One Project Finished

May and June comprised one of the busiest periods I’ve had in a long while.  As my BSN program drew to close and deadlines ticked down, I found myself running around completing a sixty-five hour practicum class that involved setting up and then interviewing community leaders on my chosen topic as well as doing the research for my classes to prepare for papers.  June finished out with an absolute orgy of writing as I wrote three major capstone projects totaling over seventy pages.  It was, to say the least, completely exhausting.

However, it was also rewarding as I got the notice on Monday that my final paper passed and my advisor recommended me to receive my diploma!

When I decided to go for the BSN, I initially rolled my eyes a little.  I already have a BA (in English) and I figured this degree would be more of the same.  However, with more and more push for RNs working in hospital settings to have BSNs, I knew I needed to go ahead and get the degree.  Otherwise, I risked a situation where, if I ever found a position I wanted to pursue in another hospital system or my system changed rules or ownership, I might find myself either unable to apply for a different position or told that I needed to complete the BSN within a certain number of years.

I was surprised at how much I learned.  While I definitely had a head start since my degree in English had taught me a good bit about research and writing, in my new coursework, I learned how to really evaluate scientific research.  I also learned about statistics and worked through the steps of problem-solving in a nursing setting.

In short, I know I’m better at what I do thanks to earning this degree.  Eventually, when I’m ready, it will also set me up much better to complete masters’ level coursework.

At this point, I’m looking forward to catching up with reading blogs, commenting, and writing here a bit more often.  I’m hoping to watch the documentary “Vegas Baby” about the Sh.er Inst.itutes IVF contest when it comes to Net.flix and read Belle Boggs’ The Art of Waiting.  I recently finished Kate Hopper’s memoir Ready for Air about the premature birth of her daughter and D. Knight Smith’s Letters to Ellie.  I’ve been thinking about infertility and NICU quite a bit.  It’s as though suddenly I’m really starting to process some parts of the experience that perhaps I couldn’t when I was going through them.

Arrival

Content note: birth, pregnancy.  If you’re not in the place, take care of yourself and skip this one.

In the end, the birth was noteworthy simply for its ordinariness.  I attended my last uneventful prenatal appointments, packed my bag, and rode the elevator to the third floor of the hospital on the morning of my scheduled c-section.  Even getting my IV in was drama-free, as despite my twisty, valve-covered, rolling veins, the nurse got it in on the first try.

The only slight hiccup was that after weeks of perfectly fine weather, the region had gotten blanketed in a coating of snowy, icy last-bit-of winter precipitation the day before I was scheduled to be at the hospital at 5:30 in the morning.  After a little bit of debate, Arthur and I opted to check into a hotel across the street from the hospital, even though we only live about twenty minutes away from where I was set to deliver.  There’s one stretch of road that tends to get really ugly, and neither of us wanted to be rushing or worried that morning.  It turned out to be a good thought, as the roads were slippery and my mother-in-law told us later that E had woken up three times in the night.  As it was, we got a good night’s sleep and an easy start to the day.

I walked into the OR on the early side to get my spinal started.  The scrub tech had the Beatles playing on the sound system, so I sat on the table hunched over listening to “Yellow Submarine” as I felt the sting of the local, then some pressure.  It took two tries to get the spinal in, but before I knew it, I felt the familiar tingling as my legs started to go numb.  Quickly, the staff had me on the table, the drape in place, and were bringing Arthur into the OR to start.

Despite knowing the anesthesiologist and knowing that spinals are typically pretty effective, I’m terrifically paranoid that the block won’t work and I’ll feel everything.  This was no exception.  “Don’t do anything until I’m numb,” I said.

“Can you feel this?” asked the scrub tech.

“I felt some pressure.”

“Trust me, if you’d felt anything real, you’d be swearing at me by now.  I just pinched you with an instrument very hard.”

“Oh,” I said.  I was having a weird feeling, an almost overpowering thirst combined with nausea.  I almost asked someone to get me something to drink, even though I knew I couldn’t have anything.  All of a sudden, the anesthesiologist told me to take a deep breath, there was going to be a lot of pressure.  I felt the hard push, heard my OB call “wait, wait!”  Then my OB instructed the staff to drop the drape a bit.

And there she was.

Tinier than I’d expected, with a cap of downy, dark hair, taking her first halting breath.

They took her over to the warmer, and then I heard her first outraged wails at being born into this cold, bright world.  Arthur went over to see her, and within moments, the staff brought her to me.  Arthur held her as I stared at her beautiful, tiny face.  “It’s a good thing you didn’t try to labor,” my OB remarked.  “The cord was wrapped around her neck three times.  I think you would probably have ended up in a c-section no matter what.”  That was what the “wait, wait” had been about: getting the cord unwrapped safely.  My OB finished closing me up, the anesthesiologist put in a TAP block (to block the nerves in my abdomen to prevent incisional pain), and before I knew it, I was in recovery.

Arthur placed the baby on my chest.  So very, very normal and every day for a birth, but so new to me.  I couldn’t hold E until five days after she was born.  This felt like the most extraordinary of miracles as I stared down at the sleepy baby.

We named her M (like this actress, though we picked out the name long before the actress was in the news) and gave her middle name after my late brother (the female version of this first name).  E came that afternoon with my mother-in-law and stared down at her new sister.  “Keep, keep,” she told us as she patted the baby, staring into the bassinette.

There was no NICU stay.  No incubator.  No restrictions on when we could hold her or touch her or kiss her.  No daily wondering if this would be “the day” we got the call that something had happened.  M came home with me and we placed her in the cradle that Arthur’s great-grandfather made for Arthur’s birth.  M latched on immediately and I’ve been able to nurse her.

We are all doing well.  The block after this c-section made a great deal of difference, and I didn’t need much help with pain.  Not being on various forms of bed rest for 18.5 weeks prior to delivery has helped me get moving faster and heal better.

It was, truly, everything I hoped for when we saw the second line in July.  I don’t know how it happened, but I am grateful.  Beyond grateful.

Born March 14, 2017 at 8:10 am.  7lbs, 9oz and 20.5 inches long.  

Clothing-Specific Memories

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Sorting through clothing is a funny thing.  I know people who do not become sentimentally attached to their sweaters or jeans, who cull their collections regularly and who don’t overstuff their drawers, but I am not one of them.  There’s some clothing I can get rid of pretty easily: things that are stained, that obviously don’t fit, basic tees or undershirts that have reached the end of their usefulness, but there’s a whole separate class of clothing that lives in my closet that presents a bigger challenge.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who has this issue, something I was reminded of when I ran across this article, poignantly titled “What Do We Do With the Clothing of Grief?”  As the author recounts the sweater she bought so hopefully during a lost pregnancy, I couldn’t help but think of my own “clothing of grief”.

In my case, it’s the brightly colored peplum boiled wool jacket I wore to the doctor’s office the day there was no more heartbeat.  The black fleece pants that I wore throughout my pregnancy with E and wore to the hospital the day my water broke at 21 weeks.  The olive-green dress with embroidered cranes I wore the day after my brother died.  I don’t know why it’s that dress, the day after, that I associate so strongly with that tragedy, but for some reason, the two are inextricably woven together in my memory.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever going to make a decision about those clothes.  I did sell one piece, the sweater I was wearing the day I was diagnosed with PCOS that lay crumpled in a drawer for years, never worn again.  The others, however, seem either too practical (the fleece pants) or too much difficult to reacquire pieces that I really like (the jacket and the dress).  What’s really strange is that I had memories in the jacket in particular that are fairly happy memories before that day.

Perhaps it’s too much to ask that the clothing of grief be repurposed into something truly neutral, but I do sometimes pull out the pieces and wonder if I can find the courage to start wearing them again, make enough memories in them to imbue them with both joy and sorrow.  Instead of the clothing of grief, make them something more akin to the clothing of memory.

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The jacket, on a much happier day (visiting the Hoover Dam in Nevada)

Thanks to Mel for hosting and originating Microblog Mondays!  If you want more posts, head over to Stirrup Queens to read.

 

In Which A Break Turned Out To Be Longer Than I Anticipated

Content note: Pregnancy mentioned

I didn’t set out to take a writing hiatus, but thanks to, well, life, that’s exactly what happened.  Of course, once the hiatus starts, it becomes harder and harder to go back. Where do I even start?

It has, indeed, been a full couple of months.  School has been busy, so perhaps it’s not so much a true writing hiatus as a blogging hiatus as I’ve written a fair amount towards that overarching project of BSN work.  My daughter had a couple of minor surgeries that thankfully went well, but one of which required several all-day trips in a relatively short time period to see a specialist out of town.  Arthur and I both blanched at the horrible election results.  We’ve lived under Pence for the last four years and to say that we’re worried and chagrined would be a gross understatement.  My husband’s work got busy and I changed my job position as well.  As of December 31, I crossed 28 weeks and 5 days pregnant, making me – out of four pregnancies – the furthest along I’ve ever been.  An anatomy scan at 18 weeks showed no abnormalities and that the baby is a little girl.

In many ways, we’re transitioning into a relatively good place family-wise.  Out of the normal has been our default setting for so long – starting with infertility and progressing to miscarriage, job losses, a high-risk pregnancy, PPROM, preterm birth and my brother’s death – that it’s almost a novelty to sit back and just breathe for the first time in about four years.

Sometimes I almost forget that a lot of people in real life we come in contact with these days don’t know the story since we moved in the midst of it and then spent a year in quarantine to let E’s premature immune system develop.  By the time we came out of hibernation, E looked a lot less premature (small, but not abnormally so), didn’t have her wires from the monitor any more, we weren’t in the midst of infertility treatment and then had a welcome, spontaneous pregnancy.  Recently, we were at church, going over future plans for the congregation and I objected to one point that talked a lot about “families with children”.  Which of course, seemed odd given that we are “family with children”.

“What you don’t see,” I explained, “is that we almost didn’t have children.  We did several rounds of fertility treatments and then IVF and had miscarriages.  My water broke at 21 weeks and by almost any calculation of odds, E wasn’t going to survive.  By that time, we were financially tapped out, emotionally exhausted, and if E hadn’t lived, we wouldn’t have had the ability to keep trying or pursue adoption.  We would have been a family of two.”  It heartens me that in that group of people I was talking to, everyone was kind, respectful and interested in being inclusive of family structures outside of the nuclear.

Another moment occurred when we went down to witness my niece and nephew’s dedication ceremony.  As all the parents and adorably dressed babies walked out onto the stage, the pastor briefly talked about the ceremony and then gestured to a white rose placed in the front.  He explained that this was in honor of those who had lost children, struggled with infertility, and for whom this was not a joyous or easy occasion.  While communities – religious or otherwise – still have a long way to go towards true, full inclusion and integration of those who struggle with infertility, do not have children, or do not have the families they longed for, such a gesture was a welcome sign that perhaps someday those changes may come with work and determination.

At these moments, I found myself almost in tears both times.  Certain aspects of infertility are slipping into the past for me and yet, others are still so much present in my life.  It informs so much of how I view family, parenting, and life in general.

Julia Leigh’s Avalanche

Reading Julia Leigh’s new book Avalanche: A Love Story stirred up many emotions and memories.  Leigh, a successful screenwriter and author embarked on a long, difficult quest to bear a child, first with her husband, then with a known donor.  Moving from her husband’s vasectomy reversal to the first flush of hope to disappointment and divorce along the road to eventually multiple cycles of IVF, Leigh chronicles her journey to letting go of her dream.

One of the parts I loved about Avalanche was Leigh’s beautiful writing as she unsparingly documents the reactions of her friends and family, procedures, clinics, and interactions.  The prose comes across as almost ethereal initially, but there’s some sharpness in the mix.  Leigh has a knack for dropping the most devastating lines almost casually.  Leigh notes a Bentley in the MD parking of a clinic in a single sentence without further comment, but the juxtaposition with her own significant financial outlays is jarring.

Avalanche captures well the quixotic mixture of hope and fear that often accompanies infertility treatment and IVF.  There’s no doubt that entering a fertility clinic involves a certain amount of hope upfront, a certain fundamental belief that this will work, somehow.  Otherwise, who would go through the physical, emotional, and financial difficulties of IVF?  I nodded in total recognition as Leigh goes over the few statistics she could find, considers her chances based on those, and then talks about how she was convinced that she would be the exception.  It’s at once familiar and heartbreaking.

As Leigh gets further into treatments, she talks about the ‘extras’ she could – for a price, of course – add on to her IVF cycles to attempt to increase her chances of success.  None of them fully proven, but showing the possibility of helping.  I remember clearly feel the difficulty of making some of these choices (about ICSI in my case), wondering if this might be just enough to tip the cycle over the edge into a baby.

The moment in Avalanche, however, where I literally gasped out loud comes near the end.  Leigh’s doctor has told her over and over that if they can get a blastocyst embryo to transfer, her chances are 40% that she will get pregnant.  Leigh asks if this is among all age groups at one point, and her doctor truthfully tells her yes, but neglects to mention the clinic’s actual statistics for women Leigh’s age using their own eggs.  Finally, she is given the grim numbers: 2.8% for 44 year old women, 6.6% for 43 year old women.  After reading that section, I sat for a long time, almost unable to think.  While I suppose Leigh’s doctor was technically correct in her numbers regarding blastocysts, it seems unconscionable to withhold the actual numbers, so pertinent to Leigh’s situation.  It is a stunning betrayal, an abdication of the physician’s responsibility to carefully explain all potential risks and benefits of a procedure.

However, Avalanche is, at its core, a love story and in the end, it remains such.  The love of Leigh for the child she wanted so much is evident as she slowly lays down and buries this almost palpable being in the end.  Leigh’s great love for her family also shines throughout the novel, especially that for her nieces and nephews.  There’s a stunning generosity of spirit – from the moment when her own mother initially refuses to support her attempts to have a child to stories about the children in her life – that runs throughout the book.

That Avalanche is a love story, despite these numerous betrayals, is very much a triumph.  It turns the logic of “never give up” on its head.  Certainly, none of this is without enormous loss and pain, something I don’t want to minimize.  Instead, in drawing a boundary, accepting, and moving forward, Leigh preserves herself and her spirit in spite of everything she has faced.

Alternate Routes

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When I started looking at nursing schools, I made a plan that looked something like this: get my associate’s degree in nursing (ASN) at the community college where tuition was affordable, practice for a few years, then go back for my master’s in nursing (MSN) after we’d had a couple of kids.  I knew that bachelor’s in nursing (BSN) was becoming more and more necessary for hospital, management, or critical care jobs, but I already had a bachelor’s degree in English and didn’t see much value in getting a second one.  I looked into MSN programs that would allow me to skip that step, found them reasonable, got my ASN, and started on having those couple of kids.

Ha.

In any case, after IVF bills, NICU, and knowing that we still have FET bills and a bit more time in TTC world, I am nowhere near ready financially or ability-wise to commit the time/effort to go after a master’s degree.  I’m not even quite certain what direction I’d want to go in for that master’s degree any more.  None of this mattered so much for a bit.  I was completely embroiled in doctor and therapy appointments, trying to get E to eat, and dealing with life as well as learning a new department at work.  I had a job, that was what mattered.

Into all of this entered a co-worker a couple of months ago who mentioned that one of the other local health systems was now pushing for all of their RNs to have BSNs.  While it didn’t threaten my position, I did sit up and take notice.  It marked the first time needing a BSN (or higher) had come up this close to home.  I saw the writing on the wall: it was time to talk about next steps.

At first, I re-researched the MSN programs.  Maybe I could fit it in somehow.  The research, however, more or less confirmed that an MSN was simply not in the cards right now, or really, for at least the next five years.  I took a deep breath, looked into BSN programs, and found an online one through my state system.  The price was reasonable.  Most of my credits transferred.  The coursework looked manageable with all of my other responsibilities.

I applied, got accepted, and plan to start in July.

It means I can wait until I know what I want to do for that master’s degree.  It means I don’t need to worry so much about jobs.  It means I can wait ten years or never go back to school if that’s what I want.

It’s not the route I envisioned originally.  As far as alternates go though, I’m pretty excited about this one.

This post is part of Microblog Mondays.  If you want to read more or get in on the fun, please head over to Stirrup Queens.  Thanks to Mel for originating and hosting!

This Dream Stands Before Me

Content Note: Child, parenting

When we moved to the city, we weren’t in much of a position to begin exploring.  Fortunately, as spring finally made an appearance, we began remedying that situation.  We started by taking E to the botanical gardens for her first birthday.  I hadn’t visited the gardens in years, and while the outdoor gardens weren’t appealing on the cool, gray day, the indoor gardens were beautiful and blooming.

It wasn’t E’s first outing – we’d made a few forays to restaurants during quiet hours when we could keep her in her carrier away from germs – but this one was the first we’d really done with the intention of getting out with her and showing her sights.  I’m not sure if she was impressed or unnerved by the brightly colored foliage, fish pond, and waterfall, but she kept looking around and staring at everything.

Later that evening, we took some cookies and other goodies up to the childbirth center where I spent my time on hospital bedrest and the NICU.  Seeing all the nurses who had cared for us for so many months was fun and everyone oohed and ahhed over how big E had gotten. When we stepped into the busy NICU, leaving the treats at the desk, I realized E didn’t belong there anymore as I watched people rushing around.

We threw E a party that weekend, just inviting family, but with Arthur being the oldest of five, it still meant a fair number of people.  I made simple food: meatballs, sandwich spirals, spiced oyster crackers, a fruit plate, a vegetable spread, as well as a from-scratch chocolate cake.  We helped her open her gifts, E far more enamored with the colored paper and boxes they came in.

Taking the baby out just for fun, throwing a party, going to NICU just to visit instead of staying, marked a moment that I’d dreamed about during her whole NICU stay and even beyond.  Every day, I’d go to NICU, take stock of the wires and tubes, and visualize E as a healthy toddler.  Hope that there was a life beyond the NEC scares, the brady episodes, the oxygen, worry about RSV, and the monitors where we would no longer wonder if this was the day it would all come crashing down.  It kept me going through the months where we couldn’t get E to eat, the nights the home apnea monitor would go off several times, often due to loose leads but jolting us nonetheless.

All of a sudden, that child ceased to be simply a hope and stood in front of me in the flesh.  I smiled, realizing that no matter what other dreams were gone, this one, this deeply cherished one had somehow come true.