Prayers Answered?
Five years ago, we stood by helpless as our friend buried his wife after a year long battle with synovial sarcoma. She was pregnant when she was diagnosed; her son, barely a year old when she passed away at age 29. A couple years ago, I read with hope, blogger, Lisa’s battle with ovarian cancer. I prayed for her every night. She had two daughters and it struck so close to home for me. I saw her a few days before she passed away when I was dropping off trays of food for her family. It was startling to see her like that and I wasn’t surprised to hear she had passed just three days later.
Last Friday, my friend’s husband lost his battle with esophageal cancer after a 14 month all-out war. He was 37 years old. I met her husband a couple years ago and he was one of those people who could light up a room with his smile. Mr. BBM and I instantly liked him. You couldn’t not. Although we didn’t know each other well, whenever I saw him he addressed me with such an easy way that he made you feel like you had known each other forever. They have two children, ages 12 and 8. Their daughter swims with my daughter in the summer.
On Wednesday night, Mr. BBM and I waited in line for over an hour at the viewing. The line was out the door of the funeral home and to the corner. From what I hear, it was like that for over five hours. Yesterday, Mr. BBM and I attended his funeral. At both the viewing and the funeral, I watched my friend stand tall. There she was on Wednesday night, comforting everyone else it seemed. Throughout the last 14 months, I’ve seen her look tired. I’ve seen her lose weight as she watched her husband’s treatments fail, one after the other. But I’ve never seen her cry. I’ve never seen her anything less than rock solid.
In fact, when Sassy broke her leg in February and I had a pity party for myself about how I couldn’t even go to the grocery store anymore, it was this very friend who showed up on my doorstep with three bags of groceries for me. In the summer when I stood around rubbing my sore back and hips from carrying around Baby Belated, it was she who stood behind me, rubbing my back when I least expected it.
After the funeral yesterday, I had a terrible headache from all the tears. Mr. BBM and I had a conversation about how pissed off we both were about the whole thing. If all those people who attended the viewing and the funeral were praying for a cure, why didn’t one come? It’s times like this when I get so angry and wonder, why? I question my faith and what all of this means. I have a hard time being patient and waiting for an answer. I have a very difficult time understanding why prayers go unanswered. . .
I’ve spent months being worried about my friend, and I spent all week thinking about her too. She’s been so strong for her husband, her kids and for everyone else around her. How can she possibly continue being so strong? At some point, she has to grieve and I’m worried about her and how hard that’s going to be for her. Will she ever really be able to grieve for him, when she’s trying to be so strong for her kids?
And then it occurred to me that I’ve been praying all along for a cure for her husband, but I’ve also been praying hard for strength and courage for her. If all those people who circled the block for hours on Wednesday night were doing the same, maybe that explains why she’s been so strong. Perhaps, at least that part of my prayers was answered.
So if that’s the case, then I hope this Christmas, that we can add even more people to the prayers for my friend and her family. I hope you’ll join me. When something terrible like this happens, it makes you appreciate your family that much more. Merry Christmas to you and your families.
Induction Eve
If my life was a musical, one of the songs playing right now would be Edie Brickell’s “I Quit, I Give Up.” Last night, two of my talented friends came out, set up their body work table and went to work on me. They hit every acupressure point they knew and they hit them hard. I had lots of contractions. When Mr. BBM got home last night, I had him hit the points again. He pressed on them until his thumbs hurt. I continued having contractions, but nothing that got stronger or closer together. I went to bed. I hit the points this morning and it’s more of the same, occasional contractions but nothing that’s going to result in a baby.
I see the midwife this afternoon. She’ll probably offer to try stripping the membranes again, a pleasant experience (insert a heap of sarcasm) where they basically go elbow deep and try to separate the bag of waters from your cervix. It’s supposed to start contractions. I’ve had it done twice this time. It resulted in me feeling absolutely miserable for an entire day. I felt abused and in no condition to push a kid out the same way. Today, I’m going to decline. What’s the point? Tomorrow is induction day. I’d rather go into it not feeling like I’ve been violated.
The other theme song that would be part of my “musical” is Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic.” Do you understand how rare it is to get through a third pregnancy without having gestational diabetes after having it the second time around? It rarely happens. I thought I was home free. I thought I had nothing holding me back from having a birth center birth. And here I am, on induction eve, facing a hospital birth. I really thought that the third time around, I would get to do things my way. I really thought, after passing my due date, that I had 14 days to get going on my own and that it would happen. It had to happen! It hasn’t.
95% of moms at my midwife’s practice go into labor within 10 days of their due date, on their own. 95%. Does it surprise you that I’m part of the 5%. For me, I guess it shouldn’t. I’m the girl who has the screw back out of her leg after an ACL surgery. My Mom should have named me “Murphy” because when it comes to medical stuff, I’m a walking “Murphy’s Law.”
I woke up this morning at 4:44 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep, as per usual. I was feeling sorry for myself and then I thought about something else. Boo-freaking-hoo for me. There are friends of mine who desperately wanted a baby, who would feel fortunate to be in my situation, 13 days post-dates and about to meet my baby tomorrow (hopefully tomorrow). I have several friends fighting cancer right now who would probably welcome the kind of hospital visit I’m going to have over the multiple unpleasant ones they are always having. And when all is said and done, no matter how he comes into this world, I’ll have my baby.
It just goes to show that having a birth plan is pretty much a waste of time. Nothing ever goes exactly as planned. Here’s hoping that the 13+ days I waited after my due date to meet this baby will count as “time served” and the labor will go quickly. The stubborn nature of this little one should help me figure out an appropriate blog name for him so I can introduce him to the blog world soon. Maybe I’ll call him “Baby Belated.”
Look Out, I’m Swinging Back
I feel like the mood swing queen lately. On Thursday, I was all wrapped up in a positive attitude. This morning, it seems to have disappeared along with the warm weather. When I woke up this morning, not in labor, it struck me that I am now only 4 days out from a hospital induction, 4 days away from being 42 weeks pregnant. When Fly-girl (formerly Big I, a change at her request to represent that she is quite the little butterfly swimmer) asked me this morning if I felt like I would have the baby today, it was all I could do to make it to the bathroom before bursting into tears.
I feel like my body is failing me. I keep wondering if, because I’ve been induced twice, my body just expects it to be that way again. Maybe my body’s natural ability to get things rolling doesn’t work anymore. My evening primrose oil is gone; so is my red leaf raspberry tea (my third box of it). No amount of walking, pressure point hitting or consuming of supposedly labor-inducing foods and supplements is doing a thing. As each day goes by, I’m getting more and more concerned about the labor, how big this baby will be, if I can make it through without him destroying me in the process and of course, the baby’s health and well-being. I know that there are certain risk factors that go up after 41 weeks. I’ve read all I care to read about meconium aspiration. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m getting a little worried.
Last night, I was having some stronger contractions but they still weren’t getting closer together or getting more intense. Then I started having hot flashes. I’ve been having them since Friday. Of course, I consulted almighty Google to see if this can be a sign of early labor and it can be. However, this morning, I’m more convinced of the fact that I could be simultaneously pregnant and starting to go through early menopause. I’ve had so many signs that labor is right around the corner. . . and then they disappear. It’s getting to be really emotionally and physically exhausting.
In addition to all of that, I’m starting to feel like I’m going to get robbed again. With Fly-girl, I was scared into having an induction that was largely unnecessary. The entire labor experience was full of unpleasantness and threats of a c-section by my doctor who clearly would have rather been sleeping than be inconvenienced by me. The experience, although it ended with a healthy baby, left a lot to be desired. I would have done a lot of things differently, which is why I decided to go to a midwife with Sassy.
I had planned on an out-of-hospital birth with her, but gestational diabetes robbed me of that. Although my midwife did a wonderful job of trying to insure a birth experience in the hospital that resembled a birth center birth as closely as possible, it still involved an IV port that was annoying and painful, pressure to get Sassy her first vaccine in the hospital and a fight to take her home when the midwife said we could go home on the same day I gave birth, and the old-school pediatrician disagreed.
This time, I was able to avoid the gestational diabetes and despite the fact that this pregnancy was largely unplanned (although not unwelcome), I felt like it was my opportunity to get the birth experience I always wanted: a birth center birth with as little intervention as possible. I can feel it slipping through my fingers now as Thursday evening looms so soon in front of me.
If I do end up at the hospital, I’m six years older than I was the last time. I keep telling myself that I won’t allow a pediatrician to reduce me to tears (even with all the postpartum hormonal issues); and if my baby and I are fine, I’m getting us out of there as soon as possible. I’ve been trying to convince myself that being induced at 5 p.m. instead of in the morning, is a good thing. Yeah, I’m going to be exhausted, but my midwife will probably be there the whole time, not stuck in office hours at the birth center while she’s updated of my progress via the phone like last time. I can try to find the silver lining, but right now, I’m feeling upset, angry and like Thursday will be here all too soon. I really hope I’m wrong.
The Advantages of Being 40+ Weeks Pregnant
Being overdue can really suck. Let’s face it. It’s pretty much like being a kid on Christmas morning. You wake up, realize it’s Christmas, run down the stairs expecting to find all kinds of awesome, when you really find someone sitting there that says, “Hey kid, not today; but don’t be discouraged. It could happen anytime within the next two weeks.”
On my due date, Mr. BBM sent me for a 1 hour pregnancy massage. It was all kinds of wonderful. I told her to hit any accupressure points that would help bring labor on and she did. She said that if it works, it would happen within 48 hours. It’s been more than 48 hours now. . . and nothing.
In an effort to keep a positive attitude, I’ve come up with a list of advantages to being overdue. Yes, you heard me. . . advantages. Believe it or not, there are some.
No one expects pretty much anything of you. What they do expect is that you will be a complete and total couch potato. Also, frequent naps are no longer frowned upon as laziness. They are necessary. I mean, who’s really going to wake a sleeping giant, especially one who is over-due?
There’s no need to find a coaster when you’re hanging out on the couch with a good book. Your belly makes a fine table-top. Also, it’s a great book prop. If I could just get the baby to use his feet to turn the pages, I’d be in major business.
I never have to look around for the remote. In fact, it’s right under my chin, pretty much all the time.
There’s no need for a table for the popcorn when watching a movie with the family. The belly also serves as a wonderful TV tray.
No time to find a table to write on when taking a quick phone message? No problem.
You don’t need to worry about belly button lint. Heck, you don’t have to worry about even having one anymore. There’s just a funny stretched out area where the belly button used to live, sort of like the artist formerly known as Prince. The skin formerly known as a belly button. . .
You can be as grumpy and miserable as you want to be, and lash out at anyone you want to without consequences. Who’s going to argue with a pregnant person who is about to burst? Unless they’re a complete idiot, no one.
Finally, tonight I’m going to Big I’s swim meet. Think I won’t have my pick of where to sit? Leg room too? That’s right. Who would be stupid enough to sit anywhere near someone who looks like me?
Miserable? Check.
Likely to have my water break all over you? Check.
I can pretty much clear a room, or at least a section on the bleachers big enough to accommodate me and any mess I might make. Besides the mess part, there aren’t that many people who want to be near me when they might have to help deliver a baby. And I happen to like my own personal space. It’s definitely a huge advantage.
Finally, when people ask you when you’re due and you say, “two days ago,” there’s no shortage of compliments on how amazing you look. I mean, if you’re two days overdue and you’re out in public, you’re practically a super hero. It’s nice to be admired (pitied. . . whatever).
No News is No News
Yesterday, Mr. BBM came upstairs from his office to find me sprawled out on the kitchen floor in front of my kitchen island. Surrounded by baking dishes, trays, serving dishes and cooling racks, I pleaded with him, “Help me.”
He told me he was just up for a quick break. He had another conference call and he couldn’t help me.
“No,” I whined at him, “not ‘help me’ with the cabinet; help me STOP cleaning and organizing. Make me STOP!”
“Why?” he said. “The only thing left to do is the basement and garage.”
And then, because I checked a little box on BlogHer that said I won’t swear on my blog, I said something that I can’t say here. Mr. BBM nearly lost it laughing; but I meant what I said. I have had it.
In the past couple weeks, I have organized two linen closets, a coat closet, an entire laundry room and every kitchen cabinet. My entire house has been vacuumed and steam mopped, dusted and wiped clean. I have broken fingernails to show for it and a back that is just killing me constantly, although I can’t tell if that’s from all the steam mopping or the torpedo of a stomach I’m sporting these days.
What appears to be just a thin layer of skin covering legs and arms and baby butt is stretched beyond all comprehension. I itch; I’m tired and I am so done.
Tomorrow is my official due date. Today I go to see the midwife. She said last week that I might be able to convince her to try to strip my membranes today (sounds like all kinds of fun, huh?). We tried this with Sassy six years ago (Yes, six. It was her birthday yesterday) and it didn’t work at all. Did I mention there were two attempts at that? So, you can understand why, even if they’re willing to try to help a girl out, I’m not optimistic that it will work.
After I was awakened at 5 a.m. with a contraction and killer need for a trip to the bathroom, I started looking up massage people on my phone. The thing is though, I can’t even really make an appointment, because who knows if I’ll be able to make it!
I have decided that the whole “Third babies come early and fall out” theory is just a complete and utter bunch of garbage. Whoever said that did not realize that my insides must be like the Taj Mahal. Why would any baby want to move out?
I was reading the “labor” chapter of one of my pregnancy books this week, to refresh my memory as to the pain I’ll be experiencing soon. In it, the author writes that you can tell you’re ready to go when your once round stomach, develops corners. I’m an octagon, and I am ready to go.
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