little zoe

Thank you all so much for your good wishes. I’ve been meaning to post for the last few days, but it’s amazing how the day just seems to disappear between nursing a newborn, trying to pay attention to Stella, popping motrin, and trying to nap.

I am so glad that we postponed the C-section and that my doctor was able to perform the surgery. She’s so good and I was so relieved to have her there. She’s seen me through so much worry and crisis, and it just felt right to have her deliver our little Zoe.

I was very nervous Wednesday morning. I don’t like the idea of spinal anesthesia, and really, the thought of being sliced open made me feel a little sick. And then there were the parenting worries: what would we do with two kids? What had we been thinking? How would Stella react? How would we handle it all? Most people probably consider these questions prior to getting pregnant again, or at least earlier than, say, the day of delivery, but I’d spent all my time and energy worrying about the pregnancy itself. I had a sudden moment of panic, realizing that we were having another child and that it was happening TODAY!

We were scheduled to have the surgery at 4 pm, but my doctor called a little after noon and asked if we could do it at 2 instead. We called my mom, and she came over to be with Stella, then we headed off to the hospital, where we had the fastest non-emergency C-section prep I can imagine. At 2, I walked into the operating room. I actually walked! What a change from last time. Everything, in fact, was so different from last time. There was no vomiting, no dizziness, no whisking my baby away, no team from neonatology waiting in the wings. Zoe cried as soon as she was out of me, which, of course, made me cry. Who knows how many times I said, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” I was incapable of anything else.

I was able to touch Zoe right away, then D went with her to the nursery for tests (and Stella and my mom were waiting to see her on the way). I was able to nurse her in the recovery room, and she latched on right away. It all felt so fabulously normal at the same time it felt absolutely abnormal to us.

When we were settled in our postpartum room, Stella came in and held Zoe for a half hour and kept saying, in the same high voice she uses to talk to her baby dolls, “Oh, isn’t she cutie.”

Stella stayed with my mom, so D and I were both able to stay at the hospital. To have her in the room with us, to hold her and nurse her—I can’t tell you how amazing this was for us, how grateful we felt. And how utterly relieved I felt that I was no longer pregnant. At the same time, I felt (and feel) incredibly sad that Stella didn’t get this, that she had to go through what she went through. It’s odd because I’ve felt sad for us, for D and me, for having to survive the NICU and Stella’s premature birth, but I haven’t thought about it in terms of what Stella missed out on until now, until I realized how different it could be.

But Stella is a tough little cookie, and I suppose she is this way partly because she had to be tough to make it. But still, to have been able to hold her and take her home right away—that’s how it should be for all babies, no? Again, I think of all of you who ended up with two preemies and I'm so sorry you didn't get to experience a full-term birth.

It’s wonderful to be home. I’m a little slow with the recovery from the C-section, but I’m hoping to feel better soon. Yesterday a home care nurse came by and Zoe is doing great—she’s already gained back the weight she had lost, and yesterday she weighed 6 pounds exactly. Oddly, my blood pressure is up, higher than it was during the pregnancy. I know preeclampsia can occur after delivery, so I’m keeping an eye on it, but I’m hoping it will be lower tomorrow. (My mom borrowed a BP cuff from a friend and I've been ordered, by my mother, to check it every day. In this, I'm doing as she says.)

Thank you, again, for all the thoughts that you were thinking for us on Wednesday. It is such a gift to have had a birth like that and to now have a healthy baby girl. She’s just a doll. I'll post more frequently as I settle into a rhythm with my two girls.

postponed

This may sound a little crazy, but the C-section has been postponed. My doctor called tonight and it turns out that she's really sick, as well. One of her colleagues could go ahead with the surgery tomorrow morning, but since I'm still not feeling great, it makes sense to wait. This does make sense, right? This is my thought: I would rather be healthy going into surgery, and a day and a half might just buy me that health. It would be a relief not to hack up a lung on the operating table.

I plan and plan and try to control these things. Ah. When will I learn?

So it looks as though this little one will be born on Wednesday afternoon, but I'll let you know when I have more details. And of course, I could always go into labor before then.

Thank you, as always, for all your thoughts.

so sick

Well, I’m spending the last few days of my pregnancy laid up with a horrible head cold and cough. I’ve been sick on and off for the past three months, but this time, it’s special. I have a fever and a cough so violent that it’s become commonplace to simultaneously throw up and pee myself. I spent the whole day in bed yesterday, which I never do. In fact, I think the last time I lay in bed all day was the day before Stella was born, and though I had a violent cough then, as well, I was lying down only because I was ordered to do so.

So much for my grand plans of posting about actual books this week and spending some quality time with Stella in her last days as an only child. Instead, I’m going to lie in bed and hope I don’t cough myself into labor before Tuesday. I’ll let you know if I do cough myself into labor, though.

hanging in there

I know most of my recent posts have been personal, pregnancy-related ones, and I want to apologize. I actually have a couple of books on which I want to report, but I’ll plan on doing that next week. Pregnancy and parenting and tying up loose ends are all-consuming at the moment. Please bear with me.

To continue in my self-absorbed vein: I’m 38 weeks pregnant today. I’m still measuring “small,” and actually lost a little weight this week, which makes me nervous, but I have to remember that the baby was fine last week on the ultrasound. It’s not as if she’s going to shrink, right?

Other breaking news: I am extraordinarily tired this week. I just now finished the last freelance thing I HAD TO TURN IN before the baby is born, so I’m hoping to spend the next week revitalizing the art of the daily nap. I apparently need a daily nap because without one, I wake up in the morning looking like a washed-out 80s rocker. Seriously. There is something about the length of my hair and the bags under my eyes that, combined, make me look as though I partied too long on the circuit. Sadly, I’ve got the look without the lifestyle. The other morning, I walked into the bathroom and D said, “Where’s your guitar, Eddie?” I’ve become a female, red-haired version of Eddie Van Halen. This is not good news.

The good news is that I am thoroughly enjoying Stella these days (with the exception of the other night when she told me that she wished D and I weren’t alive so that so could go live with her Grammy. I had made her turn off Mary Poppins because it was getting too late and this was the ugly result.) But other than that, she really has been delightful. Yesterday, all three of us played Clumsy Monster, a game in which we take turns putting a blanket over our heads and running into walls and falling down. (Don’t worry—I was really careful.) I have never heard Stella laugh so hard. It’s one of the infectious, loud laughs—absolutely irresistible. She loves slap-stick and made us do it over and over again. Her other favorite game involves her and D walking toward each other backwards from across the room as they pretend to talk on cell phones. Then they bump into each other and when they turn around, they both gasp as realize they are father and daughter. The game sometimes involves other props (sunglasses for a better disguise, bouncing balls that fly everywhere on impact, etc.). The game always ends in a dramatic hug. Over and over again they do this as I watch from the couch. Who knew this could be entertaining? (I have probably not done the scene justice here. You’d really have to see it.)

One more week of work before my maternity leave begins, and it would be nice to finish the month, but I’d be fine if I didn’t. I’ll just clean the house (again and probably again), nap, and try to relax a little. Maybe I’ll even have a half-glass of wine tonight. I know, I know. I’m getting really crazy.

she's okay

I've just come from the ultrasound, and the baby seems to be fine and is measuring as she should for 37 weeks. So, relief. Huge relief. D was squeezing my hand the whole time, and his whole body relaxed when the technician said the baby was okay. I sometimes forget that this pregnancy has been just as hard on him as it's been on me. (Though he, of course, can pour himself a stiff drink when he wants one.)

I still have the pain wrapping around my left side, so I might not make it to March 4th, but I don't care, so long as the little one is okay. Her little profile looks just like Stella. And today she is technically a full-term baby.

Thank you for your thoughts and good wishes.

the best laid plans

A few days ago I was talking with a friend about deciding to have a C-section. (After much waffling, it just feels like the right choice for me. I scheduled for 8 am on March 4th.) My friend said, “Well that makes a lot of sense. You know the date and time. I bet that gives you a sense of control—something you lacked completely the first time around.”

My first instinct when she said this was to nod my head: “Yes, yes, that’s right. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

My second instinct was to back away, scared. Lord knows I like to be in control and have everything planned out. But I know things rarely go as planned, especially with childbirth, and I felt that by trying to control things, I may have jinxed myself.

Well, yesterday I when I was dropping Stella at preschool I began to have low back pain that wrapped around my left side. It continued for about an hour at work, then migrated up my back. Eventually, it went away, but I called my doctor. (Could this be what the beginning of labor feels like?) I went in and my cervix was still closed, but the doctor said I was measuring small for almost 37 weeks. One other doctor had said a similar thing a few weeks back, but my own doc hasn’t been concerned about this. In the last week, I have been a little concerned, though. I kept asking D, “Do you think I’m big enough?” And on Tuesday I saw a friend who is 39 weeks, and she was HUGE, her belly a solid beach ball.

I left the doctor’s office nervous, again. D and I sat on the couch last night, trying to distract ourselves with LOST, but it didn’t work. A small baby could mean my placenta isn’t functioning properly. What else could it mean? I really don’t know.

I’m going in this morning for an ultrasound, and I just hope this little bugger is okay. I’ll post later, when we know more. Keep your fingers crossed for me, for baby.

36 weeks!

I hope I’m not boring you with my weekly pregnancy updates, but I have to share this good news: I am 36 weeks pregnant today and I still haven’t turned into a water-retaining blimp.

I have a good friend who is also due the first week of March, and when I talk to her on the phone, she sounds so tired and complains of being huge and uncomfortable. She’s ready to be done with her pregnancy. I am, on the other hand, elated. Oh, I have trouble sleeping, certainly, and the indigestion is constant and uncomfortable, but still, I’m elated. I’ve never done this before—it’s as if this is my first pregnancy. The movement and how big the baby feels—these things are new to me, and I’m so grateful that I’ve made it this far.

The truth is that I could still develop preeclampsia, but now that the baby’s lungs are mature, it wouldn’t be the tragedy it would have been if I had become sick a few weeks or months ago. But making it this far also makes me think of those of you who had to live through the NICU twice, those of you who developed preeclampsia more than once (Denise and Jen, in particular), and those of you who lost your babies due to preeclampsia. I want you to know I’m not taking my 36 weeks for granted. I wish you could have experienced this, as well.

falling away

Last week was a sad week. A friend (the sister of very close friends of ours) died after struggling with depression and bi-polar disease for almost 20 years. Her son is ten years old, and every time I think of him, I get teary. Every time I think of her family and their pain, I get teary. And yesterday, as I was going through baby clothes, trying to get organized, I found the itsy bitsy teensy weensy sweater that this friend knit for Stella four years ago, and I got all teary.

I am no stranger to depression. I understand that kind of desperation, and it scares me. Before we had Stella, I used to worry about it all the time. I worried that with depression on my side of the family and schizophrenia on D.’s side, we would be mixing a dangerous gene cocktail for our children. But I guess my wish for children was stronger than my fear, because eventually we decided to go ahead and try.

Over the last few years, more general parental worries have filled my mind, and though I didn’t forget about the depression and mental illness—its power—I was somehow able to put it on the back burner. Not this week. All week, I held Stella too long, squeezed her too tightly, checked on her too often as she slept, just wanting to keep her safe.

By Friday afternoon, after the very sad funeral, I was exhausted. I wished I had had a little energy left to celebrate my 35 weeks of pregnancy or the fact that I am alive—that 16 years ago depression did not kill me (though it almost did)—but I was too tired. So, I slept and I ate and D. and I brought up the changing table from the basement and washed baby clothes and cleaned the house and bought diapers and wipes and began to prepare for something joyful: a new baby.

After all the worry of this pregnancy, it seems crazy that I’m actually going to have a baby. I’m still careful. I still don’t want to get too excited, but I’m letting go of the worry, just a little, because I need that happiness, and I’m tired of being scared.

I know that there will always be something about which to fret. There will always be something about which to be watchful. But for now—for the next few weeks—I just want to be excited, to be happy, and let everything else fall away.

quick update

I just got home from seeing my doctor, and everything is still looking good with the pregnancy. My blood pressure is great. No extreme swelling yet. No protein my urine. Yee-haw! The baby actually feels enormous inside me, and every night after dinner she has taken to shifting or rolling, which makes my abdomen look alive. (I imagine this kind of thing doesn't interest most second-time mothers, but this is all a first for me. Crazy.)

I kind of hoped that my doctor would come down hard on one side of the VBAC/C-section question, but she didn't, and told me, instead, that she felt comfortable with whatever decision I decided to make. She really is a great doctor, and of course, this is all reassuring, but it means that I still have to make the decision and be able to live with the decision I make. My doc thinks I'll wake up one morning knowing what's right for me. I'm not so sure it's going to happen that way, but I'll keep my fingers crossed.

33 weeks and counting

This week, I passed the gestational point with this pregnancy—32 weeks and 4 days—at which Stella was born. Throughout the day on Monday, I thought: this is the point that day when they started the Pitocin; this is the point when Stella became distressed; this is when they said I’d need a C-section; this is when they put me on oxygen; this is when she was born; this is when I lay in bed, alone, without her inside me.

Often in September, the details of my pregnancy with Stella and her traumatic birth pop unexpectedly into my mind. The heat or the light or the leaves beginning to turn yellow will suddenly remind me of those days of fear and the trying months that followed. But it was different to live the whole day of 32 weeks and 4 days over again this week. I alternated between feeling weepy and anxious and feeling utterly relieved. It was as if I was in two time zones, living two lives, at once.

Tuesday morning I woke up more pregnant than I have ever been. How many people did I say that to throughout the day? More than were actually interested, I’m sure.

Now, I am 33 weeks pregnant. I didn’t really think I’d make it this far, but I told myself that if I did, I would start thinking about birth options—a VBAC versus another C-section. So here I am, worrying about something new.

I know there are plenty of people out there who are militantly pro-VBAC, and I understand why. I understand that the U.S. has obscenely high Cesarean rates. I understand the benefits to a baby’s respiratory system when it is born vaginally. But I also understand the 1-2% chance of uterine rupture with VBACs, and though I could read this as 98-99% success rate, I just can’t. There is a 1-2% chance of catastrophic results. And if I insisted on a VBAC, and then the baby died or was injured, could I live with myself? I couldn’t.

On the other side: I don’t want to be sliced open again. Spinal anesthesia scares me, even though I had it when Stella was born. (There is always that slight chance of paralysis, looming.) And I hate the thought of a long recovery period.

Maybe the question I need to answer is how important is to me that I have a vaginal birth. Do I feel I need to experience this? I’m not sure that I do.

The truth is that I still have post-traumatic stress surrounding Stella’s birth. I haven’t even let myself think of the actual birth of this baby, and now that I am thinking about it, I can’t stop the flood of images from my labor and ultimate C-section with Stella. I can’t stop the images of the NICU, of my baby with tubes and wires snaking from her body. I can’t stop the image of me, rubbing antiseptic foam in my hands under bright light, the numbers on the monitor up and down, up and down.

So here I am, going back and forth, worrying again, still. Here I am with a decision to make. But making a decision means owning the results, and I’m too scared to own anything. I don’t have enough energy left to own anything.

good news

First, I want to thank all of you for your support and kind words (about this pregnancy and more generally about what I post here).

It's funny. I never really wanted to be a blogger, but I thought it would be "good for me," so almost a year ago, I started this blog. Because of it, I've discovered such a wonderful community of writers and readers and mothers, pondering the same issues, raising important and often difficult questions. I feel less alone in my endeavors as a parent and teacher and writer. So it indeed has been good for me, but I also really love it. Thank you for that.

And I have good news about the pregnancy: my blood pressure is still great and there is no protein in my urine. I had a non-stress test yesterday and Baby seems just fine. My doctor agreed that I should come in every week now, and this is also a huge relief. I feel I can worry a little less if I know they are keeping a close eye on me. So, I'm going to do as you suggest: worry then let it go, and begin practicing a little denial (or positive thinking): this will be a full-term baby)!

pregnancy update

I'm 31.5 weeks pregnant now and seem to be healthy, though I am beginning to swell a little. This could be normal pregnancy swelling, of course, but it could also be the beginning of preeclampsia. I've begun weighing myself every morning, and D. checks my ankles and wrists every night for signs of serious edema. (I know, aren't we fun?)

I'm going in today to have my blood pressure and urine checked. If my blood pressure is fine and my urine is clear of protein, I'll breathe a sigh of relief. At this point with Stella, I weighed 15 pounds more than I do now (mostly water weight, though I didn't realize it at the time), and I had begun to leak significant protein into my urine, indicating damage to the small blood vessels in my kidneys. (My blood pressure was normal with her until the last minute, when it skyrocketed.)

A good report today would be a huge relief, but frankly, I'm tired of all of this. I work myself into a frenzy of worry, am relieved when I get a good report, but then I begin worrying again almost immediately. I tell myself I'm just being vigilant--I know how fast you can get sick from preeclampsia--but maybe I'm simply justifying my worrying.

I wish I were more laid-back. I can't stop the preeclampsia from happening, so why worry? But doesn't the worrying make me more vigilant? Is there a way to be vigilant without worrying? I've been anxious for um, 7 months, and I'm exhausted.

blogging in my head

I'm sorry I've been silent for the last week. I've wanted to blog and have actually been thinking about blogging, but it's been impossible for me to get myself to the computer. Partly, this is because I have a new cold (or maybe it's the same cold with new life), and all I've wanted to do is lie on the couch. I've also been very busy, which means, of course, that very little couch-lying has actual happened, and which probably explains why I'm still feeling so lousy. Bad Kate.

My last class of the term meets tomorrow, though, and my last day of work for a couple of weeks is Thursday, so on Friday I'm planning to plant myself on the couch with a stack of books and drink fluids until I puke. Sounds like fun, huh?

Amidst the sickness, however, I have been celebrating a milestone for this pregnancy. I am now 28.5 weeks pregnant, which means the little bugger, if born today, would have over an 80% chance of survival and a 90% of escaping without a long-term disability. My blood pressure is still beautiful--yee-haw--and my wrists still aren't swelling. (I check them oh, four to five times a day.)

It's actually amazing how relieved I feel, even though we still have four weeks to go to pass Stella's gestational age at birth, and I know that having a 32-weeker is no picnic. But a 28-weeker's chances reassure me. I can't help it.

I'll be back blogging regularly now. I promise.

nora bella

Now D. and Stella and I all have colds. We’re sick and snotty and coughing—my lungs and throat feel raw—and Stella has a wicked fever. When I was awake coughing from 1:30 to 4 this morning, I seriously considered a big shot of NyQuil. (I have a will of steel, so I was able to restrain myself.)

To make this all more enjoyable, a drain pipe in our basement broke on Wednesday and we’re getting the run-around from the plumbers, so we haven’t been able to let water down the drains (imagine what my kitchen looks like, dishes piled upon dishes piled upon countertops) or shower (imagine how grungy I look and feel--or rather, don't imagine it). I’ll go to my dad’s and shower shortly, I promise.

The good news is that I’m now 26 weeks pregnant, which means the baby has an 80% chance of survival and only a 25% of a long-term disability. I saw my doc a few days ago and my blood pressure was “beautiful,” and there is no sign of swelling. I’ll see her again in two weeks and hope for the same report.

But what I really want to tell you about this morning is nora bella, a wonderful collection of hand-made clothes and gifts for babies and kids. I got my MFA with Andria, who owns nora bella, and I knew she was a talented writer, but I had no idea that she was also a rock star of an entrepreneur. You *must* check out these wonderful, crafty gifts. I know Stella would die for one of the dress-up tutus, and I might have to splurge on some fancy burp cloths and some of Andria's too-cool onesies for the new baby.

The wonderful thing about nora bella is that everything is hand-crafted by artist moms. In this age of everything-made-in-China, it’s such a relief to know who is making the stuff you buy. And it looks great. So don’t wait any longer—go buy some crafty baby and kids things at nora bella. Rock on, Andria.

viable

I am twenty-four weeks pregnant today, which means that I’m carrying a viable fetus.

When we were contemplating a second pregnancy, and shortly after I became pregnant, I thought that these weeks—24 to 28—would be the most difficult for me. A baby born earlier than 23 weeks has virtually no chance of survival, but 24-weekers have a 25% chance of survival. A 25% chance of survival after four or five months in intensive care, after months on ventilators, after umbilical catheters and IVs in their heads and arms, after feeding tubes taped to their faces, after complications that you only learn about if you are forced to live through them.

Many 24-weekers end up with intraventricular hemorrhages (IVH) because the pressure of the ventilators can burst the fragile capillaries in their brains. This, in turn, can affect motor and mental development as well as cause blindness, deafness and seizures. Even preemies born later, between 30-35 weeks, are at higher risk for sensory integration and learning problems.

With all that I know about what can happen to babies born between 24 and 28 weeks, I thought I’d be terrified when I reached this point in the pregnancy. But strangely, I’m not. Oh, I’m still being careful, watching myself for swelling, and trying to rest (this week unsuccessfully). But I actually breathed a sigh of relief when I woke up this morning and knew I was caring a viable fetus. I have been holding my breath for the last ten weeks, since the morning I woke up in a pool of blood, and now I’m carrying a fetus that has a 25% chance of surviving outside my womb.

Don’t get me wrong—I want the whole nine months. One of my co-workers was due a few days ago and she has just been waiting, wondering when labor would begin, and I thought: oh, right, that’s how most people do this thing. They go nine months and then labor starts and they have their babies. It was as if I was thinking about birth for the first time.

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’m still waiting to see what happens. I’m still vigilant. But if I make it past 32 weeks, I'll maybe even ask my doc about a vaginal delivery. For now, though, I know that every week—nay, every day—that passes gives the baby girl inside me a better chance at survival, a better chance at being born healthy. For now, I’ll hang onto that.


Note: I’ve already posted about some of the risks of prematurity, but it’s worth mentioning again, especially because November is Prematurity Awareness Month.

a little relief

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been feeling so, so crabby. I’m living with a number of activity restrictions that, in combination, make me feel crazy. I mean, you take no exercise and no sex and shake that up with no red wine, and how would you feel? It doesn’t help that I’ve been working—and worrying about work—a lot lately, which is annoying because it’s not my writing/teaching work, but my pay-the-bills work.

I’d also been worrying about my ultrasound, which was two days ago. I was anxious about what kind of news we would get, and I was also crabby because I felt I had been coerced into the genetic counseling session that went with the Level II ultrasound. D. and I had decided against the blood tests and amnio and all that extra stuff, and I felt that I was now being forced into the counseling session against my will. The receptionist just kept saying, “Well, it goes with the ultrasound, and you are of advanced maternal age.”

I’m 35, people—not exactly elderly. But whatever, I agreed. I was, however, feeling quite petulant about it all, and I realized that it was a distinct possibility that I’d be a bitch to the counselor. I was relieved that D. would be there to pinch my leg if I got out of hand, but it’s generally not a good sign if I sense my bad behavior before I start behaving badly.

Well. The genetic counselor was lovely. I couldn’t have conjured a gentler, more soft-spoken, understanding woman if I’d tried. Really. Why had I been so worried about this? And she made an interesting connection between my grandmother’s two miscarriages and stillbirth (my mom is an only child) and my blood clot. I’ve been thinking about my grandmother and her pregnancy losses a lot lately, but I hadn’t made a real connection. The counselor suggested I have my blood tested for a clotting disorder that could be genetic. Very interesting.

And the ultrasound itself was such a relief. No signs of chromosomal abnormalities. No new blood clots. And the baby—a GIRL!!—was kicking around as if she was at Jr. Olympic try-outs. You go, girl.

I’m actually thrilled that it’s another girl. A boy would have been fine, of course. A healthy, full-term baby really has been the goal, though people don’t seem to believe me when I say that. It’s odd how many people just assume that I want a boy because I already have a girl. It seems so old-school to me. But I really never imagined myself as a mother to boys. Odd, I know. But there you have it.

Stella has been wanting a baby sister and insisting that the baby would be a girl, so I thought she would scream and/or jump up and down when D. and I told her, but she just smiled slightly and said in her best teenage voice, “I already told you it was a girl, mom.” Duh.

a gorgeous placenta

I never thought I would be so excited and relieved to hear that I have a gorgeous placenta. TFG. Baby is alive with a healthy heartbeat, and the clot has diminished to a few very small clots. Apparently, "I bled in the right direction." (Who knew this was even possible?) The big fear was that the blood would pool between the placenta and the uterine wall, which would have been very bad. But it didn't. Most of it drained out of me, and the rest will hopefully reabsorb.

I can't thank you all enough for your thoughts and good wishes.

I still have to take it easy, especially for the next two weeks. I can't lift Stella, much to her chagrin, or carry anything over 15 pounds. But the baby is alive and my placenta is fully attached, and for now, all I feel is relief. I will work a little from home, but try to stay out of the office and not worry about anything except eating and resting.

I'll see my doctor tomorrow and have a ultrasound in two weeks and another one in five weeks. (So much for trying to limit ultrasound exposure. Eh whatever, bring them on.) And now I'm back to my original hope--that I will carry this baby to term, that it will be born healthy and weighing 7 pounds (or even 6).

It is amazing how quickly crisis puts the rest of life--work and stress and daily worries--into perspective. I wish it weren't so hard for me to put things in their proper places without this kind of trauma. But I have a little perspective now, and I'll hang onto it as tightly as I can.

Thank you, again, for all your kind words.

september, pregnancy and me

They just don’t mix. It was this very week four years ago, while I was pregnant with Stella, that my body began to shut down. The level of protein in my urine indicated kidney malfunction. I had gained over ten pounds in two weeks, all fluid. Soon I was lying in the hospital, vomiting and claustrophobic from the magnesium sulfate, my blood pressure suddenly 170/110.

But last week, I was actually feeling good. I was too busy, stressed with work and a freelance article and wondering how I would pull together my Loft syllabus and get a grant proposal written, but other than that, I felt good. I even had a moment of thinking, oh, this is what it’s like for all those other women. I barely gave a thought to preeclampsia, determined to try what my doctor suggested: not worry for twenty whole weeks.

One of my friends who has had more than her share of pregnancy tragedies recently said to me, “You never know exactly what to be afraid of. You worry about one thing and then all of the sudden this other horrible thing happens, and you realize that you never can know what to be afraid of.”

As you know, I have a vivid and neurotic imagination, and I am afraid of many things. But what I wasn’t worried about, what didn’t even cross my mind, was this: waking up at 4:30 on a Sunday morning, my pajamas covered in blood. What I didn’t think to worry about was a blood clot behind my placenta. Which could mean what? Placenta previa? Placental abruption? Just a clot that might reabsorb?

I don’t know yet, but now preeclampsia seems like a ball. Get me to 32 weeks and I’ll swell as much as you want. Get me to 32 weeks and I’ll lie in a hospital bed with magnesium sulfate pumping through my veins for weeks, and I won’t even complain. I swear.

I didn’t think it was possible for me to believe that a 32-week preemie could be my best-case scenario, that it could be something I would shoot for, after all we’ve been through. But here I am, hoping for it.

I go in tomorrow morning for another ultrasound, a stronger one. The big gun. Maybe they’ll be able to tell me more—I hope so. And I hope the little bugger is still there, heart pumping. I want this baby, goddammit. Can’t we get a break?

it's alive!

We had our twelve-week check-up on Friday and heard the little bugger’s heartbeat. Such a relief. Of course, I have a slew of other worries about the pregnancy, but after an early miscarriage in January, it was a relief to hear that minuscule heart pumping away.

And did I mention that I love my doctor? She played a large role—in a saving-our-lives kind of way—in my first pregnancy, and it’s so comforting to see her again. I grew up going to an HMO, and I never saw the same doctor more than twice. How different it is to be treated by a doctor with whom I share a history, who knows me. And she’s no-nonsense. She never makes me feel stupid for worrying the way I do, but she does try to nip my neurosis in the bud. On Friday, when I mentioned that I was worried about the small jump in my blood pressure, she just smiled, said that the small increase was normal, and added, dryly, “Kate, you’re pregnant.”

“But—” I started.

“Kate, you’re pregnant.”

She then turned to D. and told him he could pull that line out if he needed to, just as a reminder. Okay, fine. I’m pregnant. She also said that I shouldn’t worry for TWENTY weeks. Since I presented with preeclampsia symptoms around 30 weeks, she said that even if I get it again, it’s not likely to happen before then, so I should put it out of my head. (Imagine, 20 whole weeks without worrying!) She also said that because I made it to the third trimester last time, she wouldn’t recommend that I take baby aspirin everyday (which has been shown—in some studies—to lower the recurrence of preeclampsia).

So, it was a good report, and hearing the heartbeat made the pregnancy feel real to me.

After the appointment, we picked up Stella at my sister’s house and told her that she was going to be a big sister. Have I mentioned that for the last few months she has been having tantrums for a baby sister? A friend of Stella’s recently “got one,” and since then, she has been throwing herself on the floor weeping and yelling, “It’s not fair! I’m never going to get a baby sister. I’m never going to get one. I want one right now!” (We have had discussions about the fact that she might get a baby brother instead, but she’s not believing that for a second. She’s got her mind made up.)

When we told her about the baby, she first said a long, drawn-out “no,” as if she didn’t believe us.

“Yes, sweetie, there’s a baby in here,” I said, pointed to my belly. “You’re going to be a big sister!”

Then she began to laugh maniacally. I’m not sure what was going through her head. It’s a lot to process.

But on Saturday morning, it had definitely sunk in. She looked at my belly as soon as she woke up. “It looks smaller today.” Uh, yeah. That’s because it’s morning and not full of food.

Then she wanted to see what the baby looked like, so I found a picture of a 12-week fetus.

“Oh, cuuuuuuuutttttttie,” she said, and then decided to write the baby a note, which included an almost-4-year-old drawing of a 12-week fetus. It was lovely, if slightly inaccurate.

Later that day, she was washing her hands in the bathroom, and I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub waiting for her. She was seeing how much froth she could create between her palms when she turned to me and said, “I’m excited for the baby, but I’m a little scared.”

“Oh, what about the baby scares you?”

She began rubbing her hands together again. “Well, I’m mostly excited,” she said again, as if to reassure me, “but I’m a little scared about changing diapers.”

How serious she seems sometimes. She had been practicing putting diapers on some of her bears, but I hadn’t realized it had been a challenge or something she was worrying about.

“Oh well, don’t worry about the diapers,” I said. “I can take care of that, and you can just play with the baby, if you want.”

“Okay,” she said, and rinsed her hands.

I’d been feeling nervous about the pregnancy, and I’ve actually been very nervous about reliving those infant months, which were not easy for me the first time. But being able to share all of this with Stella has somehow made my worries fade a little. Her excitement and questions and anticipation are contagious. And again, I have that overwhelming sense of gratitude. I am so lucky I have her.

heartbreak and hoping

Oh why did I do this to myself? Why?

For class tomorrow, I’m having my students read Susan Ito’s “Samuel” and Suzanne Kamata’s “You’re So Lucky.” I chose these pieces to spark discussion about point of view, emotional distance, and writing about heartbreak. But I’m not going to talk about how talented I think both of these writers are or how pieces have been crafted because my response to their writing is so personal. I must, instead, record that.

You see, I’m sitting on my front porch in the sweltering heat, balling. I’m not talking a tear or two. I can’t catch my breath.

“Samuel” is Ito’s essay about her first pregnancy, which ended when she developed severe preeclampsia (it would probably be classified as HELLP syndrome today). At that point (and in 1989), the fetus, her son, was not viable. He needed two more weeks inside her to even have a chance at survival. But Susan would not have made it two weeks. She would have died. The only way to cure preeclampsia, no matter how far along the pregnancy is, is to deliver the baby. But because Samuel was not yet viable, the doctors had to stop his heart. He was evacuated.

Now, the whole essay is heartbreaking—clearly—but the part that hit me hardest was the moment when Susan’s husband, John, is taking her blood pressure in his office. They have no idea she has preeclampsia:

“I heard the Velcro tearing open on the cuff, felt its smooth blue band wrapping around me. I swung my feet and smiled up at John, the stethoscope around his neck, loved this small gesture of his taking care of me. I felt the cuff tightening, the pounding of my heart echoing up and down my fingers, through my elbow.

“The expression on his face I will never forget, the change in color from pink to ash, as if he had died standing at my side. ‘Lie down,’ he said quietly. ‘Lie down on your left side. Now.’”

I can see this. I can feel it in my bones. I know what it is like to feel hopeful and innocent. I also know what it feels like to realize your pregnancy is over, finished, that nothing will happen as you planned.

I was sent to the hospital for bedrest at 32 weeks because I was leaking protein in my urine and had swollen up like a blowfish. But, my blood pressure was still normal so I was just going to the hospital for bedrest, so they could “watch me.” When I arrived at the hospital, my blood pressure was no longer normal. It was 170/110. There would be no bedrest. They had to get the baby out.

Of course, I had a viable fetus, and I would later overhear a NICU nurse say, “A 32-weeker can practically walk out of the womb.” Well, not exactly, but we were lucky. We are so lucky. And maybe it’s because I know how lucky we are that I can’t stop crying now, as I read how things could have been for us, too.

I feel the same terror reading Kamata’s story. “You’re So Lucky” was written as fiction, in the second person, but it’s autobiographical, about the premature birth of Kamata’s twins at 26 weeks and their stay in a Japanese NICU. Kamata writes:

“You had been planning on starting a program of Mozart and poetry in the seventh month, had already picked out a layette in the Land’s End catalogue. You had just started wearing maternity clothes and ordered a gray cotton dress which hadn’t even arrived yet. You had an appointment the next week with a doula recommended by your hippee friend who lives in the mountains.”

But nothing goes as planned, of course. You must give up all your birth dreams.

In both Ito’s and Kamata’s pieces, I read part of my own story. And in fact, the first time I read each piece, I had an oh shit writing moment: I’ve written what she’s written. And it’s true. I talk about the “pre” in preeclampsia in a way similar to Ito. I describe being afraid to touch my baby in a way similar to Kamata. But now reading the pieces again, months later, I just say yes, that’s right. You’ve got it exactly right. I relive it through their words, their experiences, and now I can’t stop crying.

The other reason I can’t stop crying is because I can imagine it happening all over again. Their stories and my own are still a possibility for me. No one can tell me, exactly, what my chances are of developing preeclampsia again. And so I sit here on my porch in the sweltering heat, clutching my barely eight-week pregnant belly, balling and hoping and feeling crazy that I put these two pieces on my syllabus this summer.

But I had to because they do what I’m trying to teach my students how to do: write heartbreak without sentimentality, craft stories out of devastation.


Note: “You’re So Lucky” appears in the new anthology Not What I Expected: The Unpredictable Road from Womanhood to Motherhood and “Samuel” appears in It’s A Boy. I would also like people to remember that the latest abortion ban upheld by the Supreme Court does not contain an exception if a woman’s health (or life) is in danger. A fetus, even a nonviable one, has been given more weight, more importance, than a woman.