Happy Birthday to My Miracle!

Andrew is graduating 8th grade this year and moving on to high school. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Over the last couple of weeks, I've written Andrew's birth story. I left out a lot of minutiae and copied a bit from a previous post. 

Andrew’s Birth Story

On Thursday I fell getting into my car. One of those odd things where your foot just slips out from under you. I went to the OB, had an ultrasound, got a clean bill and went on my way.  On Saturday night I ate at a Chinese buffet (this is important). Sunday morning I woke up feeling sick. Really sick. My stomach was cramping. I called my husband, who worked overnights, and told him to hurry home because I wanted to go call the doctor. I thought I’d eaten some bad Chinese at that buffet, but since I’d fallen a few days earlier, I wanted to go get double-checked. He hurried home, I called the doctor, and the service said the on-call doc would meet us at the hospital. We hopped in the car and drove the 20 minutes to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, they put us into a room to wait. There was no obvious emergency, no real pains; I just felt like crap. I decide I better go to the bathroom before anyone comes in and I’m stuck in the bed. As I wipe, I notice blood. The bright red kind. And I start yelling for my husband. We get a nurse and I get in bed. They’ve told the doctor to hustle. I’m hooked up to a fetal monitor to get a heart rate and contractions. That cramping I had? Contractions. Turns out they’re not strong enough to detect on the monitor, so I’m given a button to push every time I feel one. At this point everyone realizes that I’m in labor with contractions every 3 or 4 minutes. I am now admitted to the hospital. On the last day of week 22. In 1998. 24 weeks is considered viable.

They proceed to pump me full of enough magnesium-sulfate that I can’t see correctly. It is a muscle relaxer used to stop contractions. Then they add something to calm me down because I’ve just had the first panic attack of my life. A neonatologist comes in and tells me that if my baby is born today, it will be dead. At this point I become hysterical, more drugs come. All the while doctors and nurses keep telling me to calm down. I need to stay calm if I have any intention of keeping this baby in. I need to keep him in for 4 weeks. Then I get something to help me sleep. I’m now on bedrest, but not just any bedrest. I’m kept in trendelenburg. My feet must remain higher than my head. They’re hoping gravity will keep the baby in.

12 days later. May 1^st, 1998, at 24 weeks 5 days I start contracting again. The nurse (who was someone I’d never had) tells me I’m constipated. There is no way I’m in real labor, despite the fact that I’ve been contracting on and off for a week and a half. She doesn’t call the doctor and won’t call my husband (I can’t reach the phone). After a couple hours of this, I start making a real fuss, and she has no choice to get my regular night nurse who had been in another labor. Luckily, she realizes something is wrong and gets the OB. They call my husband and tell him to get to the hospital as fast as possible – he’s at work an hour away, and the room fills with people. There had to be 10 people in there. Several for me and several for the baby. I still don’t know if I’m having a boy or girl. It had stopped being important days ago. I never pushed. Someone asked about extraordinary measures. I said yes. He, quite literally, slid out. I didn’t even know he was out until someone told me. It was 6am. They worked for a couple of minutes, and my nurse told me he was a boy and asked me if I had a name. Andrew. They whisked him away and all I saw was a purple shape in the isolette. My husband arrived about 20 minutes later.

It felt like days before I was able to see him. In reality it was a couple of hours. My husband had been able to see him briefly through a window. I had a Polaroid picture of him. Just in case. Just in case he died before I got upstairs to the nursery. Since I’d been on bedrest for so long, I had to be wheeled up to the nursery on a gurney, and that only because I threatened the staff. No one wanted to be the one blamed if I never got to see my baby alive. Odd the threats you resort to when under duress. So, off I wheeled, lying on the gurney. It was shocking to see a baby so small. I had never seen anything like him and neither had most of the nurses. 1 pound, 11 ounces. 14 inches. He was the youngest baby born at the hospital…ever. He was hooked up to tubes and monitors under insanely bright warming lights. Machines breathing for him, checking his heart rate, monitoring his oxygen levels, IVs for fluid and medicine. His first nurses were Mickey and Laura. Talk about drawing the short straw. I remember little else from our first meeting, Andrew and I. But he wasn’t dead.

I went home three days later without my baby. But my mantra was “He’s not dead.” I was holding onto the fact that he’d made it through the first 48 hours so would probably make it through the week. I wasn’t looking beyond that. I had elected to keep in that hospital instead of transferring him. The hospital had the facilities and the doctors, if not the paperwork, yet. The primary doctor had worked on the team responsible for the then world record smallest baby – 9 ounces. And yes, I confirmed his story. Besides, Andrew probably wouldn’t have survived the transfer because it would have been within the first two days.

Andrew came home 108 days later on August 16^th. One day before his actual due date. I had to swear that I felt confident about taking care of him at home with no monitors.

Today, Andrew turned 14. He will be graduating 8^th grade in less than a month. With all of his difficulties, he is a relatively happy kid. Very quiet, a little shy, obsessed with Star Wars and Bakugan. He loves animals and chocolate. He is a little more than 5 feet tall and weighs almost 100 pounds. Like most mothers of teenagers, I want to kill him regularly. He knows how to push every one of my buttons.  He gives the best hugs. He’s my miracle.

Andrew's first picture, taken by the nursing staff.

Andrew's 8th Grade Graduation picture

Sugar Free

It’s not that I have to eat sweets every day but once I’ve decided not to eat them, it’s torture. 

A friend from college challenged her Facebook friends to give up sugar for 28 days. Not just sugar, but sweeteners – honey, maple syrup, artificial sweeteners included. We all know that added sugar is bad for us. I don’t think that’s really up for debate. You can read more about it here.

My point is not that sugar is bad for me, but that I have accepted the challenge not to eat sugar (or its friends) for 28 days. I’m on Day 2. I want a cookie. Or brownie. Or a piece of bread. You wouldn’t believe the number of foods with hidden sugars. It’s even in the French onion soup in my freezer. I want to cry.

I have been living with Type II Diabetes for several years now. Gestational Diabetes with my younger son was kind of the beginning of the end. Both of my parents have Type II, as do some other relatives on the tree. My diabetes is managed through medication and insulin. The insulin was my choice. I’m a classic overachiever so I asked for insulin for better glucose control. And while I have changed many things in my daily diet, I have never simply given up sugar.

“What will I eat?” my Sweet Tooth cries! So far, fruit. Grapes, kiwi, peaches. No, they are not chocolate; therefore, I am a little crabby. I’m not starving, although I feel like it. I feel hungry. Sugar really is a drug, as my friend (and others) claims, and I am going through withdrawal. I’ve told myself I just need to make it through the weekend. My husband just hopes he and the kids make it through the weekend. I’m not saying he bet the under but…..I know he bet the under.

Suz

For more information about Diabetes please visit TheAmerican Diabetes Association.

All preemies are not equal.

I belong to a Facebook group for parents of preemies. A premature baby is one born prior to 37 weeks gestation. There is a supposed/perceived ongoing battle between the mothers of micro-preemies and those babies born at a later gestation. Micro-preemie is a term typically used to describe those infants born earlier than 28 weeks gestation. Per the rights of the administrators of the group, posts that seem to “fan the flames” are being removed. It seems that many of the mothers feel that they are not treated like “preemie moms” because they have children born later – 33-36 weeks or so. I do not feel that they are any less a preemie mom, but I do feel there are some vast difference between those moms and the mothers of micro-preemies. Since I cannot explain my feelings on the board without bothering some overly sensitive mothers, I will do so here.

I gave birth to Andrew at 24 weeks and 5 days. You may smirk, but those 5 days are important. When Andrew was born in 1998, a 24 week baby had less than 10% chance of survival. Every day past 23 weeks was a smidgeon of a percentage point. In fact, when I went into the hospital at the end of week 22, I was told to prepare for a dead baby. Harsh, right? Fast forward 10 whole days of strict bedrest (as in not even able to sit up). May 1^st. 24 weeks + 5 days. He was 1 pound and 11 ounces. My only view of him was the rush of an incubator past the foot of my bed on the way out the door. I knew he was a boy and told the nurses his name was Andrew.

It felt like days before I was able to see him. In reality it was a couple of hours. My husband had been able to see him briefly through a window. I had a Polaroid picture of him. Just in case. Just in case he died before I got upstairs to the nursery. Since I’d been on bedrest for so long, I had to be wheeled up to the nursery on a gurney, and that only because I threatened the staff. No one wanted to be the one blamed if I never got to see my baby alive. Odd the threats you resort to when under duress. So, off I wheeled, lying on the gurney. It was shocking to see a baby so small. I had never seen anything like him and neither had most of the nurses. He was the youngest baby born at the hospital…ever. He was hooked up to tubes and monitors under insanely bright warming lights. Machines breathing for him, checking his heart rate, monitoring his oxygen levels, IVs for fluid and medicine. His first nurses were Mickey and Laura. Talk about drawing the short straw. I remember little else from our first meeting, Andrew and I. But he wasn’t dead.

I went home three days later without my baby. But my mantra was “He’s not dead.” I was holding onto the fact that he’d made it through the first 48 hours so would probably make it through the week. I wasn’t looking beyond that. I had elected to keep in that hospital instead of transferring him. The hospital had the facilities and the doctors, if not the paperwork, yet. The primary doctor had worked on the team responsible for the then world record smallest baby – 9 ounces. And yes, I confirmed his story. Besides, Andrew probably wouldn’t have survived the transfer because it would have been within the first two days.

Andrew came home 108 days later on August 16^th. One day before his actual due date. I had to swear that I felt confident about taking care of him at home with no monitors.

So, back to the beginning of this story. The battle of the preemie moms. There are some things the mother of a gestationally advanced preemie will never fully understand. Please keep in mind that, while this is not true in all cases, it is true in most.

             
          She will not have to make the decision to resuscitate or not. Answering the question, “If your baby stops breathing, do you want us to use extraordinary measures?”” If your baby’s heart stops, do you want us to use extraordinary measures?” We said yes to both.

            
          She will never realize the stark reality of her baby born with heart beat but not breathing.

               
          She will not realize the horror of having no idea what he baby looks like for hours after the birth, and after that, only with tubes and tape covering her baby’s face. Andrew was about two months old before I ever saw his face, and then only for a few precious seconds.

               
          She will never wonder what her baby’s eyes look like because, like a new kitten, his eyes aren’t yet open.

                              
          She will not wait 10 days to feel the weight of her baby. I don’t mean hold. I mean place her hands under her baby to feel what 1.5 lbs feels like (he’d lost weight down to 1lb 3oz that first week).

             
          She will not wait 17 days to hold her baby for the first time. I left my cousin’s wedding reception early so I could be at the hospital at 10pm because the nurse called to tell me I could hold him. I’d been waiting for a good day. I held him for less than hour. I didn’t get to hold him again for several days.

              
          She will not watch a machine breathe for her baby, day in and day out for a month. Then watch a machine help him breathe for the next two months.

               
          She will not wait a full month before ever hearing her baby cry.

             
          She probably won’t wait 108 days before bringing her baby home.

              
          And she probably won’t think she hit the pregnancy jackpot when she hits the 28 week mark with her next baby. (I really hit the jackpot with 37 weeks.)

Most of these circumstances are common place for the mothers of micro-preemies – 6% of premature births. While most preemies are born with some concerns – low birth weight, breathing issues, vision problems, inability to regulate body temperature, even brain bleeds – micro-preemies typically have their own set of problems. Every mother of a premature baby worries, cries, second-guesses, prays, curses, promises. These things don’t change. She needs support and love and extra care and attention. But the differences in situations based on gestational age are often vast. While I am not looking to diminish anyone’s journey, I do want everyone to realize that all premature births are not the same.

That being said, Andrew is now 13. He’s asked to wear a tie for his 8^th grade graduation pictures tomorrow. I hope he remembers to brush his hair.

For more information on premature births, please visit The March of Dimes.

Suz

               

You'd think it was rocket science......

Most people can at least spray paint, right? I thought so. How hard can it be? I mean, they put it in a can for convenience so it must be easy. Not so much. Let's just say that spray paint and I are not forming any lasting bonds.

My husband brought home this table for me several months ago. By "brought home" I really mean found on the side of the road somewhere and thought of me. That my husband drives around on garbage day thinking of me should worry me, shouldn't it? Whatever. I'm calling it a present.

 Feel free to ignore the rest of the stuff on my porch - I'm dealing with limited space.

Note that I said he gave this to me several months ago. After he brought it home, I promptly went out and bought spray paint for it - primer and a fabulous teal (both Krylon - Bahama Sea is the teal). And then I waited. It was too cold, too wet, too hot outside. I couldn't get motivated to paint. Then the kids went back to school, and I had some time on my hands. I had a naked table and a couple cans of spray paint. How could I go wrong? Let me count the ways....

1. Read the can first. It tells you to shake the can for 2 minutes before you start spraying. Might have been nice to know as I was cursing the $%^#@! can because it wouldn't spray correctly.

2. Spray in thin layers. Ooops. Probably what caused the dripping was me trying to cover in one layer. Again, should have read the can.

3. Next time buy 2 cans of primer.....even if your project should only take 1. I started to get nervous about running out, so I sprayed it even thicker.

4. Be patient. Not my strong suit. By the time I was done priming the table, waiting an hour to dry, and then putting on the color, I was over it. As in, huh, there are some bald spots, oh well. Over it.

Here is the masterpiece. (And don't look too closely.)

Yes, thanks for asking. That is my container garden and drying rack in the background.

She's cute and will serve her purpose. Once I put a lamp and a couple books on her, she'll be just fine. Besides, if she was perfect, she would not fit into my household.
 
In the end I think I like the messier brush and a can application method. We'll see. I'm gonna spray paint a lamp next.(You can start praying for us now.)

Suz

Morning Trials

 I hate mornings. It’s not that I don’t want to get up and greet the day; it’s just that I’d rather greet it a little later.

My boys went back to school this week. Thank the Good Lord. I wasn’t sure I would make it through any more “bonding” time. Boys make me tired. And irritated. And nauseous sometimes. (Ever smell teenage boy? Biological warfare if I can figure out how to bottle it.) Back to school means a nice break for mommy, after I get them out the door – preferable without a meltdown (usually mine). As I said, I hate mornings. The one thing I hate worse than mornings? Having a deadline in the morning. This particular deadline comes in the form of a school bus, or two. Things were okay on day one, first day excitement and all; but day two sucked. Royally.

This morning’s convo with aforementioned teen –

Me: Oh good you’re up. Did you already take a shower like I asked last night?

A: Uh…..no.

Me: Do you remember me asking you to do that when you woke up?

A: Uh….yeah.

Me: OK, so why didn’t you? (Minimal AM patience has now diminished to infinitesimal.)

A: Uh…...(He’s a real talker this one.)

At this point he stands up to start taking off his clothes…..in the living room.

Me: Forget it. Come here and let me smell you. (I know, right?) Did you put on deodorant?

A: Uh….yeah.

Me: Really? Today?

A: Uh…no.

Me: Go. Now. And don’t lie

.

Within the next half hour we had similar conversations about breakfast, wearing gym shoes, bringing gym shoes to school and wearing sandals, bringing socks, finding socks, finding his gym shoes….And then the bus company called to say the bus was out front waiting for him.

Patience gone, I’m a raving lunatic and he’s sullen (not so new – either one). I did, however, have the presence of mind to reopen the front door and yell, “I love you, Have fun!” as he ran for the bus.

All of this made me rethink our morning routine. And then, since I was on a roll, our evening routine. Which led to these:

I’ve seen a number of these on a couple dozen blogs. Just a printed chart in picture frame. I used Velcro to attach a dry erase marker to each frame. Each day that they complete both the Morning and Night routines without reminders, they earn a marble in their jar. When someone collects 30 marble, he gets to go to a movie with me. ($1 show, but if you don’t tell, I won’t – a movie’s a movie.) G is much more excited than A, but he usually is. I’m planning on this working. I need this to work. I’ll let you know.

And for those you following along, I'm still unemployed, but at this stage of the game I think we're calling me a stay-at-home-mom. I prefer hausfrau.

Suz

Why is it sticky?

I'm trying to get on track by cleaning our home. Call it an early spring cleaning, if you will. I figure a girl can't be unemployed for three whole weeks and have nothing to show for it. I made a list, as all good Type A girls do, then promptly ditched it in favor of cleaning the fridge. I'm not talking about the inside of the fridge, which gets overhauled regularly. I'm talking about the outside.

Now, I'll be honest; I never really noticed how dirty our white refrigerator was, what with all the pictures, magnets, checkerboard, business cards, ultrasound photos......you get the drift. I removed everything from the front (and sides). I scrubbed. I bleached. I Simple Greened. I scrubbed some more. Look how it shines. OK not really shining, but clean nonetheless. With the front looking so spiffy, I figured I should clean the top, too. A friend recently pointed out how clean her kitchen looks with nothing on top of the fridge. Thanks, W, just what I needed...peer pressure. I removed the bags of chips, and the coin jar. At that point I realized that the top of the fridge is where my husband puts kitchen items to die. I found my travel mugs (4), a pasta measurer (not sure where that came from), a couple of vases, some random lids and the dustiest party tray on the planet. Under all of the this treasure (notsomuch) was dust. This was no normal dust. It's sticky and dusty. I don't know how it happened or where it came from. I prefer to think that the dust mutated and I've made a rare scientific discovery. The other options are just to atrocious to bear. It took the better part of an hour to clean off the top of that bad boy. Again a combo of bleach, Simple Green and sheer determination (and maybe an open window to let out the noxious fumes). Now it's clean. I'm not putting anything else up there - ever.

I am, however, inviting you to a dinner party at my place. BYO Step Stool. No way I'm wasting such a clean surface in this house.

When I Grow Up...

I don't know what I want to do with my life. I'd like to stay home, have a garden, learn to really sew, clip coupons, blah, blah, blah. That is not my reality. Right now I'm trying to make the little decisions: Do we move to Virginia or stay in Chicago?

My sister lives in VA. I loved it there the one time we visited. My husband loved it. The boys want to live near their cousins. It's a big decision. I hoping for a sign from God....like a big booming voice yelling, "Pack it up and get on with it, Girl!" Right now I'm just looking at jobs and houses to rent. I guess if I find the right thing, I'll know.