After we received the news that our daughter would be leaving this hospital to go to UCLA Medical Center in a few hours, they moved me to a room out of the maternity ward and into the regular part of the hospital. I was off in this empty corner of the hospital. I wanted to think this gesture was for my benefit, but I also wondered if they just didn't want me around other new mothers because of what had occurred. Like I was separate now, different from other mothers who had given birth to "normal" babies.
People came and went during the day; friends, family, of course everyone was concerned. We told the story over and over again. What we knew of course, which wasn't much really. All the doctors knew was that her esophagus hadn't developed. She couldn't eat. Nobody said it; but the implications were clear, if she couldn't eat, she would die. Not rocket science, for sure.
Do the doctors really think she has Down Syndrome? Of course that was the burning question of the day.
We answered that we didn't know, the chromosome tests would be done at UCLA.
But let's be real; we knew. In our hearts we knew, from the moment she was born.
The only thing I wanted was to be with her. I still had not held her. I kept asking them, I want to go down in the NICU. Why are they making me stay up here? I felt a sense of urgency, a panic, a need to act. And I felt like I was being put in chains, and couldn't move. I had a sick baby, and I couldn't do anything but sit in bed.
They kept saying they were getting her ready to transport her. Could I hold her, I asked. No, she was too seriously ill to be handled by anyone but the doctors.
At last Tony, Jared, and myself were allowed into the NICU to see her. The three of us sat in front of the incubator. At last I would get a look at my child.
She was light skinned. And blond. Me, with nearly black hair, having a blond child. She was of course very tiny. She didn't necessarily look ill. To me, she looked perfect. It seems impossible she had what they say she had. I wanted to scream "you're wrong, this baby is fine." She looked fine. She looked like an angel to me.
I remember there was a light around her. Not a light being generated by medical science, but a light. It surrounded her, like a blanket. I don't think Tony saw it, or Jared. But I did. I couldn't explain it, but it was there. Some people might say it was God watching over her. Others would say it was just my imagination. But it was there.
If I had to say what it was, I would say it was a life force, an energy emanating from her. While her body was sick, she was filled with life. She had enough life in her to survive this. And even as she lay there fighting for that life, she had it in her to pull through.
But it was still heartbreaking to me. Like your bones being crushed; a pressure on your body. Like you were unable to breath, or move, or do anything. A helplessness.
So I just sat there and cried. Useless tears that could do nothing.
They took me back to the room. And we waited. We signed tons and tons of papers. I couldn't even tell you what we signed.
At last the helicopter was there. The helicopter team rolled her into the room. She was packed up and ready to go. I would look at her through glass and tubes and monitors once again.
"We'll take good care of her," a paramedic/nurse on the helicopter team tried to assure me.
I tried to smile. "I'm sure you will," I rendered my meager reply. There was nothing else to say.
Tony was going in the helicopter. He kissed me goodbye, and said he would call me.
They left, and Jared and Scott and I watched as the helicopter lifted itself from its pad, flying off into the desert, heading for Los Angeles.
After Scott and Jared left, I was alone. I felt this paralyzing emptiness. I called Tony's mother in Minnesota. I called my parents in Nevada. I tried to keep talking. It was the only thing I could do.
All the while, the nurses were coming in and out. Checking me for this. Checking me for that. They annoyed me. I didn't give a shit about myself. I didn't matter. I was fine. My esophagus worked. All my parts worked just fine. But my daughter's didn't. I didn't care about anything else.
But a certain nurse was unrelenting.
She would come in and press on my abdomen. "You haven't urinated. You must urinate," she kept saying.
"I don't have to go," I kept telling her.
"Then we put catheter in you," she articulated through her Asian accent.
Catheters are a dirty word to me. My mother had one put in after my birth 39 years ago, and it was done incorrectly, giving her a lifetime of agonizing problems.
I had just about enough of being out of control. I couldn't control what was happening to my daughter. Now I couldn't even be left alone to control my own bladder.
"You know, " I said, "No offense. But you're not putting anything in my body I don't want there. You can take your catheter and stick it up your ass."
She just stood there, looking at me. I wasn't finished.
"And you know what else," I said. "You can go call the doctor right now to come in and sign the papers to release me. I don't need to be here. I'm needed at UCLA with my husband and daughter. Get me the fuck out of here!!
She still stood there, like she didn't get it. "When you urinate," she said. "You must do it in the measuring cup, because you must go at least a few inches."
Was this woman kidding me? They were going to measure to see if I peed enough?"
I tried to maintain some semblance of calm. "Please, go, now, and get my discharge papers."
She left at last. I started to dial Scott's number. He could come back and get me out of here. Then it occurred to me. If I left, how would Tony know where I was? I had no clue where he was at UCLA, which is a huge place. He had enough problems right now without worrying about me going postal. Fine, I figured. I'll just stay and wait.
All of a sudden, I had the urge. I went in the bathroom, sat down, and peed. In the toilet bowl, not in her measuring cup.
For just a second, I smiled.
My one small victory for the day. The world hadn't gone completely topsy. I was still able to fight back.
And I would get even better at it then I realized at that very insignificant time and place. I would be fighting for this child, who had more fight in her than anyone I've ever known.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Incubators and Broken Dreams
As they wheeled me into the delivery room, Tony finally arrived. I had at last gotten through to him right before they came to take me out of my room. He walked in looking frazzled and worried, dressed in hospital scrubs.
I teased him, "Gee, don't you look cute!!"
He stood to one side of me. For some reason, the contractions had slowed a bit. It was like a calm had suddenly come over me. The doctor sat below, waiting.
"Just push whenever you're ready," he said.
In that moment, it was oddly quiet. I could here the clock ticking on the wall.
I felt a contraction at last, took a breath, and pushed.
The doctor caught her in hands. With that one push, she had popped out completely. It was like the doctor was a catcher and she was the ball.
He handed her off to a team from the NICU. I couldn't see anything. Two or three doctors were working on her frantically. I kept trying to get up and see what was going on.
The nurses were saying, "Don't worry, they'll bring her in a minute, you'll be able to see."
Tony walked over to the table. He looked down at his newly born daughter.
"Does she have Down Syndrome?" he asked.
I felt as if the floor had been dropped out from under me.
"Why do you want to know that?" I said to him.
Children with Down Syndrome have certain physical characteristics. Since Tony had initially studied education in college, he was required to take courses in Special Education. He had learned in those courses what the those physical markers are. Some of these can be as obvious as the upward and outward slight of the eye, the smaller and lower set ears, and the flat appearance of the face, to things that are more insidious, such as white patches on the iris of the eyes, to poor muscle tone. A child can have all of these markers, only a few, or none at all. Someone can also have things like slighted eyes, etc, and not have Down Syndrome.
But it was her eyes that aroused Tony's suspicions.
I felt a sudden sense of relief. "Oh, well," I said, "I have almond shaped eyes." She probably just has eyes like mine."
It is true; my eyes are shared that way. But looking over at my husband, I could tell this didn't comfort him.
The neonatologist spoke up, saying that the only way we would know definitively whether she had Down Syndrome or not is through a chromosome test, which would take 24 hours.
By this time, she was already in an incubator. I was not able to hold her. They wheeled the incubator up to my bed. I couldn't really see much of her. There was an infant in a machine hooked up to tubes and monitors. I couldn't look in her eyes, or touch her hands. I felt a strange disconnect. I had carried an infant in my body for eight months. But was this my infant? I felt a ravishing hunger pour through me. The baby in this machine might as well not have been mine. But I knew she was. That was what was so crushing.
I was riddled with guilt. Once again, my body had betrayed me, producing a sickly, struggling infant. In my most intense moments of fear, I would have never imagined what happened with Jared could happen again; and for that matter, be worse. I once again would miss the chance of holding a newborn baby to my chest after it had just left my body; an experience many women say was one of the peak experiences of their lives; the essence of what it means to be a woman.
My doctor stood by my bed and held my hand as I cried.
They wheeled me back to my room. The look of devastation on Tony's face broke my heart. I felt as though I had disappointed him. I didn't know what to say to him.
I tried to be positive for his sake. "Well, Down Syndrome is not the end of the world," I said. "At least the baby is alive."
A moment later the doctors would bring news that would start us on a journey like no other, and would change our lives forever. At that second, our universe was permanently altered.
Two neonatologists entered my room. I don't remember the words they said verbatim, but they went something like this: "we cannot feed the baby. Her esophagus appears to not be connected. We are preparing to transport her to UCLA for surgery."
I asked him again. "Does she have Down Syndrome?"
"We will not perform the tests here because she will be leaving," one of the doctors said. "They will perform the test at UCLA."
With that, they left. There were no words to say between us. We just sat there, unmoving, as stationary as stone. There was only shock. And silence. A deeper silence than I have ever experienced before, or since.
Like everything in life went black.
"Why do you want to know that?" I said to him.
Children with Down Syndrome have certain physical characteristics. Since Tony had initially studied education in college, he was required to take courses in Special Education. He had learned in those courses what the those physical markers are. Some of these can be as obvious as the upward and outward slight of the eye, the smaller and lower set ears, and the flat appearance of the face, to things that are more insidious, such as white patches on the iris of the eyes, to poor muscle tone. A child can have all of these markers, only a few, or none at all. Someone can also have things like slighted eyes, etc, and not have Down Syndrome.
But it was her eyes that aroused Tony's suspicions.
I felt a sudden sense of relief. "Oh, well," I said, "I have almond shaped eyes." She probably just has eyes like mine."
It is true; my eyes are shared that way. But looking over at my husband, I could tell this didn't comfort him.
The neonatologist spoke up, saying that the only way we would know definitively whether she had Down Syndrome or not is through a chromosome test, which would take 24 hours.
By this time, she was already in an incubator. I was not able to hold her. They wheeled the incubator up to my bed. I couldn't really see much of her. There was an infant in a machine hooked up to tubes and monitors. I couldn't look in her eyes, or touch her hands. I felt a strange disconnect. I had carried an infant in my body for eight months. But was this my infant? I felt a ravishing hunger pour through me. The baby in this machine might as well not have been mine. But I knew she was. That was what was so crushing.
I was riddled with guilt. Once again, my body had betrayed me, producing a sickly, struggling infant. In my most intense moments of fear, I would have never imagined what happened with Jared could happen again; and for that matter, be worse. I once again would miss the chance of holding a newborn baby to my chest after it had just left my body; an experience many women say was one of the peak experiences of their lives; the essence of what it means to be a woman.
My doctor stood by my bed and held my hand as I cried.
They wheeled me back to my room. The look of devastation on Tony's face broke my heart. I felt as though I had disappointed him. I didn't know what to say to him.
I tried to be positive for his sake. "Well, Down Syndrome is not the end of the world," I said. "At least the baby is alive."
A moment later the doctors would bring news that would start us on a journey like no other, and would change our lives forever. At that second, our universe was permanently altered.
Two neonatologists entered my room. I don't remember the words they said verbatim, but they went something like this: "we cannot feed the baby. Her esophagus appears to not be connected. We are preparing to transport her to UCLA for surgery."
I asked him again. "Does she have Down Syndrome?"
"We will not perform the tests here because she will be leaving," one of the doctors said. "They will perform the test at UCLA."
With that, they left. There were no words to say between us. We just sat there, unmoving, as stationary as stone. There was only shock. And silence. A deeper silence than I have ever experienced before, or since.
Like everything in life went black.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Labor Waves and Missing Husbands
Labor Waves and Missing Husbands
Luckily, as we walked into the hospital, there was my doctor. I was relieved to see him.
"My water broke," I said to him.
He smiled positively. "Well, then it looks like you're gonna have a baby. Let's check you out."
Off to triage we went. The first thing I wanted to know is whether the baby's head was down. The last thing I wanted was another breech birth.
"Her head is down," he said.
I signed with relief. It was probably the only thing I felt relief about. My mind kept going back ten years ago to gavache tubes, and NICU units, and days and days of waiting for a pre-mie to come home.
I was admitted. Tony filled the papers out. "We are going to give you a magnesium-sulfide drip," said the doctor. "I know you've had this before." We want to see if we can stop the labor. If this works, you may have to go home with an I.V. We'll see what happens."
In the room, Tony slept in a miserably uncomfortable sofa couch. When morning approached, things were looking okay. I had no contractions.
Tony was so tired he could barely function. I told him to go home, and get some rest. I was doing fine.
So there I laid in the bed, waiting again. I tried to distract myself with the TV. I called my parents. I called my mother-in-law. I tried to sleep, to no avail. Toward the end of the day, the phone rang.
It was Tony. "Is there anything you want?" he asked
My mouth was as dry as dirt. "Yeah, I said. I want popsicles. An entire box."
"Did you check with the doctor to see if that is okay?"
I hadn't eaten much of anything. I was afraid if I had any complications and needed surgery, and if had a full stomach, I would have problems. "Just bring the box," I told him, "and we'll figure it out when you get here."
Turned out I could have the Popsicles. I think I ate at least four. A few friends came by to see if I needed anything. So far, so good, no contractions.
Everybody went home. I was alone again. But I was calm and feeling okay. I actually thought I might be able to sleep.
I was woken up around midnight. "The doctor is taking you off the magnesium-sulfide," said the nurse. "The baby's heart rate is slowing."
I felt my stomach twist. "What happens if I go into labor?"
The nurse didn't answer me as she disconnected the I.V.
Within a hour I was having contractions. This went on through the night.
If you've had a child, you know that labor comes in waves. They start, they peak, they release. And being hooked up to a labor monitor, you can see just how the contractions do this. Throughout the night, I watched the monitor. When I saw a peak coming, I would breathe into it. Breathe, and release, breathe and release, like riding a wave. I kept this image in my head, ebbing and flowing through my mind.
At 6am, the labor just stopped.
I was checked. Still only one centimeter dilated. That was a good thing, or at least I thought it was.
I actually ate some solid food for a change, figuring I would be going home. But an hour or so later, they came in with another I.V. bag. "The doctor is going to give you pitocin to start up and regulate the contractions," she said. "He feels that the best thing for you and the baby is for you to have the baby today."
I didn't want pitocin I knew women that had it, and it makes the labor harder, and more intense. I started feeling real fear.
I can't give a reason as to why what happened next happened. God, mother nature, whatever you believe. But before they could hook up the pitocin I.V., the labor started again on its own.
And this was no wave. This was standing out in a tidal wave, getting knocked over, and over and over. It was so intense I couldn't breathe.
They checked me again. Within 15 minutes, I had gone from one centimeter to eight. The baby was coming.
I got to the point where I couldn't tolerate the pain. "Get the goddamn anesthesiologist in here," I told them. "And don't tell me I'm too far along to get a block."
They didn't, thankfully. I had always been terrified of having a "spinal." But this labor was so intense, I would have eaten a bug for some relief. The nurse held me as the doctor shoved the needle into my spine. I felt a pitch that made me jump. It was over in a second.
The relief, thankfully, is almost immediate. They were getting ready to wheel me into the delivery room.
There was only one problem. I couldn't find Tony.
I started calling him when the nurse came in with the pitocin bag. No answer on the cell. No answer on the home phone. I called his work. That is probably where he is. Trouble is, no one was on the switchboard yet, it was too early.
I just kept calling and calling, and the phone just kept ringing, no answer.
They were wheeling me in. I had my cell phone in my hand. I kept dialing, and it kept ringing.
A surprise fifteen minute labor and a missing husband. Wasn't giving birth dramatic enough on its own? This felt out of control crazy; like getting hit by a bus.
Little did I know, I would be writing the book on dramatic childbirth adventures.
Tony was so tired he could barely function. I told him to go home, and get some rest. I was doing fine.
So there I laid in the bed, waiting again. I tried to distract myself with the TV. I called my parents. I called my mother-in-law. I tried to sleep, to no avail. Toward the end of the day, the phone rang.
It was Tony. "Is there anything you want?" he asked
My mouth was as dry as dirt. "Yeah, I said. I want popsicles. An entire box."
"Did you check with the doctor to see if that is okay?"
I hadn't eaten much of anything. I was afraid if I had any complications and needed surgery, and if had a full stomach, I would have problems. "Just bring the box," I told him, "and we'll figure it out when you get here."
Turned out I could have the Popsicles. I think I ate at least four. A few friends came by to see if I needed anything. So far, so good, no contractions.
Everybody went home. I was alone again. But I was calm and feeling okay. I actually thought I might be able to sleep.
I was woken up around midnight. "The doctor is taking you off the magnesium-sulfide," said the nurse. "The baby's heart rate is slowing."
I felt my stomach twist. "What happens if I go into labor?"
The nurse didn't answer me as she disconnected the I.V.
Within a hour I was having contractions. This went on through the night.
If you've had a child, you know that labor comes in waves. They start, they peak, they release. And being hooked up to a labor monitor, you can see just how the contractions do this. Throughout the night, I watched the monitor. When I saw a peak coming, I would breathe into it. Breathe, and release, breathe and release, like riding a wave. I kept this image in my head, ebbing and flowing through my mind.
At 6am, the labor just stopped.
I was checked. Still only one centimeter dilated. That was a good thing, or at least I thought it was.
I actually ate some solid food for a change, figuring I would be going home. But an hour or so later, they came in with another I.V. bag. "The doctor is going to give you pitocin to start up and regulate the contractions," she said. "He feels that the best thing for you and the baby is for you to have the baby today."
I didn't want pitocin I knew women that had it, and it makes the labor harder, and more intense. I started feeling real fear.
I can't give a reason as to why what happened next happened. God, mother nature, whatever you believe. But before they could hook up the pitocin I.V., the labor started again on its own.
And this was no wave. This was standing out in a tidal wave, getting knocked over, and over and over. It was so intense I couldn't breathe.
They checked me again. Within 15 minutes, I had gone from one centimeter to eight. The baby was coming.
I got to the point where I couldn't tolerate the pain. "Get the goddamn anesthesiologist in here," I told them. "And don't tell me I'm too far along to get a block."
They didn't, thankfully. I had always been terrified of having a "spinal." But this labor was so intense, I would have eaten a bug for some relief. The nurse held me as the doctor shoved the needle into my spine. I felt a pitch that made me jump. It was over in a second.
The relief, thankfully, is almost immediate. They were getting ready to wheel me into the delivery room.
There was only one problem. I couldn't find Tony.
I started calling him when the nurse came in with the pitocin bag. No answer on the cell. No answer on the home phone. I called his work. That is probably where he is. Trouble is, no one was on the switchboard yet, it was too early.
I just kept calling and calling, and the phone just kept ringing, no answer.
They were wheeling me in. I had my cell phone in my hand. I kept dialing, and it kept ringing.
A surprise fifteen minute labor and a missing husband. Wasn't giving birth dramatic enough on its own? This felt out of control crazy; like getting hit by a bus.
Little did I know, I would be writing the book on dramatic childbirth adventures.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Being Pregnant - Part Two
Being Pregnant - Part Two
At about the 15th week of pregnancy, at my doctor's appointment, I was told about a test called an APF, which is a test that measures certain hormones and proteins the baby is producing. I was told it was a test that is commonly given to all expectant mothers. This test would be able to tell the whether the baby had Down Syndrome, and other possible problems.
But of course, because of my age, they recommended I have an amniocentesis. With this test, a needle is inserted into the amniotic sac, and fluid is drawn out and tested for abnormalities
I had told the doctor from the beginning that having an "amnio" was out of the question. This test can bring about pre-mature labor, and with my history, that was last thing I needed. But the APF was just a blood test, so I thought I would have that.
When I told Tony this, he couldn't understand why I would have the APF if I was not willing to have the amnio. They would both the same kind of test, really, right? One was just less evasive than the other. Not to mention the APF was notorious for false positives. Besides, what would I do if I got a positive result from the test? What if the baby had something wrong with it? Was I going to have an abortion?
Well, no, I would not have an abortion. Why would I have one? Nothing was going to be wrong. So fine, I thought I won't have any tests. All those things did was make you worry; and spoil your enjoyment of the pregnancy.
So we did nothing. Everything was going to be fine.
Or was it?
In the back of my mind, there was this little voice, saying "but what if?'
I knew very little about Down Syndrome. The only exposure I'd had was from a co-worker whose daughter had it. She had brought the child to the office a few times. She was a sweet little girl.
But I knew, also, some of the agonies my co-worker suffered. The little girl ended up having a hole in her heart, a very common anomaly with Down Syndrome children; that is, nearly 50% of children with Down Syndrome have a heart defect. She spoke also about the little girl having hypotonia, which is a lack of muscle tone, another very common anomaly. This causes delays in the child walking, among other tasks that are fundamental.
Worst of all, she talked about the heartbreak of it all. The grief; a grief that never leaves you for a second.
Heartbreaking.
So all I knew was that having a Down Syndrome baby was not a good thing.
I had purchased a copy of the famous pregnancy book, "What to expect when your expecting." There was a short section on Down Syndrome in the not much bigger section on mothers over 35. It said:
"Mothers over 35 face a somewhat greater chance of having a baby with Down Syndrome. The incidence increases with the mother's age: 1 in 1,250 for 25 year old mothers, about 3 in 1,000 for 30 year old mothers, 1 in 300 for mothers at 35, and at 45, one child in 35. It's speculated that this and other chromosomal abnormalities, though still relatively rare, are more common in older women because their eggs are older. Every woman is born with a lifetime supply of eggs that age along with her. These eggs, over the years, are exposed to such things as drugs, x-rays, infections, and so on."
 |
| The expectant mom |
Shit.
This didn't sound good at all. I felt numb. This couldn't mean me, right?
I didn't read that section of the book again. I didn't want to know anymore. But throughout the pregnancy, it would cross my mind, just for a moment. But I would shut it out, and go on.
But I was about to have bigger problems. One day in May, just short of my 20th week, I was standing in the line at the bank, and I felt a sharp pain in my belly. It was like my stomach was pulling into a knot.
It nearly knocked the wind out of me. I knew what was happening; it felt exactly like it did 11 years ago when pregnant the last time. By the time I got up to the teller the pain had passed, but I was so frightened I burst into tears.
They sat me in New Accounts for a few minutes, till I could regain my composure. I tried to calm myself. Maybe it was just me over reacting. Maybe it was too much lunch. Maybe it was gas.
When I felt better, I drove over to my husband's office. He tried to reassure me.
"Could it be those Braxton-Hicks contractions?"
"Could be," I replied. But I knew I wasn't far enough along to have Braxton-Hicks contractions. I knew in my heart I was having the same premature labor I'd had with Jared.
I was right. I started getting pain all the time. I went to the doctor, and he gave me pills to take to relax the contractions. He told me to drink water and stay hydrated. "
And he put me on bed rest. I was relegated to my bed, told to lay on my right side, and to stay there.
After a while, I finally got some relief. The contractions got to be less. But they never went away.
As any women knows who is put on bed rest during a pregnancy, your world becomes very narrow. My once active life, filled with friends and social events, came to a halt. My entire world became my bed. When friends did visit, they sat with me in the bed. I ate in the bed. I read, talked on the phone, played with the dog, and parented my son in the bed. I got up to go the bathroom. That was it.
And it's a good thing the bathroom wasn't far; because I drank so much water I could have re-floated the Titanic. Every time I went to the doctor, they would ask "Are you hydrated enough? Are you drinking enough water?" I would say "Yes, for heaven's sake; how much damn water do I need to drink? They kept inferring all this water drinking would slow down the contractions. In the end, they turned out to be wrong about that. Needless to say, I'm not a big water drinker anymore.
And it's a good thing the bathroom wasn't far; because I drank so much water I could have re-floated the Titanic. Every time I went to the doctor, they would ask "Are you hydrated enough? Are you drinking enough water?" I would say "Yes, for heaven's sake; how much damn water do I need to drink? They kept inferring all this water drinking would slow down the contractions. In the end, they turned out to be wrong about that. Needless to say, I'm not a big water drinker anymore.
I acquired some rather strange pleasures. One of them was an addiction to Soap Operas. Now, as a child, all the women in my family were avid fans of these "stories." I grew up with all the famous soap operas of the 1960s, like "Love of Life," and "Search for Tomorrow." My mother, aunt and grandmother would talk about the characters in these programs as if they were family. "Did you see what Joe did to Ann, why, what a sonofabitch he is," and "I sure hope Joan can get Don away from that hussy Mary."
Giving these TV characters real personas drove my father crazy. He thought it was idiotic. "They're TV characters, for chrissake," he would say. "There's not even real." I remember as a kid I thought it was pretty funny. And when these programs were pre-empted for things like, the Watergate Hearing in the early 1970's, everyone was mortified. "I so sick of having my stories interrupted for this Watergate crap," my mother would say. "Who cares about Nixon and all his cronies?"
America was hanging in the balance. But "As the World Turns," was not on, so the things were just not right with the world.
Funny thing is, during my bed rest, "As the World Turns," became pretty important to me. I couldn't wait to see if Carly was going to stay with Jack, or if Jack would go with the good girl, Julia. Or if Lily would stay with Holden, and who was sleeping with whose husband, etc, etc.
As I said, your world gets a little narrow.
My brain just didn't work the same way. I was always a voracious reader. But the only thing I could read was stuff that had to do with having the baby. My focus and concentration were not there. I couldn't think about anything else. My entire being was consumed with holding onto this baby.
One of the things we spent time trying to figure out is what most expectant parents usually spend a great deal of time on, that is, figuring out what to name their child. I used to think if I ever had a girl, I would name her Michaela. I had a friend years ago, who had a friend with this name, and she pronounced it "Mish-slay-la." I never forgot that name, and really wanted to give my daughter that name. But when I started to think about it, I thought maybe this wasn't a great idea. I am not one that believes in these overly unusual, weirdly pronounced, oddly spelled names. When you consider that a person has to go through their entire life on a daily basis using a name, calling them things like "Apple" or "Moon Unit" are just fundamentally wrong.
I was worried people would be struggling with the pronunciation, calling her "Michael a" or "Mick kay la" or just constantly not getting it right.
So I was beginning to lean toward something simpler; something people would have no trouble with. "Emma" was a name I always loved. So I considered that for a while.
Then I had a brainstorm. It was in the spelling. If I could figure out how to spell it in such a way that people could easily pronounce it, maybe that would work. So I got out a pen and paper, and tried to configure all these different spellings.
I had forgotten that I had done this before with my own name when I was 13 years old. The name on my birth certificate is "Cynthia" and my parents spelled my nickname "Cindy." At 13, I saw it spelled "Cyndi" in a book. So I took it a step further, and made my name "Cyndee." I started writing it on my papers at school. All was well until Mr. Mortensen, my eighth grade math teacher, who lived down the street, happened to mention to my mother he had a new student in his class. There was no more "Cindy," but there was a "Cyndee."
This created a small scandal in my family. My mother wasn't happy about it, but she didn't tell me to quit doing it. So I kept it, and it stuck.
So like I did with my own name all those years ago, I played with the letters. Finally I had it. The name was essentially "Mish-shay-la." Mishayla. That was it. I had the name!!
Also, we were working on a nursery. I still had Jared's crib stored in my ex-husband's garage. It was a white canopy crib. I purchased this crib before Jared's birth, during the period when we were all certain he was girl. It would certainly be more appropriate for Mishayla than it was for Jared. Of course, all these things are for the parents anyway. What does the baby really care? With a crib was a white dresser and changing table. Perfect.
Then there was the matter of the theme in the room. I had wanted Babar the elephant. Babar had been my childhood favorite. I had hours of enjoyment with those books, and I thought it would make a great nursery. But at that time, there didn't seem to be a lot of things to purchase for a "Babar" nursery.
But then Tony suggested a Peter Rabbit theme. He had found one of Jared's picture books on Peter Rabbit, and said he could paint it. Being the extremely talented scenic artist he is, I said great. I knew anything he did would be awesome. What an amazing gift to your child; to have a nursery created for them by their parent!!
In June, we got the terrible news that Tony's father, who had a stroke in April, had taken a turn for the worse. James Andrew Moore passed away June 11, 1999, at the age of 62. He left behind a wife, five children, and at the time, 9 grandchildren. He would not live to see our Mishayla, or another eight of his grandchildren come into the world. He would have loved them all!!!
There was no way in my condition I was going to be able to fly, so Tony went back to Minnesota, and I stayed home.
I don't know whether it was all the stress, but suddenly the contractions got worse. One afternoon, they were a few minutes apart. Oddly enough, some friends, who were just out driving around, stopped by the house to see how I was doing. When they knocked on the door, I was there with my purse.
"Take me to the hospital," I told them. "I don't think I'm gonna hold this baby any longer."
By the time I got to the hospital, the contractions had ceased, but I was admitted to the hospital anyway, and triaged. Of course, my doctor wasn't on call. I was greeted by a Dr. Vora, who I'd heard about from friends was quite a character.
She didn't disappoint. She had an accent I couldn't identify. But her English was clear.
"You're beginning to efface, and you're 1 centimeter dilated. You must stay in bed. And you no sex."
Me no sex? I thought. "Don't worry," I told her. "That's about the farthest thing from anybody's mind at the moment."
So my friends took me home, and I went back to bed. My husband buried his father, and came home.
June turned into July. We finished the nursery, and I was doing better as far as the contractions went. But I still spent a lot of time in bed resting, drinking my water, and waiting.
I was hanging on. The last week of July, at 32 weeks, I had an appointment with the doctor. "You're hanging in there," he said. "If we can just get your to 36 weeks, we will take you off the medications, and let the baby come."
So I had to make it four more weeks. I was feeling positive, like maybe it could happen.
On the evening of Sunday, August 1, I went to bed around ten. I woke a few hours later in a flood. It reminded me of taking a gallon jug of milk when it was full, and turning it over. I had never seen so much water. There was only one thing that could be.
I called the doctor, getting the answering service. I was told to get to the hospital right away. I was 33 weeks into the pregnancy. Once again, I would deliver a pre-mature infant.
Little did I know, prematurity would be the least of my troubles.
One of the things we spent time trying to figure out is what most expectant parents usually spend a great deal of time on, that is, figuring out what to name their child. I used to think if I ever had a girl, I would name her Michaela. I had a friend years ago, who had a friend with this name, and she pronounced it "Mish-slay-la." I never forgot that name, and really wanted to give my daughter that name. But when I started to think about it, I thought maybe this wasn't a great idea. I am not one that believes in these overly unusual, weirdly pronounced, oddly spelled names. When you consider that a person has to go through their entire life on a daily basis using a name, calling them things like "Apple" or "Moon Unit" are just fundamentally wrong.
I was worried people would be struggling with the pronunciation, calling her "Michael a" or "Mick kay la" or just constantly not getting it right.
So I was beginning to lean toward something simpler; something people would have no trouble with. "Emma" was a name I always loved. So I considered that for a while.
Then I had a brainstorm. It was in the spelling. If I could figure out how to spell it in such a way that people could easily pronounce it, maybe that would work. So I got out a pen and paper, and tried to configure all these different spellings.
I had forgotten that I had done this before with my own name when I was 13 years old. The name on my birth certificate is "Cynthia" and my parents spelled my nickname "Cindy." At 13, I saw it spelled "Cyndi" in a book. So I took it a step further, and made my name "Cyndee." I started writing it on my papers at school. All was well until Mr. Mortensen, my eighth grade math teacher, who lived down the street, happened to mention to my mother he had a new student in his class. There was no more "Cindy," but there was a "Cyndee."
This created a small scandal in my family. My mother wasn't happy about it, but she didn't tell me to quit doing it. So I kept it, and it stuck.
So like I did with my own name all those years ago, I played with the letters. Finally I had it. The name was essentially "Mish-shay-la." Mishayla. That was it. I had the name!!
Also, we were working on a nursery. I still had Jared's crib stored in my ex-husband's garage. It was a white canopy crib. I purchased this crib before Jared's birth, during the period when we were all certain he was girl. It would certainly be more appropriate for Mishayla than it was for Jared. Of course, all these things are for the parents anyway. What does the baby really care? With a crib was a white dresser and changing table. Perfect.
Then there was the matter of the theme in the room. I had wanted Babar the elephant. Babar had been my childhood favorite. I had hours of enjoyment with those books, and I thought it would make a great nursery. But at that time, there didn't seem to be a lot of things to purchase for a "Babar" nursery.
But then Tony suggested a Peter Rabbit theme. He had found one of Jared's picture books on Peter Rabbit, and said he could paint it. Being the extremely talented scenic artist he is, I said great. I knew anything he did would be awesome. What an amazing gift to your child; to have a nursery created for them by their parent!!
In June, we got the terrible news that Tony's father, who had a stroke in April, had taken a turn for the worse. James Andrew Moore passed away June 11, 1999, at the age of 62. He left behind a wife, five children, and at the time, 9 grandchildren. He would not live to see our Mishayla, or another eight of his grandchildren come into the world. He would have loved them all!!!
There was no way in my condition I was going to be able to fly, so Tony went back to Minnesota, and I stayed home.
I don't know whether it was all the stress, but suddenly the contractions got worse. One afternoon, they were a few minutes apart. Oddly enough, some friends, who were just out driving around, stopped by the house to see how I was doing. When they knocked on the door, I was there with my purse.
"Take me to the hospital," I told them. "I don't think I'm gonna hold this baby any longer."
By the time I got to the hospital, the contractions had ceased, but I was admitted to the hospital anyway, and triaged. Of course, my doctor wasn't on call. I was greeted by a Dr. Vora, who I'd heard about from friends was quite a character.
She didn't disappoint. She had an accent I couldn't identify. But her English was clear.
"You're beginning to efface, and you're 1 centimeter dilated. You must stay in bed. And you no sex."
Me no sex? I thought. "Don't worry," I told her. "That's about the farthest thing from anybody's mind at the moment."
So my friends took me home, and I went back to bed. My husband buried his father, and came home.
June turned into July. We finished the nursery, and I was doing better as far as the contractions went. But I still spent a lot of time in bed resting, drinking my water, and waiting.
I was hanging on. The last week of July, at 32 weeks, I had an appointment with the doctor. "You're hanging in there," he said. "If we can just get your to 36 weeks, we will take you off the medications, and let the baby come."
So I had to make it four more weeks. I was feeling positive, like maybe it could happen.
On the evening of Sunday, August 1, I went to bed around ten. I woke a few hours later in a flood. It reminded me of taking a gallon jug of milk when it was full, and turning it over. I had never seen so much water. There was only one thing that could be.
I called the doctor, getting the answering service. I was told to get to the hospital right away. I was 33 weeks into the pregnancy. Once again, I would deliver a pre-mature infant.
Little did I know, prematurity would be the least of my troubles.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Being Pregnant - Part One
Being Pregnant - Part One
So I was beginning to settle into the idea of having a baby, and bringing a new life into the world. I was getting more excited, and for one reason in particular. Maybe this baby would be girl. It was a childhood dream of mine to have a daughter. I think some of this goes back to my cherished relationship with my mother, and wanting to duplicate that relationship with a female child. The bond I have to my mother, even to this day, is one of the strongest of my entire life. She is the first person that taught me what is it to give unconditional love, and I would in no way be the person I am today without her.
When pregnant with Jared, I was sure I was carrying a girl. Having a boy never entered my head, which was clearly magical thinking, but what can I say? In my mind, through my entire life, when I thought of having children, I thought of having girls. Weird thing is, so did my whole family. We were literally planning for a girl. My mother was sure I was having a girl; I was carrying all around, and that meant a girl, because when you carry a boy, you carry all in front. I think also my mother-in-law was hoping for a girl. In the Jewish faith, children are named for the deceased, and Scott and I had talked about naming a girl Robyn, after his sister.
So when I was in the delivery room, and I looked up to see the baby, and I saw it was a boy, I admit I was shocked. I never thought about having a boy. It was kind of like the feeling you get when you are at a restaurant, and you are dying for steak, and they bring you fish. You feel a pang of disappointment.
But unlike the restaurant, you can't send it back.
Please understand these feelings lasted for maybe a few minutes. Then I realized I was being an idiot. All I cared about then was Jared recovering from his ordeal, and being able to bring him home. He was already in the NICU by then. I would have done anything for him to survive. Jared was like a gift you never expect; one of those gifts where you think you want something desperately, and you end up getting something different, that is infinitely better. This makes him all the more special to me, now and always.
But unlike the restaurant, you can't send it back.
Please understand these feelings lasted for maybe a few minutes. Then I realized I was being an idiot. All I cared about then was Jared recovering from his ordeal, and being able to bring him home. He was already in the NICU by then. I would have done anything for him to survive. Jared was like a gift you never expect; one of those gifts where you think you want something desperately, and you end up getting something different, that is infinitely better. This makes him all the more special to me, now and always.
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| My wonderful son, Jared Nathaniel Rosoff, at three months |
But now, ten years later, I had my boy, I wanted the girl even more. Of course I would love any child I had, but to have a daughter? That would be awesome.
What wasn't so awesome was the morning sickness. Since I didn't have it at all carrying Jared, it was a new thing for me to be violently nauseated the entire day. It is hard to explain morning sickness to someone who has never experienced it. It's not like getting sick to your stomach from, let's say, eating something that doesn't agree with you. This is a deep, seering nausea that makes you sick all over. You have to keep your stomach full, or you feel worse. I carried Saltine crackers in my purse everywhere I went. It was the only thing I really wanted to eat.
I had just taken a job as a receptionist,, starting two days before I took the infamous pregnancy test. It was not a job I really was thrilled about, but my little part-time jobs teaching writing and coordinating art events was just not bringing in enough money. This reception job was in a very high traffic area; lots of people in and out, and the phone was just insane. I was also responsible for doing heavy volumes of photocopying. Now, this was a real challenge because the copy machine was nowhere near the phone, and the phone had to be answered in three rings. I felt like that episode of "I Love Lucy," where she is on the conveyor belt with the candies. And to top it off, I was trying to sneak eat the crackers so I didn't feel like I would die.
Here I was standing at the copier, crackers in one hand, photocopies in the other, running to the phone. I looked like a deranged rabbit, running and stopping to nibble. Then of course people complained because they couldn't understand me because my mouth was full. I was finally told I would not be able to have any kind of food at my desk. At that point, I had to break down and tell the truth, I was pregnant, and had morning sickness. A few days later I was called into Human Resources and terminated. Poor performance, they said.
As it turned out, it was for the best, because as the pregnancy progressed, I would not be able to work; I would not be able to do much of anything. Not to mention that the job itself just sucked.
Luckily, at about the 10th week, I didn't feel sick anymore. Just like that, like a switch turning off. It just kind of sneaks away from you. Thank goodness!!
I had just taken a job as a receptionist,, starting two days before I took the infamous pregnancy test. It was not a job I really was thrilled about, but my little part-time jobs teaching writing and coordinating art events was just not bringing in enough money. This reception job was in a very high traffic area; lots of people in and out, and the phone was just insane. I was also responsible for doing heavy volumes of photocopying. Now, this was a real challenge because the copy machine was nowhere near the phone, and the phone had to be answered in three rings. I felt like that episode of "I Love Lucy," where she is on the conveyor belt with the candies. And to top it off, I was trying to sneak eat the crackers so I didn't feel like I would die.
Here I was standing at the copier, crackers in one hand, photocopies in the other, running to the phone. I looked like a deranged rabbit, running and stopping to nibble. Then of course people complained because they couldn't understand me because my mouth was full. I was finally told I would not be able to have any kind of food at my desk. At that point, I had to break down and tell the truth, I was pregnant, and had morning sickness. A few days later I was called into Human Resources and terminated. Poor performance, they said.
As it turned out, it was for the best, because as the pregnancy progressed, I would not be able to work; I would not be able to do much of anything. Not to mention that the job itself just sucked.
Luckily, at about the 10th week, I didn't feel sick anymore. Just like that, like a switch turning off. It just kind of sneaks away from you. Thank goodness!!
I was enjoying all of the planning that goes into expecting a child. We made my first appointment with the obstetrician a family affair. I was four weeks along when Tony and Jared and I went off to the doctor's office. We went into the ultrasound room, and as Tony and Jared stood up by my head, the doctor inserted a tube like camera into my vagina. And that was the first time we saw her.
The doctor was pointing out various things like the placenta, etc. Then he pointed to this white dot.
"There's your baby," he exclaimed.
Jared looked and looked. "That's a baby?" he asked "That's not a baby; that's a dot."
"Well, yes," said the doctor, "It's a dot right now, but it's the beginnings of your brother or sister."
Jared just shook his head. "That's pretty weird," he said.
We were thrilled with our "dot." As a matter of fact, that was her name for a while. "The Dot."
The doctor gave us pictures, and we were the very proud parents of our dot. We showed everybody that picture. It was a beginning.
But even with being happy about having the baby, there were times, when I was alone at home, I would start to feel anxious, and the doubts would creep into my head, and the fears I had that kept me from getting pregnant in the first place would daunt me. What was my life going to be like with an infant? Tony worked a tremendous amount of hours on his job. Very often he was gone on weekends, and weeknights. I would be on my own a lot with this baby. I feared I would become isolated and alone.
With Tony working so much, and Jared spending fifty percent of his time with my ex-husband, I had gotten used to a tremendous amount of freedom. I was creating constantly, writing songs and poetry. I was painting and crafting and just really tapping into this creative part of myself I never knew existed. Would I have to give all of that up? So while I looked forward to having this child, I was also concerned about how the responsibility would alter my life. Would I be able to do the same things I did before?
I tried to keep myself busy to keep my mind from drifting into places it really should not go. I was still working my part-time jobs with the gallery and with my writing group, so I still had that to do.
After a few months, it was time to look at getting at least some maternity clothes. When I was pregnant before, I was able to borrow most of the clothes from friends who had recently given birth. All of us at that time were in our 20s, and had like a club going, one would have the baby, and pass on the clothes to the next expectant mother. But most of my friends now were way past that stage; a good portion of my friends had teenagers now; I even had a few friends my age, or slightly older, that were becoming grandmothers. So the borrowing was definitely out. They for sure didn't have their maternity clothes anymore.
Thank God!!!
My memories of maternity clothes were not fond ones. Anyone who knows me knows I'm somewhat of what they now call a "fashionista." In high school, I was actually accepted to the Fashion Institute's School of Design and Technology (FIDM) to become a fashion buyer. I ultimately decided I wanted to attend a regular college for an academic education, but all my life I have loved fashion.
The maternity clothes I had wore with Jared were terrible. They were big and blousy, with those little puffy cap sleeves. The worst thing was the collars on a great many of these clothes. The little white Peter Pan collars gives off an aura of purity, like a little five year old girl. I always felt there was something intrisically wrong with a visibly pregnant woman wearing a Peter Pan collar. It was an oxymoron; purity and being pregnant. They just didn't go together.
I finally found a catalog where some of the clothes were tolerable and reasonably priced. A good thing too, ten years later, the styles of the maternity clothes had changed, and pregnant women were not wearing those ugly, pseudo-virginally maternity clothes any longer. The maternity clothes were now fitted to the belly. It was now completely acceptable to show you were pregnant, and to celebrate the changes in your body. I was thrilled; and I actually ended up spending way more money than I should have.
It was soon after this that I fell down the stairs.
We have just purchased a small television for Jared to have in his room. Tony took the box with the television up the stairs, set the TV up, and left the box in his room. Of course, being the neat freak I used to be, (I think I have since conquered this obsession a bit), I had to get that giant box out of Jared's room and put it out for the garbage man. Couldn't wait for Tony to do it, or Jared. It had to be done now.
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| My grandmother, Tess Edgerton, with me in 1988. |
There is something you must understand: the women in my family are always falling down. We have a real problem staying on our feet. I can only surmise it is something in our DNA. My grandmother was always falling over. My mother too. My dear late grandmother, who had a marvelous sense of humor about everything, used to say we were all a bunch of "tumble-turds." Where she got this semi-vulgar saying I cannot tell you. But she had many and they were hilarious.
And with me, I have no business living anywhere with stairs. When Scott and I when first married we lived in a townhouse. I fell several times down those stairs.
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| My mother, Bea Gero, and I, 2009 |
Finally I figured out that the key is that I must be able to see my feet. If I came see my feet, I'm fine. I would generally fall doing things like carrying an overly stuffed laundry basket or things like that.
And this time, I was trying to carry that massive TV box. I couldn't see a thing. At about the third stair, I lost my footing. I felt every one of those stairs slamming into me as I went down.
It happened so fast. I found myself sitting on my butt at the bottom of the stairs. Luckily, I had just sort of slid down. But I was scared to death. I sat for a minute, fully expecting to feel pain. Luckily, I didn't have anything but a sore butt.
I figured I was probably okay, but I called the doctor just to be on the safe side. The nurse said to come in.
I called Tony, and over to the doctor we went.
The doctor performed an ultrasound, and thankfully, everything was in its place still, and I felt fine, other than feeling like an idiot.
But I try and believe something wonderful can come out of something bad. I was not scheduled to have an ultrasound, but since I fell, they did one, and during that ultrasound, we discovered something wonderful. We discovered that wishes do come true.
"I definitely see a vulva," the doctor said. "I'm positive you are having a girl."
It was, without a doubt, one of the happiest moments of my life.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Prologue - How I got pregnant
Prologue:
Mix Christmas Eve, success, a great party, and a fabulous liqueur, and what do you get??
Pregnant? No way!!!
Pregnant? No way!!!
It was Christmas Eve, 1998, and life was going well for myself and my husband of four years. Tony was doing well at his job, and I was at last, at age 38, doing a dream job, working in the arts, both as an art gallery curator, and conducting writing seminars. I had just published a book of poetry, another dream of mine. My photography was also being reviewed, and published. We are definitely on a roll.
My son from my previous marriage, Jared, who was 9, was also healthy and doing well. His father and I had shared custody, and he split his time between our house and his dad's. He was growing up to be smart, funny, and just an all around wonderful kid.
We had just purchased our first home the year before, and was busy renovating it. Life was damn near perfect.
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| Tony and me, circa 1993 |
At a Christmas party, we were all laughing and eating and having a wonderful time. Suddenly, I turned, and a friend was sitting behind me with this exotic looking bottle filled with an amber liquid.
"What's that?" I asked.
"This," he said, "is a liqueur I got in Europe two years ago. Never opened the bottle. It's supposed to be the best. Shall we open it and see?"
Well, sure, why not, I thought. It's Christmas after all. Let's open it up and celebrate.
And fabulous it was. Went down like water. By the end of the evening, the bottle was gone.
By the time the party was over, I was feeling like I could do anything. I could fly, I could stop nucleur wars, I could single-handedly bring about world peace. And when I got home with my husband, I also thought I didn't need to use any birth control.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Hell, yeah," I exposulated in my intoxicated stupor. "I'm 38 years old. How fertile can I be?
As it turned out, fertile enough.
I woke the next morning in a panic. What have I done? Well, I'm sure I'm not pregnant from not using birth control one time.
I did what I always do when I'm in a crisis. I called my mother.
"Do you think I'm pregnant?" I asked, like my mother was somehow clairvoyant.
"No," she said, " you're much too early in your cycle. I'm sure you're fine."
Well, what a relief that was. If mom said it, it had to be true. Didn't think much more about it, till my extremely regular period did not come.
I tried to ignore it. Maybe if I didn't think about, it would go away. I was just late. That was all. I also tried to sell this to Tony.
"You late? You're never late. You're probably pregnant."
"I'm not." I insisted. "I'm just late."
Another week passed. The queen of denial (that being me) continued to reign.
Till her king, Tony that is, went to the market and got a pregnancy test.
"Fine," I said. "I'll take the damn thing if it will shut you up."
I went into the bathroom to take the test. I took it, leaving it on the back of the toilet tank. I wanted nothing to do with it.
"I did it," I said. "Go look in a few minutes if you feel like it. I already know what it will say."
After a few minutes, he went to look. "You're pregnant." he yelled.
"Oh, bull, I said, "you're pulling my leg."
He took the test, and stuck it in my face. The little pink plus sign was staring me in the face.
My world froze. I screamed and cried. I had ruined everything. My life was finally where I wanted it, and I had gone and gotten myself pregnant.
Tony tried his best to comfort me. "It will be alright," he said, over and over. To this day, I don't know whether he was trying to comfort me or himself.
But luckily, for some reason, I woke the next morning realizing this wasn't the tragedy I thought it would be. We had actually been toying with the idea of having a child for the past year, but every time we got serious, somebody would get cold feet. It was as if I was taken out of our hands, and decided for us. I was going to have another chance to be a mother, along with all the other good things in my life right now. What could be more perfect?
When we called our families, we got mixed reviews. Tony's family, who all lived in Minnesota, were thrilled. This was Tony's first child, and his parents and four sisters and brothers were all excited that we were at last going to get with the program and have a baby. One of his brothers had three children, one sister had five. Having babies in the Moore family was nearly the family business.
My parents, who had been retired to northern Nevada for a few years by now, I think were a little less excited. They knew how much I wanted my career to succeed, and the timing of this pregnancy was terrible in that regard. I was also at a high risk age for a pregnancy. My father was concerned I was too old; that I would have complications. I explained that while of course this was true, most pregnancies, over 90% of them, even with older mothers, turn out fine. I wasn't terribly worried. I was just going to try and enjoy this, and put my fears aside.
My parent's fears were justified for another good reason. I had a history of premature delivery. I had contractions from about the 20th week when carrying Jared, and he was born at 35 weeks. The birth had been potentially disastrous; I delivered him posterior breech, and the doctors were clueless he was in that position. The only thing that probably saved him and me was the fact he was only five pounds. Then he wasn't breathing, and had to be resuscitated. He spent 12 days in the NICU because he could not eat normally. It was a terrible experience, and one that I think kept me from getting pregnant again. In the back of my mind, I just didn't want to watch another one of my children fighting for their life, and expose myself again to that unbearable agony. It was, to that time, the worst thing I had experienced.
But I was already pregnant. And the chances of going through something like that again were nil. I tried to reassure my father everything would be fine this time.
Then there was the task of telling my son.
You must understand, Jared was probably the most doted on child ever born. He was the first child to his father and I, and the first grandchild to both sets of grandparents. Jared's relationship with his paternal grandparents was particularly special; Scott was an only child, and not by choice. His sister had passed away at 16 from Cystic Fibrosis, leaving Scott's parents broken and grief stricken. Having a grandchild had been a dream come true for them, and they enjoyed it to the fullest.
I don't think Jared ever imagined he would have a sibling. His father had not re-married after our divorce, and I had made it clear to the world that, for a variety of reasons, Tony and I did not plan on having a child. When I look back in retrospect, maybe I should have somehow better prepared him for the news.
So when I told him, he was silent. He just sat there.....
Then he burst into tears.
I felt like a knife was being inserted in my guts. I wanted to throw up. What had I done?
"What about me?" he asked through his tears.
What could I say but the truth; I loved him; that he was truly the love of my life. I had waited till I was nearly 30 to have him, and I could not love another human being more. But I could also love more than one person, and I had enough love for him, and for any other child I may have.
My love for him was constant, eternal and would never change. Nothing and no one could ever alter it.
He seemed reassured, and thanks to his loving father and grandparents, he finally accepted the idea of a half-sibling, and even welcomed it.
It was a shock to us all, Lord knows. Me most of all. Just goes to show how, in one minute you have one life, and the next minute, another.
At this time, thankfully, I did not know, nor did those in my life know, how true that statement would become.
When we called our families, we got mixed reviews. Tony's family, who all lived in Minnesota, were thrilled. This was Tony's first child, and his parents and four sisters and brothers were all excited that we were at last going to get with the program and have a baby. One of his brothers had three children, one sister had five. Having babies in the Moore family was nearly the family business.
My parents, who had been retired to northern Nevada for a few years by now, I think were a little less excited. They knew how much I wanted my career to succeed, and the timing of this pregnancy was terrible in that regard. I was also at a high risk age for a pregnancy. My father was concerned I was too old; that I would have complications. I explained that while of course this was true, most pregnancies, over 90% of them, even with older mothers, turn out fine. I wasn't terribly worried. I was just going to try and enjoy this, and put my fears aside.
My parent's fears were justified for another good reason. I had a history of premature delivery. I had contractions from about the 20th week when carrying Jared, and he was born at 35 weeks. The birth had been potentially disastrous; I delivered him posterior breech, and the doctors were clueless he was in that position. The only thing that probably saved him and me was the fact he was only five pounds. Then he wasn't breathing, and had to be resuscitated. He spent 12 days in the NICU because he could not eat normally. It was a terrible experience, and one that I think kept me from getting pregnant again. In the back of my mind, I just didn't want to watch another one of my children fighting for their life, and expose myself again to that unbearable agony. It was, to that time, the worst thing I had experienced.
But I was already pregnant. And the chances of going through something like that again were nil. I tried to reassure my father everything would be fine this time.
Then there was the task of telling my son.
You must understand, Jared was probably the most doted on child ever born. He was the first child to his father and I, and the first grandchild to both sets of grandparents. Jared's relationship with his paternal grandparents was particularly special; Scott was an only child, and not by choice. His sister had passed away at 16 from Cystic Fibrosis, leaving Scott's parents broken and grief stricken. Having a grandchild had been a dream come true for them, and they enjoyed it to the fullest.
I don't think Jared ever imagined he would have a sibling. His father had not re-married after our divorce, and I had made it clear to the world that, for a variety of reasons, Tony and I did not plan on having a child. When I look back in retrospect, maybe I should have somehow better prepared him for the news.
So when I told him, he was silent. He just sat there.....
Then he burst into tears.
I felt like a knife was being inserted in my guts. I wanted to throw up. What had I done?
"What about me?" he asked through his tears.
What could I say but the truth; I loved him; that he was truly the love of my life. I had waited till I was nearly 30 to have him, and I could not love another human being more. But I could also love more than one person, and I had enough love for him, and for any other child I may have.
My love for him was constant, eternal and would never change. Nothing and no one could ever alter it.
He seemed reassured, and thanks to his loving father and grandparents, he finally accepted the idea of a half-sibling, and even welcomed it.
It was a shock to us all, Lord knows. Me most of all. Just goes to show how, in one minute you have one life, and the next minute, another.
At this time, thankfully, I did not know, nor did those in my life know, how true that statement would become.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Introduction
INTRODUCTION
These are song lyrics I wrote about my daughter Mishayla Rose, who was born with Down Syndrome:
The day you came into my life
I knew not what to do
They said that you’d be different
The possibilities were few;
But the moment I laid eyes on you
The greatest love shined through
A shade of love I’d never known
Colored my world
When I gave birth to you
And now I see the world
In an ever changing hue
The reds are so much brighter
There’s beauty in the blue
You sparkle like a rainbow
So radiant and fine
The world will see such wonder
When Mishayla’s colors shine
And now you’re part of every day
and everything I do
You’re a prism with a perfect glow
A clarity that’s new
And everything I’ve done before
has readied me for you
The angels shined their special light
down on my heart
Now my purpose has come true
And now I see the world
In an ever changing hue
The reds are so much brighter
There’s beauty in the blue
You sparkle like a rainbow
So radiant and fine
The world will see such wonder
When Mishayla’s colors shine
The world will see such beauty
It will make them
Change their mind.
It's hard to believe that nearly 12 years have past since I wrote these words; since this marvelous creature we named Mishayla Rose (pronounced Mish-shay-la) came into our lives. She has brought to our lives joy, mystery, pain, and wonder beyond any possible imagining. She has taught me more about the value of life, all life, more than anybody I've come across in my 51 years of being on this earth. It is a story I have been waiting to tell; I know the telling will bring back so many memories; some nearly euphoric, some will recall times of agony and desperation, not to mention the downright terror that any parent that gives birth to a child with a disability will experience.
But it is the time to tell it. With the advent of a blood test that will tell if a fetus has Down Syndrome at about the tenth week of pregnancy, it is likely that abortions will increase with the diagnosis. Already, even without this simple test, over 90% of parents who get this diagnosis will abort. As you can surmise, this test will make it even higher. As a matter of fact, some predictions have gone as far as to say that if the test goes into worldwide use, by the year 2030, Down Syndrome will be wiped out.
I suppose there would be some that would say, well, that's a good thing. No more retardation, heart defects or bowel defects. And with some of the political attitudes I hear out there right now, no more need for people who need "entitlements" either.
Please understand: I have been a pro-choice advocate all my life. At this writing and beyond, I will remain one. I would never suppose to tell another parent what to do, or what choices are right for them. This story is not written as a personal political manifesto either. It is not my purpose in writing it to advance any political agenda. It is my purpose to enlighten and to educate.
What I would propose, is that when the diagnosis is given, people are given accurate information. Most importantly, they are given, with that diagnosis, the hope that my husband and I were given. That they are made to realize that having a child with Down Syndrome, in and of itself, is not always a good reason for an abortion. In fact, they would be missing out on a parenting experience like no other, and a chance to give and get pure and unconditional love.
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| Mishayla Today |
What could be better? Not much!!
Some would say raising a child with a disability is too hard. That life is tough enough.
Don't look now; but I was one of those people. And look how Mishayla's colors have changed my view, changed my world. And the truth is, raising any child is a challenge. The challenges are just different when the child has Down Syndrome.
And like raising any child, the rewards are immense.
I hope reading our story will let "everyone see the beauty" and "change" a few minds, as the song says.
I will tell this story in chapter form, as if reading a regularly published book, as I write them. May you find it inspirational, especially those of you with newborns with a Down Syndrome diagnosis. You are about to embark on a journey like no other. You are truly blessed.
Blessings,
Cyndee Gero-Moore
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