After a few days of living in a very small room on the 6th floor of Seattle Children’s Hospital, it began to feel somewhat normal. It felt a little like college; you move into your room and have less space than you could have ever imagined, your bed is uncomfortable and you have a communal bathroom that you have to wait in line for, and it all feels so foreign and you don’t know where anything is and then after a couple of days it’s like you have never lived anywhere else. We had quickly become friendly with the couple in the room next door to us, we knew all of the unit coordinators that let us into the NICU a dozen times a day, and other parents started to look familiar as we gave each other knowing looks as we walked in and out of the NICU each morning. We would get up and showered and go down to Luna Bell’s room in time for the daily rounding of at least 4 doctors (attending and residents), a respiratory therapist, a nutritionist, a pharmacist, and Luna Bell’s nurse of the day. It was a well choreographed run down of her stats from the day and night before, the results of any tests that were done, what they were hoping for that day, changes to respiratory support or medication or feeds, and then an opportunity for Kevin and I to ask questions. Being a part of this was intimidating, but probably the most sure I felt all day. Because there was a bit of news, both good and bad, and then a plan. I thrive on having a plan, even if it doesn’t go exactly as planned.
Spending the days sitting next to her bed; falling asleep in a chair or standing up, ordering food to be delivered to the NICU floor so we didn’t have to be far from her, pumping breast milk, talking to the nurses, doctors, and social workers who helped us navigate everything that comes with having a sick baby. Every time my little girl woke up or moved or when it was time to change her diaper and take her vitals, we were there. Changing her diaper was pretty much the only thing we could do for her, so we jumped at the chance. At this point, I hadn’t even held my daughter in my arms yet. I would hold her tiny hand. Put my hand on her legs or chest or head, but I still hadn’t held her like every other mother had been able to do from the moment their babies were born. My arms ached for her. After carrying her everywhere for 34 weeks, not being able to even pick her up was killing me.
After a week of Kevin and I spending the nights together in the hospital, it was time for us to give up our room with the larger bed to a mother who had a c-section as well and a couple who wanted to be close to their newborn. Kevin went home that weekend and I moved to a smaller room. I would be alone that night. After spending the day with our little girl, Kevin helped me get settled in my new little room. After many hugs and kisses he made his way home. I stayed with Luna Bell until around 11pm and then made my way back to my bed. I was starving-as most breast feeding or pumping woman are, pretty much all of the time- so I hit up the vending machine near the parent rooms and made myself a little bed picnic. As I ate and texted Kevin and tried to find something distracting on the small tv in my room, the emotions and reality of the past week began to hit me. First a little bit, then like a freight train. I began to cry like I had never cried before. I cried for the emotion of finally becoming a mother at the age of nearly 45, the fear that I was pushing down so that I could remain calm around my daughter, the pain that comes with having a c-section, very swollen legs and feet and not keeping off my feet like I should have been, the uncertainty that I was feeling every time a doctor or nurse would say the word “months”. I was terrified. My daughter needed to get well. She needed her lungs to heal so she could breath on her own. She needed all of these things and I couldn’t do anything about it, except hold her hand, talk to her, sing to her and love her. My heart was breaking and I was breaking a little too. As the sobs tore at my body and the tears spilled down my cheeks onto the bed picnic I had made for myself, I let it all go. I let it go for now, because tomorrow I was going to get up and do it all again. I was going to hear about how well she was doing, or not and what the plan was for the next 24 hours. I was going to sit in that room and give Luna Bell everything I had so that she would have the strength to heal and I was going to be back in this room at the end of the day and try to heal and rest and sleep. This new life was hitting me hard and real, but it was what we had to do for now. This was the NICU life.
There is something I’ve noticed with more intensity on Facebook and Instagram over the past year; gratefulness to God for taking care of someone’s child.
Babies that are born early and with issues or potential issues and spend a day or two or maybe a week or two in the hospital or children that was either injured or diagnosed with something like cancer or another illness are prayed for by parents, grandparents, friends, and fellow church members. And somehow, 7 or 8 times out of 10 there are posts of how great god is and how he helped their child be healthy and come home to their family sooner than expected.
But then there are the rest of us. The parents-to-be who get scary news while mom is pregnant and all they can do is wait and see what happens when the baby makes his or her arrival. The mom’s and dad’s who have children in the NICU or ICU. They are on heart monitors or respiratory support, or medication or all the above. The parents who spend every waking and sleeping moment doing everything they can to help their child; getting the best care for their child, holding them when possible, talking to them, even praying, hoping for the moment the doctor says you can take them home. But somehow, all of the praying, hoping, perfect combination of nurses, doctors, treatment, just doesn’t seem to work.
Am I not doing this right? Are the other parents of the hundreds of children at Seattle Children’s Hospital not doing something right? Were we supposed to hold our hands a certain way, pray in specific direction, eat a special food, not laugh, not cry, not speak, only speak and think with positivity? TELL ME WHAT TO DO!!!!!
Are our children the forgotten, the not worthy? Are we as parents being taught a lesson or being tried for some crime? Why my baby? Why us?
My Mom is one of the best people I know. Honestly. She is kind, a good mom, a good wife, the definition of what a good Christ like person is. Void of judgment for others, and genuinely willing to do things for people no matter what. She’s a hospital Chaplain for god’s sake. I’ve always said that if anyone can get god to answer a prayer in the affirmative, it’s her. So when we found out Luna Bell was going to have issues, Mom started praying. And she never stopped. She prayed for lots of different things: Luna Bell to be healthy, me to be healthy, Kevin to have strength to support his girls, the doctors and nurses to have the wisdom to treat Luna Bell, Kevin and I to have strength and wisdom to be there for our daughter and to question things when they didn’t seem right, and again for our tiny little girl to be strong, to fight, to get healthy and grow and to be ok so she could come home.
So, when I see a post of the greatness of god and his choice to heal a child by some miracle, I bristle. I wonder why their kid and not mine. Why did god pick their baby to heal so quickly and not mine? Is this really divine intervention or just a case of right diagnosis, right treatment, maybe just not as sick as my daughter. As time goes on, I remind myself that not every baby or child has the same conditions, same diagnosis, same battle. Not every family is put in a place to learn to appreciate the little things, sometimes the very little things. Not every baby has parents who are strong enough to deal with an extended hospital stay, or multiple tries at coming off respiratory support or heart monitoring or medication without success. And many babies just aren’t as tough as my girl. She came out pissed that she couldn’t breath on her own and until she came off support, those tubes and hoses were her nemesis. She was a superhero every day and continues to be. She has taught me what it means to be determined, strong, focused, and patient. We were given a very special little girl and she is loved more than any other baby ever has been, we’re sure. As you will read in upcoming entries, our miracle was not a quick trip home; but a baby girl who knows she can do anything she sets her mind to, a mom and dad that got the opportunity to learn a lot about themselves, and fix a few things, so they could be the best parents for Luna Bell, and a family pulled together and grateful for the magic that occurs when a very special human joins the human race.
In the future, as Luna Bell decides what she wants in life and who she wants to be and do, I will be standing by her, cheering her on and saying to the world “What about my baby!!!”
The morning after. Waking up sore from my c section of about 32 hours earlier, and the the special torture that is a hospital bed, but determined to prove how well I was doing so that I could get out of the hospital and to my daughter’s side in her room 10 minutes down the street. After growing her and carrying her with me for the last 34 weeks, the fact that she was so little, and so brand new and already so far away from me was almost more than I could bear.
Soon a nurse came in to take my vitals, check my incision and help me to the bathroom. I began pumping the breastmilk I was beginning to produce and ordered some breakfast. I texted Kevin to see if he was awake and how Luna Bell was doing and fortunately he was awake and could give me an update.
Our little girl had made it through the night and she was doing well under the circumstances. Seattle Children’s had set Kevin up with a room where I would be able to join him and we would be able to stay at the hospital for at least a few nights. He said they were doing ok, but they were anxious for me to be there with them.
The doctor on shift came to my room after a while and said that if I continued to do well, they could probably discharge me later that afternoon. To say I was disappointed would be a gross understatement, but what could I do? About 45 minutes later, one of my doctors came to my room. She said it looked like I was doing really well, so she was going to try to get me out of there by noon! She understood that my daughter needed me and I needed to be with her and there was no good reason to make either of us wait.
I let Kevin know the good news and when my mom and step dad got to my room the plan was made for them to take me to Children’s when I was discharged and they could meet Luna Bell then. In some ways it was the longest morning ever, but getting me ready to go seemed to take all my focus and strength, so the time went quickly.
Fast forward a few hours. We got to Children’s where we went through security and I was given a “Parents” badge and lanyard. When I put it on, I had no idea what a staple this would be in my life. A given, something to check to make sure I had with me at all times along with keys, phone and wallet. Kevin met us so that he could take us to Luna Bell’s room. Seeing him and feeling his arms around me and his hand holding mine was exactly what I needed. As anxious as I was to see my little girl, I was scared. What would the room be like? Would it be noisy from all the monitors and the ventilator? Would she be awake or sedated? Would it matter to her if I was there? Would I cry? Would she? Could she?
My legs and feet were swollen and painful, and my incision was somewhat painful, but I felt the strength of 10 men and the speed of a cheetah as I rushed to see Luna Bell.
We checked in a the front desk of the NICU who made sure we could go back to her room. Again, something new to us that would soon become a daily habit like putting on shoes. We rushed back and entered a large room filled with monitors and a large ventilator and two nurses attending to my very small baby in a warming bed. There, in the midst of all the noise and lights and organized chaos was my baby girl. 4 lbs 12 oz, 12.5 inches long. She had tubes and wires and monitors covering most of her body. She had a tube in her mouth so that she could breath, and it was taped to her face so that it didn’t move. She was asleep due to the sedative and the ventilator was causing her torso to move up and down in a forced motion, not the gentle rise and fall that should be happening. I stood there for a moment; afraid to touch her. Afraid to breath. Afraid. Two lovely nurses, Kristen and Bella, encouraged me to touch her, to talk to her. And explained what everything attached to her was. I gently put my hand on her head, as it was one of the few places she didn’t have something attached and told her I was there. Sang to her. Told her everything was going to be ok.
But was it?
The day is a blur after that. But at some point, doctors; the attending and a few residents came to Luna Bell’s room to talk to Kevin and I about what was to happen next. While the details are fuzzy now, I remember one of the residents saying “ Over the next few months”. What? Months? No, my girl will be home by Christmas. We’re not going to be here months. I got angry. Doesn’t this woman know who my kid is? Who I am? We’re strong, tough, determined! Luna Bell isn’t that sick, we’ll defy all the odds and she’ll be home soon and won’t this doctor feel stupid. After they left I asked Kevin what he thought. He too was thrown by the use of the word “months” and like me, he was angry that this doctor, or this group of doctors, didn’t seem to know who my kid was. She was a little superhero and if she made it this far, she would continue to kick butt and take names and show all of us what she was made of.
I mentioned a nurse by the name of Bella earlier. She would become an integral part of Luna Bell’s story. And on this first day, we had no idea how much we would come to rely on her, but her smile, soft voice and easy demeanor drew us all in and put us at ease.
The next day was my birthday. I was 45 now. I was 45 with a two day old in the NICU. As we went through the day, Kevin convinced me to go home for a few hours. Get a few more things to make our stay comfortable and we’d have Mac n’ Cheese for my birthday dinner. The drive away from the hospital towards home seemed all wrong. How could I be leaving my girl behind? When we got home, I set about getting some things together to take back to the hospital. Clean pants, underwear, socks and shirts. Some toiletries and the piece de resistance; my cozy, fuzzy, purple bath robe that Kevin had bought for me the year before. I changed my clothes and put the robe on top of everything and laid on my bed for the first time since giving birth. We have a magic bed. You can raise the head and the legs and I did both. Kevin went to purchase Beecher’s Mac n’ Cheese and I laid on my glorious bed and responded to Happy Birthday texts and Facebook messages until I fell asleep for a while.
After Mac n’ Cheese was consumed, we headed back to the hospital. A bit refreshed and renewed and ready for the next few days. After a long visit with Luna Bell, we headed to our room and tried to sleep.
This was the first night that I had a dream that would become a regular dream like an episodic television show. I dreamed that Luna Bell and I were laying in a large warming bed; face to face. Everything that she was attached to, I was too. I was viewing this from above, but feeling everything the me I saw was feeling. In his sleep, Kevin put his arm around me and I panicked. “NO! You’re going to pull my tubes out!” I woke up with a start and startled Kevin in the process. He help my hand as I told him my dream and assured me that I was ok and Luna Bell was too. But the image stuck with me the rest of the night.
The next day was somewhat calm, more of the same. Standing or sitting with Luna Bell, pumping, eating, talking to doctors and social workers and genetic counselors and having blood drawn for testing. Seeing Luna Bell’s dark eyes open for a little bit, and hoping that she recognized us- or at least our voices. We sang to her and talked to her and I think Kevin read a book to her. The reality of what was happening was terrifying, but we really had no choice but to trust the doctors and nurses and know that they were doing what was best for her.
Another sleep in the hospital and we woke up to Thanksgiving Day. We had some options for the day. We could spend the whole day at the hospital. We could go visit Kevin’s mom, sister, niece and brother, and we were invited to his cousin and aunt’s family dinner. Kevin was having a hard time convincing me to leave Luna Bell for a few hours but he made me realize that we needed to see people. We needed the hugs and encouragement. We needed to laugh. So we left the hospital after giving the nurses strict instruction to call or page us if anything happened. We were met with hugs and smiles and encouragement and food and a warm home. Kevin was right. We had needed that more than we knew. And when we did that thing that nearly every family does at the Thanksgiving Dinner table; I said I was thankful for family. For Kevin. For Luna Bell. And for modern medicine and that we lived so close to one of the best Children’s Hospitals in the nation. The fear I felt inside for the coming days, weeks, months was masked, I hope, by the optimistic tone in my voice and the smile on my face. I was so scared that next Thanksgiving my daughter wouldn’t be with us, and that maybe she wouldn’t make it through the next day. But for today, I needed to be thankful for being her mommy. I needed to be thankful for Kevin being by my side. I needed to focus on that something to be thankful for.
The first day of our little girl’s life was very eventful. It began at 1:33am with Luna Bell being born, but not being able to breath on her own she was intubated and rushed to the NICU. She had chest tubes to drain the fluid from around her lungs and IV’s and monitors on every part of her 4 lbs 15 oz, 12.6 inch body. Kevin spent the night with her, curled up in a chair in a small NICU room, keeping an eye on our little girl. He texted me with updates, while I learned how to pump breastmilk, and texted friends and family to let them know Luna Bell had arrived. As they monitored her and did tests, the NICU doctors had many discussions with the neonatologists at Seattle Children’s Hospital, and it was decided that Luna Bell would be moved to Children’s via ambulance. A very serious doctor and Kevin came to my room to let me know what they wanted to do, and get my consent. Of course I gave it after they tried to explain the treatment they had planned for her, but my exhausted mind and body that hadn’t rested since the afternoon before, couldn’t seem to grasp what they were telling me.
Because I had just had a c-section not even 12 hours earlier, I couldn’t go with her. It had already been decided weeks ago, that anywhere she had to go, Kevin would go with her and I would follow as soon as I could, but we reiterated that to each other, and Kevin said that of course he would go with her. And as Kevin and I watched the nearly 2 hour process of getting Luna Bell ready to be moved, I was trying to be strong on the outside, but inside I was falling apart. My daughter was hooked up to monitors and IV’s, she had a tube down her throat with air being pushed into her tiny, fragile lungs to keep her alive. She had tubes in the sides of her chest to relieve the fluid that had formed around them in utero, and she was medicated into sedation to keep her comfortable and calm. And each of those monitors and tubes and IV’s had to be switched over to a mobile incubator so she could go on the first car ride of her life. One that they needed to make in about 10 minutes, because of the generator that powered the incubator and monitors and most importantly the ventilator keeping my daughter alive. The plans they had for her at Children’s were serious. They planned to put her on ECMO. https://www.chop.edu/treatments/extracorporeal-membrane-oxygenation-ecmo And as I watched the amazing transport team get her ready, I was forced to acknowledge that this may be the last time I would see my Luna Bell, my miracle baby, alive.
I sat in a wheel chair, Kevin sat in a chair that a very kind and helpful nurse got for him. He drank tea, I drank some ice water and we hardly spoke. What could either of us say? We were watching our little girl get ready for a trip that she might not survive, and if she did, she would be put on a machine that could save her life, or just be a rest stop on the way to the end. I was forcing myself to be positive, and while he may have been doing the same, Kevin came across confident that she would survive the ambulance ride and the ECMO would help her lungs heal and give her the best chance of survival, because she absolutely would survive and come home with us.
The nurse came over to tell us that the transport team was getting very close to having Luna Bell ready for the trip. Kevin and I held hands and kissed and he reassured me everything was going to be ok, that he would be there every step of the way and that he would let me know how things are going as soon as there was something to report. We went over to the transport incubator as they completed switching over the power, and stated they needed to go now. I told my little girl I loved her, for what might be the last time, kissed Kevin and they were gone.
I sat in the hallway, trying not to cry as a really kind nurse asked if she could take me back to my room.
Once I was back in my room, the enormity of the situation finally hit me. I cried. I cried that my little girl was suffering like this, that she might not make it, that if she did make it through the first 24 hours she would probably have a long road of healing in front of her, that I hadn’t even held her yet, that Kevin had to do this alone, that I had to do this alone, and that I still hadn’t slept.
About 10 minutes after Kevin left with Luna Bell, he texted me that they had made it to Children’s safely. And about 15 minutes after that, he called me to tell me that they weren’t going to do ECMO after all. Our girl was sick, but not that sick. They were going to re-intubate her so that the tube was more stable and they were putting together a plan for her. By the time I got there to see her the next day, they should have a better idea of the kind of care she would need.
Knowing that she was safely at Children’t Hospital, that Kevin was with her and that there literally was nothing I could do from my own hospital bed, I finally took a nap. It was short nap, soon interrupted by a kind, well meaning nurse who came in with water, medicine, and a little help pumping my breastmilk. This was the first I had slept in about 24 hours, but somehow it seemed impossible to sleep, when down the street, my daughter was struggling to stay alive.
Soon my mom and step-dad arrived. And no matter how old I get, there are times when I just want my mom. After a visit and catching them up on the latest, they headed for the hotel room. I was left alone again, trying to stay focused on getting myself physically ready to leave the hospital the next day, but wishing that I was with Luna Bell and Kevin. I finally was feeling the day. The pain of the surgery, the exhaustion of being awake for so long, feeling hungry and a little nauseous all at the same time, and longing to hold my daughter but also wishing that I could sleep forever.
At Seattle Children’s Hospital, they were taking amazing care of not only Luna Bell, but Kevin as well. They had set him up with a room just a floor up from our baby, and I would be able to join him there the next day and stay there for at least a few nights. Kevin’s cousin showed up to see Luna Bell and take Kevin out for a much needed dinner and a little breath of fresh air. Once Kevin was back with Luna Bell he called to let me know she was doing ok and that he couldn’t wait for me to be there the next day. As difficult as it was to be away from my daughter and Kevin, knowing that they were together was a huge comfort.
I fell asleep for a little while and woke up to a text coming through my phone. Luna Bell was doing well, and Kevin was visiting her after he had a little sleep as well. He told me he loved me and to go back to sleep, things were ok. I agreed to try to get some more sleep, but before I did, I looked at the time. 1:33am. She had made it the first 24 hours.
The morning that Kevin and found out that I was pregnant, he set about making me a healthy breakfast. But first, music. The first song that he played was “Mr. Blue Sky” by ELO. A line stood out to both of us and we danced in the kitchen while the eggs cooked.
Now here we were, months later, on our way to the hospital to have our baby. Calls were made to mom’s to let them know we were on our way to have a baby, their grandchild, texts were sent to a couple of friends and I hoped that my water wouldn’t completely break, or Kevin’s car would be flooded!
We arrived at University of Washington Medical Center, Seattle, WA at about 9pm. Kevin grabbed a wheelchair in the parking garage and got me to the front door, where security was more than happy to point the way to the elevator to the 6th floor. We headed up to Labor & Delivery where a nurse was waiting for me and the sweet lady at the front desk welcomed me back! They got me to a room to do a quick check to make sure that my water was indeed breaking. When I stood up out of the wheelchair and water went everywhere, the nurse said “yep, you’re water broke! Change into a gown and we’ll take you to your room!” And with that, it was confirmed – we were having this baby soon.
Getting set up in a room where you are waiting for the single most important, most incredible, most terrifying moment of your life is strange. I still look back at that night and some things are a blur, but I remember getting set up on a big bed, getting all the monitors strapped to my belly and getting an IV started. I remember what seemed like gallons of amniotic fluid soaking the bed every few minutes and the most patient nurse in the world changing my bedding and making me comfortable and bringing me cheese and crackers and bringing Kevin Ginger Ale. I remember talking with the doctor about what might happen that night. It was decided that if I could have this baby vaginally, we would try for that, and if there were complications or labor was lasting too long, we would go back to the original plan of a c-section. We texted our mom’s and friends to let them know I was set up at the hospital and around 10:30pm things picked up speed.
I began to have contractions. The real kind. The kind that made all of those false labor contractions seems like a just really bad cramps. This is where I direct my next statement to all the ladies who have had contractions…What. The. Actual. Hell???? Holy shit. Seriously. My contractions started at and stayed at every two minutes until my daughter was born. All the years of yoga and dealing with mild panic attacks taught me to breath through things, so that helped a lot as did Kevin holding my hand, and encouraging me. But they were coming fast and furious and when the nurse asked if I wanted an epidural, I jumped at the chance! As of an earlier check I still had not begun to dilate.
The two most amazing men came into my room. The anesthesiologists. Medicine is an amazing thing, my friends. They set me up on the edge of the bed, monitors still strapped to my belly, and Kevin sitting in front of me holding my hands. The contractions were getting stronger and there was massive pressure building in my back. It was difficult for the anesthesiologists to get the needle in my back to get the epidural started between these mounting contractions, but they finally managed to get it started. As they did so, the pressure in my back gave way, there was a pop and a gush of fluid that almost took out Kevin’s silver Dr. Marten boots. There was blood in the fluid and the monitor indicated that the baby’s heart beat was slowing. The doctors got me on all fours – a spectacularly elegant position – and check my cervix. I had dilated 5 centimeters in less than 90 minutes. The doctor said that she was concerned about the baby being in distress and that we needed to do that c-section that we had talked about earlier. We needed to do it now! They threw a sheet over my partially naked, still on all fours figure. And the nurse threw a package at Kevin, told him to change and she would be right back for him. We said our ” I love you’s” and he promised to be right behind me and the team rolled me down the hall. I was scared, excited, nervous, kind of humiliated and as I rolled by another soon-to-be-mom, I said “good luck tonight” and looked into her nervous eyes “you’ll do awesome”. She said “good luck to you too!” in an unsure voice and that was the last I saw her. Sometimes I wonder how her night went. Did she have an easy delivery? Was her baby healthy? Did she have a boy or girl? Does she remember me?
In the OR they moved me from the bed to an operating table. My contractions were still coming strong, but the epidural was starting to set in. There was an urgency in the need for the epidural to take full effect and the anesthesiologists took turns poking my legs, hips, and sides to see if I was numb enough to get my c-section under way.
Kevin was in the room all of a sudden, holding my hand, kissing my forehead. It looked like this was the night we become parents! I asked him what time it was, and if I remember it was sometime after midnight. It was Sunday, November 18th. 34 Weeks, 3 Days.
I reminded Kevin of everything we had talked about over the past few weeks. If our little girl needed to be intubated to help her breath, Kevin was to go with her. If she went to the NICU, he was to go with her. Basically, if our baby was going to be away from me, Kevin was to go everywhere with her. He promised to stay with her – and keep me in the loop with everything that was going on with her.
Our team of doctors and nurses was finally ready, as was I. The baby was staying stable, but it was time to get her out into the world. Kevin held my hand, kissed my forehead and kept reassuring me, as much as himself, that everything was going to be ok. The anesthesiologists took turns making sure I was ok and the doctor got started. The only way I can describe having surgery while awake, but numb, is a little like being probed. Were there two hands in there or 12? After a few minutes of cutting and tugging and pulling and Kevin peeking over the drape a time or two, the doctor said the drape could be dropped…it was time to meet my daughter.
And then, all of a sudden, there she was.
From the pictures, I saw that she was covered in all the regular things that newborns are covered in, but the moment I saw her face, I heard the words of the ELO song Kevin played the morning we found out we were going to have a baby. All I could see was my beautiful little girl. My Luna Bell Everleigh. We had picked her name the day we found out I was pregnant, even before we knew she was a girl. She was destined to be born at night. A new moon for our world to orbit. Our little girl was finally here.
She was beautiful, but so incredibly pissed off. She was trying to get that first breath of fresh operating room air, but her little lungs would not expand enough for that to happen. The doctors rubbed her sternum to see if they could get her to breath, and she thought that kicking her little feet and waving her fists would help, but nothing was working. I was scared, and tried to encourage her, hoping that my reassuring mommy voice would help her. But after a few second of trying to get her to breath, they said they were taking her next door to be intubated. I told Kevin to go with them, as he was standing up to do just that. He kissed me. Told me he wouldn’t leave her side and that he would call or text me or come back to my room as soon as there was any news to give.
As difficult as it was to watch them take my tiny little girl away from me, knowing that Kevin was with her comforted me. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her, and he would let me know what was going on as soon as he could.
As the doctors stitched me up, tears ran down my cheeks. Tears from being so tired. From being pure emotions – fear, happiness, love. Tears because I couldn’t hold my newly born daughter in my arms. Tears because our families weren’t there to share in welcoming this new little human to the world. Mostly tears because my little girl needed help. A lot of help. I willed every god and every good thing in the universe to help Luna Bell. Please help her make it through this night. Please help her be able to breath. Please just keep her alive so that I could see her beautiful face one more time. Adrenalin started to course through my veins. Tiredness was replaced by strength, pain was replaced by a little euphoria that all the weight was off of my belly now, and my little girl had been born and well, lets be honest, the epidural was still hanging on pretty good and that was making me very happy! I waited for Kevin to call or text me from the NICU and soon I heard from him. Luna Bell was doing ok, but had been intubated, chest tubes placed to drain the fluid off of her lungs, and she was on medication to keep her calm and the doctors and nurses were taking good care of her. My nurse told me that she had heard from the NICU and as soon as Luna Bell was stable I would be able to go down and visit her.
Kevin came back up to see me and see how I was doing and soon it was time to go visit our little girl. I was still a little numb from the epidural, but I got into the wheel chair and the nurse rolled me down to the NICU.
As they took me into my daughters small room, all I heard was the hum of the ventilator and the beeps of the monitors and all I could see were tubes and wires and bags and the incubator. Somewhere in there was my daughter. They rolled me closer to the incubator, and there she was. Small, skinny but kind of puffy from the fluid she was retaining, but beautiful. Kevin went to the other side and we both put our hands into the incubator and put our fingers near her hands and she grabbed into them tightly. She was really here. She had made it into the world and she was fighting and trying to be strong. As I looked at Kevin and we then looked at our daughter, my heart filled. It filled with love for this little girl, for the family we had created, and hope that she was going to be ok. Maybe not right away, but soon. And then we would get to hold her, and take her home. It wouldn’t be long before we took her home, right? I hoped for the future as I gazed at my perfect little girl, and whispered the words that came into my mind the moment I saw her earlier that night, “Hey there with the pretty face, welcome to the human race.”
At 31 weeks and 1 day, I woke up feeling strange. When I went to the bathroom there was a little pink discharge and while I was in the shower I began to feel what felt like contractions. After a quick call to the nursing line and labor and delivery at UW, I was instructed to come in to get checked out. After getting checked out, getting hooked up to monitors for myself and the baby I was told that my contractions were probably just false labor, but they were going to keep an eye on me. Later in the day it was decided that they would do an amnio reduction to relieve some of the weight and hopefully reduce the possibility that I would go into labor even more prematurely than necessary. Not to go into too many details, but they took off 2 liters of fluid…2 liters. As I watched containers be filled with my amniotic fluid I couldn’t believe that I was carrying around that much extra fluid. After watching me overnight to make sure that I didn’t go into labor and that the contractions didn’t cause me to dilate and that they stopped, I got to go home. I felt better than I had in a couple of weeks and hoped that this would delay the possibility of going into labor early and make the next few weeks a lot more comfortable.
During the next couple of weeks, we had a fetal echocardiogram to make sure Baby Bean’s heart was strong and perfect. And fortunately, it was. I also had an echocardiogram to make sure my heart was strong and healthy as well. Everything was checking out, but the hydrops was still a big concern and a c-section was scheduled for December 6th. I called my mom to tell her to plan to be there for the c-section and we also told Kevin’s mom, sister and brother so everyone would be prepared.
The week of November 8th I spoke with my doctor and we agreed that we could do one more amnio reduction and hopefully that would hold me out for a few more weeks. It was scheduled for Sunday, November 11th.
November 10th was Kevin’s niece’s 1st birthday party. It was amazing to see her turning one, and I loved watching her trying to open her presents, and everyone showering her with love on her big day. I was pretty uncomfortable and found a place on the couch where I was comfortable as long as I didn’t move too much. The next day we went in for my amnio reduction and another 1 1/2 liters was taken off of my large belly. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, yet hopeful that I would be ok and I could hang onto our Belly Bean for just a little bit longer. I was at 33 weeks and 3 days.
On Tuesday, November 13th, I went in for my regular ultrasound-which showed that the amniotic fluid that had been reduced had re-accumulated, and then some- a doctor’s visit and Non Stress Test (Monitoring of the baby’s movements, my blood pressure and heart rate of both of us. My blood pressure, which is never high, was high, and the doctor was concerned about preeclampsia, so they admitted me to the hospital. Damn. This is not how this was supposed to go. Kevin went home to get some sleep and to get my somewhat packed “go bag” so I would have some of my own things. I woke up Wednesday morning to contractions again. This time I was scared. It was too soon. Kevin wasn’t there and I wasn’t ready. Thankfully as the day worn on, my contractions stopped and I didn’t start to dilate. I was in the hospital for observation until Friday, until my blood pressure remained normal for a couple of days and the contractions didn’t start up again. They gave me the second round of steroids to help Belly Bean’s lungs develop more quickly as it was still possible that I would go into labor soon-ish. They also had me meet with an anesthesiologist to talk about the epidural as well as sign all the content paperwork for a c-section, so that when the day came, we would be ready. I went home, anxious to take a shower, sleep in my own bed and hopefully take care of myself and Belly Bean long enough to keep her in for a few more weeks. At this point, we had reached the 34 week, 1 day mark. Making it to our goal felt like a great accomplishment, but I knew that staying pregnant past this point was going to be a challenge, but one I was up to if it meant keeping my baby safe and warm and growing for a little while longer.
Saturday morning I needed to run out for a few things at the drug store down the street. I wanted to put my “go bag” back together over the weekend and be ready for the big day. On my way back to the apartment, it became very clear that my short legs/large belly combo was no longer conducive to driving! I came to the quick conclusion that if I was going to continue to work either Kevin was going to have to drive me to and from work – or – Uber and Lyft were going to get one of their best customers of the year.
Taking a shower proved to be an exhausting chore. I looked at myself in the steamy bathroom mirror and barely recognized the woman standing there. My belly was HUGE. My face and shoulders and arms looked like the sheer weight of my belly was pulling down all the muscle and skin and what little fat I had. My cheekbones were very prominent and not in the “contour” “I’ve got amazing cheek bones” way – more the “I haven’t eaten in a month and maybe had a drug problem” way. I hadn’t seen my feet for at least 2 months and only fit into one pair of Converse low-tops. My legs were swollen and numb and in pain all at the same time from the 20 minutes I stood in the shower. And my eyes were tired. The kind of tired I had never been able to achieve over all my 40 years of insomnia.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this. It’s November 17th and my c-section isn’t scheduled until December 6th. Can my body keep this up? There is no way I can go back to work. How am I supposed to do this?” I asked all of these questions to the woman in the mirror and she had no answers. I told myself that I could and would do whatever it took to keep my girl safe. She would come when she came and as of today, I was 34 weeks and 2 days along. It was going to be ok. I talked to my baby and the woman in the mirror and hoped that somehow I could conjure up all the love and positivity to keep her safe and keep my pregnancy going in a way that wouldn’t kill me or at least wouldn’t make me wish I could be in a coma for the rest of it.
To get my mind off everything, Kevin and I went over to his mom’s to visit her and his sister, Meghan, niece Quinn (who had just celebrated her first birthday) and his brother Keegan. We talked and laughed and I watched Kevin play with Quinn. Several times Quinn tried to sit on my lap, as she would usually do, but tonight I had no lap left. I had knees. That was all that was visible while I sat. The distraction was just what I needed and I felt better than I had all day. At 8pm, I stood up to go to the bathroom and felt a strange sensation. I went into the bathroom, pulled down my pants and made the discovery that my water had begun to break. So I guess I had the answers to all my questions to the woman in the steamy bathroom mirror; I wouldn’t have to do this much longer, I didn’t have to figure out how to get my body to keep this going and I wouldn’t have to be put in a coma to finish this out. I wouldn’t have to do any of that, because I was having a baby…tonight! We had made it to 34 weeks and 2 days.
Getting past our little scare was relatively easy. My growing belly, the movement and kicks we felt each day, the fact that; now moms reading this, please try not to hate me too much, I hadn’t experienced any morning sickness or aversion to any foods or most smells, and the fact that we found out that we were having a girl as expected, everything was pretty blissful. I was due December 27th and after a talk with my doctor, we planned an induction for December 21st so that we would all be home by Christmas and avoid having our daughter share her birthday with a major holiday as well as avoid the bare bones staff at the hospital during the week of Christmas. Somehow, having an actual date to plan for made things much more real and satisfied the little bit of OCD and major planner in me. We told everyone when we were expecting to have our baby, all the while keeping it a secret that we were having a daughter.
We began shopping for her and putting together our baby registry and I traded in my two door coup that I leased when I thought I was never going to have a child to drive around. We stopped by one of our favorite stores, Lush, for some lotions and potions and got some great advise on a massage lotion bar for my growing belly. And when we left, we found a note and a gift congratulating us on our new baby! It was that generous gesture that will keep us going back to Lush forever.
We were floating on a wave of bliss as Summer started to draw to a close and fall was on the horizon. Feeling good, strong, and excited for this massive adventure we were on, I was excited by every movement and kick and every inch that my belly grew. I was feeling comfortable in the fact that this miracle baby was growing perfectly and was going to be a beautiful, healthy little person and had forgotten any worry I may have had. Rounding out a year of many concerts of our favorite bands, I couldn’t help but see my favorite band, Foo Fighters, one more time. It was the third time in 11 months that we had seen them, and the only concert we didn’t travel for. It might be one of the last big nights we would have out, so we jumped, carefully, at the chance. While I sang along with every song, my Belly Bean became more and more active until she finally mastered her first drum solo on my pelvis. I grabbed Kevin’s hands, put them to my belly and said “Babe, I think you finally have your drummer!” As soon as the song was over, she settled down a little until the concert ended, as it always does, with “Everlong”. This is my song. This was always my song. And when Kevin and I first started dating, we were talking about music and he asked me, ” What song do I remind you of?” I immediately said “Everlong” without even thinking and from then on, it’s been our song. My Belly Bean moved around as Kevin and I kissed and shared the moment. The fact that our she was there to share that moment was one I will never forget. Looking back, I should have focused a little more on the possibility that she chose the songs she did to be the most active, because she knew something we didn’t. In a few weeks my 29 week ultrasound and check up would go from exciting and “regular” to a day that I would never forget.
My doctors were now much more concerned and they referred me to the University of Washington Medical Center’s Materal Fetal Medicine specialist. They were serious about transferring my care to UW, and I began to understand how serious this was when UW called me a couple of hours later to come in the next day.
The next day Kevin and I spent around 5 hours having a very thorough ultrasound, meeting with a doctor, seeing a genetic specialist and having an amniocentesis. By the end of the day, we had heard more information than we could process. The one thing we heard loud and clear was that our little girl was in trouble. Her prognosis wasn’t clear, and we were told to prepare ourselves for anything from perfectly healthy to needing immediate intubation to the possibility that she may not survive at all. Also, one of the side effects of hydrops was the fact that I was accumulating a lot more amniotic fluid than normal, and that was making me a pretty big and a little more uncomfortable than I would normally be at 29 weeks along. My heart broke into a million pieces at the thought that my miracle baby, the product of an amazing love, and a baby that was so wanted, may not even have a chance to take her first breath. Kevin assured me that even if our girl had problems when she was born, she was strong, we were strong, and the three of us would come through this. The annoying thing about Kevin is that he is usually right. It is really annoying, but amazingly reassuring.
We agreed that we wouldn’t tell our family and friends until we knew more; with the exception of my mom. I suggested that maybe we cancel our baby shower that was scheduled for about a week and a half later. Thankfully Kevin was completely against that idea. He reminded me that our little girl was coming home. Maybe not a day or two after she was born, but she would be coming home and we needed to celebrate and be ready for her upcoming arrival. He was right, of course, and we had a beautiful baby shower! All of our friends and family were there to celebrate us and our Baby Bean. And while we basked in the love we held the knowledge that our little girl might be in for a rough start.
The next week we had another ultrasound and nothing had changed. The concerns remained that her lungs might not develop completely before we was born, that even if the lung tissue did develop as much as possible, the pressure that the fluid put on the lungs might damage the tissue and make it stiff, making it difficult for the lungs to expand and take in air after she was born and even after the fluid was drained off the lungs. We spoke with a neonatologist and she was amazing. Gentle, kind, knowledgeable and patient with all of our questions. Kevin, being the sponge of all knowledge and having a quick mind when it comes to science and anatomy, asked a lot of amazing questions. I sat listening, and acknowledging the conversation, but I was quiet. The doctor asked Kevin if he had any more questions and then turned to me. “Do you have any questions?” I took a breath and tried to stabilize my voice, and she stopped me, “I can tell you the answer to your question, and the answer is no.”
The tears welled up in my eyes and started to spill over onto my cheeks. A concerned Kevin asked “What was the question? Are you ok, babe?” And I let him in on what the doctor knew, that I wanted to know if my age (44) had anything to do with what was going on with my daughter. The doctor reassured us that my age had nothing to do with this. Sometimes it’s a genetic marker or a deficiency in something, and sometimes they never really know what causes hydrops, it just happens. It happens to 20 year old women and 45 year old women and everyone in between. And there is nothing that I did to cause this. While it was still very scary that this was happening, there was some comfort in knowing that I didn’t cause this.
So, there it was. Our daughter had hydrops. We didn’t know what caused it or why it was happening, we just needed to take care of me and her, watch her like a hawk, and get her and especially her lungs, to grow as much as possible before she makes her appearance. I was told that if we could make it to 34 weeks, that would be great. And if I could make it further, that would be even better. If the situation with the amniotic fluid became too much to handle, they could do a reduction, but it wasn’t something we could do more than once or twice, and it wasn’t a quick procedure. And the option to do a procedure to drain the fluid off the baby’s lungs was basically a non option. We had as much information as we could possibly have until she made her debut, and now I just had to get her to 34 weeks, let her lungs develop as much as possible and then see what our path would be from there.
As we drove home from the hospital, a familiar song played. It was the Foo Fighters tune that Belly Bean had played drums on at the concert. Now I knew why she chose this song. She knew something I didn’t, that there was about to be something thrown into our relatively easy pregnancy and lives, and something was a “Monkeywrench”.
Somehow, while pregnant, I believed that I would instinctively remember every moment of my pregnancy; when and where every little moment occurred, but sadly, somehow, with the amnesia that follows childbirth, so go some of the details of the most intense moments of my life. I do remember that first flutter of my growing baby, I remember the way my belly felt as it grew (that slight tugging on the muscles and skin; and I instantly knew why pregnant women rub their belly’s-because it feels soooo good on those stretching muscles) I remember sitting at my desk at work and feeling that first real kick. That first solid hello from my little one! With excitement, I texted Kevin to tell him that our little one is now kicking “hello”! He was thrilled! And now, we had a way to tell that our baby is alive and well and thriving, without the help of an ultrasound. Every time the baby would kick, Kevin would try to feel it from the outside. He could hardly wait for the day when he could feel our little Bean move around, and when it finally happened, the wait was totally worth it! And the first time we saw movement across my belly, we laughed through our tears of joy. Soon, BellyBean’s activity became an everyday occurrence, and we felt reassured with every movement and every kick that our little one was growing healthy and strong.
Each ultrasound showed that we were correct in our assumptions that BellyBean was growing exactly on track. I was due December 27th and my OBGYN, in an effort to keep me from having a Christmas baby and so that she would be the one on call at the hospital to deliver my baby, we set my induction for Friday, December 21st–if I made it that far, because this baby was growing fast.
Full Disclosure: I am 5 feet tall. Some doctors or nurses may try to sell you on the actual fact that I am 4’11.5”, but that just isn’t true. I’m 5 feet tall. At the time I got pregnant, I weighed about 92 pound. Please save all the “weight shaming” and comments that I really should have or should be eating more. I’ve heard all the short, skinny girl comments possible: “well you just ever grow, did you?” “do you ever eat?” “I wish I was skinny like you…” “where do you find clothes you fit you, the kids section?” ” how can you possibly be healthy, being so skinny?” “You need a cheeseburger.”
My answers progressively get shorter with each year of age. I don’t find I need to explain myself. I don’t need to tell people that “everyone in my family is short. My mom is 72 and skinny too. I have a fast metabolism. No, I find clothes that fit just fine and they aren’t from the kids section. And I’m very healthy, thanks. And I had a cheeseburger last night.” My answers came down to pretty much; “nope. yeah. not really the problem you would think it is. I’m very healthy-how about you?”
If you have ever been pregnant before, or had a parter that has been; you understand when I tell you that once you become pregnant, the outside world does not respect your personal space, autonomy or privacy any longer. I work at a doctor’s office, and many of our patients are regulars, every 4-6 weeks or every few months. While 90% of them were happy for me, excited for regular updates and filled me in on stories of their own kids or grandkids, there was the 10%. Ahhhh, the 10%. Can I be honest? These people were assholes. Rude, invasive, know-it-all assholes. Because I’m fairly small, and my growing baby was hitting all the growth milestones perfectly, I was showing very quickly and getting bigger by the day. And I was all belly. The 10% would regularly ask if I was sure I wasn’t having twins. Was I actually farther along than I thought? Was the baby freakishly big? How big is the baby’s dad? And my answers started out as, “no, just one. No, I’m (insert however far along I was). No, the baby is right on track. And not really, dad is 5′ 10″.” Towards the end of my pregnancy, my answers got more aggressive: “Wow, I don’t know. I should ask my doctors if I”m having twins, it’s never come up. And, I might be farther along than I thought. You obviously know my body better than I do, so I should talk to my doctors and see if you are right. And one woman was particularly awful in her line of questioning, so I responded “Well, if the dad is who I think it is, he’s not a giant.”
Then there were the women, and a couple of men, who found it appropriate to grab my every growing belly. A couple of people that I knew did so, caught themselves and asked if it was ok. Then there was the lady in the grocery store, around my age, who exclaimed “OMG- you’re pregnant! How cute!”, and then reached for my belly. Using the shopping cart as a shield, I stepped behind it and gave her a “touch me and die” look. I don’t want you touching my belly or my baby once he or she is out here in the world. I don’t know you!
In saying all of this, I want to remind you, dear reader, or maybe inform you for the first time, that pregnant women are still people. They are not some freak show or member of a petting zoo, and unless they invite your touch, criticism or advise, please, please keep it to yourself. Share stories of when you or your partner were pregnant, share the wondrous stories of your grandchildren, but save the horror stories or tales of sick children for a later…much later date. Women who are pregnant are doing their best to stay healthy, learn how to deal with their ever-changing bodies, and protect the little life they are creating. They are too busy creating an ear or an eyeball to worry about what you think of how they look or what they should be eating, or if they should still be working. The first couple of times you offer unsolicited advice, you may get a kind response, but after that, you may get an answer resembling a kick.
At nine and a half weeks along, I had my first ultrasound. That magical moment I saw that little bean growing in my belly. Right there in black and white. In that moment, I understood this unexpected surprise was real. My eyes welled up at the joy of this amazing blessing and I couldn’t wait to tell Kevin about it, as he was unable to be there. I walked out clutching the first pictures of my little one and still couldn’t believe that this actually happening to me!
I went back to work and during lunch my phone rang. It was my doctor. I answered excited and nervous, and totally unprepared for what I heard.
I was nine and a half weeks along as I thought and the size of my growing baby was right on track. However there was something that caused concern. In measuring everything the radiologist noticed that the nuchal fold, which is at the nape of the neck, was thicker than normal. It could be nothing or it could mean that there were come chromosomal issues with the baby. After all…I was considered a geriatric mother. Anyone over 32 is, apparently. And that, quite frankly, is bullshit! Yes, I was 44, so that definitely put me as an older mom, but to call me geriatric is just mean!! I knew the chances of something being wrong with the baby were higher due to my age, but to hear that something could actually be wrong was jarring.
A week or two later I met with a specialist for older moms and babies who may be facing some issues. He suggested a blood test that would show if there were any chromosomal abnormalities with the baby. Kevin and I agreed to do that, and though we were scared, we decided that unless there was something so wrong with the baby that he or she would have no quality of life at all, we would be having this baby no matter what.
About 10 days later the tests came back; and with the exception of some anomaly on the X chromosome, everything was perfectly normal. The doctor said that we could do an amniocentesis to see exactly what the anomaly was, but we decided not to take the extra risk. In 4 weeks, at our next ultrasound, the nuchal fold thickness was gone and we were looking at a very healthy baby who was growing perfectly.
On Father’s Day, we made the announcement to all, that we were pregnant. We had felt an outpouring of love and excitement from all of our family and friends. And with that, this thing was real. My belly was growing, I was starting to make plans for my baby registry and maternity leave, and all the things that all moms-to-be do, but all the while I had a little something in the back of my head that was bugging me about that anomaly on the test. I hoped everything was ok. And then I somehow convinced myself that everything was. Besides, what could possibly be wrong?
I came home from work one evening in early May, to a giant hug from Kevin. Had he gotten stronger, was my bra too tight or am I getting my period, because my boobs hurt from that hug.
Huh, that was weird.
We had made plans to go to dinner, so we headed out to a restaurant and proceeded to have a really great dinner. During dinner, one of us brought up that we would like to see Avengers: Infinity War that had recently been release. I checked for showtimes and the movie theater next to the restaurant had seats available. We saw the movie and on the way home had a lively discussion about it and our now shared hate for that dumbass, Quill, aka Douchelord. We went to bed feeling happy with our date night.
The next day at work, around 10:30am, I suddenly felt really sick. Not enough to actually vomit, but I felt sweaty, dizzy, and my stomach hurt. I texted Kevin to see if he was feeling alright, thinking maybe something I ate the night before wasn’t agreeing with me. He was fine, so I thought it was just me and that maybe I was getting the flu-which wasn’t even going around. I continued to feel sick all day, even to the point of thinking maybe I should see a doctor. Then around 8:30 that night, as quickly as it had come on, the sick feeling left.
Ok, again, that was weird.
The next few days I felt fine, but I started to think about when my last period was and I couldn’t come up with even a week, much less a day. I thought it should be coming anytime now, so I bought a box of tampons, and waited.
May 12, 2018-the day before Mother’s Day. I was in Target and as I walked down the main drag, looking at things on the endcaps, I walked by the aisle with pregnancy tests visible. I slowed down to a stop and turned down the aisle. I stood there for a minute taking in the purple and pink boxes, some with pictures of tests with visible lines; one line for not pregnant, two for yes. Digital test that actually say the words “pregnant” or “not pregnant”. I thought back to the disappointing tests I had taken in the 20’s, and almost couldn’t believe that at 44 I was now considering setting myself up for one more likely disappointment. There was no way that I could possibly be pregnant, not at this stage in my life. Why would I even think that I could be? The tender breasts, the day of feeling like death-warmed-over, and the probably missed or very late period all held up a big neon sign that said “YOU’RE PREGNANT”. So, convinced that I would jinx myself and wake up to a period, I bought a box of two pregnancy test. And I bought the expensive ones. The digital ones that would tell me, in words not lines or hieroglyphics if I was pregnant or not.
That night Kevin and I babysat his nearly 6 month old niece, Quinn, while his sister went out for dinner and a movie as a pre-Mother’s Day night out. We were playing and having a great time. He loves that little girl and is so great with her, and I was enjoying watching the two of them together. As Quinn began to settle a little bit, I asked Kevin “what would you do if I got pregnant? I know we talk about it sometimes, and you say you would be thrilled, but in all honesty, how would you feel?” He responded the way every woman wants their guy to respond “Babe, I’d be so happy. It would be awesome.”
Sunday. May 13th, 2018. Mother’s Day: I woke up ready to discover I had started my period. But nope, that had not happened. Ok, so I guess I have to take this test.
I read the directions; because you know there are at least a dozen ways to pee on a stick, and completed the test, I put the test in a drawer in the bathroom, and set my timer for 3 minutes. I proceeded to pluck a few stay eyebrow hairs, pull my hair into a pony tail and tidy up the counter space. When the timer went off, I braced myself for bad news, opened the drawer, pulled out the test and saw the word:
My breath got sucked out of my lungs. I stood there, staring, waiting for the word “NOT” to be added to the screen. And after about five minutes more, I started to believe. Instead of coming up with a fun way to tell Kevin, I put the test in the pocket of my cozy, purple robe and walked into the bedroom where Kevin had just woken up a few minutes before.
“I have something to tell you.”
“Yeah, I’m pregnant.”
“FUCK OFF!! You are not! Wait, are you? NO! You can’t be!”
I took the test out of my pocket and showed it to him.
“Yes I am pregnant.”
“OH MY GOD!!! BABE! THAT’S AMAZING!!!”
He grabbed me and hugged me and neither of knew what to do. We just kept hugging and kissing and jumping around until he reminded me that I was pregnant.
He got me a glass of water and started to make breakfast and we spent the rest of the day telling our mom’s, Kevin’s brother, sister and cousin, that we were going to have a baby and shifing between “oh my god” and “holy shit” we’re having a baby!!
We discussed baby names and watched Ail Wong’s Netflix special “Hard Knock Wife” which freaked us both out, and made us laugh a little too hard to hide the fear we were feeling from the other person. (If you haven’t watched this special, do it now. NOW! No wait! Read the rest of the entry first, THEN watch it!)
Later that night Kevin said “see babe, you’re not broken. You were just waiting to have a baby with the right person”. I teared up at that. After nearly 20 years of feeling like I was broken, damaged, not a full woman; one moment, one day, changed everything. I was not as broken or damaged as I thought I was. All the disappointments of the past faded away. I was finally going to be one of those pregnant ladies waddling around, eating all day and picking out nursery themes while reading books that were supposed to make me feel prepared, but only freaked me out. How can this possibly be? Oh my god, I’m actually going to be a mom. Whoa…I’m going to be a mom.