So I had my fourth MCA doppler today. I just realized I've never taken the time to describe what this is on this blog, so let me give a bit of background.
Two weeks ago, my blood test results came back showing my titer levels had increased to 1:8. It was time that a new step be taken, and that means MCA Dopplers. An MCA Doppler is an ultrasound of the baby's middle cerebral artery. The ultrasound tech lays me down flat and slightly inverted and puts the wand over Matt's brain. Then she finds the artery and focuses in specifically on that. She monitors the blood flow through that artery to get a single reading. The reading looks very much like a heartrate on the screen, with just the peaks. She has to take at least 6 readings to get a good scan. Then she does a physical analysis of Matt to ensure that he has plenty of fluid, his lungs, skin and heart aren't taking in any excess fluid, and his growth and movement are healthy.
The ultrasound tech then sends all of the data, pictures and video to the MFM specialist. She analyzes the information, taking the highest number and cross-referencing that with my gestational age on a chart. That chart gives us a number called a multiple of the median. No, I don't really understand what that term means. But anything under 1 is normal. Anything over 1 shows varying levels of anemia. Over the past four tests I've gotten an erroneous 1.6 and acceptable 1.4, 1.2 and 1.3.
1.4 would indicate mild anemia. Since the numbers have consistently been above normal range, the head of MFM determined that the risks to Matt officially outweigh the benefits. He will be delivered at 37 weeks.
Ahem. For the back row... THIRTY SEVEN WEEKS!
Hooray!!!
Back to the seriousness now. Tomorrow I'll have a routine OB visit. They'll check my cervix to see how the contractions have affected it. This will determine what induction medications they will start me with. The MFM specialist today explained that we need to be prepared for Matt to possibly go into the NICU for a short while. He could just be there for observation, or he may need a transfusion. They'll test his hemoglobin levels and determine what further action needs to be taken.
Anyway, that's where we're at today. T minus one week and counting.
Holy crap I'm going to bring a baby home in just over a week.
Holy crap holy crap holy crap.
Probably should clean this house or something.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Control
Three long, Oreo-free months ago, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. And for three long months, I have freaked out over every meal, every snack, and every exercise.
About a month into this issue, I told my doctor through sobs that I was starting to lose my mind. The stress of counting carbs, watching clocks, setting alarms, exercising just enough, pricking my own finger and then writing down every detail was making me insane. Almost daily I would go to bed crying.
My doctor's response was not at all what I expected.
"Oh, that's too bad. I really thought if you had something you could control to focus on, it would take your mind off your other issues."
Ahem.
What did you just say?
The dear, sweet man truly felt that a diagnosis of another potentially baby-threatening disorder was somehow going to make me ...MORE CALM?
Worked like a charm, doc. No, instead of calming down, the panic merely shifted because one part of his thought was accurate. I could control the GDM. And I controlled the hell out of it.
Yesterday at my routine OB visit, I asked my nurse to tell me how my weight changed from my last appointment to this one. I don't like to know numbers, but part of the GDM psychosis is needing to know weight gain and loss. Her response was, "Are you sure you don't just want to know how your weight has changed since you first got pregnant?" Sure. Why the hell not. She sounded positive and up-beat, so I gambled.
Attention all readers. In the past 36 weeks, I have gained a total of four pounds. And there's still a six-pound baby inside me.
(Disclaimer: This is NOT at ALL a competition or a challenge. MOST pregnant women should gain much more than that during their gestation. However, I've been pregnant pretty much constantly for three years, with some grief-eating in between, so this is a perfect amount for me. Stunning, actually.)
When she told me, I got a little ridiculous. I threw myself a mental parade and went on to tell my husband, sister, friends...anyone who would listen. I was over the moon, and rightly so.
But this morning, something occurred to me. I did control the GDM. I controlled my food and my glucose and my weight. But in doing that, what have I really controlled?
When you lose a child, all your control is suddenly stolen from you. You scream at the doctor, the nurse, anyone who will listen that THIS CANNOT HAPPEN, but there's nothing you can do. And during the rainbow pregnancy, you get determined to control everything.
"This time around will be different."
For me, I switched doctors just to be designated "high risk." I had my medical files re-examined. I signed up for all the tests, injections, appointments I possibly could. I begged for extra ultrasounds. I came prepared for every single appointment with questions and research. I went Type-A all over this pregnancy.
But at no point have I ever really had control over whether or not Matt gets to come home in the end.
Not that all of that was for nothing. It's all been wonderful, and I know that Matt is getting the best care possible. I trust my doctor and his staff to take care of us. But the idea that at any moment I had control over this pregnancy? Lies. This facade of control is just something I created to make myself feel a bit of relief.
And what does this revelation do for me? One amazing boon.
It allows me to forgive myself a little.
I realize now that I didn't lose my control when I lost Carpenter. I did not drop the ball or let him down at any point. I couldn't stop his death. Sometimes bad things happen. It isn't that we aren't doing enough, or asking enough, or planning enough. It's that sometimes, babies don't come home with their parents. And sometimes those same parents have a baby that defies all odds.
And that end result--that question we want to dictate more than anything--that's not something we can control.
Instead, we do the best we can for our babies, and that is all we can ask of ourselves.
Relax. Breathe deeply. Forgive yourself a little.
About a month into this issue, I told my doctor through sobs that I was starting to lose my mind. The stress of counting carbs, watching clocks, setting alarms, exercising just enough, pricking my own finger and then writing down every detail was making me insane. Almost daily I would go to bed crying.
My doctor's response was not at all what I expected.
"Oh, that's too bad. I really thought if you had something you could control to focus on, it would take your mind off your other issues."
Ahem.
What did you just say?
The dear, sweet man truly felt that a diagnosis of another potentially baby-threatening disorder was somehow going to make me ...MORE CALM?
Worked like a charm, doc. No, instead of calming down, the panic merely shifted because one part of his thought was accurate. I could control the GDM. And I controlled the hell out of it.
Yesterday at my routine OB visit, I asked my nurse to tell me how my weight changed from my last appointment to this one. I don't like to know numbers, but part of the GDM psychosis is needing to know weight gain and loss. Her response was, "Are you sure you don't just want to know how your weight has changed since you first got pregnant?" Sure. Why the hell not. She sounded positive and up-beat, so I gambled.
Attention all readers. In the past 36 weeks, I have gained a total of four pounds. And there's still a six-pound baby inside me.
(Disclaimer: This is NOT at ALL a competition or a challenge. MOST pregnant women should gain much more than that during their gestation. However, I've been pregnant pretty much constantly for three years, with some grief-eating in between, so this is a perfect amount for me. Stunning, actually.)
When she told me, I got a little ridiculous. I threw myself a mental parade and went on to tell my husband, sister, friends...anyone who would listen. I was over the moon, and rightly so.
But this morning, something occurred to me. I did control the GDM. I controlled my food and my glucose and my weight. But in doing that, what have I really controlled?
When you lose a child, all your control is suddenly stolen from you. You scream at the doctor, the nurse, anyone who will listen that THIS CANNOT HAPPEN, but there's nothing you can do. And during the rainbow pregnancy, you get determined to control everything.
"This time around will be different."
For me, I switched doctors just to be designated "high risk." I had my medical files re-examined. I signed up for all the tests, injections, appointments I possibly could. I begged for extra ultrasounds. I came prepared for every single appointment with questions and research. I went Type-A all over this pregnancy.
But at no point have I ever really had control over whether or not Matt gets to come home in the end.
Not that all of that was for nothing. It's all been wonderful, and I know that Matt is getting the best care possible. I trust my doctor and his staff to take care of us. But the idea that at any moment I had control over this pregnancy? Lies. This facade of control is just something I created to make myself feel a bit of relief.
And what does this revelation do for me? One amazing boon.
It allows me to forgive myself a little.
I realize now that I didn't lose my control when I lost Carpenter. I did not drop the ball or let him down at any point. I couldn't stop his death. Sometimes bad things happen. It isn't that we aren't doing enough, or asking enough, or planning enough. It's that sometimes, babies don't come home with their parents. And sometimes those same parents have a baby that defies all odds.
And that end result--that question we want to dictate more than anything--that's not something we can control.
Instead, we do the best we can for our babies, and that is all we can ask of ourselves.
Relax. Breathe deeply. Forgive yourself a little.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Nesting For Two
I'm in the final countdown. Less than a month to go now until baby Matthew is to be delivered safely in my arms. The panic is not really subsiding with that information. In fact, we're adding layers.
I'm in a nesting panic.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who has regrets from their angel-pregnancy. My harshest one? I never made a space for Carpenter in our home. That gnaws at me every day of my life. That guilt. Did he feel unwelcome in my home? Were we not ready for him? Did he feel less wanted than his sister? How could I let him down like that?
I did have the whole thing planned out. Carpenter was named for his great-grandfather, a SeaBee in the Navy, so everything was going to have a naval theme to it. I had picked out awesome propaganda posters from WWII calling young carpenters to serve their country by building bridges. I had decided to spell his name out in semaphore over the crib.
But none of that ever got done.
I got hung up waiting for my sister to come get the guest bed that she swore she wanted. (A year later I was still waiting.) So without space to work, I just kept putting decorating on the backburner.
And I'll never live that down.
But for the past few weeks, I've been in crazy-nesting-mode. Slightly insane with the need to have everything completed and perfectly so, in order to provide a home for Matthew. Every decision has been agonizing, and I've stressed myself to tears. During last night's sob-fest, Mike finally put what I am going through in plain English: I'm nesting for two.
I know it's insane. But I'm pouring my heart and soul into making just the right space for BOTH our sons to call home. Half of everything in that room represents Carpenter in some way. Half of that room is his. That is not the nursery. It's not Matt's room. It's the "boys' room." And no matter how much work I put into it...no matter how perfect...I'll still never be happy with it.
Because for at least one boy, it's too little too late.
The guilt will probably never go away. But today, right now, I know I'm doing my best to make up for my regrets in some small way. And that's what surviving babyloss is all about. Getting up each day, recognizing that the pain and hurt are still a part of you, and accepting that the only response to that is to keep moving. Carry your baggage, but keep walking.
Today I will show my son he is wanted and loved in our home, now and forever.
I'm in a nesting panic.
I'm sure I'm not the only one who has regrets from their angel-pregnancy. My harshest one? I never made a space for Carpenter in our home. That gnaws at me every day of my life. That guilt. Did he feel unwelcome in my home? Were we not ready for him? Did he feel less wanted than his sister? How could I let him down like that?
I did have the whole thing planned out. Carpenter was named for his great-grandfather, a SeaBee in the Navy, so everything was going to have a naval theme to it. I had picked out awesome propaganda posters from WWII calling young carpenters to serve their country by building bridges. I had decided to spell his name out in semaphore over the crib.
But none of that ever got done.
I got hung up waiting for my sister to come get the guest bed that she swore she wanted. (A year later I was still waiting.) So without space to work, I just kept putting decorating on the backburner.
And I'll never live that down.
But for the past few weeks, I've been in crazy-nesting-mode. Slightly insane with the need to have everything completed and perfectly so, in order to provide a home for Matthew. Every decision has been agonizing, and I've stressed myself to tears. During last night's sob-fest, Mike finally put what I am going through in plain English: I'm nesting for two.
I know it's insane. But I'm pouring my heart and soul into making just the right space for BOTH our sons to call home. Half of everything in that room represents Carpenter in some way. Half of that room is his. That is not the nursery. It's not Matt's room. It's the "boys' room." And no matter how much work I put into it...no matter how perfect...I'll still never be happy with it.
Because for at least one boy, it's too little too late.
The guilt will probably never go away. But today, right now, I know I'm doing my best to make up for my regrets in some small way. And that's what surviving babyloss is all about. Getting up each day, recognizing that the pain and hurt are still a part of you, and accepting that the only response to that is to keep moving. Carry your baggage, but keep walking.
Today I will show my son he is wanted and loved in our home, now and forever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)