My Rainbow Baby

 For every storm, whether physical or metaphorical, there is a rainbow to be had after it. My second son, Mikah, would be my rainbow. A calming, and healing second chance at motherhood. This is his story.

 It was only 9 months after the birth and death of my first son that I found out I was pregnant with Mikah. I was working as a cake decorator at the time and letting myself once again experience life my way. I can't say my husband and I didn't try, because maybe I was, but we had just once again started to co-exist as husband and wife. Grief does a number on marriage, and it did to us.

 It seems like from day 1 I knew I was pregnant. I knew it at least a week before it showed up on a pregnancy test so I immediately began to prepare. I was going to VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), it was best for my body and my baby. I also wasn't going to let any aches or pains slide this time, no matter how small. My doctor would know everything. I told all of this to my CNM (certified nurse midwife) at my first appointment. I think that was when it was deemed, based off my first pregnancy and delivery, they'd label me as a high risk and so my care would be transferred to the in-office high risk OB.

 Incompetent Cervix is what I was diagnosed with or what they think caused my preterm labor and delivery with Ein so we set up a game plan. If this pregnancy stayed viable past 12 weeks then at 15 weeks I would get a cerclage (stitch the cervix closed)  placed and then start p17/progesterone shots at 20 weeks to keep this pregnancy from ending the same way. A VBAC was still possible and going to term was possible, but I didn't want to get my hopes up.

 As the weeks progressed I stretched and stretched. I'd recommend waiting longer than 9 months postpartum after a c-section to have another pregnancy because it hurts pretty badly for your scar to stretch when it may not be completely healed. At 15 weeks, I had the surgery for cerclage. That was pretty uncomfortable and awkward. I was awake with a spinal block and a team of nurses and my high risk doctor looking at my vagina spread open and my feet in stirrups. Through out the 30 min procedure I could feel everything being done to me, despite the drugs. The room was below freezing and again, the nurses were talking about Thanksgiving and Christmas with family. My doctor was amazing though. He got them to shut up by telling them to come see what he was doing and had them more involved.

 The surgery was a success. I contracted for a few days after but had medicine to keep it from progressing. Eventually, I had to quit work, yet again, because of the demands of my job conflicting with my work restrictions. I had been put on limited home bed rest to keep my blood pressure manageable and keep my cervix from contracting. I was bored and miserable, but my baby was more important.

 At 20 weeks I went to the hospital in preterm labor. I was almost immediately put on a magnesium I.V. drip in Labor & Delivery and when my contractions finally stopped a day and a half later, I was admitted to hospital bed rest. Hospital bed rest, not exactly what I wanted for me or this baby. In the weeks to come I would be diagnosed with Hypertension, Gestational Diabetes, be discharged and readmitted a few days later for preterm labor again, and stay in fear of the fast approaching 28th week. My milestone.

 The 28th week of pregnancy we were prepared. When I say we I mean my me, my doctor, and the nurses were all prepared for a maybe. I prayed the night before, and I'm sure I had others praying with me, that this little one would at least make it one more week. As was my mantra those days. "Just one more week. Please God, just one more week and he's yours." I stayed up that night until 2-3 am the next morning. I took a nap and then woke up to the increased activity outside my hospital room door. I watched the sun come up over the bricked room that was my view. It was beautiful, and I felt fine. It was a pretty uneventful night, morning, day and I was happy with that. Again, I was ready.

 After that week there were really no contractions to be seen unless I moved around too much. I was discharged at 30 or so weeks because I was tired of being locked up in the hospital away from family. I was depressed and lonely, so for my benefit and mental health, my doctor discharged me into the hands of  my family. I only stayed home until 32 weeks because my blood pressure was too high for comfort. Back to the hospital I went for safe keeping. At 34 weeks the cerclage was removed because my doctor was leery of contractions busting my stitch. After that it was the waiting game. He thought I would go into labor, but I didn't. The only thing progressing was my blood pressure.

 The protein levels in my urine were increasing and I was warned about induction and/or c-section. C-section. I did not want it. I cried and cried and cried. It would be the same as last time. It would kill me this time for sure. How could this happen again? I cried into a shoulder of one of my favorite nurses at the time and she told the doctor to talk with me. We set up a plan for "just in case" and agreed it would be family centered. My husband would be there at all times unless I said otherwise, and my family would be allowed to stay in my room for support. I felt better, but not quite. Major surgery is major surgery.

 On the morning of April 15, 2012 at 35 weeks and 5 days gestation, my blood pressure was too high for comfort. I was dizzy, nauseated, and my urine protein results hadn't come back in yet to say otherwise. My doctor spoke with me and we decided something was going on and it was high time for Mikah to be born. I made the call to my husband, said we're having a baby, and called the rest of the crew. One nurse asked if I was O.K. with this because she had seen my melancholy expression. "Yea, I think so. It's not how I wanted, but I think it's for the best now." So she gave me a hug and said let's go. She wheeled me down to Labor & Delivery where they set me up and prepped me for surgery. My close family was there and we said a prayer that everything would be fine.

 So I got a healing c-section. The nurses were friendly and comforting and my husband was present and we were informed. My family didn't hold him until I said so and Mikah was big and healthy for his gestation, weighing in at 5lbs 13oz and 18 1/2 inches long. I did have to have a magnesium drip for the first 12 hours after birth because of Pre-E but they didn't start it until I had had at least a good hour of bonding for which I'm grateful because the magnesium was not kind to me or my senses.

 The recovery was hard, but not nearly as hard as it was before. The hardest part was my emotions and hormones. There could be many reasons why, but I'll have to get my medical records to find out. Something I am pursuing. For now, though, I am enjoying Mikah, like I wanted. We may add another or we may not, but for right now, I'm his and he is mine.

My First Son: Part 2

 The next few days went better. He was a strong but tiny baby. He weighed 2lbs 14 oz. I eventually got to hold him, do the Kangaroo Care on my chest and sing to him. He melted my heart. I pumped my milk for him, the best for preemies, and felt like I was really doing something. It was not all happiness though. As with most births, blood is taken from the mother for testing. This is to find any infections or drugs in her system that might harm her or the baby. Well, apparently, drugs were in my system. As a result, it is policy for the hospital to inform Child Protection of this and form a case against the mother/parents. Some nurses treated me like dirt because of this. Wondering why I was crying. Also during this, I was fighting off  a strange fever from infections like a UTI and bladder infection. I kept getting sicker, and kept being investigated. Every time I left the hospital, it seemed like I got worse. That or my husband and I had to do a drug test. Nothing showed up in those or in Ein, but the board wouldn't let it go. There were no answers to be found in any direction.

 By November 22nd I had a cystic infection in my incision, a bladder infection, kidney infection, UTI, and yeast infection. I was in so much pain I could barely walk. I was also becoming antibiotic resistant and my fever wouldn't break. On the morning of November 23rd, I went to visit my little one. He wasn't doing too well. He had started spitting up a few days earlier because he was receiving formula now that I had to take antibiotics for my various infections and he didn't tolerate it well. That morning he couldn't keep anything down and his belly was a little swollen. The nurses would watch him and would let me know what his doctor thought after he made his rounds that morning.

 The NICU doctor overseeing Ein's case paid me a visit. I was on the phone with my mother-in-law telling her how Ein was doing when he popped in and said, "Well, I have some bad news..." " Oh nooo," was my only reaction. He told me that Ein's stomach was swollen and that his reflux had gotten worse, something that I had already known from my visit. He said the reason for it might be inflamed intestines or a hole in his intestines. It's common for preemies and usually medicine will ease the the inflammation but if it got any worse than he would need surgery. I immediately told him to do what needed to be done and to do it right away. I was floored. Everything had changed so quickly that morning that I couldn't even remember what the doctor said to tell my husband.

 As the day progressed, Ein got worse. I don't know when or how it happened but I was informed that Ein would need to be air lifted to Children's Hospital 2 hours away for surgery and was diagnosed with Necrotizing Enterocolitis. What that meant was my little boy's intestines were dying. An infection spread from a hole and surgery was needed to save his life. We were informed he had a 10% chance of living if he didn't get there soon. It seems like it took the paramedics forever to stabilize him for transport. We just sat there, watching, waiting. I remember getting angry at one paramedic because he was just sitting there, sipping coffee and checking his watch. There were also nurses behind me talking loudly about their day, joking about their exams and boyfriends. But the thing I remember most were the nurses that hugged me. The ones that looked into my eyes with their teary eyes and silently communicated their sympathy and prayers. They gave me his bed things to take with us, which I still have, and stayed with us for as long as they could. I'll never forget that.

 I was discharged from the hospital with medicine and instructions so that we could follow Ein by car. My wonderful aunt drove us the full 2 hours there. It was a tense and nearly silent drive. Ein arrived 30 maybe 40 minutes before we did so I got a call from the head doctor about what they planned to do. He needed blood and plasma transfusions before he could even have the surgery. The surgeon/ nurse/ doctor/ whoever seemed iffy about performing those tasks without us there but I told him he had our permission to do what needed to be done. Some other words were exchanged, probably more statistics, but I've blocked them out.

 We finally get to the hospital and Ein is just being stabilized. We have a consultation about the surgery and are brought to a sleeping/waiting room for parents spending the night or waiting through a long surgery. A preacher woman is sent to us to either keep us company or provide hope. She prayed with us, for us, for Ein, for the doctors, and hardly left our side. I'm not sure how long the surgery was but we were finally called in to the consultation room again by the main surgeon. A small, sweet woman with sorrow in her eyes. The surgery was a fail. Ein's intestines were too far gone to be saved and there was nothing she could do. She was sorry, she tried, but that's what Necrotizing Enterocolitis does. She walked out to leave us together in our grief and my husband and aunt walked out with her to let our family know. Suddenly I was alone. My head was pounding and my chest was heaving and heavy. The floor looked peaceful so slid down from my seat so that I could melt into that shiny, waxed, purple sea.

 After a moment, my aunt and husband walked back in and we asked to see Ein. They gave us a small room in the ward with a curtain half drawn so that we could say our good-byes. I don't want to sound insensitive when I say this, but he took a long time to die. I say it because that gave me hope. If he held on then maybe he would heal, it'd be a miracle. We needed a miracle. At 4:23 am on November 24, 2010,  my little boy took his last breath. There were no more coos, no little cries. The pain medicine he was given allowed him to go peacefully, as I was assured. We were given the option to bathe him and dress him, I declined, but they also gave us a Shadow Box of little things like his tubing, eye mask, oxygen mask, and even some clippings of his hair. We stayed for a little while longer and then made our way back to the parking lot.

 I remember trying to cry, to relieve the pain in my chest, but my eyes and mouth were dry and my stomach hurt from sobbing most of the day. When my aunt dropped us off at home, I felt so empty. This feeling of hope and expectation in our home had suddenly turned to anger and longing and sadness. We were so tired that we immediately curled up into bed with each other and just cried. We cried ourselves to sleep.

 Over the next week or so, I continued to get worse and we continued to be investigated for the drug that was found in my system. The drug that was found was a sedative and apparently it wasn't something issued by the hospital. Even our caseworker fought for us because he believed us innocent. Still, the case couldn't be dismissed, we had to see it to the end. Eventually, the doctors figured out what was causing my infections and fever. I had Psuedomonas. No idea where it came from or how I got it, but it was the reason why many of the previous antibiotics weren't working. I needed the strong stuff and it wasn't until it was almost too late that we figured that out. December 2nd was the day I was finally discharged and on the mend from the my c-section and infections. Not sure how much later it was, but we also got a letter in the mail from the Child Protection Agency stating that we were found guilty of Negligent Supervision. It's the best they could do without any proof and without apologizing for being ass hats.

 This birth was hard and traumatic for me. It's been 3 years and I can just now say that it doesn't hurt as much. I no longer have nightmares of it and can stand to hear a newborn cry without having a full blown anxiety attack. Instead, I help other women and new mothers in my situation. I give them a shoulder and hope. There is life after infant loss, but that's another blog post entirely. :D

My First Son: Part 1

 One of the most important things you will ever do as a mom is give birth to your child. After 9-10 months of growing another human being inside you, the time has come to bring that little person earth side. It's a very special, emotional time for most of us because all of those anxious filled months of preparation and anxiety have come to close and you finally have to overcome the pain of your body stretching and pulling and pushing. For the rest of us, complications arise and can be present in both pregnancy and birth. Some with happy endings and some, well...

 My first pregnancy started in June 2010. I had only been married 3 months and was excited to start this journey as a wife and mother. The first couple of months were OK besides normal fatigue from being pregnant, working, and suffering from Fibromyalgia. (Which I don't have anymore. Funny how pregnancy can do that.)I did end up quitting at 14-15 weeks though because my fatigue got progressively worse. I went to monthly prenatal check ups, getting more and more excited with every visit, but nothing but a high white blood cell count showed up and was immediately written off as a common illness. Around 19 weeks is when Braxton Hicks started, but I thought nothing of it because that was normal. At 23 weeks we found out we were having a boy and almost immediately decided to name him Ein Zeno Gabriel.

 I was in love. I fantasized about my new mom life. The memories we would make, the moments we'd have. I wanted it all. In reality, it was slowly slipping away. A couple weeks after our gender reveal is when we started to get worried. Contractions were always intense but irregular and my fatigue and turned into an all out food aversion. I craved fruit and vegetables but couldn't stand the smell or taste of meat. Being that I am already beef and dairy-intolerant, it didn't leave me with a lot of options. There was also dizziness and headaches among my many pregnancy symptoms. Every check-up though, I was fine.

 At 27 weeks I was pale, tired, irritable, and hungry. We had just moved into an apartment with an extra bedroom for the baby so I was anxious to set up a nursery. All that week though, all I wanted to do was sleep. Saturday, November 13, 2010, the last day of my 27th week, I could not get comfortable. My stomach hurt, my back hurt, I had a headache, I was bloated. "Maybe I had too much dairy today..." I thought. "I just need to lay down." I couldn't get comfortable either so on and off through the night I would soak my aching body in a warm bath. It relieved my back and hip pain and allowed me to sleep for an hour at a time until it hit 6am.

 Sunday, November 14, 2010 at 28 weeks gestation: 6 am rolls around and I am crying for lack of sleep and pain relief. I keep telling myself and my husband it's only gas and my Fibromyalgia acting up. I'm fine. I finally call the nurse hot line for my doctor and am told to take Tylenol for the pain and if that doesn't help then to go to the E.R... I took the Tylenol and fell asleep for another hour or so. I think by the time I wake up again it's 7 or 8 am. I can't take it anymore. I am throwing up, my body is pushing, my emotions are extreme. Something is wrong, I think this is labor. We call hubby's mom to take us to the hospital. It's the longest time in my life. I feel like I'm dying. I am dying. I crawl on all fours to the bathroom while my husband yells at me to get up. I can't, I just want to sit, to squat. Why is my body pushing? His mother gets us and I can barely walk to the car. Every speed bump and pot hole tries to break me. I can't even breathe.

 We finally get to the E.R. entrance and my husband grabs a nurse and wheelchair while I bellow out the door to "hurry!" Funny how when I get into the wheel chair I suddenly relax. I can breathe a little better, not too deep, but I can smile. I get to a room, am examined in mid-contraction and am told that I am 7cm dilated. SAY WHAT?! How? I'm only 28 weeks. "This baby is coming, it's too late to stall. The bag is bulging," says the doctor I've never met. My contractions come back strong and mingle with my shock and fear and leave me hazed for the rest of this. Well, the drugs do. I remember her breaking my waters, the most relieving thing, and then almost immediately I'm at a 9-10 cm dilated. I've had no drugs, still throwing up, and they've got me signing paperwork and poking needles in all at the same time. I'm not sure where my husband is or what's going on around me. I know I was yelling so loud that some doctor guy opened the door and yelled at the nurses to "Sedate her so she can quiet down." Whatever they gave me left me feeling like a shell. I had no emotions but I knew I was scared. Not feeling is worse I think.

 I was wheeled into the O.R. with my husband and transferred to an operating table and had my knees thrust into my stomach and was told to push. I couldn't though, I felt weird. I couldn't breathe, I was bewildered at what was going on still. I kept saying I can't breathe, I need oxygen but they kept telling me, "No you don't, PUSH!" I would say I couldn't and they'd yell louder. So I yelled at my husband to hold me up but he just stood there, shaking. After a few threats of surgery I finally collected my thoughts and grabbed my legs. I felt nothing. No more contractions, no fear, no happiness, but having a purpose cleared my mind. I pushed, and pushed.

 Then I was prepped for surgery. I'm not sure why but I think baby got stuck and vitals were dropping. My husband was all but pushed out the door and I was suddenly left alone on the table, holding on afraid I'd roll off. The doctor kept yelling for her team to get it together so she could deliver the baby but all I heard in the background was laughing and talk of family holidays. I felt exposed lying there and would try to cover up only to be told to lay still. Finally, the anesthetist arrived and put a gas mask on my face. I fought for a second because of impending vomit, but soon lost.

 I don't know really know what happened next. I know the baby was born and sent straight to NICU because of how early he was. I knew what he looked like because of pictures but didn't get to see him until later that night. My nurses wheeled me down the hall to where the NICU was so I could see him. As they rolled me in, I looked anxiously for him. Which one was mine? It was quiet, like it should be, but the air was melancholy. As my nurses parked me in front of the incubator, I began to cry. What happened? What did I do to him? I failed. I did something to make this happen! I didn't want to be there. I wanted to leave. All I could say was how sorry I was. I would make this right.

Mother Knows Best

 So, are you a new mom or have a new babe in you life? Do you feel like a parent-outcast sometimes due to your choices? Do you want what is best for your child?

 I'm pretty sure that most of us moms, if not all, at least want what is best for our children but that can also lead to some pretty interesting views and parenting styles. Like me, I wanted/tried the exclusive breastfeeding, baby-wearing, BLW (baby-led-weaning), sign language, and cloth diapers, no Santa, and natural remedies for small illnesses. Some of these things worked out, some didn't. I had a plan, but had to learn what was the best fit for my family. Of course some of my family and friends, parents and non-parents alike, thought I was crazy or that I would never keep up with my goals. That I was too greedy in my wishes. Whatever, we are all still alive, healthy, and happy. It seems like I did something right.

 The thing that is a constant and drives me insane is that there are still certain family members and friends that roll their eyes at me or just blatantly do not follow my parenting lead for my son. Whatever it is that I do must be so offensive to them that I can't even discuss the latest study from the American Academy of Pediatrics without an eye roll and a defensive attitude or even leave my son with family trusting they won't feed him a food off of his intolerant or no-no list. I mean, hey, I can understand that I can be overwhelming at times with all of my info but I'm not trying to sell you on a new parenting style or study. Most of the time, I just want to discuss what I read because I either found it amusing or found it thought provoking. I definitely don't understand why people would think I'm overreacting when I don't let my dairy intolerant son have ice cream.

I do what I think is best for my child. Can't we all just get along and respect each other for our differences? If you deal with this, don't deal with it. I've stood up for myself countless times, and it will probably never end, but it has gotten better because they know where I stand. Where do you stand? How about we just sit and chat about our cares and woes together while sipping a dairy-free fruit smoothie and watch our toddlers eat a stick. After all, that's where it's really at. Right? Right.

Who or what is MirrorSeeing?

 Hey! So Mirror Seeing is ME!! It is the name that was given to me at a Native American ceremony with my family and I use it for whenever or wherever I can easily and freely translate my passions.

 My given name at birth, and the one I use daily, is Brittany. I'm a 24 year old married gal with two kids, one in heaven and one, a toddler, currently sleeping in his room. (My rainbow baby! (We'll have a lot of discussions about that later.)) I'm sort of a 'Jack of all Trades', meaning I tend to know a little about everything because I am so scatter brained that I can't pin-point exactly what I'm doing at any given time.

 Family, love, faith, and truth are some of the things I value most in life. Having said that, I am only human and do not have "everything together". I have more breakdowns a month than I care to count and am a hard person to motivate. I am loyal to the end, though, and sometimes that means I demand the same from those I give it to which can make for some hurt feelings and misunderstandings. I battle daily with Bi-polar disorder, depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder. On the bright side, I know the difference between a mental disorder and me just being a punk and will usually be the first to apologize or confess it, however long that may take.

  I believe in second chances, helping others, a divine will, fate, an afterlife, spirituality, and that the Saints will win the Superbowl at least one more time before I die. I truly enjoy being a wife and mother. It's all I ever wanted in life. I didn't enjoy school growing up so I had never put much thought into it until I had my kids. Now, I really don't know what I want to do because I want it all. Like a sponge, I want to absorb as much as I can about Cosmetology, Midwifery, OBGYN, Pediatric care, NICU care, Social Working, Phlebotomy, owning a baby boutique for cloth diapers, Lactation Consultation, and Montessori certification. Oh yea, so much but so little time and money!

 So I'm pretty sure that's me. Are you confused, is your head spinning? Yea, that's how I feel most days. I'll post about something that's been bugging me the last few weeks. As a mom to a toddler, I'm sure you can guess what it may be about. :D Stay tuned!!