We were in the best position of our lives. Emotionally. Financially. Physically. Realistically. We just bought the new house, and were finally settled in when I decided to sling those four words at MFH. The timing was perfect. And so, I sprung it on him. Those four words that send chills down his spine, and terrify him more than night swimming after a Jaws screening. Those four words, that can freeze even a Nascar driver in his tracks. Those four words, that subsequently caused eighty percent of the grey hair on my husband's head...
"I want another baby".
And I did. Soooo much. The kids were all in school full time and five days a week. I missed the pitter patter of little footsteps following me around the house. The smell of baby powder. The sound of giggles first thing in the morning, from the crib across the room. The calmness of cuddling together in the rocking chair at midnight. I was high on estrogen, and the all-consuming urge to expand the family. Just one more. I really meant it that time.
I'm about to get this close to giving you all way too much information, so if you want to skip ahead, I won't be offended. If you're one of my kids, I suggest that you avoid this post entirely...therapy is very expensive. We discussed this prospect for weeks when one night, before an Easter class party, I was in the midst of making enough pastel colored, egg-shaped, Rice Krispie treats for a hundred and twenty kids when MFH decided that he was down with the maternal sickness. However, his decision came with a bit of an ultimatum. We would try, one time. And if it didn't happen? We would wait a while longer. He said it was for the purpose of giving us more breathing room between Number Four and this potentially new addition, but I think he was secretly hoping that I would find a hobby and change my mind. Not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind, we...ummm....made an extra egg? And this is why none of you will ever eat another Rice Krispie treat again, either. You're welcome!
But, a week and a half later, we discovered that it wasn't meant to be. I know, right? MFH and I, who conceived twins by sharing the same fork. Who dare not even utter the "P" word in passing without at least two forms of back-up birth control in use. Who, to this day, are still trying to figure out exactly how and when Number One happened. Apparently, we couldn't make a baby when we actually tried to. Okay, no biggie. We decided we would wait, and plan it out even better later on down the road. Though, fate had other plans for us.
Five weeks later, I had the strangest dream. In it, I was having dinner with my sister and her daughter. I was holding a newborn baby, who's cap kept changing colors, from pink to blue. When I awoke, I had a deep seeded suspicion that someone very close to me was a +1. Just to be safe, I figured I'd pee on a stick and rule myself out of the equation before I began cold calling relatives and friends with my inquisition. I rubbed the sandman out of my eyes as I stumbled into the bathroom and did the deed. All I can tell you is that if there was a way to bottle the kind of reaction I had five minutes later, Starbucks and Five Hour Energy would be out of business. There they were, two very distinct blue lines.
I proceeded to check the expiration date on the box, thinking surely, there must be some mistake. When I realized how fresh the test was, I had to take two more. And both of those were positive, too. Because what good is a total adrenaline dump if you can't share it with the ones you love, I ran downstairs and thru the back door, still in my pajamas, to declare the news to MFH. Not exactly thinking about discreetness in the moment, I waved the sticks around as if they were on fire, and screamed, "I'm pregnant! I'm serious! I'm really pregnant!". MFH's reaction to my shock and awe campaign? "Shhhhh!!! Get in the house before somebody hears you!!!".
Two seconds later, we stood in front of each other in the kitchen, wearing the facial expressions of any given couple from that all-too-disturbing MTV reality show. Suddenly, we were teenagers, in our own home, trying to figure out what to do next. How were we going to explain this to the kids? How were we going to explain this to our parents? And of course, the inevitable hormonal glare toward MFH. What did you do? Though he assured me, it wasn't a preemptive strike on his part. After all, he was the one who wanted to wait a while longer. At one point during our little pow-wow, I began to panic, thinking I was going to end up on TLC on Tuesday nights at nine o'clock.
I had my first prenatal appointment a few weeks later. The midwife who performed my initial ultrasound seemed confused upon first glance of the image on the screen. "How far along did I say?", she asked. I reminded her that she told me I was seven weeks just a few minutes beforehand, when she calculated this on the calender. She then explained that the baby looked a bit bigger, around nine weeks. But that she was going to go by the calender for accuracy. This wasn't something I thought twice about at the time. I was only interested in seeing the heartbeat and knowing things were well. I left her office that morning with my sights set on Groundhog's Day. A February baby would be the first for our family.
In true Sanko tradition, the situation escalated to that of a sit com by the next visit. My midwife took a blood sample, and sent it off to the lab. A routine, triple screen test, to check for certain fetal abnormalities. "No news is good news", she said, with neither of us giving it a second thought. I had no history of any issues with this particular protocol. I was simply preoccupied with the relief of making it to the end of the first trimester without any complications. Even if it meant standing on my head, this baby was staying put until it's parole date.
The kids began a new school year. MFH and I were hanging out at Grammy's house on the afternoon when we got the most unexpected phone call. It was my midwife. "I'm so sorry, but we just received the results of your lab work. Your test levels are through the roof". And she wasn't exaggerating. The protein marker for Down's Syndrome was almost four times what it should have been, indicating an unusually high potential for Edward's Syndrome, also known as Trisomy 18. In an instant, the world around me fell away into complete nothingness. What. Did. I. Do? She immediately scheduled me for the first of many more bi-weekly, perinatology appointments to come.
Three days later, MFH and I sat in this specialist's office and directly across from a genetic counselor. She did her best to beat around the bush and soften the blow, but we knew what she was getting at. By then, I was calculated to be seventeen weeks along. And I knew in my heart that there would be no way I could ever go thru with it. I declined her choices of options, and we continued into the next room in order to undergo our first diagnostic ultrasound.
Seventeen weeks is like the threshold of being able to tell whether your having a boy or a girl. And I can tell you with all honesty, it was the least of our concerns. But I assumed that either way, it would probably be a bit too early to determine this just yet, and didn't ask. So I was a little shocked when the first question from the technician was if we wanted to know the gender. We told her we did, and she in turn, told us that we were expecting a baby girl. A little sister for Number Four. She then paused for a moment that felt like an eternity, and asked me what what my due date was. When I repeated it to her, she then told me that as far as she was able to see, there was no physical abnormalities present. However, the baby was measuring to be around twenty weeks in size. Because of this, we were subsequently rescheduled to come back every other week for more scans, just to be sure everything was okay. We were also given the option of amniocentesis. But I knew there were risks, and I couldn't help but decline it. It was too late. I had already loved that baby.
So, for the next several months, we made our bi-weekly sojourns for more pictures. With each passing appointment came the declaration from so many different sonographers that the baby was much bigger than she should have been. In the beginning of November, I underwent a 3D scan as something optional and fun to show her siblings, and one day her. This technician concurred with all of the others. She was measuring five weeks larger than expected. Still, they found nothing else amiss with the pregnancy. She made a note in my chart about it, and the next day, I received word from the midwife that the obstetrician in the practice decided that I could continue the scans there, rather than travel the distance to see the perinatologist.
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| My Nucci |
He took about a hundred snapshots of it, and also agreed that the baby was huge for her gestational age. This, I could have told him myself. At that point, I could no longer walk or get out of a chair without assistance. Two hours soaking in the tub every night became a ritual for me, just to take the weight of her off of my hips. I was beginning to think this was one for the record books. Until Number Five, Number One was my largest baby, weighing in at five pounds, nine and a half ounces. Though, he felt more like a solid fifteen by the time he was finally out. Simply carrying to that date was already a major milestone for me. Still, there was no evidence of dilation, and no need for any bedrest. Had I not been carrying a toddler, I would have been excited enough to run laps around the parking lot. I expressed my concern about the baby's size, and the ultrasound technician said the same. He told us that he believed my due date was really, really off, and said that he was going to try to speak to the midwife. I wished him the best of luck, because changing a due date isn't a risk many practitioners are willing to take. And so far, mine wasn't budging.
On the way home from that appointment, MFH and I began to redo the math out loud to each other. Things began to make sense. Remember Rice Krispie treat night? What were the odds that we actually did conceive her then? We'd soon find out. The only bit of chance that we had on our side was knowing the exact date. When we counted the weeks from that point, it all fit like a glove. Then, the real fear began to set it. What if nobody listened? What if I went into labor, and they tried to stop it? Please God, don't make me have to birth a kindergartener!
At my next check-up, I was seen by my obstetrician. I begged, pleaded, and even tried to bribe him into changing my due date. I exclaimed, in tears, that I was going to soon be fifty five weeks pregnant but no one would listen to me. Evidently, he doesn't like chewy, marshmallow confections either, because he also refused. However, after enough of a meltdown, I did manage to get him to meet me halfway. He agreed to first test me by amnio during the following week. If the results came back proving lung maturity, we would deliver the day after, via c-section. For how much I hated the idea of the baby having to dodge a foot-long needle, I had to agree. MFH and I were that certain. My friggin' belly button not only popped, it flipped damn near inside out. I was overdue.
But Number Five had a mind of her own, and was hell bent on choosing her own birth date. In the wee hours of December 30th, I awoke with some serious, right-sided pain. It definitely wasn't labor, nor was it anything I'd ever experienced before. And then I remembered what the technician warned me about. The cyst, and the potential for it to rupture. I took a couple of Tylenol and tried to ease it with a heating pad, but a few hours later, it was still there. So I placed a call to my doc, who told me to come in to labor and delivery and see what was up. I woke MFH up and told him we needed to hit the road. On the way out the door, I glanced at the car seat and my hospital bag. Everything was packed and ready, but I really didn't think I was going to deliver yet. So I left it at home.
We got to the hospital and they set me up on fetal monitors, which were detecting some mild contractions. My doctor entered the room and asked for a rundown of events. He left for a few minutes, and returned with some information, and some options. He said that the cyst was likely rupturing. And he asked us how sure we were of the due date being wrong. He then explained that he spoke to our pediatrician, who was on call and in the hospital, and was giving us the decision. We could either fend of labor and stay the extra few days until the date of the scheduled test, transfer out to a facility with a NICU in the event that we were radically wrong, or we could deliver immediately, right there. MFH and I looked at each other for a second and told him, we were a go for take off.
Minutes later, I was in a birthing suit, numbed from the ribs down, and yelling "Somebody! I need a camera! I didn't bring my bag!".
Finally, at 11:45 that Sunday morning, MFH and I sang Happy Birthday to our fifth child. A gorgeous, seven pound, three and a quarter ounce, baby girl. And not a moment too soon. Just as the doctor delivered her, he declared what a great decision it actually was. Her umbilical cord was tied in a true knot, like a shoelace. Had we waited those extra three days, well. I don't even want to think about that. Let's just say that a miscalculated date and a worrisome sack of fluid turned out to be blessings in disguise. In the blink of an eye, Number Five stole my heart, my right fallopian tube, and half of my right ovary. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
The last four years with her have been some of the best of my life. She was the most serious infant, the most curious toddler, and the most mischievous preschooler. She is my little buddy. My Jigga. My shadow. Not a single day has gone by where she hasn't made us all laugh at her butchered version of the English language, her fearless sense of humor, or her now four year old view of the world around her. Each night, I go to sleep, anxiously anticipating tomorrow's antics of rescued ants from the front yard, or Sharpie stick people drawn on the refrigerator. She's taught me so much already. Like, not to be afraid of bugs, the joy of Magic Erasers, and patience. I can't remember what life before her was like, nor can I imagine our family without her in it.
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