On miracles, Part II...

Below is the continuation of the story started six months ago HERE.

***

I remember walking out of the sono tech’s room to discover Deandra waiting patiently for me to emerge outside the door. Tears were still streaming down my face, so I’m sure she assumed the worst. Without saying a word, she embraced and held me long and tight. Overcome with emotion and unable to speak, all I could do was sob into her shoulder.

“Everything looks great. Baby is measuring just over seven weeks,” chirped Erin from the doorway.

“Really?! See? Didn’t I tell you about miracles?” Deandra said as she held me tight. “I told you not to give up hope. Let’s get you into an exam room.”

I followed her down the hall, and into a room. I was clutching the line of ultrasound pictures Erin had given me; still marveling at the tiny little blob with the miraculously beating heart. I was in a state of disbelief, and shaking from adrenaline.

After Deandra collected my vitals, she left to get the doctor. For a few minutes, I was alone and tried in earnest to compose myself – at least enough to call Trevor. But, of course, the second the phone started to ring, I lost it again. So, when Trev answered, all he heard was me crying on the other end of the line.

“It’s going to be okay. What did the doctor say? Did you schedule a date for the surgery?”

“It…It…It…,” I choked through tears, “has a heartbeat. Our baby is alive. Erin said everything looks perfect.”

One of the best moments of my life was being able to deliver this good news to Trevor. The pic from THIS POST is the actual image I sent him after I hung up.

(I also felt incredibly guilty for him not being there to witness it in person.)

Not long after, my doctor walked in to the exam room. His smile was from ear to ear as he congratulated me.

And then things got serious.

The results from the Total Loss Panel revealed several problems; including three different clotting disorders and a gene mutation. I had asked myself WHY repeatedly after losing the baby in the spring of 2014, and now I had my answer. Most likely a blood clot formed on my side of the placenta, which – ultimately – killed him.

The chances of it happening again, I was told, were great, and I was immediately put on injectable blood thinners. Not five minutes later Deandra walked in and showed me how to give myself shots in the abdomen…something I would do multiple times daily throughout my pregnancy and for months after delivery.

Had you asked me before that day if I could give myself injections, I would have told you “no”. It is amazing what you can do when you have to.

I was also given a regime of pills to take. During my pregnancy with Banner, I took nothing except my prenatal and the occasional allergy pill.  I remember sobbing when I was told that I needed antibiotics to treat a bladder infection when I was about seven months along with Ban.  And, yet, here I was just over seven weeks and taking more in one day than I probably took in 41+ weeks with my son.

I felt like I was on a rollercoaster. The low of thinking I’d lost another baby, the high of hearing the heartbeat, the low of realizing was essentially a walking blood clot. And that was all before the doctor leveled with me about my chances of miscarriage or stillbirth (both very high). Suddenly I was back in that place where I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Even thinking about how much time I had left before the baby was viable (much less term) sent me in a place of panic. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.

I told no one anything except Trevor. I refused to share our news, because it all seemed impossible somehow and doomed to fail. Even today, when I think back and reflect upon my pregnancy with Schafer – even knowing what I know today – I still feel queasy, nervous and, strangely enough, grief. I would see other friends post about their pregnancies and feel sadness. Not because I was pregnant. But because I could never feel excitement…only terror. I’ve never been so scared of losing something in my life.

Two of the clotting risks were being caused by Protein S and Protein C deficiencies.  According to my hematologist (because I have a hematologist now), people who are deficient in S and C are either deficient in either S or C; not both.  A fact that, according to her, make me "medically interesting". 

To date, I've found very little good in being labeled "medically interesting".  Just to START the process of getting my veins fixed again (because - wow - did they make my pregnancy with Schaf super uncomfortable towards the end) took three months, two trips to the hematologist and about $5,000 in blood work.  I was told I needed to get my veins treated, because - not doing so - increased my clot risk.  But so did the process of...you know, actually fixing them.  And that's just for a routine, outpatient procedure.

Just for the record, I also experienced my first blood clot in my lower, left leg at the beginning of April (2016).  The pain was intense and came out of nowhere.  The terror of being home alone (Trevor was in Detroit for work) with two kiddos was breathtaking.  I think that part of the reason Schafer's story is so hard for me to tell is because - in so many ways - the story didn't end with her birth.  I'm still trying to get my mind (and body) around my new reality.  A reality I may have never known about if I hadn't lost that baby boy back in March of 2014. 

But I digress.

Back in October of 2014, all this information was overwhelming.  Toss in the pregnancy hormones and I could barely function.  I seconded guessed everything I did.  Sleeping was impossible because I couldn't turn off all the "what ifs" shouting in my brain.  In many ways, I was just going through the motions of living between injections, taking pills and taking care of Banner.

Then our twelve week appointment rolled around, and I just about made myself sick with worry.  It was, of course, the same "end of first trimester" appointment that we learned we lost the little boy earlier that same year.  So, when the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat right away, my stress started manifesting itself physically.  My blood pressure and heartbeat skyrocketed, which - of course - made hearing the baby's heartbeat nearly impossible.  I started to cry and hyperventilate; convinced that I had lost this baby too.  My doctor actually apologized, and said - considering my history - that he should have just scheduled me for a sonogram.  It was the longest two minutes of my life, but then - just as he was about to give up and send me back to Erin - he found it.  My blood pressure and heart rate started to subside immediately as my tears turned to sobs of relief and joy.

Because of the high risk nature of the pregnancy, my doctor ordered a bunch of tests.  One of them checked on the health of the fetus.  So, just before Thanksgiving 2014, we learned two things.  1) that the baby I was carrying was healthy and free from whatever number of genetic abnormalities and malformations they can test for; and 2) was a girl.

I can't prove it, but I already knew long before the results were back that I was having a daughter. Just like I knew she'd be born in May.

When my doctor called to tell me the baby was healthy on the day before Thanksgiving, he asked if I wanted him to write the gender down and leave it in a sealed envelope for me to pick up at his office. That way I could open it with Trevor over the Thanksgiving holiday. Initially, this sounded like a plan, but then I just couldn't stand it and told him to simply tell me over the phone.

I know, I know.  I probably should have gone and picked up the envelope, but I wanted - NEEDED - to hear my doctor say the words out loud.

(Sorry again, Trevor.)

Don't worry, though.  When Trevor came home that night, I had decorated the kitchen with giant IT'S A GIRL balloons.  We later took each of our parents the same balloons in boxes with a balloon inside as a way of letting the family in on our little secret.  It was both a "Surprise! We are pregnant!" and a "Surprise!  It is a girl!" all rolled into one.  We told our mothers on November 27, 2014 in Dallas, and Mimi and my dad on November 28, 2014 down at the ranch.  Again, I can't prove it, but I remember thinking she would be born six months later on May 28.  I just couldn't get that date out of my head from the second I learned I was pregnant; even though she technically wasn't due until June. 

Speaking of due dates, Schafer was due on June 8th.  Exactly 8 months after the due date of the baby we lost (he was due October 8th).  My favorite number is 8.  Even though all that could be chalked up to coincidence, I clung to it as a good sign during my entire pregnancy.

That and the song ODDS ARE by the Barenaked Ladies.  Because difficult times in life needs a mantra.

 

***

My goal is to finish telling Schafer's pregnancy and birth story by girlfriend's 1st birthday.  So stay tuned...

On miracles, Part I...

A little over a year ago, on October 13, Trevor and I went in to see our baby for the first time.  There was no heartbeat.  No fetal pole.  So much excitement, love and hope…all snuffed out in an instant.

I had found out I was pregnant on September 22, 2014.  It was unexpected.  Not because we didn’t want another baby, but because I had experienced a whole host of health problems after the D&C at the end of March 2014.  Apparently, a lot can go wrong after/because of the procedure, and I was starting believe that having more children was not in the stars for us.  In fact, I had gone to the doctor that day because my period was more than 50 days late.  At first, in early September, I was optimistic this meant I was pregnant, but three negative pregnancy tests over the course of next few weeks put a damper on that idea.  I was distraught and desperate for answers.

So, imagine my surprise when a routine test at the office suggested that I actually WAS pregnant.  I was floored. 

Still, my doctor was very guarded, and warned me not to celebrate too soon.  The results from my initial blood work weren’t promising, and there were several indicators that suggested this pregnancy wasn’t viable.  I was devastated, and couldn’t even bring myself to tell Trevor what was going on.  I have a very vivid memory of driving north on Abrams Road bawling my eyes out.  I honestly didn’t know if could emotionally survive another miscarriage.  It felt like drowning.  Like I couldn’t get enough air no matter what I did.  Nights were the worst.  I couldn’t sleep, and spent hours weeping about the babies I’d never meet on Earth.

Over the course of the next ten days, I had a lot of blood drawn and tests run.  At first, nothing looked good, and I kept waiting for my body to miscarry naturally.  Then, out of the darkness, a glimmer of light, but – being the catastrophist that I am - I refused to put any faith in it.  I just couldn’t get my hopes up, and have them dashed.  I was in survival mode.  In fact, it took my Gynecologist announcing that she was releasing me to the care of my OBGYN to even start to consider that this pregnancy might actually pan out.  Somehow, despite blood work that initially indicated that this pregnancy wasn’t meant to be, everything magically rectified itself and – ten days later – looked perfectly normal.  My Gynecologist said it was a miracle, congratulated me and asked that I send her regards to Trevor.  Only then did realize that Trevor had no idea anything was going on.  I mean, he knew I had gone to the doctor and that she was running tests.  But that I was pregnant, he had no clue. 

I ended up writing him a letter because I couldn’t figure out how to tell him in person. 

Our pregnancy confirmation appointment was scheduled for October 13^th.  I finally allowed myself to relax and feel excitement.  And then…nothing.  For the second time in six months, an ultrasound failed to register a heartbeat where one was supposed to be.

I don’t remember much about that appointment except crying and feeling extremely angry.  I was so mad at myself for being stupid enough to believe this time was going to work out.  For getting Trevor excited.  I remember hating myself, my body…everything.  I remember thinking that there were now going to be two babies in Heaven that I would never get to see, hold or rock.  For some reason, my doctor wanted to redo the sonogram in a week just to make sure before ordering another D&C, which just made me even more furious.  Why?!  Why make me wait?!  It made no sense.  So what if my HCG levels were over 90,000?  I thought he was torturing me.  He did a Total Loss Panel, gave me written instructions for what to do if/when I started to miscarry naturally, and then told me he wouldn’t medically intervene for another week pending another sonogram…just in case.

Trevor took the whole “just in case” nonsense as a reason to hope.  So, I turned to Google.  And while there were instances where heartbeats appeared after the seven week mark (when, previously, only an egg sack was visible), many of the stories were much more depressing.  So I called my OBGYN’s nurse and asked her what she thought.  Being a nurse, she couldn’t say one way or another, but told me to prepare myself.  No heartbeat and no fetal pole were not good signs.  That said, she made a point of telling me about the miracles she’d witnessed after years of working in an OBGYN’s office.  Babies that weren’t supposed to live, pregnancies that weren’t supposed to be possible.  She had seen one earlier that week, and encouraged me not to lose hope.  At least not yet.

I wasn’t sold.

So, I called my regular Gynecologist and asked her what she thought.  After all, she had been involved since the pregnancy was first discovered nearly a month earlier.  She had run all those blood tests and knew my history.  She also knew that things didn’t look right with my initial bloodwork, and started telling me about molar pregnancies, blighted ovums and genetic mishaps that sometimes just happen.  I’ll never forget the way she gently explained that – while miracles do occur (she had been a practicing OB for years and had seen her fair share) – too many things weren’t adding up with this pregnancy.  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

The rest of the week was spent in a fog.

The following Monday (October 20^th) my follow up ultrasound was scheduled.  I wouldn’t let Trevor go with me because I assumed my body would not miscarry naturally (it didn’t before) and another D&C would be necessary.  Knowing I would need him home with me for a few days post-surgery, I figured the most responsible thing would be for him to work up until it was scheduled.  That way he would be away from the office as little as possible.

Trevor hates to miss work.

I arrived at the appointment, sat alone on a bench and waited.  Even though I had ordered Trevor not to come, part of me secretly hoped he’d be there waiting anyway.  The office was running behind, and time seemed to be moving abnormally slowly.  Finally, Erin, the sono tech, called my name and led me back into the offices.  When my OB’s nurse, Deandra, saw me, she asked where my husband was.  I shrugged and responded with something along the lines of “what’s the point”. 

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t bear to see the light and excitement leave his eyes again.  When we lost the other baby earlier in the year, I remember that moment.  That horrible moment when Trevor realized what had happened.  He was so happy.  We had just been joking around five minutes before in the exam room, and then it was just…just over.  Our baby was gone.  Trevor has always wanted to be a dad; always wanted a bunch of children.  And even though I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be a mother before becoming one, Banner was such an amazing blessing.  I was hooked.  I wanted to become a mother for a second time.  I wanted Banner to have a sibling.  I wanted Trevor to have the family he always dreamed of.  But my body wasn’t cooperating.  The idea of disappointing Trevor for the second time in a year - because of ME…because of my dysfunctional body – made me physically sick.  He tried to be so strong for me when we lost the little boy in March.  I never even saw him cry (although he later admitted to breaking down once when he told him mother what had happened).  Knowing that I was about to disappoint him all over again…well, it was awful.

But I said none of those things to Deandra.  Just blinked away a few tears and continued to follow Erin down the hallway.

I walked into the sonogram room, undressed from the waist down and got on the table.  The tech did her thing, and for one last fleeting moment I allowed myself to hope.  But, sadly, I saw nothing on the screen and heard nothing on the speakers but silence.  And so I started to cry.

It was happening.  It was really happening.  Again.

“Everything looks great!”

“What?”

“The baby.  Good, strong heartbeat.  152 beats per minute.  Everything looks perfect.”

“Wait.  What?”  I started to sob.

“Here, let me turn on the sound.”

And suddenly that amazing whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound filled the room.  Erin pointed out the now visible fetal pole and a rapidly beat heart.

“My baby?  My baby is alive?”

“Yep!  And measuring just over seven weeks. I’ll print out some pictures for your husband.”

Sometimes emotions can be just as jarring as gees on a rollercoaster.  Even now, as I think back to that day, I remember the jolt.  It had a noise; like a deep thump from within. Like a train stopping suddenly and reversing directions.  First you hear the squeaking of breaks.  Then the first whomp as the wheels begin to turn in a new direction.  Except, instead of a train, it was my heart.  My physical heart.  I swear it stopped beating that day, if only for a moment.

In case you've been wondering where I've been...

This happened 18 days ago:

I've had a hard time talking about my pregnancy.  I will...because I need to.  But give me time.  Right now all I want to do is enjoy and love on my sweet babies.

Be back soon.

Always my baby you'll be...

My dear, beautiful baby -

I don't want to write this letter.  But I feel like I need to.  If for no other reason than it somehow proves that you existed; even if only for a very short time.

First of all, I want you to know you were loved.  And wanted.  From the get-go.  Your father and I had discussed trying to expand our family in 2014 and - BAM! - I discovered I was pregnant in January.  I was in denial for about a week, even though I suspected what was really going on.  Finally, I got around to taking a test, and all my suspicions were confirmed.  Still, it seemed surreal, so I went out and bought another test just in case the first one was the first false positive in the history of ever.  I told your daddy the next day.  The morning I took THIS picture, actually.

Dash Down Greenville with your daddy on March 15th.

I ran three races with you:  Too Cold to Hold 10 mile, The Hot Chocolate 15K and, finally, the Dash Down Greenville 5K on the Saturday before St. Patrick's Day.  I was tapering my running, and had plans to stop altogether once I started my second trimester.  During each race, I closely monitored my heart rate (as did your father).  During the Too Cold to Hold, your dad even turned to me and remarked how much he loved running with "just the three of us".  We hadn't told anyone yet, and you were just our little secret.

The only pictures
we have (or will
ever have) of you.

My first prenatal visit was on February 17th.  I was almost 7 weeks along.  Your heartbeat was a strong and healthy 138 beats per minute.  They estimated your due date to be October 8th, but the doctor strongly encouraged that I consider a planned c-section around the first of the month.  Secretly, I hoped your birthday would be October 2nd.  Partly because - if it was - you wouldn't have to share a birthday with anyone else in the family (we have A LOT of October birthdays around here), and partly because 2 is half of 4 (Banner's birthday), which is half of 8 (my birthday), which is half of 16 (your daddy's birthday).  Silly, I know.  But numbers, in my own strange way, are important to me.

After we left the doctor's office, we stopped at Carter's and picked up two BIG BROTHER shirts for Banner.  Your father was beaming.  He couldn't wait to share the news.

We told our family that you were on your way that weekend by dressing Banner up in one of his new shirts and waiting for someone to notice.  No one did.  We had to point it out to each of them separately.  Everyone was so happy.  Gran cried and Pa-Pa Mint couldn't wait to trumpet the news all over town.  You were a marvelous little ray of sunshine and hope amid a lot of family drama and illness this long, cold winter.

The only place I held back my excitement about you was around friends that have been trying to get pregnant, and have not yet been successful.  I wanted to be sensitive to their struggles.  I had at least one friend cry when I told her.  It was hard, I'm not going to lie.  And part of me was a little embarrassed.  Not because of you, sweet angel, but because you happened so quickly and easily for us at a time when so many others were struggling.

Your father and I went to your twelve week appointment on Monday, March 24th.  We were so excited to hear your little heartbeat again.  Everything seemed fine.  No signs at all that anything was wrong.

We chatted with the doctor about when we could determine your gender.  Your father was hoping it would be at our appointment in April, but I knew I wouldn't get another sonogram until between 16-20 weeks.  At our April appointment, I would be closer to 15.5...missing the minimum of 16 weeks by days.  We laughed, we joked, we listened about our doctor's recent trip to Israel.  They did a test to check for whatever they check for that can cause membrane rupture and premature labor.  Then, the doctor came over to listen for the heartbeat.  7 out of 10 times they can't find it because the baby is too close to the mother's veins/arteries.  Plus, I quipped that I had just eaten Tex Mex for lunch.  There was a lot of noise in my abdomen, none of it was yours.  The doctor said I was one of the "lucky ones", because "they had to hear or see the heartbeat at every appointment".  I got dressed and we waited to be called across the hall.

I think I was the only one at this point that suspected anything was amiss.  The doctor never had any trouble finding Banner's heartbeat during any of my prenatal visits back in 2011.  Of course, your dad chalked it up to my usual sense of catastrophism.  I wanted so desperately to believe him.

I knew in the first second of the sonogram that all my very worst fears were being realized.  It was simply too quiet.  Normally, they plug you in, and the dark room is instantly filled with the rapid whoosh, whoosh of a tiny, little heartbeat.  But there was nothing but silence.  And worse, nothing on the screen was moving.  You...my baby...weren't moving.

Still, I hoped I was wrong, and asked, "Is everything okay"?

The sonogram tech's answer?  A simple, sad, "No".

You died around 8 weeks, 5 days.  Right around the same time I last posted on this blog.  "Bob" the amaryllis bloomed beautifully that day.  He had another bloom that peaked earlier this week.  In some weird, cosmic sense, I'd like to believe that one bloom was for you and the other was for your dad and me.  Like the plant knew what was really going on.

The doctor was insistent that I didn't do anything wrong.  Over and over he told me it wasn't the running or the probiotics. The only way I could have "done this" was by breaking my pelvis in a car crash, and the likely culprit is something as simple as bad chromosomes.  Still, I blame myself.  I can't help it.  And I am so, so, so very sorry.

Pharrell's "Happy" was on the radio when we left the doctor's office Monday afternoon.

Since my body wasn't letting go on its own, the doctor said we needed to do a D&C.  But, because of scheduling, they originally didn't think this could happen until Thursday morning.  At first, I thought this would give me time to come to grips with everything and let it all sink in.  But, by Tuesday morning, I was a wreck.  Part of me didn't want to let you go, but the other part knew that I couldn't begin the process of...I dunno...wherever we go from here?...while you were still inside me.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother called my GYN, who is also a family friend, and she called me.  She then called my OBGYN and somehow got the D&C bumped up to Wednesday morning.

So, yesterday, your father drove us to Baylor Surgical.  We arrived just before 6 AM.  The procedure was scheduled for 7:30.

For some reason, the hardest part of this for me was knowing that you were going to be removed from, taken to the lab to be studied and tested and then declared "medical waste" and thrown away.  I mean, rationally, I get it.  The you that was there was tiny.  And it had been awhile since your little heart stopped beating.  The doctor wasn't even sure they'd be able to find what used to be you in with everything else.  But still.  I wanted you to be acknowledged somehow.  I wanted you to know that are loved, and were loved for every second of the (exactly) 12 weeks you spent inside me.  I know you never grew to be much more than a collection of cells, but our hopes and dreams for you were infinitely large.

Pharrell's "Happy" was playing just before the nurse led me back to the operating room for the procedure.

I couldn't stop crying.  Just as everything was starting to get hazy from the anesthesia, I asked my doctor to tell you that I loved you.  It was stupid, I know.  And I doubt he actually did it.  It was just that - in the last few moments before the anesthesia took effect and I fell asleep - it occurred to me that he was the last and possibly only person that would see whatever tiny part of you that there ever was.  The last thing I remember was him holding my hand and saying that he would.  And, then...nothing.

I awoke 45 minutes later.  It was over.  You were gone.  Forever.

I've cried more in the last three days than I think I have in my entire life.  The more I try to move forward, the more I find I can't move at all.  I have no appetite.  I wake up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep.  I know I'm depressed.  I'm all achy from the D&C but refuse to take anything because it somehow makes me feel better to feel pain on the outside for a change.  I know that sounds crazy and masochistic, but it is what it is.  Tomorrow, I'm making myself go to work.  I don't know if I'll make it all day or not, but I have to get out of the house.  I have to try.

Really the idea of seeing people scares me the most.  I don't want to see "sad eyes" looking at me.  I don't want to hear that I can try again.  I don't want people to tell me "it wasn't meant to be" and that "everything happens for a reason".  Because I already get it.  I know that nature isn't going to let something develop that has no chance of survival.  That's why things like this happen, and why they (generally) happen early.  Statistically, I'm aware that this shouldn't happen after already having a healthy baby two years ago, and the chances of miscarriage are lower still after hearing an otherwise strong and healthy heartbeat during that initial sonogram back in February.  Still, it happens.  And it has happened to people I know.  Heck, even my maternal grandmother had a miscarriage between her first and second child (she went on to have three more healthy babies).  But in this case, all the knowing in the world isn't helping me right now.  I just want to go back to this time last week when everything - as I knew it - was right and fine with the world, and I was looking forward to my 12 week appointment and hearing your heartbeat again.

Banner proudly brought this to me in bed on Wednesday after my D&C.

Of course, the greatest sources of comfort and joy right now are your father and big brother, Banner.  Banner isn't a snuggler at all, but in the last three days he has piled up in bed, read me books and watched Finding Nemo at my side.  He knows something is wrong.  On Monday evening, he put all his trains in timeout.  When your daddy asked him why, Banner said, "Because they are sad".

Breaks my heart.

Thomas in timeout.

And your father.  What would I ever do without your father?  You were his baby, too, after all.  In all this grief and sadness, he has been the strong one.  He has picked up your brother from school, run errands and taken care of me.  And that hasn't been easy - especially not with me sobbing quietly from the bedroom for days on end.

So, yes, I am counting my blessings.  I know how lucky I am to have to have my boys.  Many women never get to experience motherhood, and I have a healthy toddler running amuck just down the hall.  Some women are not able to get pregnant at all, and - so far - I've been able to get pregnant pretty easily.  But none of that changes how I will wish from now until the end of time that I got to meet you, see your face and be your mom.

Faith has always been a very private thing for me.  I believe in God.  I believe in Heaven.  I go to church.  Heck, I've taught Sunday School before.  Granted, I haven't gone regularly since your brother was born, but not because my faith has faltered.  I like going to church.  I like the music, the history, the symbolism.  I believe you are in Heaven now.  I know God has another mission for you, and part of me even thinks it is you - not DJs overplaying it on the radio - that keeps that d@mn "Happy" song playing wherever I go.  Because I know you are fine, and it is just taking me a little while to get used to the fact that I'll have to wait a lifetime to meet you and see your face.

(For that matter, I've also had to stop watching TV shows with commercials because I keep seeing trailers for the new movie Heaven Is For Real, and I simply can't take it right now.)

Just know that you are loved, wanted and greatly missed down here on Earth. They may have been brief, but your 12 weeks inside me mattered and affected us all. And your father and I will never, ever forget you.

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always, 

as long as I’m living 

my baby you’ll be.” 

Love you forever and always,
Your Mom

Please pass the ketchup...

When I was in my second trimester of pregnancy with Banner, I craved ketchup. I'm pretty sure I blogged about it back then, but I can't find the entry. Anyway, the most vivid memory of my near compulsive NEED to consume absolutely ridiculous amounts of tomato-based condiments took place when I was visiting some of my high school besties in Martha’s Vineyard in June of 2011. I literally ordered fries at every meal so I could have a socially acceptable vehicle in which shovel copious amounts of ketchup into my pie hole.

Y’all. Trust me. It wasn’t pretty.

In fact, there may have been a moment of sheer weakness – before my French fry order could be filled one afternoon – when one of my friends caught me squirting a ketchup packet into my mouth behind a tree when I thought no one was looking.

(Definitely not one of my finer or prouder moments. Almost two years later, and I’m still disgusted with myself.)

(It is also a true testament to friendship that Anna still loves and accepts me after seeing that. Because it was about one hundred different ways of EW.)

The funny thing about the whole thing was that I’ve never been an especially big fan of ketchup. I mean, I’ll occasionally dip a fry in the stuff, but I’m usually more of a salt and pepper kind of girl. But throw in a few pregnancy hormones and my desire for ketchup that summer was borderline pathological. Thankfully, once I gave birth, the craving disappeared and I no longer found myself wanting to sneak hits of ketchup in the alley like a heroin addict.

Banner, though? Well, we let him try some over the weekend for the first time, and later discovered him licking his fingers and sucking it off of a piece of bread with a look of pure joy and exhilaration on his face. I’m pretty sure we’ve created a monster. 

I can’t help but feel more than a little responsible...

Sunday night Trevorisms...

Last night Trevor offered to help my brother "dice" the fire.

He meant "douse", but claimed it didn't matter because "everyone knew what he was talking about". Except both William and I exchanged confused glances before I figured out it out and translated.

Because I am helpful that way. Even after my husband announced to everyone at our football watching party earlier in the afternoon that I was "five foot ten and two hundred pounds".

For the record, I am NOT two hundred pounds. I am well under it, actually. There was a time in recent memory when I surpassed two hundred pounds, but I was very pregnant, retaining water and not thrilled about hitting that particular weight milestone AT ALL.

The part about me being five foot ten, however, is true.

As my brother tried to coach, "You always low ball a girl's weight, Trevor. Always. By fifty to one hundred pounds. You know, just to play it safe".

And, yet, Trevor somehow managed to not sleep on the couch last night. I am still not sure how he pulled that one off, which is why I am blogging about this now. You know, for the future. Because nothing says "I owe you BIG time" like overestimating your wife's weight to a room full of people.

Especially, when said wife has stories that bear an uncanny resemblance to THIS that she hasn't told.

You know, just saying.

(Love you, Trevor)

What a difference a year can make...

I can't believe it has been a year since I discovered I was pregnant:

And now I have the privilege of waking up to this adorable, little face every morning:

I love you, my angel!

I might be a smidge competitive...

I was finally cleared to work out again by my doctor on Thursday, so today Trevor and I headed to the gym for the first time together since the baby arrived. Amy was babysitting, and - before walking out the door - Trevor joked that we'd be back sooner than later because, "Deal[s] will probably run a tenth of a mile, get winded and decide to call it a day".

My husband is such an a$$hat sometimes.

Granted, I had no big expectations. After all, I had not worked out since before New Year's, or done any serious running since last April (when, thanks to my history of bad veins, my OBGYN pulled the plug on any high impact aerobic activity). Still, I was desperate to at least attempt to jog. I love to run and have really missed it over the course of my pregnancy and early mommyhood. So, it should be no big surprise to anyone really that I made a beeline to the treadmill upon arriving at the gym.

And jog I did. In fact, I ran a 5K. Without stopping. Even with my gigantic boobs bouncing painfully all over the place.

True, it was a sloooooow 3.1 miles. Despite my pace being a leisurely 5.5 mph, my heart rate climbed up to 173. And it took me nearly 35 minutes to complete the whole thing, so I am obviously not winning any races. Still, I was proud of myself and the fact that I made Trevor eat his words.

I stayed on the treadmill for an additional 25 minutes walking at a brisk pace uphill while Trevor finished lifting and impressing the lesser men at the gym with his ability to bench press the equivalent of a small horse.

(Seriously. He lifts a lot. And can make his boobs twitch like The Rock, which - if you are Trevor - is just about the coolest thing ever.)

And afterwards, thanks in part to today's fantastically dreary and incredibly rainy afternoon, I have managed to do more or less nothing except nurse and play with my baby and watch movies. Which, in hindsight, has been pretty wonderful. Why couldn't last year's series of snow days happen THIS year? Because I can't imagine anything better than being snowed in with my little family of three for a few days!

A Banner Birthday: It was pretty much the exact opposite of anything I had ever imagined...

The last week or so has been a literal whirlwind, so I'm not sure where to even begin with the telling of the following tale. My apologies if the following doesn't flow well or skips around a bit. I'm just trying to get it all down before I forget everything.

And, no. My memory hasn't returned since giving birth. It may be gone forever.

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012:

The first time I noticed anything was slightly amiss or had the thought "Gee, I wonder if that was a contraction" was at lunch with Mimi and Jessie at the Dallas Museum of Art after seeing the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit. Mimi had joked earlier that the exhibit was weird enough to induce labor. Guess she was right. The projected (and sometimes talking or singing) faces on the mannequins were definitely interesting, as were the accessories made out of hair. Or maybe it was just all the cone boobs and corsets that made Banner think that life on outside was worth exploring.

In any event, I had reached a point in my pregnancy where I assumed I would never go into labor naturally, and had started believing that my son would be born sometime on Friday, January 6th following a scheduled induction.

(If we had gotten to choose Banner's birthday for him, Trevor and I had decided on Epiphany. We figured it was only appropriate since our kiddo wasn't having an "epiphany" about coming out on his own.)

As the afternoon wore on, the "Gee, I wonder if that was a contraction" thoughts continued, but I wasn't convinced it was labor at all. It was, however, enough of a nuisance to make me feel like I was sick to my stomach, and I decided against going out to dinner with family. So, my last evening at home sans kiddo was spent lounging on the couch with Trevor watching episodes of Showtime's Spartacus on Netflix.

My last meal.

The contractions continued to get more intense and rhythmic, but I didn't tell anyone (Trevor included) because I was preoccupied with the idea of crying the labor version of wolf and getting everyone all excited about nothing. So, I showered, brushed my teeth and got ready for bed around 10 PM even though I was significantly uncomfortable by that point.

I am good at denial, y'all.

Since the pain seemed worse when I was in lying in bed, I put off trying to actually sleep. Instead I did a load of laundry and putzed around the house in my PJs. Finally, though, I convinced myself to try to get some shut eye. I fully expected the pain to subside, to fall asleep soundly and wake up wondering what I was so concerned about the following morning.

Except the pain didn't go away. If anything it started to get worse.

So, I did what any reasonable person would do: I got on my iPhone and googled "what does labor feel like", and read several articles that made it sound like what I was experiencing (rhythmic pain and pressure in the lower abdomen that radiated around around to my back and spine) were just signs of false labor. Real labor pains are (apparently) felt higher up in the abdomen. Mine were more like really bad menstrual cramps.

Disclaimer: It is entirely possible that I chose to only indulge in articles that backed up my theory I was experiencing absolutely nothing. Which is part of the reason why I need to stop trying to diagnose myself over the internet. I was nearly 42 weeks pregnant and had convinced myself that I wasn't really in labor when I was actually having full blown contractions.

Which just goes to show that you can convince yourself of anything if you put your mind to it. Ask me. I am an expert.

But - just in case I was wrong - I downloaded an app on my iPhone to track the length and time between "the pains". On average they were 2 to 3 minutes apart and lasted 46 seconds.

Wednesday, January 4th, 2012:

I finally made the decision to call my doctor at 12:01 AM. But not because I had changed my mind about being in labor. I called because I started to feel concerned that something might be wrong, and I wanted the doctor to tell me that it was all nothing and to try to get some sleep.

Plus, since the pains had started, I couldn't remember feeling the baby move.

The doctor on-call was paged and returned my call at 12:07. And wouldn't you know that it was Dr. Cervix. Because why not? There are four or five doctors at my practice, and the night I go into labor it had to be him.

Dr. Cervix was obviously roused from a sound sleep and seemed limited in his ability to comprehend the English language. I told him what I was experiencing and he thought it *might* be contractions, but not to get too excited because it was my first pregnancy and it could go on for quite some time. Even stop. He told me to call back when my contractions lasted for a minute every five minutes for an hour, and then we could talk about going to the hospital.

Which, if you are keeping track, means that I needed my contractions to actually slooooooow down. I later learned that this typically isn't possible.

The moon as seen from my bedroom window the night Banner was born.

So, following doctor's orders, I went back to bed. Sleep was impossible because the pain was uncomfortable and frequent, but I still didn't bother to wake Trevor because he had complained of a headache earlier in the evening, and I figured - labor or not - we had hours to go and he needed his rest. He DID hear me come back into the bedroom, though, and rolled over and asked if I was okay. I told him that I there was a small chance that I might be in labor.

I got no response from the far side of the bed.

At 1:02 AM I decided to text my mom for support. Here is the transcription of that conversation:

Me: "U awake?"

Grammy Pammy: "Yeah..."

Me: "Called doc on call and it was effing doctor cervix. And I've decided he's an a$$ who is possibly the worst listener in the world."

GP: "What's going on"

Me: "I don't think he understands English"

GP: "Ok"

Me: "I've been having these stupid pains since lunch but they've been getting pretty bad lately"

GP: "Ok...do you think it's labor...Have you told trev...have you been timing?"

Me: "They last about 45 seconds to a minute every 4ish minutes. Can't sleep and they are getting worse. No tried to tell trev but he is sleeping. He didn't even react."

GP: "You wake him up (trev) & go to hospital now...!"

Me: "Didn't tell anyone earlier bc it wasn't bad and figured I might be making it up"

GP: "You may be in labor...this is nothing to fool around with..."

Me: "Doctor cervix said they needed to be a minute consistently every 5 minutes for an hour. I don't wanna go in if it is nothing."

GP: "Baby needs monitoring...Don't be silly...Let the hospital send you home...so what!"

Me: "He was more concerned that I didn't do my kick count than anything else. But I didn't do it bc this other thing that was going on and baby has only moved intermittently since it began"

GP: "...the thing is sweetie, that you need to monitor the baby for any stress...don't worry if they tell you it's nuthin...go to hospital & let them tell you...You are too late in this game to play around...its not likely nothing...You gotta think of the baby now....better to be safe than sorry...labor is different for every new mom & if the baby is in any stress you need to know now!"

Me: "But it will prob stop or something or I'll get there and they will tell me it is indigestion. And even if it is real isn't it supposed to last for hours and hours and water is supposed to break and whatnot?"

GP: "Are you kiddin me!?!? How likely is that you...10+ mos preg...have indigestion???"

Me: "I've seen movies. U just want a grandkid yesterday. How do you know it is real? And I'd have to wake up trev. He had a headache"

GP: "My water NEVER broke w/out help from the dr...what do I have to do to get you to wake up trev & go to hospital? Geez! Wake up Trev! Or I will send an ambulance to ur house"

Me: "Shouldn't I wait for the contractions to be consistently a minute in length???"

GP: "Are you kidding me!?!!?!...pleez! No! Go to hospital!"

Me: "Ur being irrational. U were in labor with me for a day and a half and u didn't go to the hospital right away. Dad had a dinner party. I know the story"

GP: "Then call me! Or I'm going to get in the car & come get you right now...Ok, that's it...I'm call 911 & sending them to ur house"

Me: "Noooo. Calm down. Don't make me sad I texted u. I don't need an ambulance"

GP: "You are killing me...And possibly ur own baby...Go to the hospital! Wake up Trevor...NOW! Something could be wrong...& every second you delay could be putting thor at risk...You need to listen to ur body...especially if it is not. Please go to the hospital! Now! Just the fact that it is not 'text book' make me think something could be wrong..."

And this would be the text that finally got me to wake Trevor up at 1:53 AM. But not because I was ready to come clean about the whole labor thing. No, no. I woke him up to ask him to call my mother and talk her off of Mount Crazy. Which in hindsight must have been pretty confusing for Trevor since he had no idea anything was going on at all. He found out about everything: possible contractions, my phone call to the doctor, etc. from my hysterical mother at nearly two in the morning.

Go me.

(To be fair, I was in labor and too stubborn to be rational.)

We left for the hospital around 2 AM. I almost refused to take my partially packed hospital bag (yeah, I never finished packing. I am fabulous that way), because I didn't think I'd need it yet and we'd be home in a couple of hours. This is how we ended up at the hospital without things like toiletries, cameras, anything for the baby or the blasted car seat.

I did, however, manage to wear Trevor's THOR t-shirt.

And, yes, I argued with my husband most of the way to Baylor because I thought everyone (mainly him and my mother) was overreacting. I had spoken with a medical professional and he had told me that I didn't need to do anything until the pains were five minutes apart. Who cares if mine were every minute and a half or two minutes? I even refused to let Trevor drop me off at Labor and Delivery. I insisted that we park in the garage like everyone else and walk. Trevor wanted to bring in my bags, but I also shot that down. They were in the car. If we ended up needing them, Trevor could always get them later.

So, yeah. Maybe in hindsight I was being a tad difficult. But in all honesty, the pain really wasn't that bad. Granted, I couldn't sleep through it but it was manageable. I remember thinking it couldn't be real labor because that was really supposed to hurt badly. I could easily breathe through what I was experiencing.

I'd pay for that thinking later on.

Smiling through the contractions.

We arrived at the hospital around 2:15 AM, and - much to my surprise - were admitted pretty quickly. At 2:30 I had my first internal exam and was hooked up to a fetal monitor. At the time, my contractions were a minute or two apart, but I was only dilated about 3 centimeters and 80% effaced. I assumed it was shaping up to be a long night, even with the contractions coming so close together. The nurse made it sound like my spazzing uterus could be caused by dehydration, and hooked me up to an IV.

The only "bad" news we received after getting checked in was that Doctor Cervix would be the one delivering my baby unless Thor decided to stay put until 7 AM. The mere thought nearly had me in tears, which is silly since I am sure he is a completely competent doctor (assuming someone woke him up and force fed him caffeine so he could function and speak coherently). The nurse, though, noticed my distress and panicked expression and came back into the room a little while later to report that my doctor was actually already at Baylor and asleep in one of the other rooms. Apparently, he was inducing one of his patients that night and doctors aren't allowed to leave the hospital during the process in case something goes wrong.

Hallelujah!

Considering how this whole birth story turns out, this was an amazing stroke of luck. I don't even want to think about what might have happened if my doctor hadn't been there already or if we had had to wait for Dr. Cervix to arrive.

The next hour and a half was spent breathing through contractions while Trevor worked on getting the kit so the baby's cord blood could be collected for storage. I was still committed to trying to have the baby naturally and without pain medication (especially since I already had to have antibiotics administered intravenously to treat the Group B Strep). Despite the frequent contractions, the labor pains were still tolerable - mainly because they came in waves. Yes, the peaks were uncomfortable, but I had a break in between them. Knowing they weren't going to last forever made them relatively easy to breathe through, and I was feeling confident in my ability to handle the pain.

At 4 AM, my doctor walked through the door to check me out himself. I was never so happy to see the man in my life. He announced that I was 3.5 centimeters dilated, and broke my water.

And that is when things got really interesting.

My amniotic fluid wasn't clear, but bright red. My doctor actually described it as being the color of "port wine". This, I quickly learned, is never a good sign and meant that my placenta had ruptured. My chances of having a vaginal delivery all but evaporated at that very moment.

Still, both my doctor and I were hopeful that I could avoid a c-section. The baby was handling the stress well (although an electrode was inserted vaginally and stuck on his head to more closely monitor his vital signs), and everyone was hopeful that everything would remain as stable as possible.

Things started moving very quickly after my water broke. The most noticeable for me was the fact that I no longer had any breaks between contractions. Looking back on it, my body was doing everything in its power to get the baby out as quickly as possible. But, at the time, it was nothing short of terrifying. Not to mention agonizing. For me, the pain no longer had peaks and valleys. I could no longer breathe through them. It just kept getting worse and worse - one building on another without a moment of relief. Then the nausea set in. I remember thinking that I could deal with the pain or the nausea, but both together was torture. Still, I refused the epidural until my doctor more or less insisted that I have one. Since my chances of having to have an emergency c-section were skyrocketing (I was still bleeding), he wanted me to already be numb from the waist down to avoid having to gas me if the need arose suddenly.

Not wanting to chance having to miss the birth of my first born, I gave in and agreed to the epidural at 4:30 AM. Despite the anesthesia, I could still feel a lot of pain and pressure. The only thing that truly seemed to disappear was the nausea, which I was grateful for.

At 5:00, I was 5 centimeters dilated, and at 5:10, I was catheterized. Or as Trevor wrote in his notes from that night: "decaphader". Which I am assuming is a little like a decathlon with a more urinary focus.

During this time, the baby had two or three "episodes" where his heart rate plummeted and suddenly the room was crowded with doctors and nurses talking in medical code and looking very concerned. One of these took place when Trevor decided to go to the bathroom that was attached to the delivery room. No one was in the room when he closed the door, but by the time he flushed and walked back out, the room was a buzz with activity. Luckily, all these episodes resolved themselves quickly and no intervention was needed. Still, you realize very quickly in a hospital that one or two people in a room at a time equals good. More than that equals PROBLEM.

It was all very scary.

At 5:30, two things happened almost simultaneously. The first was that I was suddenly fully dilated. That's right: I dilated 5 centimeters in less then half an hour. The second was another baby heart rate episode. This one was more severe than all the other ones combined, and didn't immediately rebound. Suddenly, alarms were going off, people were swarming the hospital room and my doctor started telling everyone to prepare for surgery. STAT.

I've watched enough ER in my lifetime to know that the word "STAT" is not a good thing.

Neither is it when your normally laid back doctor has visible sweat on his brow and is yelling that, "We need to get this baby out NOW!"

Trevor was ordered to leave the room and change into scrubs.

They started to move me, but then something else changed. It was just me, my doctor and one nurse at that point. My doctor suddenly shoved my legs apart, yelled the nurse to grab one and for me to grab the other. However, since I had the epidural, I couldn't feel my legs, much less move them. So the nurse had to hand me my left leg (which incidentally is VERY heavy and terribly awkward to manipulate when completely numb), and then the doctor started yelling for me to push.

I did my best, but while trying, I dropped my leg. I think I got two pushes in before the doctor announced that the baby was still too high to be delivered. Even at the end, Thor refused to drop.

Then, apparently, I started to bleed heavily and the baby's heart rate dropped to below sixty, and we were out the door and rolling into surgery.

I was terrified and the only thing I could think of to do was to recite the Lord's Prayer over and over again in my head.

My memories of the next few minutes are in flashes. I remember Trevor in scrubs next to the gurney as they rolled me into the room. He winked at me and smiled like everything was A-Okay. I remember my mother flying into the room, and chanting "My baby! My baby!" as she stroked my head. I remember them picking me up and moving me to the operating table and feeling temporarily like I was going to fall on the floor (not because they almost dropped me, but because they didn't have the luxury of taking their time and moving me gently). I remember that they didn't have time to put up a curtain to shield what was going on from Trevor and my mother, and I can recall their wide eyes and bloodless faces as they tried to focus on me instead of what was going on below my waist. I remember the absolute chaos in the room as the doctors and nurses ran around in a frenzy. I remember shaking uncontrollably (from medication and rapid loss of blood), and my arms being pulled out to either side like I was being crucified. I remember how stressed my doctor looked which made me start to cry, because that was the first moment I realized how serious the situation was. He is normally so calm and relaxed. I had never seen him so tense. I was suddenly terrified that I would loose the baby.

I had no idea until much, much later that they were also worried that they might lose me.

Despite being numb, I still could feel a lot of discomfort and pressure. And I could feel them pushing and pulling my body in ways that made me think I was being ripped apart from the inside. I remember feeling faint and light headed and having time speed up and slow down somehow simultaneously.

Then, at 5:46 a shrill cry filled the air as Banner breathed his first breath and screamed his way into the world.

Trevor ran to watch them do whatever they do to babies when they are first born, and no sound was sweeter than the sounds of his sobs and the nurses declaring him to be absolutely perfect despite the heart rate episodes and trauma of the last several hours.

I remember my mother joining Trevor to get a first look at the baby, which was just beyond my range of sight still lying on the operating table. I heard laughter and Trevor ran back over to tell me that Banner was fine, healthy, definitely had his chin and had just peed all over the nurses while on the exam table.

That's my boy.

First picture of father and son.

After they cleaned him all up, Trevor got to hold him and brought him over by the side of my head to say "Hi". Because of the way I was on the table, it was hard for me to get a good look at him. But I said, "Hi, Baby" as I strained to look in his general direction to my left. Banner had been making noise, but when I spoke to him he got very quiet. My mom and Trevor later told me that he stopped struggling and calmly stared in my direction the moment he heard my voice.

It seemed to take forever for the doctors and nurses to stop messing with me. I heard things like, "We need to get a good look at the placenta", and a whole host of other comments about the amount of blood in my uterus.

I remember how strong it smelled it when they cauterized some part of my anatomy in an effort to stop the bleeding. Had they been unable to control it quickly, the next step would have apparently been an emergency hysterectomy.

Thank goodness it never got that far.

The technical term for what had happened is called placental abruption. I don't know much about it other than it is apparently pretty rare condition where the placenta starts to prematurely break away from the uterine wall. It occurs in 1% of pregnancies worldwide, and is a significant contributor to maternal mortality. My doctor told me he hadn't seen a case as severe as mine in over a decade. When they pulled my baby out, he was literally swimming in a pool of my blood. Or as my doctor put it, "a big, ole bottle of red wine".

(I have no idea what was up with him and his vino references last week. And, no. I'll probably never look at a glass of red wine in the same way again.)

I had none of the risk factors commonly associated with a placenta abruption, but my doctor hypothesized that it may have been caused because I was overdue and things like my placenta were starting to (for lack of a better word or phrase) "go bad". It also might explain why my baby was smaller than everyone thought he would be (although a 7 pound, 3 ounce kiddo is by no means considered "small"). No one knows when the bleeding started or what caused my placenta to start tearing away prematurely, but things like the frequent (tetanic) uterine contractions with little or no break were a classic sign that something was going very wrong.

Basically, had I been living on the prairie 150 years ago, both Banner and I would have died in childbirth.

All in all, we were very lucky. I don't want to think about what might have happened if my doctor hadn't already been at the hospital that evening inducing another patient, or if I had listened to Dr. Cervix and put off leaving home until my contractions miraculously slowed to five minutes apart. I truly believe God was looking out for me and Banner that night.

I lost nearly two liters of blood. For days I didn't think that was a very big of a deal. After all, I rationalized, I donate blood all the time. Until my brother explained the difference to me between a pint and a liter. Apparently, the average adult has five liters of blood in their body, and losing two liters can be fatal. It is probably a good thing I was never very good at subjects like biology or anatomy/physiology. In times of crisis, ignorance is a fabulous self preservation tool.

Waiting to meet the newest member of the family.

Following the delivery, the nurse that had been monitoring my progress since check in told me that baby Banner and I were the cause of her two newest gray hairs. And, over the course of my hospital stay, I had a variety of people - from nurses, to doctors to the anesthesiologist who performed my epidural and monitored me during the surgery - come to visit and check on us and remind me just how lucky baby Banner and I were to both survive. I may have not grasped the severity of the situation at the time, but I do now and feel forever in debt to the doctors and nurses who literally saved both our lives early last Wednesday morning.

Hanging with the B-Man...

After the surgery was over and I was all stitched back together, I was rolled into recovery for an hour and a half before being sent up to room 722. Baby Banner got to ride on my chest, and the trip to recovery was the first time I got to hold him.

And then there were three.

And in case there was ever any doubt, he looks just like Trevor. If he didn't have my blood type I'm not sure I'd be believe I had anything to do with it other than (obviously) carrying the little guy for nine (or ten) months.

Welcome to the world, baby boy.

And...

...still waiting.

They are called pressure points, but not because they are intended to take that much pressure (Trevor!)...

In an effort to induce labor naturally, Trevor and I watched this You Tube video last night about acupressure points in the lower leg and foot, and then proceeded to try and stimulate (is that the right word?) every single one in the hopes of having a 1-2-12 baby.

The most promising pressure point seemed to be whatever one is located three fingers above my ankle bone, so Trevor went to town while watching the Cowboys get their a$$es handed to them by the NY Giants. It hurt (hey, the lady in the video said it wasn't going to be comfortable), but Trevor decided to turn it into a game to see just how much agony I could take before caving.

Had I not been so desperate for ANYTHING labor-wise to happen, I probably would have seen through the facade of "no pain, no gain" and realized that Trevor was having way too much fun intentionally trying to hurt me to be taking the pressure point stimulation seriously.

And all this would be how I ended up with deep, Trevor-thumb-sized divots in both of my legs last night, and bruises this morning:




And, yes. I am still pregnant 24 hours later.

So, either the acupressure points don't work or mine are now broken and completely useless.

(I'm going with the latter, because obviously.)

And because I like to send mixed messages, today I bought my husband a new watch at Nordstroms.

Because that is what every wife should do after her husband leaves her with bruises the night before.

[Shakes head]

To be fair, I just couldn't psychologically handle him wearing his heart rate monitor to the office one more day. True, it does have a small digital clock on it, but it is first - and foremost - a heart rate monitor with a cloth wrist strap that is sweat stained and smells. He might as well have stopped wearing deodorant.

But now all I have are bruised and potentially broken pressure points and Trevor has this:


Which more or less makes everything right with the world. Except, of course, for the fact that I am still pregnant. But as long as Trevor is happy and presentable, life is good.

(Or maybe that is just what I am telling myself at this point.)

It is beginning to look more and more like I'm carrying a 2012 baby...

As the minutes continue to tick by, it looks less and less likely like I will be a mother in 2011.

(Sigh)

But, you know what? I've totally made my peace with it and have moved on. Well, waddled away uncomfortably at least.

I've done everything I can think of to do. It is up to Thor now. Might as well let him come when he wants to. Or, if he waits until Wednesday's appointment, when the good doctor tells me we are inducing. Either way, it isn't up to me.

All this probably explains why I didn't get out of bed until noon and watched four episodes in a row of Parenthood. I've always liked to pretend that I have some sort of semblance of control over things, and giving up that illusion generally involves chocolate and watching way too much TV. Today was no different. And, by the way Trevor, we are out of chocolate milk. Again.

(Have I mentioned that I've been consuming a disgusting amount of milk - skim, chocolate and otherwise - over the past five or six weeks? No? Well, I have.)

In other news, my entire family except for dear Auntie Mimi and Trevor have left town for New Years. My dad, brother and sister are at the ranch and my mom went to Bonham. Cell phone reception at all of these places is known to be spotty at best, which might explain why most of them are now convinced I will go into labor at any second. Or maybe once they all have a glass or two of champagne or wine in their system and they can't drive anywhere until morning.

If it works, the kiddo has totally inherited my sense of humor.

Here are my last belly pictures of 2011. They were taken this morning. Please take a moment to properly bask in my +/- 41 week wideness:







And in closing, here is the final sunset of 2011 as seen from my bedroom window:

Happy New Year's Eve!!!

In case you were wondering...

Not much to report today except I am still pregnant.

At least I got all the Christmas decorations put away, thank you notes written and various chores and "to-do" list items completed.

I even took the dogs for a long walk with a friend and had a fabulous spicy lunch at Good To Go Taco.

Although none of this was labor inducing, it was a good, productive day and I am hoping at least half of those annoying, nagging voices in my head at 2 AM will be silenced. I could use a good night sleep before, well...a whole different kind of 2 AM wake up call.