Friday, November 2, 2007

Friday morning came and it was time for the appointment.  Adam and I drove to the OB/GYN's office and anxiously walked in.  Already expecting us, the doctor and the nurse took us back right away.  Laying on the table, I closed my eyes and listened as intently as I could as the doctor used the fetal doppler on my stomach.  Adam squeezed my hand and I began to weep.  I heard...nothing.  It was silent.  He was gone.  The doctor brought us to a small ultrasound machine and we confirmed by sight.  There my baby was, perfectly still on the monitor.

The doctor stepped away to arrange when we would go to the hospital to induce and deliver.  He came back and mentioned that Mercy Gilbert was fully occupied until Monday and asked if it would be alright to wait until then.  Not seeing any other option, it had to be.  A plan was set in place and I would check into the hospital Monday afternoon.  I began to e-mail my professors explaining my absence for the next week and we called into our works.  I then drifted over to my blog, and with my head swirling trying to process what was happening, I felt a simple update would be deemed good enough:

*The following was what I wrote on this date in my other blog*

He's gone...
I knew the answer. I told him it was ok to let go. We listened for the heartbeat, there was none. Checked for heart activity on the ultrasound, there was none. I will be induced and deliver on Monday.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

*It was the day before my OB/GYN appointment to check for the heartbeat.  It was a quiet night that afforded me a time to reflect on the inevitable and where I was emotionally at the time.  I wrote and posted this on this day in 2007*

Pregnant Today
Tomorrow will take forever to come
We will see if we continue, or if we are done
I might hear your heart, and I'll sigh with relief
Or I might hear nothing, to which I will grieve
It will be the loudest silence I'll have to endure
I'll ask to listen again, just to be sure
You tickled my belly, I rubbed you so
We knew each other; every high and every low
I close my eyes and think of you
You'll be with God, that is true
I can't understand why it has to be
I can't understand why you can't be with me
Its hard to know that I couldn't protect you
As your mother, I failed to perfect you
I know I'll see you every night in my dreams
Sometimes that won't be good enough, and I'll want to scream
I know some people say its better this way
But what do they know? Its us who has to pay
I'm hours away from knowing our fate
And when that hour comes, my heart will hurt great
Until then I'll rub my belly and pretend you are ok
And enjoy these last moments of being pregnant today

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

*The following was what I wrote on this date in my other blog*

Today is the first day back to classes since learning my news. I've talked to all my teachers, they are all aware. However, the first thing the people that know me in class ask, "How's Baby doing?" and its going to hurt so bad to tell them, "Well, actually..."

Its going to be the longest 6 hours of my life.

I've stopped paying attention to feeling for movement. Not that I've lost faith, but I've talked to my baby. I told him its OK to let go. Adam and I think that he was still holding on as long as he did just so Adam and I can learn what was happening.

I went to my OB yesterday to drop off Adam's FMLA paperwork. I sooo wanted them to check the heartbeat right then and there. But they didn't check. So now I still wait until Friday...the longest week ever

Irony

Went to my PGS 222 class today. We got to see a video. Guess what it was about. Childbirth. Fantastic. All my classmates were so disgusted. I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to shout, "At least these women are able to take their babies home, feed them, change them!" I know they did not mean harm, but damn that's ironic..

Monday, October 29, 2007

*The following was what I wrote on this date in my other blog, it was my first chance to write down what was happening*

Back in July of this year, I had a funny feeling. Not a physical one. But one of those "intuitions" your mother gets when you're up to something. The next day, I took a pregnancy test, and found it to be positive. One of the best surprises of my life, hands down. Giddy with excitement, I waited for Adam to come home to share with him the news. He, also, was surprised, but was happy. That night I left a message for my OB/GYN to schedule an appointment to confirm the pregnancy. I couldn't wait.

The next day I went in, and of course, I was indeed pregnant! My due date was set at March 19, 2008. I thought to myself, how funny, its my brother's birthday.

The first trimester went on smoothly. I shared my news with everyone I knew, and even people I didn't know. Each week I'd read about what was developing with my baby. His ears, his fingernails, his sucking reflex. I decided to be surprised about the sex, so we just say he for wishful thinking. Every day someone asked me how the pregnancy is going, and I would tell them how great it is.

Upon entering my 19th week, I went to the lab to get my blood testing done. A few days later, I received a call from my OB. I couldn't quite remember the exact details, something about low AFP and possible risk for Down Syndrome. He recommended a Level 2 ultrasound. I was reassured by many mothers that they too had low AFPs so not to worry. relieved, I went to my ultrasound the next day with Adam.

As soon at the technician turned on the screen, her smile faded. "This isn't good." she says. She noticed issues.  As she's apologizing over and over (its not like it was her fault), I lay on the chair, squeezing Adam's hand and watching him brush away a tear.

When the doctor came in, he explained that because the issues, that there is virtually no Amniotic Fluid around the baby. He mentioned fluid build up around organs, which suggests heart failure.

This was totally unexpected. I was ready to have a child with special needs, but I was not ready to let go of my child so soon. Before I could hear them cry, laugh, look at me. A lot of people tell me that at least its happening before I give birth, and I can't really compare, because this is my first, but all you moms out there will agree, there is a special bonding that happens as soon as you know there is a special people growing inside of you. I would think that this is just as painful. Parents should never have to say goodbye to their children this way.

Our choice is to let the heartbeat stop on its own. We will listen for it every Friday. After that, I will be induced and deliver.

This is going to be one of the hardest things I've ever done. Usually, after you deliver, you get to take your child home to their nursery, and watch them grow. And I can't.

This blog is meant for my therapy, and for all who are supportive to get a chance to be a part of this process of healing. I know we all were looking forward to this special child's big debut, and I know it hurts you all to have to hear this too.

Today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Everyone is invited to light a candle on October 15th at 7pm in ALL Time Zones, ALL over the world.

If everyone lights a candle at 7pm and keeps it burning for at least one hour, there will be a continuous WAVE OF LIGHT over the entire world on October 15th, Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

17th Annual Walk to Remember in Mesa, AZ

October 19, 2007

Life as I knew it became a shit storm.  And then my OB/GYN called about a week after my mother's diagnosis in regards to my recent blood work I just had done. Even then, I knew there was something wrong. He explained to me on the phone that my AFP level was low, and they couldn’t rule out Trisomy 21 in my baby. He suggested a Level 2 ultra sound. The next day, his nurse from the office called me and said that if I was available, they had an appointment for me at a genetics office that day. I confirmed and Adam and I drove into Tempe.

After an intense interview with the geneticist, I was still a little unsure of what to expect at the ultrasound. I climbed into the lonely chair, laid back, and exposed my stomach. The technician asked us the typical protocol questions and we answered. No, we didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, yes we brought a blank DVD to record the ultrasound.

She squirted the gel on my stomach and it is magically transformed into the gateway that connected us to our baby. I looked into the tell-all monitor. Why wasn’t he moving? The technician’s smile escaped her face. “I can’t see a bladder or kidney…” After carrying this baby for 20 weeks, my mother’s intuition kicked in. I knew there wasn’t a happy ending for this.

"They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.

She grabbed the tissue box and handed it off to me as if to give me a hug in some other way. She emotionally excused herself, and shut the door. All I could do was hold Adam’s hand and tried to burn a hole through the stubborn door with my eyes as to see through it. "They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.  

The doctor, who had such a serious face, walked in and explained why my baby was going to die. There was indication of Trisomy 21 and Trisomy 18 and fluid building up around our baby's heart.  I couldn’t even look at the doctor. Instead, I was distracted by the sink. There was nothing special about the sink. It was just there in the corner, like an eraser for these doctors and technicians to wash away all the pain they had bestowed upon me. But this sink, for a minute, kept me from looking at my husband and crying. He finished and it was final. My baby would die of a heart attack…and soon.

Driving home from the ultrasound was a hectic ride.  We were busy calling our parents, our bosses; anyone that we felt needed to know that our little baby would not be one of this world. Adam asked me where I want to go, and I can only think of one place. Mom and Dad’s.

My heart was beating in the pit of my stomach as we pulled up to the place my parents called home for the last ten years. Before we even put the car in park I looked towards the door and my frail, cancer ridden mother briskly stepped out towards her eldest daughter. Only 5’2’’, like me, she had seemed to have lost a little weight from the chemo.

This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me.

Her feet were in the old flip flops she’s worn a bit too long, scooting along the concrete as she tried to keep them on. Her arms, as soft as my bed’s bamboo sheets, were extended out awaiting my body’s arrival to sooth me into comfort. And then there was her face; oh my God, her face.With the gold hoop earrings she’d worn since I remembered.  And that scar on her face that she still refused to tell me how she got. As I approached her, I looked into those big bifocals which made her sad eyes and tears look even more depressed. This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me. She pulled me quickly into the house and grabbed a statue of Mary from the kitchen table. “She says it’s okay, you’ll have more later on.” And even though Mom was trying to make me feel better, I was offended. Why not now? At this point I had started an online blog to let everyone know what was going on instead of answering the same questions over and over.

We had two choices about what to do about our baby: we could have a medical abortion or wait for him to pass, be induced and deliver. As a part of a strong Catholic family, we chose the latter. We scheduled weekly visits with my OB/GYN to check the heart beat. It didn’t take long.

October 16, 2007

On October 16, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  In 2007, there was no screening process for lung cancer. They had found that any type of regular screening was more of a burden than a benefit. So usually, when someone is diagnosed with lung cancer, it has probably been in them for a while. For my mother, according to her oncologist, she probably had the cancer since December 2006.

I got the news via phone call.  Walking out of my last class at Arizona State University for the day and getting on the "Flash" bus to get to my car, I listen quietly as my mother says the scan she just had revealed a tumor.  I silently cried as I listened to Mom explain that she and Dad were going to the doctor to get more information.

After I got news of my mother’s diagnosis, my head had never pounded so much. As I was sprawled out on my couch, my mother-in-law, who had rushed over to my house to be with me, comes over and re-wets the cloth and placed it back on my head. “Are you sure you want to go?” I had never felt so compelled to be at work than today; after all, my mother was just diagnosed with lung cancer.

My mother-in-law drove me the 22 minutes to work. I walked into my work, The Little Gym, and I am greeted by sad faces and hugs. My boss, who has always been a mentor to me, asked, “Are you sure you want to teach?”“Yes, Holly, I really need this right now. I need something normal in my life.” She nodded in agreement and let me prepare.

For over three years at that time, The Little Gym had been my second family so much that I just drifted there on my saddest day. I called my class, which consisted of 19 months to 2 ½ year olds which we call “Beasts” and their parents into the gym at 6:30 that Tuesday evening with my eyes so foggy from crying all day.

If there is anything that The Little Gym teaches the children who attend, it’s the confidence to do anything, and their instructors also reap the benefits sometimes too. I had dug deep down to be confident enough to walk in the gym that day and teach a parent/child interactive class.

The kids in the class didn’t care if I had a bad day, they were just happy to see me. As I continued for the next 45 minutes sharing with the parents how to spot their children on the beam and bars, letting them in on the emotional, social and other benefits of doing these activities, and singing a mouthful of jingles, I noticed I wasn’t thinking about Mom as much. I smiled for the first time that day.

The next day, before we headed to the hospital, Adam and I stopped by Mom’s house to grab a few things: Mom’s pajamas, her IPod, and her Tickle-me-Elmo…check, check and check.

Once we arrived at the Chandler Hospital, I stepped out of our car and into the crisp October morning. We walked into the main entrance, and get our visitor passes. The nice woman at the front directed us how to get to Mom’s room. Adam pointed out the coffee vendor and mentioned that we should stop there on our way out.

We walked towards the elevator in front of us and my hands trembled as I pushed the “up” button. After we went up 3 floors we stepped out and walked down the curved, beige hall and approached room 302. On her door, was a red sign that said “Fall Risk”.

There I saw mom, in her bed, obviously a little delusional. Dad sat in the chair next to her, watching TV. There was a whiteboard with the names of Mom’s doctor and nurses for the morning shift right next to the door. I tried my best to hold back the tears and to not think about how weak my once strong mother was.I put her Tickle-me-Elmo on her bed tray and pressed his right foot. Elmo proceeded to start giggling, slapping his knee, and rolling on the table. Mom smiled.

“This is my daughter…

she’s due in March.”

We chit-chatted and she pointed out the sink by the door at let me know how all the nurses and doctors are supposed to wash their hands there before they treat her. It was nice to know she was well taken care of. A nurse walked in and started adjusting her medication machine.My mom, in her morphine induced state, introduced me to her. “This is my daughter…she’s due in March.” And then Mom cried.

My mother’s life changed dramatically after that diagnosis. Her body was slowly being taken over by the cancer. She acquired a soft and squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. She was on so many pills to counteract the chemotherapy. Anti-nausea pills, pain pills (she had two different types of morphine medications), and even Melatonin, a pharmaceutical type of THC (something found in pot) to increase her hunger. She laughed and cried out, in her infamous Brooklyn accent, “I’m gonna be a pot head!” It was nice to see that she even found the humor in her cancer.