*This should have been published a few weeks ago. Like all mommies of infants I’m still running on baby time so things have been a little hit and miss – my apologies to my regular readers. I’d say it won’t happen again – but it probably will….

She’s radiant.

You can see the love in her face.

It’s her day! At last!

And here I am trying not to ruin it day by blowing snot out my nose laughing at the tongue-tied priest. He reminds me of the Bishop in the Princess Bride – the one that starts everything with “mawwiage”. He’s standing right in front of me. I just about lose it when he starts to drool.

Think. Think. Think. There has to be something to get my mind off of this!

My mind runs over the words I plan to say at the reception.

I’m going to have to introduce myself and explain how Jenn and I met. I think I’m the only bridesmaid that no one has met before.

How do I explain that we bonded over mispronounced French words without making us sound like a couple of hyenas?

I’ll just tell them about the military family. How we meet in the strangest places, under the weirdest circumstances and somehow make each other stronger when our “real” families can’t be there. I wonder if they’ll understand.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much this chick has meant to me, and my little family over the last 18 months or so.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much I leaned on her when Rick was in the desert and I was alone. How she was there every time I called or needed her. How she dropped everything on her baby’s first birthday because I was in the hospital with my boy when he bruised his liver and needed help managing Kate.

I look over towards Jenn and her groom. She’s glowing. I’m so happy for her.

She’s spent the last several months planning this day practically alone. I’ve been a voice at the other end of the phone – but really haven’t helped much. I feel guilty about that and have told her several times. She’s pooh poohed away my guilt – telling me she knows what life with a newborn is like and wants me standing there with her regardless of how much (or how little) I’ve helped.
I’m very fortunate to have a friend like her.

It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees in the church. My legs are soaked beneath the satin gown. Jenn has somehow managed not to wilt. I only hope I’m holding up half so well.

I glance at the priest again – he sweating through his over robes and still talking! My eyes are drawn to an enormous bead of sweat rolling down the tip of his nose. How is it he doesn’t feel that and wipe it away?

I need to tell them that this bride has the biggest heart. That she’s the most generous person I’ve met in a long time. That her strength and her friendship and her sense of humour have held me together more times than I can count. Will they understand?

We all step forward to witness the vows. I wait for Jenn to cry. She’s been waiting for Ryan to say these words to her for a long time. I’m crying for her. She manages to hold it together pretty well and get through it with just a bit of nervous laughter. I’m so proud of her.

I don’t remember walking back down the aisle with Stevie, the groomsman. I think I was channelling some of the euphoria the bride was feeling.

The rest of the day passes in a hot and sweaty and happy blur. I keep thinking that I should hide away to pump some breast milk before I explode but the opportunity never really presents itself. Thank goodness I’ve doubled up on the nursing pads.

I hear the speeches and Marjorie, another bridesmaid acting as the emcee, announces that the mic is open for anyone else to say a few words. This is my opportunity. I just need to get up and walk maybe 10 feet.

I don’t.

I’m not shy or anything. I’ve given speeches in front of strangers before. I have my notes. I even have a joke about the time Jenn asked the French teacher how to say jackass.

But I don’t get up.

I can’t.

I’ve managed to leak through my dress.

So I sit at the head table looking like the world’s sloppiest drinker – hopefully people will think that’s what it is.

And my words go unsaid.

Until now.

“I love you, Jenn. I am proud to be your friend. You’ve held me together for the last year and a half with gun tape and love and I am so thankful for everything you’ve done. Sometimes blood has nothing to do with family – and this is one of those times.

I wish you and Ryan and Angelena a lifetime of love and happiness, mixed with a little passion and craziness. And in fifty years I hope to be here with my new orthopaedic hip celebrating with you again.”

Jennifer Nemeth and Ryan MacArthur August 22nd 2009.

Dealing with more stupid

I’d forgotten the exhaustion that a new mother feels.

I’d forgotten about sore nipples, toxic poos, that sour milk smell, screaming gas fits and how one can fall so head over heels in love with such a little thing that nothing else much matters.

Emotionally I’m fine – as long as you consider being so exhausted your eyes go crossed every now and again fine.

Physically I’m still lagging. I know the birth was difficult. And the pregnancy was no treat – but I’m feeling horrible so I set out to let my doctor know.

To say I’m pale would be like saying Marilyn Manson is weird. I’m Casper the Ghost white. So my doctor decides to send me to get some blood work done. He suspects that I may be anaemic – no big stretch given the fact that I nearly bled to death a few weeks back.

Since the Emergency Room at the Oromocto Public Hospital is still not back up and running, my doctor suggests I bring the requisition there to get the blood drawn. They can’t be that busy with no ER – right?

So we drive to the OPH. Plenty of parking right outside the front door – there’s no emergency room – this will be easy peasy – in, out and home before supper.

Or so I thought.

The entire first floor is deserted. I get right into the lab area before I find a soul. He looks at me like I’m a member of an alien race. He stammers as if he’s forgotten how to talk to a patient.

“Y-y-y-ou’ll have to check in at reception,” he finally manages to get out.

“The deserted reception that I just walked through?” I ask – apparently lack of sleep has made me bitchier than normal.

“Y-y-y-es.” he replies.

Apparently he’s too busy playing pocket pool to simply take the requisition and draw the freaking blood, either that or the computer terminal six inches to the right of his left hand isn’t working. But I’ll follow his little power trip. And back out the hall I go.

Lo and behold there’s a chick in the corner. She’s removing staples from a pile of letters – my tax dollars at work.

I explain to her that I was sent there by my doctor and pass her the blood work requisition form.
She does a good imitation of stuttering Sam from the Lab and looks at me like I just grew another head.

“We don’t draw blood after 3:30,” she tells me in a tone that most people normally reserve for misbehaving children or the mentally challenged.

Okay – let’s dance I think.

“Since when?” I ask. Knowing full well that it must be only since the emergency room has been closed.

She rolls her eyes and repeats herself. I don’t think she even realizes how close she’s skating to danger at this point.

I look at the clock – it’s barely 3:40, and feel my blood boil just a little bit hotter.

“I can keep the letter here and have scheduling set up an appointment time for the lab work,” she says. I’m looking at the floor so I don’t reach across the desk and snap her neck but I can hear the eyes rolling in her voice.

“And when can I expect an appointment,” I ask.

“Probably next week sometime.” She sounds like a petulant teenager and I’m in no mood.

“I’m sure my doctor meant for me to get this done today or tomorrow at the latest,” I offer.

“Well he didn’t write STAT anywhere on it,” and fires me a look like I’m six.

“I’m sure doctors routinely order blood work for their patients for which they don’t want the results.” I fire back.

“And since you’re all so busy here I’m sure the hospital in Fredericton will be happy to fit me in and I’ll be sure to let them and all my friends and family know how wonderful the customer service is at the OPH.”

I hate stupid people, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that before, and this near recipient of a Darwin Award is lucky that I’m exhausted enough to not want to get an administrator involved.

If this is any indication of the services in Oromocto I think we’re all going to have to get used to driving to Fredericton because there’s no way the government can justify keeping open a lab that can’t manage to draw blood halfway through the afternoon.

Peace at the Beginning of a New Day

I suppose I should put a disclaimer at the top of this one – something to the effect of this entry may contain graphic content and is not suitable for young readers, squeamish men or any women on the fence about ever having a baby…

It’s been quite the ride.

For the last several anti-natal visits my blood pressure has been in orbit. Each time they send me over to Labour and Delivery, they take blood and urine – I lie there for a few hours and they send me home. It’s to the point I’m about to just bring in the blood and pee and lie down in the waiting room to get things over with.

But on Friday July 3rd, things didn’t go according to the status quo.

Oh, I got to the clinic. They took my blood pressure – and it was up – shocker. So they sent me out to L&D. Unlike the last dozen times though the doctor actually spoke to my own doctor and then took the time to speak to me.

“You’re blood pressure is high. I think we’re going to admit you for a few days,” she said.

Okay – so we’ve got a plan for this. Rick stays and gets me settled and then takes the kids home. He’ll bring my bag later, after all – it’s basically a spa day – right?

Wrong.

A nurse comes into my room.

“The doctor is coming down in a bit to give you the gel. She may even break your water.”

I wonder if she’s got the right room.

Rick walks in just as the nurse leaves. He’s left Liam with Dani and Holden. It’s just him and Kate to drop off my stuff. And I tell him what’s happening.

He shoots me a look that would shrivel grapes. As if I had the ability to stop this particular freight train.

We call our friend and tell her what’s happening. She’s on her way to pick up Kate. Rick is going to stay with me. She’ll watch the kids until Rick gets home. I’ve said it a dozen times – I’ve got the best friends.

The doctor doesn’t break my water. But the gel is doing its job. Just a few hours later Rick is snoring and I’m in labour. The nurse comes in hourly to check my blood pressure. It’s still climbing so they’re going to try another drug.

By morning the second drug seems to have slowed down the labour pains (it’s a side effect apparently) and we’re waiting for a bed to open up in labour and delivery. Rick is pacing like a caged tiger.

Just after two we head to the delivery room. Nausea has set in from my short walk up the hallway.

“Perfectly normal considering your blood pressure, says Nurse Andrea as she hands me a bowl. “Puke in there if you need to.”

Like I said before – the doors to labour and delivery should read: Leave all dignity in the hallway.

The doctor comes and adds more gel. My head throbs. Contractions resume.

Jenn comes to check on us. Her hands are cool on my head. Only a fellow migraine sufferer knows how to work this particular magic. She’s decided that after she runs a few more errands she’s coming back to stay with us.

At 1630 Nurse Andrea checks my progress.

“Three centimetres dilated, let’s get you over on your side for comfort.”

Why is it that the solution they always present to the labouring woman is to get over on your side? The beds are so narrow that it’s like moving a beached whale.

I’m on my side for what seems like only seconds. Rick is talking to me and I feel a warm gush.

“O hell, my water just broke,” I tell Nurse Andrea.

“Really?” She says and moves to check.

I fight the urge to say, “No – I just made it up so you’d have to look up my stuff” but a huge contraction stops my sarcasm well short of me actually vocalizing it.

“Let’s get you over on your back,” she says.

Easier said than done as white hot pain racks my body. Rick helps me to roll and move.

“The head is right there. I’ll get the doctor.”

I puff and blow through the pain.

The doctor comes in, takes two seconds, and says, “Get the cart.”

Nurse Andrea’s hand is holding the baby’s head as the cart is being wheeled in.

My body launches the baby into the world as if it were a t-shirt cannon. The doctor catches her like a football. I haven’t pushed. But she’s here and I look at Rick and actually say the words. “Liv is here.” He’s only half paying attention his eyes are fixed on the baby.

I feel the world slip sideways.

I’m bleeding heavily. The nurse tells me that because labour was so fast it’s even more traumatic on the body – no shit Sherlock – tell me something I don’t know.

Nurse Andrea from Hell is pushing on my abdomen and I feel like every fluid in the world is gushing from my insides.

I send Rick to count Olivia’s fingers and toes. My words sound mushy even to me – but he understands me and does as I ask.

Jenn arrives just as the Nurse Andrea is attempting to get me to the washroom to see if the blood will stop. It doesn’t. And the world starts to grey around me.

Rick is holding the IV bags and can’t quite catch me before I go down. The bathroom floor is cool and I remember thinking I’ll just sleep here for awhile.

The whole room looks like Freddy Kruger and Psycho have had it out one last time and invited Jason for good measure.

The baby has been whisked off to the NICU. She’s tiny. Weighing in at only 4 lbs 14 oz. She’s breathing on her own though – so maybe it’s not going to be so bad.

I’m worried about her. Rick looks torn – he wants to go with her – he’s afraid to leave me.

Jenn is back. She’s missed the festivities, but she’s here to witness the carnage left behind and, God love her, she doesn’t blink.

I send them both to check on my wee girl.

The nurse gives me drugs to stem the blood flow. I can’t remember all the meds I’ve been fed in the last hour. This isn’t anything like the deliveries of my other two. Then again the pregnancies weren’t the same either so maybe it’s fitting that a pregnancy fraught with issues ends with a delivery that isn’t exactly something you’d want to see on W.

In the end I got my prize.

She’s tiny but perfect.

Her name has been chosen for months – Olivia Dawn – it means “peace at the beginning of a new day”. Fitting, I think, given everything we’ve gone through this last year. Rick has decided to call her Olly for short – mostly because it annoys me.

Olivia Dawn Reid born at Dr Everett Chalmers Hospital at 1645 on July 4th, 2009. Weighing just 4lb 14oz and measuring 18.5 inches long.

Sometimes the best things come in small packages.

Let the lava flow

Let me start this entry by saying that I’ve always been proud that Canada has a “free” universal health care system for all of its citizens. I know there are longer wait times and other issues but basically it’s an amazing thing that anyone who is ill or injured is treated the same.

In case you’ve missed a few entries – this pregnancy hasn’t exactly been textbook easy.

First of all I’m 35 – apparently that’s the magic number for all the “bad stuff” to happen so to begin with I was tested for everything from Scurvy to the baby having Downs Syndrome (both are negative by the way).

Then at 23 weeks my cervix was shortening – hence being benched and Rick coming home early from the sandbox.

That apparently decided to reverse itself just in time for intra-uterine growth restriction – a fancy way to say that the little miss isn’t getting all she needs from the placenta and is grossly undersized.

So in response to all this I go to the doctor at least three times per week. Twice for bio-physicals where I get an ultrasound and they take a stress strip of the baby’s heart and movements and once to my OB/GYN for all the other stuff. Amongst all of this I also see the OB specialist for a “special” ultrasound where the baby is measured etc.

So yesterday I’m at one of the anti-natal bio-physicals and they take my blood pressure. I sort of figured it was up a bit because I haven’t seen my ankles in weeks and I woke up with a puffy face. My BP was 150/100 – not a good sign. The nurse waited a few more minutes and took it again – it was 157-107 – wonderful.

So off to Labour and Delivery I was sent for blood work and urinalysis. Instead of inducing me – they decided to give me blood pressure medication. The twit who gave it to me tested my blood pressure twice within a 10-minute window – it was, after all just a few minutes before shift change. The BP was going down I was allowed to leave with a prescription to take at home.

The last thing I was told was (and I quote) – “If you are feeling any headaches, flashing lights, upper abdominal pain – make sure you call L&D and come in to be checked out.”

So off we went. They told me to expect some light-headedness as the BP was dropping and until it levelled off I’d feel “strange”. And I did.

But around 8 PM I started to get a headache.

I’m a migraine sufferer – so when I say I’ve got a headache – it doesn’t mean I’ve got a little discomfort. It means “Dear God take me now”.

Tylenol – the only crap I’m allowed to take – doesn’t touch it. Lying down in a dark room with a facecloth over my eyes just makes me want to cry. So after an hour or so I call L&D – following orders like a good patient.

The nurse, Lynn, tells me to take more Tylenol and to have a hot bath. “The damp weather could cause some people to have headaches.”

It’s been raining for 8 days straight at this point – it’s not like the barometric pressure is going up and down – I feel like crying and reaching through the phone to choke the life out of nurse Lynn.

So I take the bath – it makes me nauseous. I take more Tylenol and lie down. When Rick climbs the stairs I’m crying from the pain. I beg him for one of my migraine pills and he relents and gives it to me. These knock me out and I wake up without the migraine – usually.

This time – I wake up and am thinking what I can use to hang myself. The pain is horrible.

Rick is pissed that I haven’t called L&D again.

Both my OB and the specialist OB have told me time and again – that I should go to L&D and that I’m not bothering anyone by doing so – they understand what kind of a person I am and that I’d rather die in a corner than bother someone. But they didn’t hear Nurse Lynn. And in all honesty I’d rather the top of my head blew like Mount Vesuvius before I called her back.

That and I’m afraid that even at 9 months pregnant I’d find the energy to kick the crap out of her and the Resident Dr. MacDonald who despite having my chart in front of him – having several conversations with me and, I thought, was smarter than a brick – told me to take a freaking bath! I’m not so much into giving birth in jail.

So I’m here. Wearing sunglasses on a rainy morning inside so I can look at the monitor. Needing to get this frustration off of my chest before I actually pick up the phone to call Labour and Delivery to tell them that my “little headache” has now been 14 hours long I’ve taken the blessed bath and lay down in the dark and can I please come in to have someone take a whole two GD minutes out of their shift to press a button on an automatic BP machine to check my freaking blood pressure…

I don’t think it’s so much to ask.

I keep thinking about my friend who told me what the acronym for our local hospital DECH (Dr. Everet Chalmers Hospital) really stands for – Don’t Ever Come Here. After the last 24 hours - I think she’s right.

Biting my ninja tongue

I’m still waiting to glow.

Not grow – I’m doing plenty of that. Today when I looked in the mirror I looked like I was smuggling a beach ball. Sigh.

I’ve gotten two good reports in a row from the doctors and you’d think that I’d be dancing in the streets. But somehow I can’t stop walking on eggshells. Every twinge and movement is analyzed, every feeling examined and categorized I feel like some sort of alien scientist – I half expect the little grey men from Area 51 to show up and assist.

I’m reading “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” like it’s the key to the universe. This weeks’ message is to expect increased scatterbrained activities. And to prove it – I’ve managed to misplace my ankles – right on cue.

My feet are so swollen that I have one pair of shoes I can wear and my toes look like mini Vienna Sausages.

Remind me again who said pregnant women are beautiful?

Because I feel like a hippo, look like a manatee and waddle like a duck. Proof that God has a sick sense of humour.

Maybe it’s a “nature” thing. Make the increasingly pregnant woman so repulsive that no other mammal will come near thing. The natural defences of a pregnant human female, on display for everyone to see. Only it doesn’t quite work that way does it?

Apparently the physical appearance of a woman in the advanced stages of pregnancy is an open invitation for anyone over the age of 50 to walk up and start talking, and/or touching the increasing baby bump.

I’ve gotten advice, unsolicited advice, from complete strangers on how to avoid tearing in labour and delivery. Apparently the sight of a woman in her eighth month is license to throw out all social rules and jump right to talking about the female genitalia.

And then there’s the twenty-year-old that has the same appointment schedule with the OB who tells me all about childbirth and newborns every time we’re sitting in the waiting room. I’m almost thirty-six years old – I’ve brought one or both my kids to more appointments than I can count and she thinks this is my first dog and pony show…maybe there’s something to that scatterbrained thing after all.

Only a few more weeks – I can do a few more weeks – right? I just have to keep biting my tongue, reminding myself not to go ninja on the old touchy feely folks and to nod and smile at the chick in the OB’s office all the while swelling and aching and waddling my way to the dignity-devoid space of the delivery room.

I can do that…I just need a lobotomy and a couple of good stiff drinks to get me there.

Spinning

Four A.M.

What the heck am I doing up at four in the freaking morning?

Counting baby movements – what else?

The gerbil wheel in my head has been spinning again. Somehow I’ve got a morose feeling of dread. Like something isn’t right but I just can’t put my finger on it.

I get to the required six movements. They’re weak, so I head to the washroom and when I get back I start counting again.

I still can’t shake the idea that something is wrong.

Maybe I should call Labour and Delivery and speak to a nurse. And say what? – I woke up for no apparent reason and I can’t relax?

Besides – I don’t want to be a bother. Don’t ask where that comes from, it’s either a Newfie thing or a woman thing.

“No, no – you see to the others first I’ll just crawl over into this corner and die – when you get around to me let me know.” It’s almost laughable how we women are.

I’ve got an appointment with the OB in the afternoon. As long as there’s no pain or bleeding and as long as I can feel her moving I’ll stick to the schedule.

There’s no real “emergency”. I’m basically okay. I’m just channelling something. Picking up on the energy of the universe, as it were.

The alarm goes off and I hear the terrible news out of Brazil – an airliner carrying 220 passengers has disappeared. It makes my worries seem insignificant in contrast. Well, almost insignificant.

Kate is not going on the bus today. She was sent home every day last week after an episode each morning, which resulted in her being too weak to walk or stand on her own.

The neurologist is out of town – surprise, surprise. So in desperation the school, Rick and I decided that she would sleep until she woke up on her own and we’d drive her in to see if we could circumvent the issue by giving her more rest and less excitement (she adores the bus) first thing in the morning.

She’s happy enough to leave the house every day – but by the time she gets to school she’s, well for lack of a better word, she’s screwed up.

As she heads out the door with Rick I hear her chattering away at him – the one word she’s retained over the years is “daddy” and she uses it with him like a magpie. It means anything and everything you could imagine. And she’s excited so all I hear is a retreating echo of “daddy, daddy, daddy” until they reach the car.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion of the last week, maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones or maybe some combination of the three but I can feel the tears start to prick the backs of my eyes.

I’m trying my best. I really am. I just don’t know if it’s good enough.

Three pounds

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.