I know. I know. I am the worst blogger, ever. How bad am I? I wrote a blog post 2.5 months ago that started off talking about how long it had been since I updated the blog. AND I NEVER GOT AROUND TO POSTING IT. That’s bad. That’s really bad. That’s like, drinking the sun tea you found in a college dorm room bad.

I have plenty of excuses. None of them are any good.

“Wah, I have a baby!” Who, by the way, is hilarious. He loves to laugh, will do things to entertain us, enjoys splashing around in his bathtub, grabbing my hair and jewelry, singing, bouncing and wrestling. His love of flair and physicality make me wonder if he’s going to be a Broadway star or a professional wrestler. Honestly? I could see either right now.

“Wah, I’m tired!”  Derp. Join the club. Your baby, for the most part, sleeps from 10p.m. -7 a.m. (when he’s not sick or traveling) and has for the past few months.

“Wah, I’m on a diet!” That’s so novel, I just hit my face on the monitor.

But there have been other things that have popped up that have complicated the blogging.

Going back to work has been nice, and difficult. Forensics isn’t known for being family friendly. There aren’t a ton of full-time coaches with young children – even fewer of whom are mothers to young children. It’s tough navigating a very specialized job when there aren’t a lot of role models to follow.

If you’ve followed me on Twitter, then you know about my mother’s cancer diagnosis. She was initially diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer in mid-March. I went to Dallas to be with my family for the lumpectomy. Shortly after, we found out that there were more infected lymph nodes and she was reclassified as Stage III. With two great aunts who died of breast cancer, a grandmother who had an elective double mastectomy and my mom – I’ve grown far more nervous.

I’m struggling with my own plumbing, as it were. On Monday, I went in for a pap smear and the doctor couldn’t find the IUD. After a silent ultrasound (which is scary as all get out when they can’t find your birth control), she informs me that, Yes, the IUD is still in there, No, there isn’t a rogue baby hiding in there (you never know), and, Oh Yeah, you have a huge ovarian cyst. GUH. I’m supposed to wait it out and go back in 6 weeks for another ultrasound.

Now, I’ve forgiven my OBGYN for A LOT. Despite all of the horrible complications, the times where I wondered if it was luck or negligence that effectively ruined the first six weeks of motherhood, the fact that she would soon joke, “Well, with YOUR luck…ha ha,” when everything continued to go wrong – I tried to be understanding. But when I sat in her office after the silent ultrasound and saw the giant boxes of Twilight-themed Valentines candy displayed next to her diplomas, while I was nerve wracked over what was going on, that I finally said “Enough.”

In the meantime, I’m going to try to be better about updating the blog. Funny, happy posts about Elliott being a frozen yogurt addict and laughing maniacally while he scoots around in his hula coupe. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

To understand why this holiday season is so significant for me – I have to let you in on some information.

Elliott is my first child. He was not my first pregnancy.

In the spring of 2009, Wednesday April 29th, to be exact, I took a positive pregnancy test. It was a very faint line, but a line nonetheless. At the time, Corey was applying for the doctoral program at WKU and we hadn’t even celebrated an anniversary yet. I called my doctor, scheduled a blood test that day. I told Corey about the positive pregnancy test in the light at the intersection of Scottsville and Pascoe. I said that the test was very light, I had taken a blood test with my doctor to confirm it and it may not even be true.

My doctor called me on my cell phone when I was in the lobby of Walmart about to get a Redbox DVD. My blood test came back positive. I was pregnant and needed to start taking prenatal vitamins. We were overcome with emotions. I did some online research and discovered that we would be due on December 30th, a ‘Christmas baby’. I was overjoyed. I had been in throes of baby fever for a while. As someone who loved the holidays – I was excited at the prospect of having a winter baby. I had begun looking at cribs. I called my parents. They told my grandparents. It was a time of excitement and planning that would end far sooner than we would know.

On Saturday, May 2nd I woke up with horrible cramps and I was bleeding. I called my OB-GYN, who told me to go to the ER. Because I was only 5 or 6 weeks along, I hadn’t yet met with my OB-GYN. My first ultrasound was in the ER. They couldn’t find anything. The doctor tried to reassure me that it may have been too early to find anything. The nurse tried to reassure me that it took her seven years to have ‘her blessing.’ I wasn’t reassured. I was in great physical and emotional pain. I would go home, lie and bed and watch Deadliest Warrior. On Monday, May 4th, I was to return to have a blood test to check my hCg levels. If the levels were lower than the test in the ER, then I was having a miscarriage. If they were leveled off – there was still hope.

On Monday, May 4th 2009, about an hour and a half before the forensics end-of-the-year banquet, the doctor called to confirm that I had miscarried. There was no hope. He explained that because it was so early in the pregnancy – it would have been called a ‘chemical pregnancy.’ For reasons that science doesn’t know, the body will terminate the pregnancy early if there is something wrong with the egg. Women could still go on to have completely healthy pregnancies. I wasn’t reassured. I was devastated. I logged onto Facebook and had referenced the doctor’s office as part of my errands (I hadn’t made the information public). A few folks had joked that I must have been pregnant if I was going to the doctor. I deleted the thread and called Corey in hysterics. He rushed home. I called my mother in tears. I had been crying all weekend and she tried to help. She had suffered a far later in pregnancy miscarriage before she had me. She thought that maybe God put her through it so she could comfort me. That was a little reassuring. But despite having only known for a few days, I was attached to being pregnant. And it was gone. My beautiful little Christmas baby was gone.

Still, I told myself to pull it together. I got dressed. I put on make-up and I went to the forensics banquet and tried to act fine. I wasn’t. Maybe it was obvious and everyone was being kind, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything to anyone outside of family and a few close friends for a while. It was an isolating time. I struggled to be around Ava, the darling baby of one of the speech team members. I shut down when I saw baby photos on friends’ Facebook feeds. The lowest point was when Corey told me that one of his friends was expecting a baby at the end of December, roughly the same time we would have had our own baby. As Carrie Bradshaw once said, “The sadness [was] palpable.”

The thing about miscarriage is that you (or I, at least) didn’t want to talk about it when it happened. It’s also not something you bring up lightly in conversation. It’s something that is usually admitted when someone close to you is grieving their own. It’s a secret club of which no one wants to be a member.

With time, though, the membership goes from a fresh wound to a battle scar. I accepted that this would be part of my story. That for some reason, I had to go through it to become the person I was. I thought about it every day, but cried less often. I tried not to feel selfish and cheated by others’ fortunes. (And my goodness, EVERYONE gets pregnant when you miscarry.)

Still, I was dreading the holidays. I was dreading my would-have-been due date. Since May, we hadn’t been meticulously “trying” but we weren’t actively “preventing”. After nearly 7 months of nothing on top of the miscarriage – I met with my OB-GYN to discuss fertility testing, which wasn’t going to be covered by insurance. Part of the testing meant coming in with a urine sample in a narrow window of time after the start of my next period. I went in on a Monday November 30th and was due (by my calculations) to begin sometime between Wednesday and Friday. If it started Saturday, I was going to have to be late to the junior high tournament the team was hosting. I brought my supplies home and waited for my period, anxious to get on with the fertility testing.

Yeah. I wasn’t going to be taking those fertility tests after all.

On Saturday, December 5th, 2009, immediately following a junior high speech tournament (and the day after my brother’s birthday), I had a positive pregnancy test. This time, there was no faint, “Is this a line,” line. This was a big, fat pink line. I told Corey I wanted to try a different brand to make sure. We did. Each test came back bright and strong. We hugged. We went to dinner. We were happy and worried. I was, at least.

The blood test confirmed it. On Wednesday, December 16th, we saw a tiny jelly bean with a pulsating flicker on the ultrasound screen. “That’s the heartbeat,” the technician told us. Finally, I felt some reassurance. Save for family and a few co-workers (who I wanted to know in case I needed to leave for medical reasons), we kept the pregnancy hush-hush until we reached the end of the first trimester, just to be safe. I tucked the positive pregnancy test into the top drawer of my dresser.

Happy anniversaries for weddings and births usually come with cakes. There’s no traditional ‘birthday cake’ for Jesus on Christmas – but we celebrate it nonetheless. The sadder anniversaries, deaths of loved ones, divorces, losing jobs – tend to go by in quiet mourning. My would-have-been due date was bittersweet. I was pregnant with someone who has already made me a much happier and more content (though a bit doughier) person. The sweetest part is that Corey’s friend who shared my would-have-been due date delivered a gorgeous and whip-smart daughter on Christmas Eve, and she’s become a friend of mine as well. (Not only does she have impeccable taste in decorating, but is my role model for parent-blogging.)

When your first pregnancy ends in miscarriage, the second pregnancy is wrought with fear. I was elated to be sore and nauseous because it meant my body was working. I counted the days to the “safer” milestones, the end of the first trimester, the revelation of the sex, 24 weeks when my doctor said they could “do something heroic”, 34 weeks when the baby had a better shot of surviving premature birth, 36 weeks when they said they wouldn’t stop labor, 39 weeks when I would deliver. (And if you don’t know how that went – CHILD – check the archive.)

On December 5th – we will celebrate the one-year anniversary of finding out we were pregnant. On December 6th – Elliott will be 4 months old. He is the happiest, most charming baby I have ever seen in my life. I don’t know what Corey and I did to deserve such a wonderful baby. I can’t picture my life without him. Insert all the sappy maternal sentiments you want. I adore him. And I can’t help but wonder if I would appreciate how miraculous his birth was and his life is if I hadn’t experienced such heartbreak in the process. If I hadn’t miscarried. If I hadn’t struggled to get pregnant. If I hadn’t had such a horrible delivery and recovery.

Some women have effortless pregnancies and births. I was not one of those women. Those women breeze through their months with carefree planning, confident in their happily ever after. The miscarriage robbed me of that – but gave me a new appreciation for why it is nicknamed “The Miracle of Life.” I look at ultrasound photos and I find it hard to believe that this soy-sucking, diaper-soaking, toothless-grinning, mouth-gumming, 15 pounds of pure joy was once a tiny jelly bean with a pulsing flicker of a heart beat. And for a brief second, I wonder who I would be holding if that tiny cluster of cells had moved in a slightly different direction.

But if they had, I wouldn’t have Elliott. So I don’t like to think about it for too long, because I don’t like picturing my life without Elliott in it. I do, however, want to pay my respect to that tiny cluster of cells, who, even for a few days, was my baby. Without it, I wouldn’t have the wonderful child I have now. I also wanted to put it out into cyberspace for anyone to read who may currently or have in the past, have become members in this horribly isolating club. I know I’m fortunate to have carried a bright healthy baby to term within a year of my miscarriage. Some women have multiple miscarriages and far more difficult pregnancies. I consider myself blessed to have a healthy, happy child (who is sleeping at night like a CHAMP, no less).

I plan on celebrating all the “positive” memories December 5th brings. Pun most definitely intended. Maybe there will be a cake – or just extra cuddles and kisses. Who knows?

I do know that I am SO looking forward to Elliott’s first Christmas. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.

I read the books, surfed the internet and talked up the doctors. I planned on blissfully working from home during maternity leave while the baby napped through the day. I had visions of spending late summer afternoons at Panera indulging in sandwiches and Wi-Fi with a cooing infant. Visiting Corey at work, bringing the baby along with some lunch. I stocked up on nursing supplies, assuming it would be natural and effortless. I figured, “Yeah, childbirth will be painful. But it’s only one bad day. After that day – the fun will begin.”

BOY. HOWDY. Was I wrong.

Even after the labor week that was scripted by Stephen King – things were still going wrong. When I went into the hospital for the incision infection/cellulitis/CT Scan/heart problems – I was prescribed the antibiotic Amoxicillin. Seven days later, on August 22nd, I would be covered in a full body rash. Turns out -  I was allergic to the antibiotic (and thus – penicillins now). So, I was once again put on steroids to combat the rash.

While I was on the steroids, I started having horrible stomach pains. There’s a host of adjectives I could use to describe the gastrointestinal fireworks the week had brought on…we’ll just say that I read several issues of Parenting, GQ and Wired cover-to-cover multiple times. By the time Sunday Aug. 29th rolled around, I could barely care for Elliott. A quick evening jaunt to Urgent Care produced a doctor who, after hearing what the previous three weeks held, said, “You have a heart rate of 142 (sitting), you’re severely dehydrated and probably belong in a hospital right now.” I begged her for something that would get me through the night – and she said that if I didn’t go to the hospital, then I had to follow up with my doctor the next day. As much as I didn’t want to visit my OBGYN again, I did. After 2 units of IV fluid in outpatient care and a couple of tests later…I was diagnosed with C. Difficile. In short, all of the antibiotics I had been on during the month had wiped out the good bacteria in my colon and all the bad bacteria was running rampant. Ironically, the solution was a bland food diet and more antibiotics. UGH. Fortunately, Corey’s mother came to help with the baby while I tried to recover.

At this point – my parents made an offer: come stay in Texas for a week or two. My parents and grandparents would help care for the baby and I could get more rest and a break from life. I gladly obliged. Though I knew I would miss Corey terribly (and I do), I just couldn’t handle any more outbreaks. We did the math. Every weekend in August, I was recovering or ill with something. 1 – Delivery, 2- Infection, 3- Allergic Reaction, 4 – C. Diff. So, we packed up Elliott’s clothes and necessities, I threw some clothes in a bag and we drove 13 hours from Bowling Green to Grand Prairie. While my parents (and other family members) were excited to see the baby, I was looking forward to a change of scenery and some rest. Elliott slept throughout the drive and has been a bit fiesty during his 2 a.m. feedings. Other than that, I’ve been resting and recovering while the torrential rain pours down on the metroplex.

The fact that I haven’t updated the blog after the blessed arrival should be the first sign that things did not go according to plan. Not my plans, at least. Maybe I have an arch nemesis somewhere who concocted the events that have unfolded since 5 a.m. August 6th. If that is the case – then things for my arch nemesis went off without a hitch. I’m still exhausted, achy and dehydrated -but I wanted to document everything that happened before it’s too late.

SPOILER ALERT: If you are pregnant, plan on becoming pregnant or know someone who may one day consider becoming pregnant – do not read any further. Having been recently pregnant – I know the desire to avoid delivery horror stories, opting instead for fearful optimism. The following, ladies and gentlemen, is not an uplifting delivery story. Don’t worry – the baby is healthy, vibrant and wonderful. The mother on the other hand – is a different story.

I’m going to forgo my usual commentary and just list the facts. I am exhausted and trying to maintain my health. Once you see how things go – you’ll understand the sparsity of language.

You may recall my previous post about PUPPs rash – which my doctor prescribed both an oral and topical steroid to make me feel a bit more human. I saw my doctor (M) on August 2nd – Corey’s birthday. In that appointment – she asked how I would feel about having a baby that Friday, August 6th (39 weeks, full term). I was excited and overwhelmed but said, “Yeah, let’s go for it.” I had been dilating for weeks. The plan was to break my water to see if that expedited labor. If not, then I would have a Pitocin drip. I had already told her I wanted an epidural.

On Friday, August 6th – Corey and I went to the hospital at 5 a.m. We got into our room at 5:30 and at about 6:30, they started the Pitocin. My doctor came in and broke my water (a very weird and surreal feeling, btw) at 8:30 ish. Around 10:30 or 11 I received the epidural – which made everything much more comfortable. By about 3 p.m. I was about 7 – 8 cm dialated and we thought we would have a baby by the time rush hour traffic started. Nope. As I progressed into the most intense phase of early labor around 5 or 6 p.m., dilating 9-10, the epidural wore off. I began vomiting and shaking – begging for a booster. They would administer two boosters in addition to the original epidural. This is important to remember.

From 6 to 8 p.m. it was nothing but pushing. HARD. Dizzy, hard pushing punctuated by vomiting and pleas for more pain killers. Some women have high thresholds of pain, I do not. But the doctors continued to administer pain relief. After two hours of pushing, my doctor said that it was in my best interest to have a C-section. I obliged, just wanting it to be over.

At 8:30 we wheeled into the operating room. It was freezing cold, but Corey was in there with me. I was so exhausted, I had my eyes closed and just nodded whenever the anesthesiologist said something. At 9:04 I heard the doctor exclaim, “That’s a BIG baby” and at 9:05 – sweet little Elliott was born.

After sitting in recovery for about an hour and a half – I was wheeled up to my post-partum room where our mothers and Corey were waiting. At the time, I felt fine. Elliott was brought in and I tried to nurse him on my right breast. I asked my mother to hold him so I could readjust. She picked him up out of my arms, and that was the last thing I remembered. I would wake up to about a nurse with smelling salts in my nose and 3 other nurses and my mom leaning over my bed telling me to open my eyes.

It seems I had blacked out, vomited on myself and stopped breathing after I handed Elliott to my mom. Corey and his mother went to notify the nurses and send Elliott to the nursery. For the next two hours, my mom kept telling me to stay awake and keep breathing. I would lift my head up, bulge my eyes to look at someone before my head would drop and I feel like falling asleep. During my few moments of lucidity, I would ask “What is wrong with me?” “Why do I feel like this?” “Am I going to die?” which freaked out the entire room. My doctor showed up and called in the anesthesiologist. He gave me three shots to try to undo the anesthetic. It should have only taken one. My heart rate was between 130 and 140 – similar to if I had been running on a treadmill. I made it through the night. Nobody in the hospital can (or would, to the point of writing this) be able to fully explain what happened.

Saturday, August 7th – In the hospital. Every nurse that came in my room throughout the day to check my vitals and administer medicine had “heard about me” and looked slightly terrified. What happened was far from normal. My vitals were not great. My heart rate was still far above normal. Blood pressure was on the low side. My HH level/blood count was extremely low. Healthy is around 11. My grandmother had an emergency transfusion at 8. I was at a 7.7. My doctor asked if I wanted a blood transfusion, I said yes. If you look at the previous post of photos in the hospital, you can clearly tell how pale and white as a ghost I was in some photos. I had retained a ton of fluid and was on IV antibiotics. I tried to nurse Elliott, who had a mild case of jaundice, with little success.

Sunday, August 8th – In the hospital. Trying to begin walking around. Still taking iron pills, pain killers and antibiotics. Very achy. Still looking pale, HH level still not good – even after one unit of blood. Elliott is still struggling to nurse. We’re both growing frustrated.

Monday, August 9th – Wake in the hospital – will be discharged after noon. Meet briefly with lactation consultant. Receive discharge paperwork and go home. Still swollen and maternity clothes that fit loose during pregnancy are snug post-partum. Still no color in my face. Come home and I’m barely able to do more than sit on the couch. I feel exhausted and like a shell of a person. I wonder, “If this is normal for new mothers, how does anyone survive?” There is no bliss and temporary adrenaline rush – only a lingering ache and sick feeling. Corey and my father leave around 7 p.m. to get a pizza. I burst into tears telling my mom that I don’t feel like I will be able to take care of this baby on my own. We call the on-call OBGYN (D) and the minute we say my name he says he’s already heard about my story. He orders us to go to the ER and he’ll place orders to keep me overnight and get a transfusion of blood. We all go to the hospital. The nursery loans us a bassinet. Corey is exhausted because he has been sleeping on a hospital recliner since the delivery so we send him home to get rest. I’m too weak to nurse Elliott without weeping – so I decide to start bottle feeding him formula so he doesn’t get sick. My dad goes out to procure bottles and formula. My mom watches the baby. They weigh me and the number is way higher than I thought it would be. I cry in frustration. I receive two units of blood.

Tuesday, August 10th – Feeling better than before, but it’s more akin to a zombie feeling better than being dead. My doctor (M) comes to visit. She wants to keep me another night for observation. Says she could give me one more unit of blood – but that would be it. I say that I would rather go home feeling good than ‘good enough’. Elliott is fussy and we try meeting with the lactation consultant again. We are worried because his diapers are rarely wet or dirty. When they are wet, they are dark and concentrated. To cure the jaundice, you have to flush it out of his system. More formula. I send the entire family home to sleep for the night. This is Corey’s night to take care of the baby on his own. He does so like a champ…laying the ground for him being an awesome dad in the upcoming days.

Wednesday, August11th – Discharged from the hospital in the morning with enough time to make it to Elliott’s first pediatrician appointment. His bilirubin level is a 16. A level of 18 means the baby will stay in the hospital and get UV treatments under a lamp. When we first knew he was jaundiced, the doctor warned us that it will get worse before it gets better. We are told to return the next day for another test. If the next day’s number plateaus or goes down, we’re okay. If it goes higher, then we’ll have to look at other treatments. I go home and spend time with Corey and my parents. Elliott is incredibly fussy all night.

Thursday, August 12th – This is the only day where I will wake up and go to bed in my own home. We go to the pediatrician. Elliott’s bilirubin level is a 14.3. The jaundice is going away. We’re relieved. We spend the day at home and I learn how much Corey is excelling at the parenting thing. I feel like I’m playing catch up. We watch ‘Death at a Funeral’ and my parents watch Elliott for the night so we can get some rest. Grandparents know how to work babies and he sleeps mostly through the night.

Friday, August 13th – Elliott celebrates his first week of life on what was his original due date. I’m feeling okay enough to leave the house with Corey to rent some movies and bring home cupcakes for my parents. During ‘Date Night’ I start complaining about feeling really hot – assuming it is because the A/C hasn’t been keeping the house cool during the heat wave. We take my temperature. 100.4. Discharge papers say to call if there is a temperature over 100.4. I decide to wait, eat dinner, take a nap and see what we get. At 8:30 p.m. my temperature is at 101.7. Ugh. We call the on-call OBGYN – (D) who had I spoken to earlier in the week and knew about my situation. He tells me to come in – there’s concern that there may be internal bleeding and he’ll want a CT scan to make sure. My parents were supposed to leave for Texas early the next day, but decide to wait and stay home with Elliott. We call Corey’s mother and she’ll be coming to help. Corey takes me to the ER. ER was horrible. I’ve already had blood drawn, IV’s inserted and other tests run so much over the week I’m drained. After the lab work – we wait in an exam room for 2 hours before they take me for the CT scan. In the CT scan room, I hear Katy Perry’s “California Girls” playing at 1:30 a.m. I resent the world at this point. Corey stays overnight with me in the hospital room.

Saturday, August 14th – (D) visits in the late morning to discuss the CT scan results. There’s a hematoma in my uterus from the surgery suggesting that there may have been more bleeding during the C-section than was anticipated. There’s cellulitis around the incision on my abdomen. There’s a slight infection around the incision (not my fault) likely because I’ve been so sick and run down for the past week, my compromised immune system couldn’t handle it. I’m put on IV and oral antibiotics for the cellulitis and the incision. (D) says that the hematoma can resolve itself with time or be removed with surgery. Given recent events, no one really wants me to have more surgery. There was one other thing he noticed on the CT scan. He almost didn’t want to bring it up but did anyway – looking at the CT scan, he noticed what may be a pericardial effusion (fluid around my heart). At age 9, I had pericarditis, nefritis and gastroenteritis, so he seems bizarrely relieved to know that this was something in my medical history. He decides to send me to the cardiologist to have an Echo and EKG. The idea of cardiac problems worries everyone, especially when we thought I would be released that day. I will be kept in the hospital another day. At this point, I’m a wreck. I feel as though I have missed out on the first week of Elliott’s life and all the bonding that should bring. I’m depressed and frustrated. Talking to my parents (mother is an RN who has been discussing my situation with one of her nurse friends), it seems as though I will officially become a high-risk pregnancy in the future. Since I’ve already had a C-section, any future babies will be delievered via C-section as well. Since I had a horrific response to anesthesia, C-sections seem scary (though – there is some debate as to whether the extra epidurals influenced that as well.) Meet with cardiologist later in the day, he seems to think that the CT scan just picked up scar tissue from 20 years ago and isn’t immediately worried. I’m mentally and emotionally drained. I send everyone home for the night. I don’t get much sleep.

Sunday, August 15th – Still in the hospital. Parents reluctantly leave for Texas, want me to call with updates. (D) okays Corey to bring Elliott up to visit and orders me to get out of bed and walk around more. More lab work. An EKG is done. More antibiotics. I begin to have severe gastrointestinal distress – (i.e. diarrhea and vomiting). I send Corey and Elliott home and will call with updates. This worries (D) and he takes me off fluid and food for the rest of the day and I’m told to “save” whatever I throw up. The nurse tells me that I will probably have to spend the night in the hospital. I’m in tears. Again. I don’t throw up any more but still feel crummy. Cardiologist visits and wants me to meet with him in 4 weeks. Corey returns. (D) comes to visit and wants to talk. I haven’t had a fever spike since being readmitted. He thinks I would do better to rest at home. He prescribes oral antibiotics, anti-nausea pills and Zoloft…believing that the combination of everything that has gone wrong over the past nine days, coupled with – you know – going home to a new baby, was causing me so much stress I wasn’t able to physically recover. I’m discharged around 6:30 p.m. I’m shocked that it is still light out. That’s how much I was in the hospital – I lost track of when it was daylight/night. I go home, eat and take my medicines. My heart is pounding through most of the evening. The same would happen Monday night and I’m considering trying to break up my medication schedule.

It’s Tuesday, August 16th. If I don’t get readmitted to the hospital tonight, it will be the longest stretch of time I have been home since Elliott has been born. Having a baby is rough. Having this many complications afterward is horrifying. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I am relieved that Elliott is a healthy, happy baby. He only cries if he needs a diaper change or bottle. Otherwise, he’s content. I am thankful that Corey and our parents went above and beyond in taking care of Elliott and I. I don’t know what I would have done if I were flying solo throughout this whole ordeal.

I am also disappointed. I know there are few guarantees in life and that plans change. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I feel robbed. What was supposed to be a happy and exciting time became fraught with stress, turmoil and frustration. To this day, none of the doctors have been able to provide a definitive explanation for why everything went down the way they did. They have literally said, “I don’t know what happened” which doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. It’s been very difficult to return home and not only cope with what has been a nightmare of health problems for me and the need to recover – but take care of a newborn as well. I’m lucky that Elliott is as wonderful as he is. But everyone is exhausted. Especially Corey – who still has to go to work. Without all the help we’ve received, I don’t know where I’d be.

Writing all of this has worn me out – but I needed to document it before too much time had passed. I wish I had some pithy or insightful lines to end on, but I don’t. Maybe this post is a bit of a bummer, but it also has a happy-ish ending. I’m home with the baby that I’ve been waiting for. I’m just hoping that I get back up to speed to enjoy him more.

Schneider Hall seems to be an important fixture in my life. I spent the entirety of my sophomore year in the building. It was where I turned on a TV the morning of 9-11 to see the events of the day unfolding. It was where I found out that my grandmother was going to pass away. It’s where I made new friends. It’s where a stream of those friends called at 3 a.m. to use the restroom the night they camped out on the lawn of Potter Hall in hopes of getting a room in the renovated directional halls on campus.

Since coming back in 2007, it’s the place where I’ve grown personally and professionally–a place where I have the good fortune of meeting hundred of the state’s finest young people through Nerd Camp and the Academy. It’s also the place where Stephanie and I celebrated our wedding reception. (Some folks say it’s the nicest the Fourth Floor Common Room has ever looked.)

Tuesday, August 3, marked another celebration in the building. Our friends and coworkers at the Academy and The Center hosted a baby shower for Elliott. We’ve been so thankful not only for their gifts but also their support and encouragement leading up to his arrival and in the days since. We look forward to him meeting these dear friends some time late next week.

Here’s hoping that some day Elliott will enjoy time in Schneider Hall as well as a Nerd Camper and Academy Class of 2028 student.

The only thing good about a stay in the hospital such as this is that it brought Elliott into our world.  The journey began at 5 a.m. on Friday and finally wrapped up shortly after noon today.  Granted, there will be trips to visit Dr. Baker, our pediatrican and other stops along the way in the days ahead but I’d be happy if that was our last stay in a hospital for a while.

For the time being, though, we’re happy to have Elliott at home.  Lily, on the other hand, is a bit apprehensive about having something else tiny in the house; however, she seems to be warming up to the little fella.  Both mother and child seem to be settling in well, though each have had a couple of naps today.

Until Stephanie writes an account of the last few days, enjoy these photos from our last day at the Bowling Green Medical Center and our first day as a newly-minted family at 806 Brownstone Way.

"Come here often?"

Hey Guy,

I know the whole group technically introduced ourselves in class today, so I’m kind of a jerk for not remembering yours. I think it was Bill, but I don’t know. I hope you won’t be offended if I call you Guy.

Not gonna lie – I was really relieved to not be the only singleton in the class today. I was a little surprised at first that the other person flying solo was male – but hey, no gender bias. Okay, a wee bit of gender bias – but you were polite and sober and took notes on the pamphlets so it was cool. You were a good table-mate.

See, I had been dreading it since Breastfeeding 101 when I saw that 95% of the people in attendance were couples. After deciding that it was best that my husband miss the child birthing class so he’d have fewer graduate classes when the baby arrived – I was not looking forward to flying solo in what I knew was going to be a four-hour “couples skate” at the “Nightmare Fuel Roller Rink”. I mean, dude, let’s be real. We knew watching a baby being born was going to be horrifying. But at least when you hose that sucker down – there’s something chubby and cute underneath the gore.

But delivering the placenta?! SERIOUSLY?! You know what you get when you hose that down? A one-legged jellyfish that just got initiated and is limping out of the human body. Gross, right? I know you agreed with me, because we both made those sounds of revulsion and we both seemed quietly apprehensive about what the next 4 hours would bring.

Guy, I soon realized that it was more than a small world coincidence that we shared a table today. During the introductions, I don’t know why I felt compelled to let the group know that my husband had doctoral classes. Maybe after listening to the dozen or so men introduce themselves and their wives (which I found more than a little creepy — seeing as how the ladies seemed capable of both carrying a new life and speaking for themselves), I felt the need to mention that I was not one of Zeus’s conquests, but rather, an academic widow for the day. I also thought I was going to win the award for most pregnant person there. (I’m due the 13th, others were due in Sept/Oct/Jan, and one other woman was due the 18th.) But you, my quiet and polite table-mate, were anticipating a baby on the 12th of August, but your wife was on bed-rest so you came to class alone.

I thought this was an incredibly sweet gesture. Seeing as how I spent the previous night trying to justify *not* having to go a class that spent four hours detailing in vivid color how much pain I would experience in the next 20 or so days, I felt like I probably had more of an obligation to attend than you did. I don’t know. Maybe you did something wrong and this class was redemption. Maybe you didn’t really want to be there. But the way I figure, you could have signed in, grabbed the information packets and went to Buffalo Wild Wings for the four hours only to go home and act horrified. But you didn’t.

And I get the feeling you didn’t just go because you had to. I also have the feeling you’re going to be a good dad.

I didn’t make this decision, Guy, until the last 15 minutes of class. When the nurse told everyone to get on the floor to practice breathing exercises as couples, I think we both felt a bit of dread. I obliged. You sat quietly at the table. When she told the men to lay on their sides and practice their breathing, and told you to “assume the position” – I felt for you. Clearly, we were about to embark on a sympathy exercise for the dads in the room that were acting super non-chalant the whole time.

Now, when she began to instruct the men to practice “pushing”…that is when it felt like class jumped the shark. Grown men, on their backs, legs spread, knees to chest – being told to breathe deep and push “like you’ve been constipated for three weeks” (her exact words, right?), the giggles erupted. She’d lean over each dad, one by one, and pretend to deliver a baby. A couple of guys obliged, but many refused to “push”, acting way too cool for the activity. The women weren’t allowed to push because, even though we were in the hospital, it wasn’t worth the risk.

When she walked over to you, I expected a polite “No, thanks”. You’re in a child birth class. Alone. Being asked to lay back spread eagle, grunt, squeeze and pretend to give birth in a room full of strangers? Even I would have backed out.

So imagine my surprise when you obliged the nurse, and without any friends or comrades nearby to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation with jokes or giggles, you gave the imaginary birth your best effort. You squeezed and grunted and followed her instructions. She complimented your efforts and moved on to other couples with fathers who were much more concerned about maintaining their cool than participating in the activity.

It didn’t feel like the right time for the woman without a husband to lean over and tell you how awesome it was that you played along. We hadn’t spoken the 3.8 hours before hand – and you seemed content to mind your own business. It may not have been a big deal to you, but as a relative stranger, it restored my faith. I was irked with the men who were more concerned about cutting up during class and speaking on behalf of their wives. It felt like for 50% of the room, this class was about a major life experience that the other 50% were reluctantly obligated to take part in. When I saw these ‘fathers’ refusing to act absurd for 20 seconds in front of their wives and other strangers, I thought they were a bunch of Grade-A Capri Sun juice bags (to put it lightly).

But you were willing to take part and try to experience what your bed-ridden wife (who I’m sure, if she’s on bed rest for medical reasons, is terrified about) will be experiencing about the same time I will be. Maybe we’ll cross paths in this very hospital. Who knows? I believe that this willingness to forego appearance for the sake of sympathizing with someone else will make you a wonderful father and husband. I don’t think that is something that can be taught in a class. I don’t think many people – male or female, expecting or not, have the capacity to try to “push in someone else’s pelvis”, so to speak. I can only imagine on those flustered, heart wrenching days – your daughter will be lucky to have a dad she can confide in. A dad who may not know how to solve her problems, but will most definitely be willing to sympathize and do his best. I can’t honestly say the same about the other men in that room today.

So, Guy – even though I can’t remember your name – I just wanted to commemorate how awesome I thought you were. Keep up the good work. We need more men, more fathers, like you in this mixed-up backwards world.

And don’t worry, I’m sure that if things were reversed, if Corey were at class and I was on bed rest, he would have tried to push out the baby as well. Whether or not he’d ever tell me about it (knowing that I probably would have teased him about it, because I’m neither noble nor mature) is a different story. But as much as I could tell that you’re cut out for the terrifying job ahead of you – you helped me appreciate how wonderful of a father I know Corey will be.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make Corey practice his pushing.

Sincerely,

The Lady With the Itchy Belly