I couldn’t have imagined surviving the weekend without seeing the heartbeat again. I have negative things associated with ultrasounds at New Hope, not to mention it’s particularly awful to hear your babies are dead when you’re two hours away from home.

Furthermore, I am starting to despise the term “spotting.” Spotting sounds so innocent, so light, so carefree. It sounds like a dab here and a pinch there and tra-la-la-la-la. When people ask me if I’m still “spotting,” I want to say, “No actually, I’m flowing. I’m running like the damn Mississippi River. You could go kayaking.”

I’m being dramatic (what else is new?). While Tuesday evening and Wednesday were pretty flow-like, by Thursday morning the blood could be classified as spotting, I suppose. It came and went every couple of hours. That’s equally frustrating, however, because every time I felt I was in the clear and dried up, it would suddenly start again. But from now on I insist we call it bleeding when that’s what it is. So I’m here to say that first trimester spotting, first trimester flowing and maybe even first trimester gushing (there were moments) still does not necessarily mean it’s the end of the world.

My ultrasound tech at the hospital was approximately 14 years old. I had to refrain from asking Doogie Howser if she herself was menstruating yet. Whatever. She was very nice and chatty and did offer to point out the heartbeat if and when she saw it. She scanned for what felt months and then pointed out the faint, faint flicker on the screen. I was watching her like a hawk and she typed in the letters HB on the screen… then she erased it. I said, “Why did you do that?” in my best stern voice. She replied, “Oh, because I was done.” I couldn’t help but feel like she was lying. She made me hold my breath several times so she could “verify the heartbeat.” I’m thinking, if you have to look that hard to find it, is it really there? She was so smiley and happily chatting that I couldn’t imagine the news was bad. Wouldn’t somber news require a more somber tone? Or was she just a crazy bubbly person with no empathy? She specifically said, “I can tell you if I see a heartbeat, but I can’t comment on whether it’s too fast or too slow. You’ll have to wait for the doctor for that.”

Next, Doogie promised I would get to speak with my doctor on the phone before leaving the building. Again, very nice of her. She said as she was leaving me in the waiting room, “The heartbeat is there, it just might be too slow. Your doctor can tell you more.” Despite her promise of letting me talk to someone before leaving, the front desk people shooed me out before I got the phone call, so it was all just messing with my emotions. As usual.

I was sitting in the waiting room to get the blood work when Eric called to say that one of his good friends, someone who had been at our wedding, someone who Eric had just seen the day before, was found dead this morning. No one knew how or why. I was in shock and just wanted to get home to him, but was stuck waiting even longer to get a beta after a non-reassuring ultrasound. Did I mention I’m not supposed to be stressing out?

The nurse from my OB/GYN called about 30 minutes later. I felt a bit of relief at hearing her voice, knowing that for positively dire news the doctor would call me personally. She confirmed what Doogie had been hinting at all along – Baby Toast’s heartbeat is slower than they’d like to see. Oh, they also confirmed that I do have a subchorionic bleed (or subchorionic hematoma), so that’s the likely source of the bleeding. Basically with one phone call she got me to stop worrying about the bleeding and start worrying about something completely new and frightening – a slow fetal heart rate.

If you ever get this particular diagnosis, DO NOT GOOGLE IT. My first hits included such gems as “fetal mortality rate of 60%” and the like. There were also plenty of success stories of heart rates that magically went from 87 to 150 (or whatever perfect is) in as short as a week. Sigh. I don’t know. The ultrasound was supposed to be reassurance for the weekend and now I’m more freaked out than ever. Lots of women of the interwebs are quick to point out that 6 weeks is so early to make a call on it, but I’m also remembering how nothing was said at my appointment on Tuesday. So are things getting worse?

I have another ultrasound Monday at New Hope (my third in a week’s time) and then my OB/GYN scheduled a “viability ultrasound” for Thursday. It even has to be in a special room. I think that will officially puts me at ultrasound addict status. On one hand my heart is swelling with pride at how much of a drama queen this little girl is (just like her mama). On the other, I’m effing terrified. As usual.

ten years ago today

hopeTen years ago today I was 18. I had just ended a three year relationship with the boy I was convinced I would marry. We had broken up many months before, but were still “hanging out,” and my heart gave him a March 1st deadline that I surprisingly managed to stick with. It’s like there was a before and after, and once the calendar struck March I shut off my feelings like a faucet. I wish I still had that kind of power over my emotions.

Ten years ago today I had a horrific fight with my parents. I can’t remember exactly what I had to do – I think I was supposed to drive my sister somewhere and didn’t want to. I remember my mom screaming at me on the phone. I remember throwing the phone at my sister’s head (probably aiming for it) and slamming her bedroom door open so hard that it left a door handle-shaped impression in the drywall. My mom had taken away my car until further notice and I. was. PISSED.

So you see, Eric and I are a product of circumstance. He really was at the right place at the right time. I had met him about a year earlier when he started working at the (now out-of-business) Hollywood Video where I worked. That was my very first job. We only worked together for a few months before I left to become a barista at Wegmans, but I still stopped by to rent movies and hang out with my former coworkers. It just so happens that not long before this colossal fight, I had stopped in to find him red-eyed and delirious, working 14 hour shifts because someone had quit. Sympathetic, I brought him a double mocha from work and he gave me his number in case I “wanted to watch a movie or something sometime.”

I had his number handy on that night of rebellion. I was feeling young, I was feeling reckless. Screw my ex-boyfriend who stopped loving me! Screw my parents for taking away my car! Screw the whole messed up world for messing up my life! I dialed the number and asked if he would come pick me up and rescue me from my parents. It was so out of character for me; I knew him, but barely. I remember standing at the end of the driveway when he pulled up in his beat-up red pickup truck and took me back to his house. I remember feeling vindicated.

We watched a movie. We got drunk on rum and coke that we drank out of mason jars. I remember it was one of those nights that I never wanted to end. I remember when his hand kept creeping closer and closer to mine. I saw it coming, but I pretended to ignore it. I distinctly remember when he finally kissed me. I didn’t go home that night.

The next three months we were inseparable. I forgot what it felt like to not have him around. We hung out every day for every hour that we possibly could. I was smitten. I was falling hard.

But then there was drama… always drama! He stopped taking my calls. He started getting distant. We went back and forth for a while. I didn’t let him go without a fight.

It’s been ten years… I could write for days about all the things we went through. We were always extreme – so happy, so sad, so angry, so euphoric. We had no even keel, no happy medium. We were passionate in every moment.

The highlights: We got engaged in 2004, set a wedding date in 2005. Called it off. Got back together. We got engaged again in 2006, set a wedding date in 2007. Called it off. Got back together. We got engaged in 2009 with a triumphant rally of “third time’s the charm!” We wanted to be married, but the timing was never right. Too much crap kept getting in the way.

We actually, really, finally got married in 2010. Our relationship has changed so much since it’s rocky start. I trust him completely. I love him. It sounds so simple, but to me, it’s profound. Over the course of our break-ups I kept trying to love other people because it would be “easier.” I kept trying to take the easy road, but my heart kept sending me back to him. He’s the only person I could never get over.

My friends – and even me at my most self-righteous – would love to tell you it was all his fault. A lot of it was. He had the tendency to be immature, stand-offish, distant, mean and childish. But remember, he was a man in his early 20s. It would be stranger if he wasn’t acting that way. And for all my indignation, I was no angel either. He brought out my most needy, clingy, annoying, controlling, nagging and even obsessive tendencies. We were mutually flawed. What we really needed was time to grow up. Both of us.

It may sound alarming, all those break-ups. All that heartache. I wish I could explain how I “just know” that he’s the one for me. Let’s put it this way – I could have chosen someone more compatible. I could have chosen someone more stable, less dramatic and more even-tempered. I could have. But every single time I did choose that kind of person, Eric stayed in my heart and my heart never felt peaceful. If I let my mind wander, it landed on him.

He’s the one that got away… except I never let him get away.

my favorite picture of us

my favorite picture of us

A very dramatic New Year’s Eve

I bet you thought this would involve drinking, didn’t you? Well, it doesn’t. At least, that wasn’t the dramatic part.

I had my second appointment in the city on NYE. Yup, I traveled to Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. Totally sane. Anyway, I took the 7 a.m. bus and somehow made it to the NHF office (a bus ride and a subway ride) in an hour and 40 minutes. That is unprecedented. Smug and satisfied, I strolled in 20 minutes early for my appointment and made plans for a leisurely brunch with a friend. I felt breezy.

In the back of my mind there was a slight problem – blood test results. We needed them to be officially accepted into the trial and to get all of my fun prescriptions  (You know – injections and stuff). Eric got his results immediately, but since I had to have genetic testing the results took longer. For some reason I was convinced that while I sat in the French cafe with my croissant and coffee, the results would magically appear in my email inbox. Because life always works like that, right? Of course, the results did not come. I called Quest and was told that some results were back, but for some reason my PCP was not authorized to get partial results. Great.

I went back to NHF and broke the bad news. They said that if one particular test was holding up the works, they could still get stuff done that day. I gave them all the info and let them deal with Quest.

Now comes the fun part. Have you ever waited for a fax that someone said was coming? Have you ever stared down a fax machine, willing it to spit out that life or death piece of paper? I have. My car got towed in Philly many, many years ago. I was totally that girl that you see on Parking Wars, fighting with Allstate and fighting with PPA and waiting in the filthy, noisy waiting room for seven straight hours for a mystical proof of insurance document. If that show had been around back then, I would have been on it.

This “waiting for fax” episode was not quite as dramatic because someone else did all the phone fighting for me. I simply sat in the waiting room. And sat some more. I read an entire book. (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me by Mindy Kaling. Highly recommend; laugh out loud funny). I changed seats. I watched people come and go, nurses wish each other a Happy New Year and leave, and receptionists switch off lights and head out. By the time they finally summoned me back to the office it was just me, a dark waiting room, and a young Asian child sleeping on a nearby sofa.

I’m not sure where the study coordinators are from, I’m so bad with that. I want to say they’re Russian? Ukranian? Something like that. They have thick accents and don’t understand some of my sarcasm (more’s the pity). Anyway, coordinator Matt said they finally, FINALLY got the fax after many threatening phone calls placed on my behalf. Thinking about his colleague,  a sweet and soft spoken woman whose name escapes me, on the phone battling with Quest Diagnostics for hours in broken English just to get MY blood test results gave me an instant surge of gratitude.

I drew my envelope. Matt made a big deal about this part but I don’t know, by this point I was tired and anxious and just wanted to get home to celebrate New Year’s. Plus I don’t even know if I wanted Conventional or Mini IVF; there are pros and cons to both. We got placed into Conventional.

Conventional IVF means daily injections. Matt demonstrated how to do these on a small rubberized button meant to resemble my stomach fat roll while I tried not to look visibly ill. He also said that since we are Conventional, the injections had to start that day. As in, within a few hours. He gave me directions to a pharmacy a few stops Uptown that he knew would carry the drugs and sent me off.

I should probably mention at this point that my phone was dying. I think by the time I left NHF I had 6% battery life. I also had no idea what time I could catch a bus out of Port Authority and my mom had borrowed my car, so I needed to be able to communicate with someone to pick me up. Stress levels began to escalate.

I made it to the pharmacy pretty easily. I confirmed with them that I could use an HSA card over the phone to pay for this $200 prescription. I also warned Eric that I would be calling to get the number. I called him from the pharmacy’s phone – twice – no answer. Desperate, I called him from my cell phone, thinking he wasn’t answering because he didn’t recognize the number.

Conversation:
“WHAT! What do you WANT! I’m in the shower!!”
“Hi I’m at the pharmacy I need the number now please give me the number now I have to talk fast phone is dying hurry please.”
“Oh MY GOD I am DRIPPING WET! FINE!”

I could type out even more of this story but this post is getting ridiculously long and I’m not close to finished here. Basically the card wouldn’t go through, a line formed behind me, I broke out in a rash and started sweating profusely, called Eric back at least three more times, got yelled at again, and I think our final communication was him screaming “JUST LEAVE. ABANDON ALL HOPE AND FUCKING LEAVE!” as I hung up the phone and whipped out a different credit card. If you were behind me in line, you would have hated me. I hated me.

I raced back to the subway, practically jumping over an old woman who had collapsed in the street. Sorry, didn’t have time for that shit (a large group of people was helping her, don’t worry. I’m not a monster). Somehow I made it to Port Authority in time for a bus going to William Penn. Phone life was at 2%. I called my dad and said, “Shut up don’t talk be at bus stop at 6:50 with my car phone dead k love you bye.” And with that – my phone died.

You think it ends there? Nope. I still had an injection to do, remember? Eric and I had already decided that neither of us were up for the task and we would get his mother, a (***now retired!) nurse to administer the injections. I knew she was going out for New Year’s Eve but had no way to warn her I was coming over with this urgent matter. Once I got in the car and charged my phone enough to turn it on, I called her, right as she was walking out the door. She was kind enough to wait for me to race over so she could stick me before heading off to her party.

After that we made it to our party 2 hours late, which I figure is fashionable. 2013 arrived. It better have a baby in it, and he/she better be pretty effing adorable.