It seemed innocuous enough. Just a backache. No big deal. And I could explain exactly how I got it. I had been in Phoenix for a conference, and had schlepped my big old suitcase, overpacked as usual, through airports and baggage claims. Sure, I was pregnant, finishing my second trimester and heading into the home stretch of impending motherhood. But I felt good, and I’m a stubborn-ass-control-freak. If I can do something, I’m going to do it. And so I must have just pulled a little something in my back hauling that bag around.
I was six months pregnant in the fall of 2001 and it was lovely. There were a couple of not-so-normal but nothing-earth-shattering things cluttering the landscape, not the least of which was the discovery of a large fibroid tumor (benign) when I had my first sonogram. Shouldn’t have any negative affect on the baby whatsoever saith the doctors; I was at a high-risk obstetrics practice, due to the fact that I was an “older” first time mother, and I knew they had seen all this before. The baby was a boy (which made my husband unbelievably happy), as evidenced by a clear-as-a-bell sonogram picture. Discussions about names had begun in a very casual manner. I was starting to waddle. Our lamaze classes had been scheduled. I was still craving Wendy’s hamburgers on a daily basis. Standard pregnancy stuff. Frankly, I was more preoccupied with the turmoil sweeping the country after 9/11 -- that wound was still so fresh and dominating. I figured the best was yet to come in my role as a to-be mommy.
And then that backache just wouldn’t go away.
I had meetings after work that week -- I was the president-elect of a women’s volunteer organization (the reason for my conference attendance) and there were plans to make and projects to oversee. As I sat in the living room of a friend for one such meeting mid-week, she commented to me that I didn’t look like I felt well. I thanked her for her concern, chalking it up to being tired from travel and that darn backache. The next evening brought more of the same -- concerned comments from other friends and an increased exhaustion coupled with an aching back.
Finally, Friday came, and we -- my husband and I -- were in the market for a new television set. Opting to take his ancient, shock-absorber-deprived Jeep Cherokee, we ventured out, only to have me ask him to take me home because I just wasn’t feeling well. Rather than a backache, I was beginning to suspect that I had a kidney or bladder infection. That made sense. Pregnant women get those all the time. A call to my OB/GYN’s service connected me with the doctor on call, who suggested I take Tylenol PM and try to get some sleep. Impossible instructions. The pain finally became too much, and we drove down foggy early morning streets to the Emergency Room.
That’s when everything changed. Turned upside down. Inside out.
A quick examination by a very kind on-call nurse determined that it wasn’t a backache or kidney infection or bladder problem. I was in labor, had been for several days, was fully dilated and barring a miracle, would deliver that baby -- my little boy -- very shortly. Way too early. Medical personnel started moving at the speed of light. I watched the color drain out of my husband’s face. The gravity of the situation landed directly onto my chest.
And that’s when I started screaming.
Loud.
Primeval.
Straight from the core of my soul.
Morphine was quickly administered. My husband made frantic phone calls to track down family (my parents and brother) and friends, who came immediately to the hospital, leaving their own families as the sun was coming up. While I was under the benefit of anesthesia, he was not; the presence of loved ones provided his pain relief. As much as they could anyway. It was a losing proposition, trying to asuage the horror of the situation.
What was really terrifying at that moment was the determination of my due date. It had originally been figured that I was about 23 weeks along. The survival rates of babies born that early is practically nonexistent. And the obligatory legal visit from the hospital social worker made that fact very clear. Fortunately for us all, I was in fact two weeks farther along than originally thought, giving the baby better odds. However, I still remember, even through my morphine-tainted memories, that very clinical discussion with the social worker and her, matter-of-factly telling me, a woman scared completely out of her drugged mind, that the chances of my baby boy surviving were minimal at best. It haunts me to this day.
I’m not sure precisely what happened over the next couple of hours; morphine will do that to a girl. I know I was given several medications to try and stop the contractions; to try and develop the baby’s lungs (the primary concern) on warp-speed; to try and manage the seemingly unmanageable. I was hung upside down, and endured a parade of observers assessing my situation. I was strong; the contractions were stronger. The only saving grace was my obsession with the fact that because I had not felt well all week, I had neglected to shave my legs. Which, along with every other part of my anatomy, was on public display. Never mind all that -- I felt compelled to apologize to every. single. person. who came to check on me for my hairy legs. It became the only remotely funny thing in this theatre of the absurd.
Four hours later, my will was no longer enough to stave off the inevitable. My doctor, who lived an hour and a half south of the hospital, was unable to get to the delivery room in time. The doctor in attendance was a resident; I could not have asked for, or received, better care and attention from any practicing physician. As they wheeled me to the delivery room, I was perhaps the calmest civilian there. I saw faces of family and friends overhead, encouraging me, talking to God, providing comfort. My dear, dear friend Judy was there, to give support to her dear friend, my mom. Judy has since passed away after a valiant fight with cancer, but the fact that she is part of this memory is a poignant blessing. Holding hands, my husband and I entered the delivery room, feet first and breech, anticipating everything and understanding nothing.
Once in the delivery room, events happened quickly. One calculated push was all it took to send my baby boy literally flying into the world, as if I’d shot him straight out of a cannon. Capable trained medical hands were there from the right-next-door children’s hospital to tend to him. It was only a matter of seconds before he cried.
Loud.
Primeval.
Straight from the core of his soul.
He was healthy and functioning as normally as a 25-week-gestational-aged baby could. And I breathed solidly for the first time in hours.
We named him for his two grandfathers -- he would be called William, Will for short. Such a prophetic name. And just as quickly as he was launched, Will was whisked away immediately under the protection of machine and man and heavenly father through an underground tunnel to the NeoNatal Intensive Care Unit at the children’s hospital.
And I somehow knew, at that moment, that everything would be all right.
But what I didn’t realize at the time is that all right.
Is always all relative.
5.30.2006
My New Mantra
From postsecret.com
This is the latest thing I want to achieve:
To the undoubtedly fabulous 44-year-old woman who wrote this:
Thank you, from a I-can't-believe-how-much-I-still-struggle-with-my-body-image-after-all-these-years 41-year-old woman.
This is the latest thing I want to achieve:
To the undoubtedly fabulous 44-year-old woman who wrote this:
Thank you, from a I-can't-believe-how-much-I-still-struggle-with-my-body-image-after-all-these-years 41-year-old woman.
5.29.2006
Time to Tell the Tale
I ran into an acquaintance of my mother’s the other day in the grocery store. Not an unusual occurrence in our community, where both my mother and I were born, and therefore just know people simply because we’ve lived here so damn long. She asked me how “that son of yours is doing," commenting that she followed his early days of life thanks to a e-mail chain that sprung up from my daily little missives to close friends and family apprising them of Will’s condition. My e-mails ended up having a greater circulation rate than some small town newspapers, and while that still boggles my mind, it always makes me feel humble and grateful to know that so many people cared enough about my family to share this information and our simple, yet direct requests for prayers on Will’s behalf during his hospital stay in the NICU. I have no doubt that he is where he is today thanks to the power of prayer, the wonders of modern medicine and the capacity for caring of many, many people.
This little grocery store encounter got me thinking about what I call “Will’s story." It’s been a while since I’ve visited it. I mused upon this during my morning walks over the last couple of days, taking the occasion to gauge my emotional reaction to thinking objectively about it. I've been a long time coming to this place. It's only been recently that I've been able to read my e-mail journal, finding the documentation of Will's ups and downs, particularly the weekend when we didn't know whether he would in fact survive, too much to process and handle. For the longest time, I couldn’t watch any medical show on television, fictional (aka ER) or reality (you name it). Too painful, too close to home. Too many memories. Things are better now -- I’m currently addicted to House, although I swear that at least every other patient of the week on that show ends up having some sort of seizure (which I’m all too familiar with). And if that patient is a child or young person, I find that it’s still a little hard to watch, fictional aspect notwithstanding. It’s still tough for me to see any sort of neurological procedure (how ‘bout that drill!) shown on a tv drama -- although if I put my mind to it, I could probably tell you just how close to reality they are (again, that all too familiar thing...)
I may be in a place, finally, where I can write about this life-altering, life-giving experience, for which I was completely unprepared, yet immediately thrown into without my consent. One doesn’t make a middle-of-the-night emergency room visit at 25 weeks pregnant, suffering from an excruciating backache, only to have a nurse tell her that she is fully dilated and will deliver her baby an entire trimester early into unknown circumstances and not come out a transformed individual. Can’t happen. Didn’t happen.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t wrestle with a big old passel of guilt about Will’s premature birth, despite what the words of the doctors say and the protestations of family and friends. I can’t shake the fact that it was my body that failed my baby, causing him to come into this world way too soon, forcing him to be more courageous and resisiliant and willful than any human should have to be, asking him to endure unknown, untold problems, obstacles, pain. Every achievement and milestone is gloriously bittersweet, always celebrated and encourgaged -- yet constantly swathed in the haze of "what if?" and "why?" and "what will be?"
He is a modern miracle. I believe it. Doctors have confirmed it.
"Wow," they say upon hearing my Cliff-Notes version of his health history. "He looks so great/is doing so well/is an amazing success story. You must be very proud." Proud? Sure. I'll take proud. It beats the hell out of the deepest, darkest, most self-deprecating things I usually think when medical reality usurps my parental pollyanna rose-colored glasses and jacks up the always-simmering-under-the-surface guilt. Wow indeed. (Hmm. Not sure I'm ready to go here just yet. Can you tell? This one's gonna be tough...)
Writing has always been my catharsis, my way of exorcising demons and finding clarity. I think that I’m ready to begin this process with Will’s story. I owe it to my son to get his tale on paper, before the details -- good, bad, happy, sad and yes, funny -- slip away.
But mostly, I owe it to myself.
It’s time.
This little grocery store encounter got me thinking about what I call “Will’s story." It’s been a while since I’ve visited it. I mused upon this during my morning walks over the last couple of days, taking the occasion to gauge my emotional reaction to thinking objectively about it. I've been a long time coming to this place. It's only been recently that I've been able to read my e-mail journal, finding the documentation of Will's ups and downs, particularly the weekend when we didn't know whether he would in fact survive, too much to process and handle. For the longest time, I couldn’t watch any medical show on television, fictional (aka ER) or reality (you name it). Too painful, too close to home. Too many memories. Things are better now -- I’m currently addicted to House, although I swear that at least every other patient of the week on that show ends up having some sort of seizure (which I’m all too familiar with). And if that patient is a child or young person, I find that it’s still a little hard to watch, fictional aspect notwithstanding. It’s still tough for me to see any sort of neurological procedure (how ‘bout that drill!) shown on a tv drama -- although if I put my mind to it, I could probably tell you just how close to reality they are (again, that all too familiar thing...)
I may be in a place, finally, where I can write about this life-altering, life-giving experience, for which I was completely unprepared, yet immediately thrown into without my consent. One doesn’t make a middle-of-the-night emergency room visit at 25 weeks pregnant, suffering from an excruciating backache, only to have a nurse tell her that she is fully dilated and will deliver her baby an entire trimester early into unknown circumstances and not come out a transformed individual. Can’t happen. Didn’t happen.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t wrestle with a big old passel of guilt about Will’s premature birth, despite what the words of the doctors say and the protestations of family and friends. I can’t shake the fact that it was my body that failed my baby, causing him to come into this world way too soon, forcing him to be more courageous and resisiliant and willful than any human should have to be, asking him to endure unknown, untold problems, obstacles, pain. Every achievement and milestone is gloriously bittersweet, always celebrated and encourgaged -- yet constantly swathed in the haze of "what if?" and "why?" and "what will be?"
He is a modern miracle. I believe it. Doctors have confirmed it.
"Wow," they say upon hearing my Cliff-Notes version of his health history. "He looks so great/is doing so well/is an amazing success story. You must be very proud." Proud? Sure. I'll take proud. It beats the hell out of the deepest, darkest, most self-deprecating things I usually think when medical reality usurps my parental pollyanna rose-colored glasses and jacks up the always-simmering-under-the-surface guilt. Wow indeed. (Hmm. Not sure I'm ready to go here just yet. Can you tell? This one's gonna be tough...)
Writing has always been my catharsis, my way of exorcising demons and finding clarity. I think that I’m ready to begin this process with Will’s story. I owe it to my son to get his tale on paper, before the details -- good, bad, happy, sad and yes, funny -- slip away.
But mostly, I owe it to myself.
It’s time.
5.25.2006
The Whammy Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree
If there was any doubt that Will is my child -- and I know there's not, as I was there, morphine haze and all, when he came flying into the world three and a half months early -- his behavior this week makes it abundantly clear that he takes after his mama.
He's home on a little break between the end of the regular school year and summer school. For my special needs pre-schooler, summer school is a great thing, as it is a venue to allow the continuation of the reinforcement of all the skills he was developing and mastering when school ended. He is achieving so many accomplishments -- he is thisclose to walking all on his own, which thrills me to no end. He has the ability to walk now, but insists on holding my hand as he toddles around like a little drunken sailor, searching for his balance to counteract his cerebral palsy. And his yucky eyesight also has something to do with this delay, I'm sure. Poor kid inherited his mother's blinding nearsightedness, which is compounded by his prematurity. It figures that for the one thing he could use a genetic boost on to counteract the effects of his health history, I bring nothing to the table. At least he doesn't have my hips.
He is now feeding himself his meals, which is a messy marvel all on its own. He is communicating more and more everyday ("I want to swing!" "Let's take a bath." "Time for night-night."), actually expressing his needs and wants to me in a way that doesn't involve a banshee scream. Which is great for my mommy heart and my aching head. Kid's got some lung power on him. You could never tell now that his little lungs were so underdeveloped when he was born. Damn. When he can win a "Who's Loudest" contest with a Shop Vac, you know that he's gifted vocally.
Anyway. Since he's been home, we've slowed down our routine a bit, choosing to take a mini-vacation from bi-weekly therapy sessions he takes as an out-patient at our children's hospital. And, natch, we've been watching tv. Sometimes together, sometimes not. He now has three favorite programs that qualify as Must See Will TV -- two of which warm the cockles of my couch potato heart.
1) The Wiggles. The sun rises and sets for Will with the Wiggles. Oy. It could be worse. He could be obsessed with Barney. *Shudder* So, we wake up every morning "ready to Wiggle, Mama."
2)The Price is Right
3) Lingo
Go figure. I'm raising a game show fanatic. And who says this stuff's not genetic...
But there's a legitimate reason behind his choices. And it's a good one.
Like many preschoolers, he's learning his alphabet and how to count. Loves to randomly bust out with a rousing rendition of The Alphabet Song or will simply begin counting away. He can get up to twenty-nine, but insists that next comes twenty-ten. Actually, that's pretty good logic, if you think about it.
Now, what is the primary component of The Price is Right? Why prices, of course. And prices are made up of numbers.
Likewise, the objective of Lingo is to spell five letter words. It's all about the alphabet.
Will's affection for these shows is based on what he's learning in school. And that makes me prouder than I can ever imagine.
It's really funny to see him, scooched up to the TV, watching Bob Barker and Chuck Woolery do their things, sometimes chiming in with his suggestions of a number or letter.
I'm hoping this game show fascination continues. Because what childhood would be complete without a crash course in witty bon-mots, double entendres and the perils of drinking on national television. I'm talking, of course, about that all-time classic and my very favorite game show ever -- Match Game! Can't wait to share that one with him.
And then, there are the myriad incarnations of Password...
Announcer: The password is "Ridiculous".
Oscar (in angry tone): Aristophanes!
Felix: Ridiculous.
...and the venerable black and white versions of What's My Line and To Tell The Truth. And all those Pyramids.
I figure he can work this out with his therapist when he gets older. Right now, he's all mine.
He's home on a little break between the end of the regular school year and summer school. For my special needs pre-schooler, summer school is a great thing, as it is a venue to allow the continuation of the reinforcement of all the skills he was developing and mastering when school ended. He is achieving so many accomplishments -- he is thisclose to walking all on his own, which thrills me to no end. He has the ability to walk now, but insists on holding my hand as he toddles around like a little drunken sailor, searching for his balance to counteract his cerebral palsy. And his yucky eyesight also has something to do with this delay, I'm sure. Poor kid inherited his mother's blinding nearsightedness, which is compounded by his prematurity. It figures that for the one thing he could use a genetic boost on to counteract the effects of his health history, I bring nothing to the table. At least he doesn't have my hips.
He is now feeding himself his meals, which is a messy marvel all on its own. He is communicating more and more everyday ("I want to swing!" "Let's take a bath." "Time for night-night."), actually expressing his needs and wants to me in a way that doesn't involve a banshee scream. Which is great for my mommy heart and my aching head. Kid's got some lung power on him. You could never tell now that his little lungs were so underdeveloped when he was born. Damn. When he can win a "Who's Loudest" contest with a Shop Vac, you know that he's gifted vocally.
Anyway. Since he's been home, we've slowed down our routine a bit, choosing to take a mini-vacation from bi-weekly therapy sessions he takes as an out-patient at our children's hospital. And, natch, we've been watching tv. Sometimes together, sometimes not. He now has three favorite programs that qualify as Must See Will TV -- two of which warm the cockles of my couch potato heart.
1) The Wiggles. The sun rises and sets for Will with the Wiggles. Oy. It could be worse. He could be obsessed with Barney. *Shudder* So, we wake up every morning "ready to Wiggle, Mama."
2)The Price is Right
3) Lingo
Go figure. I'm raising a game show fanatic. And who says this stuff's not genetic...
But there's a legitimate reason behind his choices. And it's a good one.
Like many preschoolers, he's learning his alphabet and how to count. Loves to randomly bust out with a rousing rendition of The Alphabet Song or will simply begin counting away. He can get up to twenty-nine, but insists that next comes twenty-ten. Actually, that's pretty good logic, if you think about it.
Now, what is the primary component of The Price is Right? Why prices, of course. And prices are made up of numbers.
Likewise, the objective of Lingo is to spell five letter words. It's all about the alphabet.
Will's affection for these shows is based on what he's learning in school. And that makes me prouder than I can ever imagine.
It's really funny to see him, scooched up to the TV, watching Bob Barker and Chuck Woolery do their things, sometimes chiming in with his suggestions of a number or letter.
I'm hoping this game show fascination continues. Because what childhood would be complete without a crash course in witty bon-mots, double entendres and the perils of drinking on national television. I'm talking, of course, about that all-time classic and my very favorite game show ever -- Match Game! Can't wait to share that one with him.
And then, there are the myriad incarnations of Password...
Announcer: The password is "Ridiculous".
Oscar (in angry tone): Aristophanes!
Felix: Ridiculous.
...and the venerable black and white versions of What's My Line and To Tell The Truth. And all those Pyramids.
I figure he can work this out with his therapist when he gets older. Right now, he's all mine.
Driven To Tears
I just read an item on Yahoo News that makes me surprisingly sad. Ian Copeland, brother of Police drummer Stewart Copeland, has died at the age of 57. The Copeland brothers, including eldest brother Miles, were responsible for shaping my musical taste and for providing the soundtrack for my college years and thereafter.
The International Records Syndicate (I.R.S.) label, founded by Miles, produced many of the albums that I discovered as a college student, and still listen to even now -- The Police, the B-52's, the Bangle, the Go-Gos, the Cure, the Smiths and R.E.M. Ian, in conjunction, helped to bring the British band Squeeze to the states -- and I ironically just listened to Singles: 45s and Under just today.
These guys had an major impact on my life, and it's not until you read about something like this that you really can appreciate it. And it's also a sign that an era truly is ending.
So, thanks, Ian. This fan is truly appreciative.
The International Records Syndicate (I.R.S.) label, founded by Miles, produced many of the albums that I discovered as a college student, and still listen to even now -- The Police, the B-52's, the Bangle, the Go-Gos, the Cure, the Smiths and R.E.M. Ian, in conjunction, helped to bring the British band Squeeze to the states -- and I ironically just listened to Singles: 45s and Under just today.
These guys had an major impact on my life, and it's not until you read about something like this that you really can appreciate it. And it's also a sign that an era truly is ending.
So, thanks, Ian. This fan is truly appreciative.
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