Three pounds.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around how small that really is.
Three bricks of Eversweet butter for my Newfie friends. Just better than a bag of sugar for you mainlanders.
But how small of a person would that be?
Kate was 4 lbs 7 oz when she made her entrance into the world. And, as awful as this is to admit, I thought she looked like a rat. Yes, yes – I was passed over for the annual mother of the year award – hard to believe isn’t it?
What would a person a whole pound less than that look like?
I’ve looked it up online – but pictures don’t seem to have the “compare and contrast” feature that I’m looking for. They’ve got these wee little beings in a glass box and it’s not like they’ve put in a standard ruler or something to compare them to. So I’m left wondering.
I know it’s small.
Heck, Kate was smaller than a baby doll and her first diapers were about the size of a folded Kleenex. When she cried it sounded like a kitten. But she was positively gigantic compared to her baby sister.
But how much smaller will her baby sister be?
And before you pull a husband and say – it’s a pound smaller, Louise. Imagine a sharp kick to the shin and let’s move on.
It looks like we’re going to find out just what someone that small looks like.
The probability of her going to term has been removed from the realm of all possibility. The absolute furthest we’re going is another four weeks and the OB guesses that it’ll be closer to two.
The fluid is low, still in the “normal” range – but at the lower end. So now I’m going to be visiting the hospital twice a week for ultrasounds and God know what other tests.
My blood pressure is up. If you’ve met me – you know how sarcastic I am so you can imagine my reaction when the nurse looked at me and said, “Oh, your blood pressure is up,” like it was the strangest thing in the universe.
It’s a miracle the top of my head didn’t completely blow off. But I managed to stay perfectly calm and say – “well it’s been a rough week”, all while fighting the urge to smack the stupid right out of her head. I should be nominated for an Academy Award.
I’m trying to stay calm. I’m fighting to stay positive. I’m willing her to grow and be healthy. I’m praying that’s she’s safe. I’m struggling to be strong. I’m hoping for a miracle. But mostly I’m scared to death.
Scared that she’s not really safer in than out. Scared that she’ll have to spend extensive time in the NICU. Scared that she’ll not be strong like Kate. Scared that she’ll be too much like Kate. The list is endless.
I wish I had something to distract me, something to engage my brain so I can stop the gerbil wheel from spinning out of control. Because, at the moment, I feel the world trying to slip sideways on me and I can’t for the life of me seem to stop it.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Please?
Sleep has eluded me.
I’ve lain here since before midnight listening to the night time sounds of the house around me and to the frogs serenading the stars.
Then around 4 AM nature changes the music and I listen to the bird symphony to the dawn until the sun comes up and watch as the light in the house changes from blue, to purple, to daylight.
I can’t sleep. The cacophony of thoughts that are going through my mind won’t even quiet down – let alone fall silent. I’m lying here because the least I can do is to rest my body. I’ve given up on trying to sleep. Instead my mind replays the day before.
It started wonderfully. Liam had crawled into bed with me sometime before the sun came up. Something about the warm weight of a sleeping child is so comforting. We cuddled long after the alarm went off and Rick got Katie off to school. Then Rick came up and crawled in with us too. It doesn’t happen often.
You could tell Liam was pleased with the cuddling attention of both parents and that started the day off just right.
I was scheduled for my final internal ultrasound – yippee! I hate them. More than you can imagine. So for this to be the last one – I was stoked.
Sunshine, and warm temperatures, and driving with the windows down – how could things be better?
The waiting room wait was longer than we anticipated but a volunteer brought in some old Readers Digests and Rick and I read the jokes to each other to pass the time. By the time we were called into the room we were teasing each other. And when I had to undress from the waist down for the internal he told me he’d give me five bucks if I kept going and that set us off on another set of giggles.
They were short lived though.
The ultrasound showed that although the baby has grown, she now weighs about 2 lbs and 14 oz, and her length and head circumference have all improved her abdominal measurement is less.
According to the doctor this means that, for whatever reason, she’s not getting what she needs from the placenta and her little body is taking “food” from the fat stores around her organs, like her liver.
There’s nothing they can give me. There’s nothing they can do to improve the transfer of “food” via the placenta to the baby. All they can do is watch and wait and when it’s determined that she’s safer out than in – they’ll take her. I’m only 30 weeks. She’s not yet 3 lbs. I want to be sick.
The doctor accompanies us down to Labour and Delivery. She wants the “non-invasive” stress test done – it’s the external monitoring of the baby’s heart and movements by a machine via leads tied to my belly. While I’m there getting set up she comes in and tells me that she’s ordered steroid shots to be administered to me to mature the baby’s lungs faster.
I feel my heart sink even lower, if possible.
She had told me way back at week 23 that there were things that could be done to improve a preemie’s chance at survival and that one of them were the steroid shots. But they’re best administered only a week or two before the baby’s arrival. This is May – she’s not due until the end of July!
My face has always been easily read and Rick immediately starts the stand up comedy routine. He knows me too well. Knows that I’m freaking out. His attentions distract me for a short time.
I’ve got to return tomorrow for another shot. I’ll be having ultrasounds at least weekly to measure the baby. I can feel myself coming unglued. This can’t be happening.
She’s my prize. She’s my prize for enduring what I have endured this last year and a half. She’s got to be okay. Please, someone tell me she’s going to be okay…
I’ve lain here since before midnight listening to the night time sounds of the house around me and to the frogs serenading the stars.
Then around 4 AM nature changes the music and I listen to the bird symphony to the dawn until the sun comes up and watch as the light in the house changes from blue, to purple, to daylight.
I can’t sleep. The cacophony of thoughts that are going through my mind won’t even quiet down – let alone fall silent. I’m lying here because the least I can do is to rest my body. I’ve given up on trying to sleep. Instead my mind replays the day before.
It started wonderfully. Liam had crawled into bed with me sometime before the sun came up. Something about the warm weight of a sleeping child is so comforting. We cuddled long after the alarm went off and Rick got Katie off to school. Then Rick came up and crawled in with us too. It doesn’t happen often.
You could tell Liam was pleased with the cuddling attention of both parents and that started the day off just right.
I was scheduled for my final internal ultrasound – yippee! I hate them. More than you can imagine. So for this to be the last one – I was stoked.
Sunshine, and warm temperatures, and driving with the windows down – how could things be better?
The waiting room wait was longer than we anticipated but a volunteer brought in some old Readers Digests and Rick and I read the jokes to each other to pass the time. By the time we were called into the room we were teasing each other. And when I had to undress from the waist down for the internal he told me he’d give me five bucks if I kept going and that set us off on another set of giggles.
They were short lived though.
The ultrasound showed that although the baby has grown, she now weighs about 2 lbs and 14 oz, and her length and head circumference have all improved her abdominal measurement is less.
According to the doctor this means that, for whatever reason, she’s not getting what she needs from the placenta and her little body is taking “food” from the fat stores around her organs, like her liver.
There’s nothing they can give me. There’s nothing they can do to improve the transfer of “food” via the placenta to the baby. All they can do is watch and wait and when it’s determined that she’s safer out than in – they’ll take her. I’m only 30 weeks. She’s not yet 3 lbs. I want to be sick.
The doctor accompanies us down to Labour and Delivery. She wants the “non-invasive” stress test done – it’s the external monitoring of the baby’s heart and movements by a machine via leads tied to my belly. While I’m there getting set up she comes in and tells me that she’s ordered steroid shots to be administered to me to mature the baby’s lungs faster.
I feel my heart sink even lower, if possible.
She had told me way back at week 23 that there were things that could be done to improve a preemie’s chance at survival and that one of them were the steroid shots. But they’re best administered only a week or two before the baby’s arrival. This is May – she’s not due until the end of July!
My face has always been easily read and Rick immediately starts the stand up comedy routine. He knows me too well. Knows that I’m freaking out. His attentions distract me for a short time.
I’ve got to return tomorrow for another shot. I’ll be having ultrasounds at least weekly to measure the baby. I can feel myself coming unglued. This can’t be happening.
She’s my prize. She’s my prize for enduring what I have endured this last year and a half. She’s got to be okay. Please, someone tell me she’s going to be okay…
Monday, May 11, 2009
Can I borrow a cup of patience?
Well. Here it is.
Rick’s first day back to work.
Remember how I was sort of looking forward to it?
I may have overestimated my feelings.
Oh – it’s nice to have a silent house. And I’ve always loved a man in uniform so watching him get dressed was a treat.
But now what?
Seriously…
I’m not allowed to do anything – well much of anything anyways.
I’d like to get out and clean the windows outside the house they’re filthy and getting on my nerves. But I can’t carry the bucket and reaching, even with the squeegee, is not allowed.
I’d like to strip the beds and get the linens out on the clothesline – it’s a fine day on clothes. But I can’t carry laundry or reach to the clothesline.
My garden is crying out for some love – but again the bending reaching thing is out of bounds.
If I were a girly girl I’d paint my toenails and fingernails to be all ready for the sandal season. But I’m not and I seem to have misplaced my one and only bottle of polish. Plus I can’t imagine painting my toes with this belly.
Sigh. Blah! Grr, and a few other onomatopoetic sounds.
I know a healthy baby is going to be worth all of this confinement. I know that the very second I hear her cry and see her face I’ll have forgotten all about these feelings of irritation. I know all of this – but as I’ve often said – you can’t control the way you feel. And today I’m – well I don’t know what I am – but the contented definitely isn’t it.
How is it possible that some women survive being completely on bed rest for the majority of their pregnancies? They’ve obviously got more patience than I do.
If I don’t figure something out soon you’re going to be reading about some crazy pregnant lady whose head exploded.
How long until the kids get home?
Rick’s first day back to work.
Remember how I was sort of looking forward to it?
I may have overestimated my feelings.
Oh – it’s nice to have a silent house. And I’ve always loved a man in uniform so watching him get dressed was a treat.
But now what?
Seriously…
I’m not allowed to do anything – well much of anything anyways.
I’d like to get out and clean the windows outside the house they’re filthy and getting on my nerves. But I can’t carry the bucket and reaching, even with the squeegee, is not allowed.
I’d like to strip the beds and get the linens out on the clothesline – it’s a fine day on clothes. But I can’t carry laundry or reach to the clothesline.
My garden is crying out for some love – but again the bending reaching thing is out of bounds.
If I were a girly girl I’d paint my toenails and fingernails to be all ready for the sandal season. But I’m not and I seem to have misplaced my one and only bottle of polish. Plus I can’t imagine painting my toes with this belly.
Sigh. Blah! Grr, and a few other onomatopoetic sounds.
I know a healthy baby is going to be worth all of this confinement. I know that the very second I hear her cry and see her face I’ll have forgotten all about these feelings of irritation. I know all of this – but as I’ve often said – you can’t control the way you feel. And today I’m – well I don’t know what I am – but the contented definitely isn’t it.
How is it possible that some women survive being completely on bed rest for the majority of their pregnancies? They’ve obviously got more patience than I do.
If I don’t figure something out soon you’re going to be reading about some crazy pregnant lady whose head exploded.
How long until the kids get home?
Monday, May 4, 2009
What they don't tell you...
The boys from Rick’s crew are out of the sandbox.
They’re safely ensconced at a resort in Cyprus for “decompression” time and for the first time since he got home Rick is not logging onto the computer several times a day to check on them.
I think it’s a relief for him.
I feel that it’s a relief for him. He’s more relaxed.
We’re getting to the end of his leave period. Work will accommodate him to be here to get the kids off on the bus and to be here when they get home – but I’m soon back to spending the bulk of my days alone.
Believe it or not – I’m sort of looking forward to it.
Not that he hasn’t been wonderful - he’s been beyond wonderful. I haven’t had to worry about anything since he stepped foot in the house. But after a year (once you count work up time) of being in charge – sometimes letting go isn’t easy.
It’s, maybe, a good thing that I’m so restricted in what I’m allowed to do. He likes to be “in charge” and loves to have things his “way”. I do too. So it’s a fight looking for a place to happen. Fortunately our little ‘bun in the oven’ is playing the peacemaker for the time being and hopefully he’ll tire of being the one in charge by the time she makes her appearance.
They don’t tell you in the deployment briefings that you’ll have to get “used” to sleeping with your husband again. After months of just me and the kids, I’ve suddenly got this giant man in my bed. And somehow I’d forgotten just how loud that man snores.
Add that to the growing belly and pregnancy aches and pains and I’m pretty much playing musical beds all night long. Some nights I feel like Goldilocks looking for the perfect place to sleep. Typically I find it about five minutes before I have to go to the bathroom – again!
I know what you’re thinking. I’m such an ingrate. I’ve spent the last seven months hoping, wishing, praying and waiting for my man to get home. Now I’m complaining about it.
Sigh. Patience doesn’t seem to be a virtue that women in their third trimester are blessed with in abundance. At least this one isn’t. Thank goodness for a man that understands that.
They’re safely ensconced at a resort in Cyprus for “decompression” time and for the first time since he got home Rick is not logging onto the computer several times a day to check on them.
I think it’s a relief for him.
I feel that it’s a relief for him. He’s more relaxed.
We’re getting to the end of his leave period. Work will accommodate him to be here to get the kids off on the bus and to be here when they get home – but I’m soon back to spending the bulk of my days alone.
Believe it or not – I’m sort of looking forward to it.
Not that he hasn’t been wonderful - he’s been beyond wonderful. I haven’t had to worry about anything since he stepped foot in the house. But after a year (once you count work up time) of being in charge – sometimes letting go isn’t easy.
It’s, maybe, a good thing that I’m so restricted in what I’m allowed to do. He likes to be “in charge” and loves to have things his “way”. I do too. So it’s a fight looking for a place to happen. Fortunately our little ‘bun in the oven’ is playing the peacemaker for the time being and hopefully he’ll tire of being the one in charge by the time she makes her appearance.
They don’t tell you in the deployment briefings that you’ll have to get “used” to sleeping with your husband again. After months of just me and the kids, I’ve suddenly got this giant man in my bed. And somehow I’d forgotten just how loud that man snores.
Add that to the growing belly and pregnancy aches and pains and I’m pretty much playing musical beds all night long. Some nights I feel like Goldilocks looking for the perfect place to sleep. Typically I find it about five minutes before I have to go to the bathroom – again!
I know what you’re thinking. I’m such an ingrate. I’ve spent the last seven months hoping, wishing, praying and waiting for my man to get home. Now I’m complaining about it.
Sigh. Patience doesn’t seem to be a virtue that women in their third trimester are blessed with in abundance. At least this one isn’t. Thank goodness for a man that understands that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
