Because I am home now, and see that Aleida is rapidly returning to her old self, even better, I can finally write about the rest of the hospital stay. Now that I can actually see and feel things getting back to "normal," I can write about how far away normalcy seemed less than a week ago.
After surgery, the big goal was extubation- removal of the breathing tube in Aleida's nose. As mentioned in a previous entry, extubation got delayed because AJ had a delayed (but pretty normal) inflammatory response. She was puffy and distended. Even her eyelids were swollen, so she couldn't open her eyes all the way, and when she did, she did not look like my baby.
Seeing her with the tube in was heart-breaking- especially when she was puffy. I could touch her and talk to her, but I could not hold her or feed her. For the almost 3 days the tube was in, she received only IV sugar water. As her primary source of nutrition, I was totally stressed out by the lack of calories. It may be routine, but it didn't feel right. Maybe this stems from all the focus we put on weight gain in the first months of life.
The tube did finally come out, and I thought, "It will all get better from here." She was able to cry once the tube was out, a sound that actually relieved me. She was hoarse and weak, but she had a voice again.
Holding her was nice, a much needed physical connection, but ultimately unsatisfying. She still had chest tubes, IVs and wires coming out of her little body, so just picking her up and moving her 2 feet to the chair beside her hospital crib was a 3-person job. She felt extremely fragile with all those connections, not to mention the incision.
This is what I wish I'd been prepared for: extubation means no more sedation. No more sedation means more awareness. More awareness equals more pain. Getting the tube out was certainly a step in the right direction, but a stage of the process for which I was unprepared. The night after her extubation may go down as the longest and most difficult night of my life. The nurses worked hard to manage Aleida's pain, but she was still uncomfortable all night. She would sleep for maybe an hour at a time, then wake up crying. Nurses would give medication if they could. Sometimes they would have to wait to keep her levels within limits. I would wake up and come to her from my little ICU bed by the window, and the nurse would place her in my arms in the chair next to her crib. She would cry and squirm, but ultimately settle down. I held her until I became so deliriously tired that I was afraid of falling asleep and dropping her. Then, I'd call the nurse and she'd help me place her back in the crib and the whole cycle would start over again.
I'd been able to start feeding her again, but it took awhile for her digestive system to kick back on, so though probably ravenous, she was bloated and distended and had trouble latching. I was disappointed that holding her was not the solace I had planned on. I was emotionally worn down from seeing my 3-month-old daughter in pain. I was physically exhausted from sleeping in the ICU for 3 days- which really means not sleeping much at all. In other words, I was nearing a breakdown.
But in the end it was not about me at all. It was about the innocent, ignorant little creature lying in that hospital crib, who clearly did not understand what was going on. Everyone kept telling me, "She's doing great. She looks great. Her numbers are good. She's progressing as we expected." I understand that this is what doctors and nurses have to look for. I really do. But for me, her mother, who sees the distended belly, the bruises from her IVs, and her furrowed brow, numbers mean jackshit. The furrowed brow, especially, broke my heart. She never furrowed her brow before the surgery. Now, every time she was awake, and even sometimes asleep, her little brow would be furrowed in discomfort. She felt so far away from the baby I'd brought into the hospital, that I became convinced that she had been forever changed, and that my smiley, shiny-eyed wonder was gone forever.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Post Op Day 1
I think this event has been traumatic enough that I am grieving it. Or maybe these major life events cause a process similar to the grieving process. Either way, I am in the "Anger" phase.
The nurses and doctors had been hopeful that AJ would spend minimal time on the breathing tube. Unfortunately, she had a delayed inflammatory response and a high heart rate that prevented that optimism from coming to fruition. It's day 2 now and she's still on the tube. Yesterday morning, however, I woke hopeful that I would be holding my baby before the afternoon. So, when it became clear that this would not happen, I started to get angry.
I spent much of yesterday trying to find an outlet for this anger. I'm angry at the situation, clearly. But there is no satisfaction or relief in that. There is no outlet for the tension. I tried to be angry at the docs and nurses who were delaying the removal of the breathing tube. But, I watched them go about their business and knew that they are only doing what is best. I want to hold my daughter, but I don't want to rush into something that could be a mistake and potential set-back.
I tried to be mad at Dave. We'd taken a break from the ICU to jog on the nature trails behind the hospital. After our jog, we were sitting under a shade tree, stretching and watching the fountain in a nearby courtyard. I told him that I'd been trying all morning to be angry at him. He replied, "Well, then you'd have to be mad at yourself too."
"No, I'm not angry at you for Aleida's condition. I was trying to be angry at you for taking me jogging on a trail that was mostly uphill."
He laughed. "Oh yeah. Sorry."
"I can't be mad at you though. Because I feel better."
"I knew you would."
"But I think I'm just looking for something or someone tangible to be mad at. There's no one."
"You could be mad at God."
"If I really believed in him...But even if I did, a real Christian isn't supposed to be mad at God because you are supposed to trust in his will."
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Dave said. "That's almost enough right there to turn an agnostic into an atheist."
So my quest to find something to be mad at failed. I couldn't blame this situation on anyone. It just was.
I caught myself standing by Aleida's bed as she went through a cycle of relative wakefulness and struggled against her tubes and made the crying face but couldn't actually cry. And I noticed that I just kept thinking, "Nobody should have to go through this. Nobody should have to go through this." I meant myself. I meant my baby. I meant my husband and his parents. Nobody should have to go through this.
What does that mean, though? I'm going to get philosophical, but the situation calls for it. If nobody should have to go through this, then nobody should have to go through anything difficult that isn't a product of their own decisions. Nobody should have to go through natural disasters, illness, injury, oppression, loss. But I wonder, without the suffering, would we even notice the joy? Would we feel it as strongly? Isn't part of our enjoyment of the weekend a product of the work week? Would great food taste as good if we had no experience with bad cafeteria fare? You cannot have peaks without valleys. And I believe, the deeper the valley, the higher the peaks seem.
So I know that once this is all over and we are back home, the everyday routine will be sweeter. Our quiet moments will be more cherished, and I will be more grateful for each little smile.
In the mean time, though, this sucks. Nobody should have to go through this. But I've been thinking about what I've heard them ("them" being psychologists and talk show hosts) say about self talk. You can improve your outlook by consciously changing your inner monologue. So, instead of saying to myself, "Nobody should have to go through this," I've been trying to actively tell myself, "We will get through this and be stronger because of it." And when it's all said and done, I'll be the mother who wakes smiling for the nighttime feeding and finds joy in a poopy diaper.
The nurses and doctors had been hopeful that AJ would spend minimal time on the breathing tube. Unfortunately, she had a delayed inflammatory response and a high heart rate that prevented that optimism from coming to fruition. It's day 2 now and she's still on the tube. Yesterday morning, however, I woke hopeful that I would be holding my baby before the afternoon. So, when it became clear that this would not happen, I started to get angry.
I spent much of yesterday trying to find an outlet for this anger. I'm angry at the situation, clearly. But there is no satisfaction or relief in that. There is no outlet for the tension. I tried to be angry at the docs and nurses who were delaying the removal of the breathing tube. But, I watched them go about their business and knew that they are only doing what is best. I want to hold my daughter, but I don't want to rush into something that could be a mistake and potential set-back.
I tried to be mad at Dave. We'd taken a break from the ICU to jog on the nature trails behind the hospital. After our jog, we were sitting under a shade tree, stretching and watching the fountain in a nearby courtyard. I told him that I'd been trying all morning to be angry at him. He replied, "Well, then you'd have to be mad at yourself too."
"No, I'm not angry at you for Aleida's condition. I was trying to be angry at you for taking me jogging on a trail that was mostly uphill."
He laughed. "Oh yeah. Sorry."
"I can't be mad at you though. Because I feel better."
"I knew you would."
"But I think I'm just looking for something or someone tangible to be mad at. There's no one."
"You could be mad at God."
"If I really believed in him...But even if I did, a real Christian isn't supposed to be mad at God because you are supposed to trust in his will."
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Dave said. "That's almost enough right there to turn an agnostic into an atheist."
So my quest to find something to be mad at failed. I couldn't blame this situation on anyone. It just was.
I caught myself standing by Aleida's bed as she went through a cycle of relative wakefulness and struggled against her tubes and made the crying face but couldn't actually cry. And I noticed that I just kept thinking, "Nobody should have to go through this. Nobody should have to go through this." I meant myself. I meant my baby. I meant my husband and his parents. Nobody should have to go through this.
What does that mean, though? I'm going to get philosophical, but the situation calls for it. If nobody should have to go through this, then nobody should have to go through anything difficult that isn't a product of their own decisions. Nobody should have to go through natural disasters, illness, injury, oppression, loss. But I wonder, without the suffering, would we even notice the joy? Would we feel it as strongly? Isn't part of our enjoyment of the weekend a product of the work week? Would great food taste as good if we had no experience with bad cafeteria fare? You cannot have peaks without valleys. And I believe, the deeper the valley, the higher the peaks seem.
So I know that once this is all over and we are back home, the everyday routine will be sweeter. Our quiet moments will be more cherished, and I will be more grateful for each little smile.
In the mean time, though, this sucks. Nobody should have to go through this. But I've been thinking about what I've heard them ("them" being psychologists and talk show hosts) say about self talk. You can improve your outlook by consciously changing your inner monologue. So, instead of saying to myself, "Nobody should have to go through this," I've been trying to actively tell myself, "We will get through this and be stronger because of it." And when it's all said and done, I'll be the mother who wakes smiling for the nighttime feeding and finds joy in a poopy diaper.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Surgery Day
Right now, I'm sitting in the PICU on the morning after Aleida's surgery. I tried to write about the hardest day of my life last night, but I couldn't--too exhausted. Now, after some sleep and more staring at my daughter, I feel less delirious.
Yesterday started for me at 2 am. I set my alarm and woke Aleida to give her one last feeding. She couldn't have any milk after 2:30 am. She had a nice, long, sleepy feed and went back to sleep without issue. I went back to sleep as well, but fitfully. I knew too much to sleep soundly.
We woke at 5:30 am and reached the check-in desk at the hospital just a little after 6:30. AJ was smiling and alert. If she was hungry, she wasn't complaining.
The waterworks started as soon as they took us back to the O.R. waiting rooms. I was anticipating the handover, and I couldn't imagine giving up my baby to people I knew were going to operate on her. Sure, it might be for the best, but it's hard to be that logical in the face of trauma. AJ got a little fussy while they were weighing her and attempting to get a blood pressure. Dave bounced her to sleep and she spent the last 15 minutes of the waiting peacefully sleeping in our arms. I spent the last 15 minutes trying to keep my tears to a gentle stream.
Dave's parents came. They are so supportive and helpful. I can only imagine the burden they carry, having to worry about 2 generations of kin through this ordeal. I am so thankful for them.
We walked down the hallway to the "kissing corner," as they call it. They should call it "crying corner," because this is where I had to hand my baby over to the anesthesiologist. Right before the exchange, AJ opened her eyes. She looked at me calmly, with recognition and love. My heart broke a thousand times in that few second exchange.
They took her away and Dave's parents left Dave and I to cry it out. I felt sick. Exhausted. Scared as I've ever been in my life. Dave's presence and strong, long hug might have been the only thing that kept me from collapse. I remember saying, "Having kids is kind of horrible."
The next hours are a blur, waiting and trying not to think or visualize too much. I remember going to the cafeteria to get breakfast and barely being able to eat. I remember driving home with my mother-in-law to get my phone, which I'd forgotten. I remember walking with Dave to a particularly scenic viewpoint. Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens were imposing and clear in the distance.
The nurse called about 12:30 to let us know surgery was over. We hustled back to the waiting area to meet with the surgeon. He smiled as he came in. Everything went well. No surpises. No complications. He felt confident that Aleida's heart was mended and would do well.
We got to see her about 30 minutes later. She has a breathing tube, 2 chest tubes, a large incision, and several other tubes and lines attached to her. But she still looks like AJ, and that's a relief. I was a bit afraid I wouldn't recognize her.
The care she is getting is amazing. The nurses are so skilled, yet so compassionate. I have spent many hours standing by Aleida's bedside as the nurses hustle and bustle around us. I feel helpless, but grateful. It takes a certain kind of faith, not unlike the religious variety, to stay calm in the face of modern medicine.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Aleida slept. Dave and I watched her. Dave's parents relieved us long enough to go home, shower, and stop at Trader Joe's to get some snacks. By the time we got to TJ's we were exhausted. I'm sure a 3rd person would not have been able to take part in our conversation, because I don't think we were really making sense.
As we checked out at TJ's, the cashier asked us, "What have you guys been up to today?"
My mind started racing with possible responses. "We've just been hanging out at the hospital waiting for our 3-month-old to get out of open heart surgery," didn't seem an appropriate answer to such an innocent question, however true it may be. I didn't want to share that with this stranger.
Luckily, Dave was a bit quicker to respond, though there was still an awkward pause. "Oh, not much. Just hanging out. Now we're getting some munchies."
"Alright, well, have a good evening." We took our snacks and left.
"Thanks for answering. I didn't know what to say."
Dave looked at me and snickered a little. He was thinking about my bloodshot eyes and his tired squint. He was thinking about our slow response and our bag of trail mix and chocolate treats. "It's okay. That guy just thinks we're really high."
Yesterday started for me at 2 am. I set my alarm and woke Aleida to give her one last feeding. She couldn't have any milk after 2:30 am. She had a nice, long, sleepy feed and went back to sleep without issue. I went back to sleep as well, but fitfully. I knew too much to sleep soundly.
We woke at 5:30 am and reached the check-in desk at the hospital just a little after 6:30. AJ was smiling and alert. If she was hungry, she wasn't complaining.
The waterworks started as soon as they took us back to the O.R. waiting rooms. I was anticipating the handover, and I couldn't imagine giving up my baby to people I knew were going to operate on her. Sure, it might be for the best, but it's hard to be that logical in the face of trauma. AJ got a little fussy while they were weighing her and attempting to get a blood pressure. Dave bounced her to sleep and she spent the last 15 minutes of the waiting peacefully sleeping in our arms. I spent the last 15 minutes trying to keep my tears to a gentle stream.
Dave's parents came. They are so supportive and helpful. I can only imagine the burden they carry, having to worry about 2 generations of kin through this ordeal. I am so thankful for them.
We walked down the hallway to the "kissing corner," as they call it. They should call it "crying corner," because this is where I had to hand my baby over to the anesthesiologist. Right before the exchange, AJ opened her eyes. She looked at me calmly, with recognition and love. My heart broke a thousand times in that few second exchange.
They took her away and Dave's parents left Dave and I to cry it out. I felt sick. Exhausted. Scared as I've ever been in my life. Dave's presence and strong, long hug might have been the only thing that kept me from collapse. I remember saying, "Having kids is kind of horrible."
The next hours are a blur, waiting and trying not to think or visualize too much. I remember going to the cafeteria to get breakfast and barely being able to eat. I remember driving home with my mother-in-law to get my phone, which I'd forgotten. I remember walking with Dave to a particularly scenic viewpoint. Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens were imposing and clear in the distance.
The nurse called about 12:30 to let us know surgery was over. We hustled back to the waiting area to meet with the surgeon. He smiled as he came in. Everything went well. No surpises. No complications. He felt confident that Aleida's heart was mended and would do well.
We got to see her about 30 minutes later. She has a breathing tube, 2 chest tubes, a large incision, and several other tubes and lines attached to her. But she still looks like AJ, and that's a relief. I was a bit afraid I wouldn't recognize her.
The care she is getting is amazing. The nurses are so skilled, yet so compassionate. I have spent many hours standing by Aleida's bedside as the nurses hustle and bustle around us. I feel helpless, but grateful. It takes a certain kind of faith, not unlike the religious variety, to stay calm in the face of modern medicine.
The rest of the day was uneventful. Aleida slept. Dave and I watched her. Dave's parents relieved us long enough to go home, shower, and stop at Trader Joe's to get some snacks. By the time we got to TJ's we were exhausted. I'm sure a 3rd person would not have been able to take part in our conversation, because I don't think we were really making sense.
As we checked out at TJ's, the cashier asked us, "What have you guys been up to today?"
My mind started racing with possible responses. "We've just been hanging out at the hospital waiting for our 3-month-old to get out of open heart surgery," didn't seem an appropriate answer to such an innocent question, however true it may be. I didn't want to share that with this stranger.
Luckily, Dave was a bit quicker to respond, though there was still an awkward pause. "Oh, not much. Just hanging out. Now we're getting some munchies."
"Alright, well, have a good evening." We took our snacks and left.
"Thanks for answering. I didn't know what to say."
Dave looked at me and snickered a little. He was thinking about my bloodshot eyes and his tired squint. He was thinking about our slow response and our bag of trail mix and chocolate treats. "It's okay. That guy just thinks we're really high."
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Pre-Op
I just realized the name of my blog is "The Next Adventure." Can this still be classified as an adventure? Can I somehow spin heart surgery to mean adventure? I don't know.
Today we were at the hospital for 6 hours doing pre-op stuff. We met with nurses, surgeons, social workers and met a mess of hospital staff. I won't go into all the hairy details, but here are the highlights (wrong word...stand outs, maybe?)
Two separate hospital staff cried with me. The cardiologist NP and the Child Life Services Worker who gave us the ICU tour. They didn't cry hard, but both got noticeably choked up when I cried. I almost couldn't take it. The empathy was overwhelming. But I was touched.
Aleida had to get blood drawn for testing and whatever they do with it before surgery. The regular nurses decided not to try, so they called in the specialist team (called PANDA- but I'm not sure what it stands for.) They had to poke my baby 4 times before they got the flow they needed. 3 times on her hands and arms and once on her head. She cried harder than she has in her life. I had to cry too, so I didn't have a more physical reaction to her cries. Again, I am amazed by the way her crying makes me feel. She seems no worse for the wear and surely has forgotten about it by now. I, however, have not.
The surgeon is British. He used the word "untoward" which I have only ever heard in movies of Jane Austen adaptations. Needless to say, I like him. He apologized for making me upset (yes, I cried with him, too), but admitted that he often said things that upset people. I am confident he knows what he is doing.
I am thankful that just about every view from every window is scenic. Even through the shimmer of tears, Mt. Hood looks awesome. Dave and I, while having a sad and heartfelt moment together, broke the gloom and tension by realizing how glad we are that we're not going through this in New Jersey. (Sorry, NJers.)
Finally, the biggest highlight- and this is a highlight- was my daughter. She smiled as much today as any other day. She sat completely still through her EKG (which requires a tech to put about 10 stickers onto her chest, hook wires to them, take a reading of her cardiac output, then unhook everything and pull all the stickers off). She took a 1.5 hour nap in Dave's arms. She melted the hearts of everyone we met in the hospital. I am sure they will all do their best to make sure everything goes smoothly.
Today we were at the hospital for 6 hours doing pre-op stuff. We met with nurses, surgeons, social workers and met a mess of hospital staff. I won't go into all the hairy details, but here are the highlights (wrong word...stand outs, maybe?)
Two separate hospital staff cried with me. The cardiologist NP and the Child Life Services Worker who gave us the ICU tour. They didn't cry hard, but both got noticeably choked up when I cried. I almost couldn't take it. The empathy was overwhelming. But I was touched.
Aleida had to get blood drawn for testing and whatever they do with it before surgery. The regular nurses decided not to try, so they called in the specialist team (called PANDA- but I'm not sure what it stands for.) They had to poke my baby 4 times before they got the flow they needed. 3 times on her hands and arms and once on her head. She cried harder than she has in her life. I had to cry too, so I didn't have a more physical reaction to her cries. Again, I am amazed by the way her crying makes me feel. She seems no worse for the wear and surely has forgotten about it by now. I, however, have not.
The surgeon is British. He used the word "untoward" which I have only ever heard in movies of Jane Austen adaptations. Needless to say, I like him. He apologized for making me upset (yes, I cried with him, too), but admitted that he often said things that upset people. I am confident he knows what he is doing.
I am thankful that just about every view from every window is scenic. Even through the shimmer of tears, Mt. Hood looks awesome. Dave and I, while having a sad and heartfelt moment together, broke the gloom and tension by realizing how glad we are that we're not going through this in New Jersey. (Sorry, NJers.)
Finally, the biggest highlight- and this is a highlight- was my daughter. She smiled as much today as any other day. She sat completely still through her EKG (which requires a tech to put about 10 stickers onto her chest, hook wires to them, take a reading of her cardiac output, then unhook everything and pull all the stickers off). She took a 1.5 hour nap in Dave's arms. She melted the hearts of everyone we met in the hospital. I am sure they will all do their best to make sure everything goes smoothly.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Contrast
I spent the last 3 days doing wedding-related festivities for my good friend, Erin. I was in the wedding party, so we spent lots of time celebrating and preparing and just having a great time. The ceremony was beautiful, the girls a lot of fun, and the weekend altogether enjoyable. Of course, in the back of my mind I kept thinking about Aleida's surgery coming up on Thursday. This wedding was always the event before the surgery, and it was a nice distraction. But now, I have no other place to focus my thoughts. My mind is spilling over with thoughts of the operation.
Truthfully, I think I would be less scared if I was about to have open-heart surgery. But I'm not and I can't take my daughter's place. I can't even explain to her what's going to happen. So, while I'm enjoying these few days with her, every one of her smiles has the sad outline of ignorance, and I feel guilty knowing more about her future than she does. Maybe it is better, her not knowing. There is anxiety in knowing and waiting and just thinking about something. And maybe that is where most of my fear is coming from- the thinking.
What am I most afraid of? It's hard to pinpoint because there are so many things. Here's a list of just a few.
1) The most obvious fear, that something will go wrong with the surgery. Let me just put it out there...that she won't make it. It's open heart surgery, afterall, and all surgeries have some inherant risks. I do not know what I would do if the worst happened. I do not know what I would do.
2) I'm afraid of seeing her taken away from me, knowing where she is headed. I don't like saying goodbye when I leave her with Dave to go to the grocery store. I know the hours she is in surgery will be agony.
3) I'm scared to see her directly after the surgery. She's going to be hooked up to machines and tubes. She'll be pale, drugged. I don't think I'll be able to hold her for several hours- maybe not even touch her. I'm not sure.
4) I'm afraid of the recovery. She's getting sturdier every day. She's working on standing up and crawling. We play airplane and she loves it. She loves baths and smiles through diaper changes. How fragile she's going to seem after such a major surgery. When will we feel comfortable handling her again? Is she going to be in pain? Will this delay her milestones like rolling over and crawling? When will we be back to normal, back on track again?
5) I'm a little afraid that they won't be able to fix her, that this will be a "wait and see" or "wait and try again" situation. I don't think this is likely, but this thought wormed its way into my brain a few days ago, and now it's leaving tracks up there, moving around and around in my head.
6) I'm worried about the scar. Honestly though, this may be the least of my worries. I'm not a vain person, and I can already tell that my daughter's lovely face, sweet temper and just that shine in her eyes will overshadow any cosmetic blemish. This scar will give her a story to tell, will make her aware of her own mortality, will help her feel lucky and blessed, will give her an appreciation for the human mind and modern science. She will hopefully embrace this as part of her life story, something that sets her apart from other girls. Still, this is a big procedure. I look at my daughter and she looks so PERFECT, that it hurts me to think about what they must do to her. But, she is not perfect. She has a whole in her heart, and the scar will be a visible reminder that she has been mended.
7) I think my biggest fear is that this will change her in some profound way. She is such an easy-going, adaptable, cheerful little creature. She is wholly unspoiled by any trauma or hardship. She is well loved and regularly cuddled. She's warm and full and comfortable most of the time. She smiles a lot. I am afraid that this surgery and the pain and confusion that accompanies it will change her. I don't want her to become fearful or suspicious or wary. She is too young to realize that life is not all warm milk and swaddled blankets. I don't want her to lose her innocence before she's 4 months old.
Truthfully, I think I would be less scared if I was about to have open-heart surgery. But I'm not and I can't take my daughter's place. I can't even explain to her what's going to happen. So, while I'm enjoying these few days with her, every one of her smiles has the sad outline of ignorance, and I feel guilty knowing more about her future than she does. Maybe it is better, her not knowing. There is anxiety in knowing and waiting and just thinking about something. And maybe that is where most of my fear is coming from- the thinking.
What am I most afraid of? It's hard to pinpoint because there are so many things. Here's a list of just a few.
1) The most obvious fear, that something will go wrong with the surgery. Let me just put it out there...that she won't make it. It's open heart surgery, afterall, and all surgeries have some inherant risks. I do not know what I would do if the worst happened. I do not know what I would do.
2) I'm afraid of seeing her taken away from me, knowing where she is headed. I don't like saying goodbye when I leave her with Dave to go to the grocery store. I know the hours she is in surgery will be agony.
3) I'm scared to see her directly after the surgery. She's going to be hooked up to machines and tubes. She'll be pale, drugged. I don't think I'll be able to hold her for several hours- maybe not even touch her. I'm not sure.
4) I'm afraid of the recovery. She's getting sturdier every day. She's working on standing up and crawling. We play airplane and she loves it. She loves baths and smiles through diaper changes. How fragile she's going to seem after such a major surgery. When will we feel comfortable handling her again? Is she going to be in pain? Will this delay her milestones like rolling over and crawling? When will we be back to normal, back on track again?
5) I'm a little afraid that they won't be able to fix her, that this will be a "wait and see" or "wait and try again" situation. I don't think this is likely, but this thought wormed its way into my brain a few days ago, and now it's leaving tracks up there, moving around and around in my head.
6) I'm worried about the scar. Honestly though, this may be the least of my worries. I'm not a vain person, and I can already tell that my daughter's lovely face, sweet temper and just that shine in her eyes will overshadow any cosmetic blemish. This scar will give her a story to tell, will make her aware of her own mortality, will help her feel lucky and blessed, will give her an appreciation for the human mind and modern science. She will hopefully embrace this as part of her life story, something that sets her apart from other girls. Still, this is a big procedure. I look at my daughter and she looks so PERFECT, that it hurts me to think about what they must do to her. But, she is not perfect. She has a whole in her heart, and the scar will be a visible reminder that she has been mended.
7) I think my biggest fear is that this will change her in some profound way. She is such an easy-going, adaptable, cheerful little creature. She is wholly unspoiled by any trauma or hardship. She is well loved and regularly cuddled. She's warm and full and comfortable most of the time. She smiles a lot. I am afraid that this surgery and the pain and confusion that accompanies it will change her. I don't want her to become fearful or suspicious or wary. She is too young to realize that life is not all warm milk and swaddled blankets. I don't want her to lose her innocence before she's 4 months old.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Why I am crying...
I'm sitting in the nursery rocking chair, AJ swaddled and close to sleeping in my arms, and I am doing what new moms are prone to do, just staring at my child. We had a long, fun, stimulating day at Mt. Tabor's Adult Soapbox Derby with friends. Aleida slept fitfully in the Bjorn, but had no real nap. Consequently, she had a bit of a melt down when we got home. I am still surprised by the physical reaction I have to my daughter's cries. This connection I may never understand.
It took a while, but now we are rocking peacefully. Suddenly, I have tears running down my face. One splashes on Aleida's chubby cheek and she flinches, but does not waken. But why am I crying?
I'm crying because that is my default reaction to any overwhelming emotion. Too happy...I cry. Too sad...I cry. Too mad...yep...tears-a-streaming. It's inconvenient sometimes, but cathartic always. But which emotion is the most overwhelming to me right now... I don't know.
I'm crying because AJ is sleeping with her mouth slightly ajar, head tilted back, reddening hair askew. When I was a child, my family would take road trips. Without fail, my mom's turn in the passenger seat would result in her sleeping like this. We used to laugh at the predictability of her mouth falling open, her head lolling back and forth against the head rest. My daughter, born on my mom's birthday, named after my mother, looks like her in this moment and I can't help feeling squeezed by the closing of the generation gap between June, my beloved mother, and Aleida June, my dearest daughter. That they will never physically meet still pains me, but I am comforted by this connection they have that is greater than I am as the obvious link between them.
I'm crying because I feel as if my heart might explode with the maternal love that was so abstract and unknown until about 12 weeks ago. I have heard it said that the love you have for your kids is stronger than any other love in the world. To say that is not entirely fair, because it is not an apples to apples comparison. To say parental love is different than any other would be true, however. It is love mixed with a great and overwhelming responsibility to a small, helpless, dependent creature.
I'm crying because we have scheduled Aleida's heart surgery for September 10, and I cannot think about that fast-approaching week without anxiety. She is so small. Deep down, I know she will be okay. I am thankful she has a condition that can be fixed so she can lead a normal, vibrant life. But, I also know that when they take her away from me to the operating room, I will feel a physical, emotional schism that will not mend until I am able to hold and feed her again. Fortunately, she will not remember a thing. So though I am worried about her and how she will handle the procedure and recovery, most of my anxiety is selfish. I simply don't want to suffer.
I'm crying because having a child is amazing. Full of challenges, full of insecurities, full of changes, but all the difficulties are eclipsed by the love and wonder and beauty of this new relationship. And I know, from what others have told me, that is only gets better from here.
It took a while, but now we are rocking peacefully. Suddenly, I have tears running down my face. One splashes on Aleida's chubby cheek and she flinches, but does not waken. But why am I crying?
I'm crying because that is my default reaction to any overwhelming emotion. Too happy...I cry. Too sad...I cry. Too mad...yep...tears-a-streaming. It's inconvenient sometimes, but cathartic always. But which emotion is the most overwhelming to me right now... I don't know.
I'm crying because AJ is sleeping with her mouth slightly ajar, head tilted back, reddening hair askew. When I was a child, my family would take road trips. Without fail, my mom's turn in the passenger seat would result in her sleeping like this. We used to laugh at the predictability of her mouth falling open, her head lolling back and forth against the head rest. My daughter, born on my mom's birthday, named after my mother, looks like her in this moment and I can't help feeling squeezed by the closing of the generation gap between June, my beloved mother, and Aleida June, my dearest daughter. That they will never physically meet still pains me, but I am comforted by this connection they have that is greater than I am as the obvious link between them.
I'm crying because I feel as if my heart might explode with the maternal love that was so abstract and unknown until about 12 weeks ago. I have heard it said that the love you have for your kids is stronger than any other love in the world. To say that is not entirely fair, because it is not an apples to apples comparison. To say parental love is different than any other would be true, however. It is love mixed with a great and overwhelming responsibility to a small, helpless, dependent creature.
I'm crying because we have scheduled Aleida's heart surgery for September 10, and I cannot think about that fast-approaching week without anxiety. She is so small. Deep down, I know she will be okay. I am thankful she has a condition that can be fixed so she can lead a normal, vibrant life. But, I also know that when they take her away from me to the operating room, I will feel a physical, emotional schism that will not mend until I am able to hold and feed her again. Fortunately, she will not remember a thing. So though I am worried about her and how she will handle the procedure and recovery, most of my anxiety is selfish. I simply don't want to suffer.
I'm crying because having a child is amazing. Full of challenges, full of insecurities, full of changes, but all the difficulties are eclipsed by the love and wonder and beauty of this new relationship. And I know, from what others have told me, that is only gets better from here.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Careful what you wish for...?
So, after my breastfeeding saga, I'm glad to report that we've gotten it down. I am even comfortable nursing in public (with one of those fashionable cape-like covers) Furthermore, AJ's 2-month check up revealed that she continues to gain over an ounce a day. Makes me feel like I have magic boobs.
I remember reading posts out in the breastfeeding blogosphere about women whose babies were so "good" at breastfeeding that they didn't want to take anything but mommy's nipple. As a mom who was experiencing quite the opposite, I felt anger toward these braggarts. So what if you your baby just wants to suckle all the time? Stupid jerks. I remember reading one blog comment that said something like, "My baby will only take directly from my breast! I guess she knows what she likes!!!" and absolutely hating those extra exclamation points. With throbbing nipples and 6 pumping sessions a day, I despised the cheerful b-word who gloated about her picky baby.
Well, last week, I was in the park- having a girls' outing with some friends. I'd pumped and packed a bottle to avoid whipping out the boob during the picnic. When AJ acted hungry, I grabbed the bottle and sat her down. She took the bottle nipple into her mouth, spit it out and dribbled milk everywhere. She fussed every time I tilted her back and offered the bottle. She refused the bottle! My friend, Georgia, who had her 2nd child in late June said, "You'll probably have to hand her off to someone else if you want to feed her from the bottle. She knows you have the real thing." I ended up sitting under a tree and nursing her; she ate with no hesitation.
Since then, she's refused bottles every day from me, daddy and even grandma. We will continue to offer her the bottle in the hopes she will pass through this phase. Part of me is flattered that she seems to want the intimacy and warmth of breastfeeding. Another part of me is panicked that I have cursed myself to a year in which I will not be able to be away from my daughter for more than a few hours at a time. This week grandma is visiting, and I would like to take her up on her offer to give us a baby-free date night, but don't want to stick her with a baby that gets pissed every time she's offered a bottle. Also, there's a bit of terror that comes with realizing your 2-month-old is already proving to be extremely opinionated.
In the end, I think it's kind of hilarious. And I feel confident that Aleida will re-learn to take the bottle eventually. I do value the nursing relationship we have established and her refusal of the bottle feels like an odd kind of victory. Still, I can't help thinking of the saying, "Be careful what you wish for..."
I remember reading posts out in the breastfeeding blogosphere about women whose babies were so "good" at breastfeeding that they didn't want to take anything but mommy's nipple. As a mom who was experiencing quite the opposite, I felt anger toward these braggarts. So what if you your baby just wants to suckle all the time? Stupid jerks. I remember reading one blog comment that said something like, "My baby will only take directly from my breast! I guess she knows what she likes!!!" and absolutely hating those extra exclamation points. With throbbing nipples and 6 pumping sessions a day, I despised the cheerful b-word who gloated about her picky baby.
Well, last week, I was in the park- having a girls' outing with some friends. I'd pumped and packed a bottle to avoid whipping out the boob during the picnic. When AJ acted hungry, I grabbed the bottle and sat her down. She took the bottle nipple into her mouth, spit it out and dribbled milk everywhere. She fussed every time I tilted her back and offered the bottle. She refused the bottle! My friend, Georgia, who had her 2nd child in late June said, "You'll probably have to hand her off to someone else if you want to feed her from the bottle. She knows you have the real thing." I ended up sitting under a tree and nursing her; she ate with no hesitation.
Since then, she's refused bottles every day from me, daddy and even grandma. We will continue to offer her the bottle in the hopes she will pass through this phase. Part of me is flattered that she seems to want the intimacy and warmth of breastfeeding. Another part of me is panicked that I have cursed myself to a year in which I will not be able to be away from my daughter for more than a few hours at a time. This week grandma is visiting, and I would like to take her up on her offer to give us a baby-free date night, but don't want to stick her with a baby that gets pissed every time she's offered a bottle. Also, there's a bit of terror that comes with realizing your 2-month-old is already proving to be extremely opinionated.
In the end, I think it's kind of hilarious. And I feel confident that Aleida will re-learn to take the bottle eventually. I do value the nursing relationship we have established and her refusal of the bottle feels like an odd kind of victory. Still, I can't help thinking of the saying, "Be careful what you wish for..."
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