Monday, April 25, 2011

Ode To #4...




I shouldn't be alive right now. And none of you should be reading this, because the person this post is dedicated to shouldn't be here either. Not according to western medicine...

In early September, 1999, I killed another rabbit. I suspected it's demise even before the stick turned blue. Eleven weeks into the pregnancy, I began bleeding. Certain I was experiencing a miscarriage, I rushed to a local ER, where the doctor on staff ordered an ultrasound. As I lay on the table emotionally numb, yet silently crying, the technician took pity on me and allowed me to sneak a peak of the monitor screen. There it was. A tiny yet sustained life, happily swimming around inside of me. Diagnosis: subchorionic hemmorhage. AKA, a hair's breath.


A few more weeks passed without a hitch, and I was in the clear. Or so I thought. Upon an exam in my eighteenth week, it was discovered that I was, in the words of my physician himself, "the poster child for all obstetrical emergencies". I had been diagnosed with not one, but two dueling and potentially lethal pregnancy anomalies. Placental abruption and placenta previa. Further compounding my medical nightmare were the words I had so desperately wanted to hear three children sooner: Congratulations! You're having a baby girl! 


Even in the midst of such fucktastical news, I couldn't help being excited at the prospect of a daughter. In a house filled to the brim with testosterone, I craved a little girl, a partner-in-crime. In my family, the girls were always born first. I was the exception. Having had three boys right off the bat, it was easy to feel like something was missing during holiday get-togethers. Superficial? Absolutely. But don't mistake me for someone who hadn't loved her sons from the word scrotum. And so one by one, I called every female I was related to and shared the news. And then, the next morning, the powers that be decided to teach me a fucking lesson. I began to hemmorhage again. 


Such was the case off and on for the next nine weeks. A little here, a lot there. Never any pain. Pelvic rest at home. Confined to a bed on labor & deliver in the hospital. And a constant battle with my increasingly impatient doctors who failed to understand that three and a half months in Club Med was unfeasible when you already had two toddlers, a preschooler, and a husband who worked night shift. So we came to a compromise which allowed for me to continue the duration of my incarceration as an outpatient. A compromise which involved me having to relinquish my boys to their paternal grandmother for the duration of the pregnancy. We all had to make sacrifices.

I spent the following few days doing my damndest to resist the urge to do anything but lay in bed and count the friggin' ceiling tiles. I read every word in every magazine on the market, twice. I programmed the speed dial on my phone (finally!). I watched Forrest Gump so many times that I can still, to this very day, recite it word for word. And then just as I reached over to turn off the bedside lamp during the wee hours of the morning of April 7th, I felt a pop. And subsequently, a gush. In a split second, one thought entered my mind. Either my water just broke, or I was bleeding again. Two seconds later, I forced myself to look. It. Was blood. A lot of blood. I bunched up the comforter between my legs and ran down the hallway toward the bathroom, grabbing the phone on my way thru the living room. 


When I say a lot of blood, I'm talkin' seven to eight hundred cc's in the bathroom alone, as was the estimate of my sister and the paramedics when they arrived. In the time it took them to insert a fifteen gauge IV in each wrist, my blood pressure dropped to that of a freshly declared corpse. On the way to the hospital, I hummed the alphabet to myself as a means of trying to stay awake. No sooner did I arrive on the maternity floor did a team of nurses begin stripping me down and covering me in iodine. If the bleeding continued once my doctor arrived, they were taking my daughter, thirteen weeks early or not. 


This was the first time she and I communicated. We bonded. Scared shitless, I began tapping on my belly, and quietly instructing her to kick me back if she could feel me. And she did. Then, I asked her to please stop her shenaningans before Mommy had a complete mental break. And she did. No sooner did Doc walk into the room did the bleeding cease. A few hours and a couple of blood transfusions later, we were resting comfortably with my head five feet below sea level and my hoo hoo pointed toward the heavens. For the time being, she was still very much a physical part of me. And she stayed that way for seventeen more days.

On the night of April 24th, I began experiencing what I hoped to have been Braxton Hicks contractions (otherwise known as "fuck you, you're not in real labor yet"). Being that MFH was in the midst of being diagnosed with what we thought was a pulled muscle in his back, I calmly reassured him that it was nothing, and to go ahead and take those pain meds and go to sleep. It'll pass! I'll be fine! So I had myself a few tall glasses of water and stretched out on the sofa, waiting for it to go away. To my surprise, I was crying on my hands and knees on the hallway floor by 2:30am. Apparently, there was nothing false about those labor pains. 


I woke MFH in a panic, telling him it was time to go now. Fully expecting a magnesium sulfate drip and another extended vacation on Labor & Delivery, that's where we ended up by 3:30 that morning. I was right about the mag bag, but wrong about everything else. By that point, I began bleeding with each contraction. I had also sent MFH home in my false assumption that everything would be under control by the time they rolled my breakfast tray(s) in. When the staff changed shifts at 7:00am, Doc informed me that they were unable to stop the delivery of #4, and that they were shipping me out to a facility better equipped to handle a preemie. I frantically dialed the house, in a futile attempt to inform MFH of the sudden change in plans. You see, back in the day, we had dial up internet. And upon returning home, he logged online, and had forgotten to disconnect before going back to bed. The fucking line was busy. So I did what any other woman in my situation would have done. I sent out the bat signal.


Really, I (along with every available nurse on the floor) called every single neighboring resident within a five mile radius of my house, desperately trying to get someone, anyone, to break the fuck in and wake him up. Eventually, I was able to reach his mother, who did just that. No, really. He didn't hear her banging on the door and she had to break in. But, she did get him. And by then, I was already being admitted into another hospital an hour and a half away. 


Not long after I arrived, I was given the great displeasure of meeting Dr. Asshole (who's real name sounds freakishly similar). Not wanting to fuck up his manicure, he stood at the foot of my bed and barked orders to the other thirty five medical professionals designated to my care. What he expected was to be the hero. What he didn't expect was for me to put him in his place. After declaring that the plan of action would be to insert an epidural and allow me to labor vaginally for the rest of the day, regardless of how many more pints of blood I would require, I declared war. In one simple sentence: Sign your name to a statement that says my daughter will be born without so much as a missing eyelash, or you can go fuck yourself. C-section it will be. 


He tried, but epically failed, to convince me that it was perfectly safe to continue to contract with a rupturing placenta. You know, because he'd have me do it on an OR table. How comforting to know that should I or my daughter suddenly bleed out, we'd die in a surgically sterile environment. I simply can not repeat what I originally said to him in that moment (saying it twice would surely reserve my special seat in Hell). Just know that he wasn't happy about not becoming the Hero of The Hospital that day. 


Three minutes later (because a doctor that's pissed off is a doctor who wastes no time making sure your husband doesn't make it to the delivery on time), I was on that OR table, being prepped for an emergency c-section. Fifteen minutes after that, I was listening to the sounds of my newborn daughter (my newborn daughter!) crying her first cries. It was music. To my ears. 


I spent months wondering what my daughter was going to look like, and be like. And let me tell ya', nothing. Nothing could have ever prepared me for her. Never did I expect her to be so breathtakingly beautiful. So happy. So...amazing. I spent the first weeks of her life literally just staring at her in absolute amazement. Even now, there are times when she walks into the room and I think, "Oh my God! I helped create that elegant creature!". And it's so much more than physical appearance. She has the biggest heart out of anyone I'd ever met. She loves with everything she's got. And I couldn't imagine her any other way.


The past eleven years with her have brought me so much happiness. Words cannot suffice. I hope & pray that the bond she and I have together will never weaken. I can not hypothesize my life without her in it. I wouldn't ever want to have to. When a mother has a baby, it is magical. But when a mother has a daughter, it is so much more...








share on: facebook

To Whom It May Concern....



Dear Male Teenagers Who Reside Under This Roof,


GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE MOTHERFUCKING BATHROOM. I swear to Jesus Christ and on all thing's good and holy, I will piss on your motherfucking beds rather than have to walk those steps one more fucking time only to discover that after forty five minutes, YOU ARE STILL IN THE FUCKING SHOWER. You are not the only people that live here. And there is no reason on this green Earth for you to be in there that fucking long. None. You do not need to tweeze your eyebrows. You do not need to shave your legs. You do not menstruate. You do not require time to apply makeup. So, unless you are jerking off, there is no excuse for this shit. And even if you are jerking off, we only have one fucking bathroom. Do it in your fucking room! Seriously. Next time, I'm going down to the basement and flipping the fucking breaker switch. You have been warned.


Sincerely,


The Motherfucking Management




PS- Wet towels on the floor? Are you fucking kidding me???




share on: facebook

Sunday, April 24, 2011

That Went Well....



My kids are fucking amazing. Really....

So we broke the news to them today, about their new baby sibling. Obviously, we waited until they were in a chocolate coma to soften the blow. I fully expected phrases such as "Eat shit!" and "Oh no you fucking didn't!" to be verbalized. Let me just say, they never fail to completely catch me off guard. 

The oldest three took it in stride. No, they did better than that. They one upped me, and started offering up baby names right away. Who expects that from three teenaged boys? I certainly didn't. #4 was a bit shocked, quite a bit shocked actually. But again, I was surprised when after about an hour or so, she came around and totally warmed up to the idea, asking me all kinds of questions (and giving name suggestions, too). 

#5 pushed me to the brink of tears. Her reaction was of absolute curiosity as she poked my belly button and asked "How's that baby gonna poop in there?". She then proceeded to dance around the living room, singing "I wanna bay-bee sissser! I wanna bay-bee sissser!". And then, completely blowing me away, she hugged me, and kissed my belly. 

You can't imagine what the last eight weeks have been like for me in terms of keeping this secret. Especially from them. Every day that passed made me more nervous about telling them. I prayed (yes, me...) that it wouldn't be viewed as something negative by them. Considering most of their ages, it was a toss up. But they never cease to impress me. They fucking rock


PS- Little ones, if you're reading this, now would be the opportune time to ask for a puppy...




share on: facebook

Candy, baby....YEAH!


 Happy Easter, Bitches! 


At three years old, #5 is just starting to realize and appreciate the fun of holidays. Up until this coming Sunday, Halloween has been her favorite holiday. Trick or treating is wicked fun for her. It's all about the candy. Ever since her last little October-fest, she's been asking me on an almost daily basis to take her to our neighbors houses so she can harass them for Hershey bars. Considering how much I loathe the whole to-do, she was clearly switched at birth. But I have a hunch that Easter is going to come in a close second on her list. 

As you read this, she is currently running around the living room in circles, burning off that sugar high fueled by Peeps and jellybeans. #1, #2, and #3 are pacing in front of the stove, anxiously anticipating each others next move. After all, there is a ham in there. (*side-note* listen to your scanners for an update on who wins The Battle Of The First Slice). And #4 is busy beautifying herself for the all-important, annual group photo of the five of them. Together. In one shot. And not crying. 


MFH, I suspect, is hiding. From me. Complaining about how the smell of food is making me want to vomit on the dinner table. And from the teenagers. Who refuse to leave their dinner vigil. I hope all of you boys and girls have been good, and that the bunny came to your house and not the Jackalope. Which reminds me, now I have to come up with something else to scare the beejeebus out of #5 and keep her on (her toes) her best behavior from now until December. Happy Easter, bitches! Now go enjoy that chocolate!


share on: facebook

8+1=.......

3.....











2......












1......












(That's the countdown to the commencing of my phone ringing off the hook. Ready? Ok......)




















I'm pregnant. Again. Sanko Baby number nine is due on October 8th. 

That is all. Have a nice day!
share on: facebook

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Today....

....was a good day :) I wish I could tell you all why, but I can't yet. Three more days....
share on: facebook

Friday, April 15, 2011

I'm Workin' On It....

*sigh* I know, I know. It's been slow. No updates in weeks. As #4 would say..."...but I'm SORRY!". But seriously, it's been brutal here folks. Fucking relentless. Trust me, I have a lot to talk about. However, western medicine does not permit the legalization of cloning, and therefore, some things must temporarily fall to the wayside. Like the blog, and the laundry pile, and that all-important daily dosage of antidepressants....

Anyway, I know I've spoken about my promise to announce something on here soon, something pretty big (or small, depending on how technical your point of view may be). And it's coming. Soon. I promise. Sunday, April 24th. Save the date. 

In other news, I also have a second announcement coming, within a month from now. Both are sure to entertain, and hopefully, are well worth the wait to ya'll. So please, just bear with me a little bit longer, mmk? 

 
share on: facebook