Unexpectedly Expecting

The City of Brotherly Hospital Love

So last Friday I found myself in a surprising place -- wearing a dressing gown and not much else, attached to a monitor and laid out in a bed at a hospital in Philadelphia.

It was my second such "emergency" hospital visit this pregnancy, and the second that seems, in retrospect, silly. Actually, it seemed pretty silly to me at the time as well. It started when I called my OB after lunch at some fancy Mexican place in downtown Philly, where I was stationed for a few days for work. I needed to make an appointment, find out whether I have gestational diabetes (negative!) and ask about the strange but dull pain that had lingered in my abdomen for the last four days. I wasn't overly worried about it; it felt like nothing, like stretching, growing pains. I simply wanted to run it by the doctor since it had lasted for so long and make sure everything was A-OK.

Big mistake. I am quickly learning some valuable lessons about the American medical industry. More than anything, they want to cover their butts. So if you mention you are 500 miles away and are having pains -- even if you stress that they are not sharp, not accompanied by blood or fevers, not alarming really at all -- they will freak out and suggest you go to the nearest emergency room, stat. Hearing this, what are you supposed to think? On one hand, it sounds ridiculous. You know you are not going into labor. There are no comings and goings of the pain, as there would be with contractions. You water is still up where it is supposed to be. There is no leakage of any kind. So what are they worried about? This is where the doubt starts to nag at you. What the hell do you know? Nothing! So if a doctor says you should go to the emergency room, who are you to argue?

And so I begrudgingly walked myself to the closet ER. There I was told to go to the seventh floor. On the seventh floor, they told me to go to the emergency room. At the emergency room, they told me I needed to be on the seventh floor, but at a different reception area than the first one I visited. They wouldn't let me walk back up there, though. Instead, they call a guy in scrubs to come take me there in a wheelchair. Now, sitting in a wheelchair is not a big deal, I realize. I was in a hospital. Everyone was doing it. But I have to admit, my pride was rising up and screaming in my head that I should be as embarrassed as ever. I don't know why. I felt so silly, like a drama queen, making a big deal out of nothing already, and to have to be carted around in a wheelchair like an invalid just made me so freaking self-conscious. When I finally arrived back at the seventh floor, I hopped out of that thing like it was 300 degrees and scorching my bum through my new (surprisingly flattering) maternity jeans.

Finally, I was registered and taken to a room. I was there maybe an hour at the most. They asked me all sorts of questions, hooked me up to the monitor, poked here, prodded there, checked to make sure my cervix was still doing its job, and then  it was over. They unhooked me, told me to get dressed, and confirmed what I suspected all along -- nothing was wrong with me. I was simply "pregnant."

I had to rush back to my hotel, dash to my room and get ready in a whirlwind for a big work thing. Everyone was quite concerned, because they knew I'd been at the hospital all afternoon. I again felt like a prima donna, searching for attention, having to explain that it was nothing, no big deal.

I understand that I'm thinking for two here and that there's no reason not to get something checked out if the doctor recommends it. But I do think it was also a waste of my time, not to mention the $150 I'll have to pay my insurance company. Last night at dinner (which my hubby cooked for me!) we came a realization that after all these different doctors visits through this pregnancy, not one thing has actually been done. If I had simply gotten a prescription for pre-natal vitamins back in December and then shunned all doctors, my baby would be in the exact same shape he is in now. We would know far less about him -- we wouldn't know his sex or his heart problems, certainly. But he would be no different. The thing is, pregnancy is not a malady, it's a natural thing. It's kind of a wonder how we treat it as a condition to be constantly monitored and controlled, and yet we really can't control it at all.

Hopefully, I'm done with hospital visits for a while. I think the next time I feel anything unusual, I will go to a source I know won't freak out -- Google.

Birthday blues

Tuesday was Jimmy's birthday. We had a lot planned to celebrate. A round of golf (after Googling can-I-golf-while-I-am-seven-months-pregnant? The Internet said yes.) A Tigers game and dinner with another couple, his friends from high school. And the entire day together.

Unfortunately, the day together started with some bad news.

We had an appointment for an echocardiogram, our second one. They wanted to see me again to check on Luke's VSD -- a ventricular septal defect or "hole in the heart" that was discovered at 19 weeks. I scheduled it for his birthday mainly because I knew we'd both be free, but also because I was hoping for good news -- that the hole had shrunk.

The hole is the same size. It's still small, and the prospects of what that will mean for Luke's early life are the same. It should close on its own sometime between now and his first birthday. If the hole is deemed "too large," they could patch it up and life should return to normal.

But yesterday, they found something else. We don't know yet really what it is. All the doctor could tell us was Luke's aorta is too small. He said the aorta and the pulmonary artery are supposed to be within about 25 percent of each other, size-wise. Luke's falls outside of that normal range, which could mean a host of things. They won't know exactly what until he is born.

The doctor told us three things that could be happening here.

 Aortic Stenosis is a narrowing of the aorta coming out of the left ventricle. There are three different ways this can happen. The one I researched the most is called aortic valve stenosis, which occurs when the aorta has only two “leaflets,” a problem referred to as bicuspid aortic valve. Those leaflets are thicker and less pliable than they should be, and when blood enters the aorta, they don’t move it along as they should. Apparently, in a mild case, this isn’t a big deal. The heart still works well enough, and those children rarely need treatment. But in severe cases, heart failure would occur in the first days of life.  That could mean open-heart surgery or it could mean a “balloon dilation valvuloplasty” that can be performed with a catheter through the umbilical artery. If surgery is needed, there are a variety of different procedures based on the severity and exact issues present.

The balloon treatment has excellent results – for a few years. But many children have to undergo repeat procedures as they grow. The main open-heart surgical procedures have a mortality rate of 3 percent.

All of the treatments are “palliative” meaning they don’t correct the problem to normalcy. They just patch things up well enough for life to continue.

Another possible diagnosis is Interrupted Aortic Arch. The aorta arches down after it leaves the heart with oxygen-rich blood, headed to the lower half of the body. In this case, part of that arch is missing. There are three types of this that have to do with where the missing segment is. This problem is almost always concurrent with a large ventricular septal defect – Luke, we know, has at least a small VSD. Also, when those two problems come together, the baby often has something called DiGeorge Syndrome, which is a chromosomal abnormality.

The first treatment is medication to keep the ducts open in the aorta. This is simply to stabilize the baby until surgery. When he’s stable, he’d undergo open-heart surgery to patch the VSD and restore the arch in the aorta. Survival rate is 90 percent, and those who survive often have follow-up problems. Re-operation is needed in 10 to 20 percent.

Of course, surgery can do nothing if the baby indeed has DiGeorge Syndrome. That’s a genetic disorder with varying conditions that often include heart defects, facial abnormalities and underdeveloped thymus and parathyroid glands.

A final possible diagnosis is Coacrtation of the aorta. This is a narrowing of the aorta just after the arch. Seventy-five percent of these cases also come with a bicuspid aortic valve. This can be treated with either cardiac catheterization or surgery. Most children go on to live healthy lives although some make have to return for balloon procedures or take medication to prevent bacterial endocarditis.

Scary, scary, scary.

I have to go back for another echo in a month. I'm trying to stay positive -- I realize there is no point in worrying until we know exactly what we're worrying about. I'm praying that God will heal him, and if not, than to help me accept that this is really what's best for everyone involved.

Last night, totally exhausted, Jimmy and I crashed. We laid together, barely speaking, just being. Then Jimmy said something about how he has trouble now picturing our son healthy and normal, that he just gets the feeling that's not going to be the case for us. That really makes me sad. I keep picturing all the people I know who have had babies lately -- healthy, happy, normal babies. I can't say I don't feel a twinge of jealousy. I also feel guilty, like this is all my fault. I know both of those feelings are counter-productive, and I'm working on getting rid of them altogether. For the most part, I'm doing OK. I know whatever happens, I'll deal with it.

I wouldn't mind, though, if you wanted to pray for Luke. He appreciates it. 

 

Pinch me

So, I met with The Boss last week. We talked for more than an hour. I spilled my guts out, to a larger degree than ever before. Told him I think that I have to switch positions to make my life work. Told him what I'd really like to do and what kind of hours I need once the baby's here.

And...

He led me to believe that he's down with that. That he'll let me work a 9-to-5ish kind of schedule. That I should just go ahead and figure out what I can do during that time, present it to him, and presto-bingo, it will be mine.

It's almost too good to be true. I have had fleeting moments of doubt where I wonder if he really has the approval to make this new job up for me. I wonder whether I'll end up doing a bunch of things I'd rather not. But for the most part, I feel simply elated. I don't know why, but I always doubted some arrangement like this would be found. I trusted that God had a plan and that things would work out, but I never really suspected that meant anything like this.

I left the meeting biting back a smile and thinking to myself, "God is good," over and over. All day, I had repeated those words from Samuel, and I had felt emboldened and more trusting than ever, thanks to them. As the electric doors opened up into a stunningly beautiful afternoon, I thought about it all again, and again, said to myself, "God is good." And then a strange thing happened. A few seconds after those words flashed in my mind, a man passed me heading into the building. The security guard called out a greeting to him, and he said in reply, "Hey, God is good."

It was too weird. I am not making this up. Three seconds after I thought those words, someone uttered them out loud. It just seemed like too big of a coincidence. It seemed like something, dare I say, bigger.
Since that meeting, it's like a huge pressure has lifted from me. I feel positively sunny. More excited than ever about the changes that are coming. Filled with such gratitude and faith and joy. I had a fantastic weekend, one busy with work, but also with plenty of time spent with dear old friends, talking until the wee hours (for me, that'd be midnight), celebrating one's new marriage, dining over waffles and coffee. I feel like, for a moment, my worries are gone, completely. I still don't know a lot of details about how this is going to go down, not exactly, anyway. But I feel so sure -- really sure -- that it will work out.

Because?

God is good.

Moment of truth

I'm meeting today with my boss to discuss my immediate future, my maternity leave, and the Great Beyond. I am very hopeful that some good news comes out of this. Something viable. Something that gives me real hope that plan A -- I stay at work -- will work out.

As I'm preparing to leave, I keep repeating the words of Jeremiah 29:11 in my head:

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"

Hope and a future.

Hope and a future.

I just like to keep saying it.

Hope and a future.

He goes on to say that we should call upon him, pray to him and that he will listen in that time of need. He says, 'You will seek me and find me when you see me with all your heart."

I'll keep praying those words today, and I'll hope my heart is fully engaged in seeking mode. I think it is.

Pregnancy Brain -- it does exist!

The other night, Jimmy and I cleaned up from dinner together. He gathered leftovers into various tuberware bins. I transported dirty dishes from counter-tops and the table to the sink. At some point, I sort of went into the robotic, blank state, where you are doing tasks without really thinking about them. Your body is moving, but your mind isn't really engaged. Like when you're driving down long stretches of empty highway.

Well, suddenly, I realized what I was doing. And what I was doing was this -- trying in futility to spray the inside of a mixing bowl with the pull-out-sprayer. I realized for some reason I could not squeeze the trigger with enough force or consistency to get a good, even spray. I fumbled with it, muttering under my breath to Jimmy, "Why won't this work? What's the deal?" I couldn't get a grip on the sprayer at all.

That's when I realized I was wearing an oven mitt.

For no reason at all.

That's what I think they call pregnancy brain.

The most asked question of all

When you're pregnant, you get a lot of questions, personal ones that perhaps in other situations people would not feel comfortable asking you. Here's a list of my top five most asked queries, in descending order of popularity.

5. Are you going to keep working?
This one catches me off guard every time. It's one thing if the asker is a close girlfriend and we're out, say, getting French toast and coffee on a Saturday morning, gabbing, catching-up, sharing our personal schtuff. It's another when it's a colleague asking me in inappropriate places, like at work. I mean, this is a complicated subject for any pregnant woman. I know people ask me maybe more than some people because I have a job that is so not conducive to being a new mother, so they are simply curious -- how am I ever going to make it work? I typically answer this with a pretty vague, "I don't know yet," or "We'll see!" That shuts people up. Usually.

4. Have you picked out a name?
Another one that is tough to answer because if you tell someone a name you're "thinking of" they feel free to give you their honest opinion of it. It's not permanent yet, so they'll tell you the name you like sounds like the name of the guy who drives a garbage truck or reminds them of their great Aunt whose breath always smelt like eggs and garlic. Or if they're like my mother, they will think they are being polite by saying things like, "Oh really? I won't say anything. It's up to you." Newsflash -- I'm not a moron. Clearly that means you aren't down with it! This question doesn't bother me too much, though, because I honestly don't care what people think about the baby's name. They can hate it all they want. It's my kid.

3. Do you know the sex?
An easy one. We do. I have no problem sharing that info. The strange thing are the reactions. People react as if there are 56 different answers you could give them, and, upon hearing me say "Boy," they erupt into smiles and cheers. "Oh, a boy, isn't that so great! Amazing!" Well, no it's not that amazing. It was either that or.... girl. One or the other. Not a shocking revolution, either of them. It's as if they've learned I'm having a trumpet player or a tight-rope walker or something truly unique. I'm not. It's just a boy.

2. When is your due date?
I always answer with the vague "July." Because I think due dates are sort of silly. I mean, the truth is, I'll be at "full-term" and on the verge of popping for about three weeks. It could come any time in that span, so what's the point of sharing that it is July 17? When pressed, I give up the exact date, but I do like to make people ask the follow up question.

1. How do you feel?
Strangely enough, this the question I'm asked the most. I am especially asked this by people I am quite certain would never want to hear about any actual aches or pains. I think this is the equivilent to the every-day person's, "How are you doing?" People ask that all the time, but rarely do they want you to start in with a long story about how you are actually doing. They want to hear you say, "Fine," or "Good," or "Couldn't be better, chap!" and then move on the weather or something. So I always answer this the same way. "Fine." And truthfully, I feel almost normal. I mean, I certainly feel.... bigger. But physically, besides being a touch more sleepy, I can't complain. I'm not sure what people are expecting me to say. Do most pregnant women feel terrible? I don't think so... I think perhaps some men (and it is often men who ask) think that morning sickness is a pregnancy-long complaint. (It's not for most women, although I know for my own mother it was). But I didn't even have morning sickness in the first trimester. Maybe toward the end I will have some more enlightening answers for people. I can start to share news of swollen ankles or aching ribs or hemorrhoids. For now, though, I'm a bore when it comes to this question. I feel fine.

Hopefully that doesn't make me a bad mother.

Hey, crib people -- what the hey?

So I found out this morning that the crib we picked out for the nursery was discontinued. That's a bummer because apparently no store in the state has a spare one to hold for us. And they don't ship in from out of state. And they never told us when we picked it out a measly month ago that there was a possibility it would be discontinued. And someone has already purchased the matching changing table -- I know because I can spy on my own registry.

I've tried finding another retailer that sells the same line. Nothing. I tried finding a Web site for the manufacturer -- perhaps, THEY could tell me where to find it. But such a site doesn't exist as far as I can tell. How many companies in 2008 don't have their own Web sites?

I did find the crib for sale on Craigslist. Unfortunately, it's out in California somewhere, and I don't think my mother-in-law is down for paying the cross-country shipping fees.

I guess we'll just have to pick a new one. It's not like I had some strange attachment to that one. It's more the principle of the matter. It bothers me that they allow people to pick one out, stick it on a registry and they fail to warn them hat POOF! it could all magically disappear at any moment.

26 weeks pregnant

I think we have a name.

We seem solidly down to two, at the very least. And there is one of those two I greatly prefer. Jimmy likes the other one more, but I get the feeling he is prepared to bow to my preference. Isn't that sweet? He knows how I am -- I can sour quite quickly on names, one day liking them just fine, they next day detesting them like I detest people who chew with their mouths open. So he wants to play it safe, I think, and go with the one I like more. Then at least if I decided I hate it, it's my fault.

I probably shouldn't share it because we could still change our minds.

But oh well.

It's Luke.

I love this name. It's simply, classic but not overly popular -- it falls outside of the top 25 for years 2000-2006. It ranked No. 43 in 2006. According to one list I saw, it was No. 46 last year. I think it's sweet. It means "bringer of light." I'm down with light. Bring it on, Luke!

Now, the only problem with Luke -- which, by the way, is the only name that is found in both the Bible and Star Wars, so it has that going for it as well -- is that there's a man in my past with a similar name. Similar, but not the same. But the truth is, I don't really care. That was a long time ago. I am obviously not naming the baby after him -- how odd would that be? I realize there are a few people from my past who know of him and me and our situation and might raise an eyebrow or something. Well, they'll get over it.

The scariest thing was wondering what said person himself would think. But I got that out of the way this week. We re-connected over Facebook, and right away, he made a joke that I should name my baby after him. I wrote back telling him Luke is our front-runner, and he replied with another joke about how if I truly do want to name my kid after him, I should just go ahead and give him the same name. It was all very ha-ha-ha. And so that's over.

My son's name is going to be Luke.

At least, it will be assuming I don't grow to hate it in the next 14 weeks.

Where there's a will...

It's a beautiful day outside, positively radiant with sunshine, a crisp, spring-like 50 degrees. The grass is starting to green. The baseball field by my house hosted its first little league game today. All are welcome signs after a long, snowy winter.

You'd suspect with such glorious weather peeking through my windows I would use my day off to get outside, connect with the great outdoors, and go for a walk or something. Lord knows my legs need it -- I started this pregnancy with nicely sculpted muscles from a summer of running that ended with a triathlon and a half-marathon. After a winter of stagnation, I'm afraid "sculpted" is no longer a word that applies.

But I didn't. I sat inside all day mulling over the big, bad future. It was one of those days, when I couldn't tear myself away from industry message boards, from job listings, from company Web sites, from Craigslist. It started yesterday when my hubby and I shared a delish lunch at the local Middle Eastern hot spot. As I piled more and more hummus and chicken gallabah into my mouth, he expressed his deep fears about our finances. I'm scared, too. I'm also a little more... naive? Trusting that it will all work out? Financially stupid? Perhaps all of the above. But he got me thinking. Then last night at a work thing, a woman in from New York noticed my ever-rounding belly and started the now common barrage of questions. What am I going to do? How can I possibly keep on working in my travel-intensive position? If I don't do that, than what? What has my boss said? On and on it went. She offered a few suggestions, and as I'm prone to do when people try to fix my life with little background knowledge or thought, I started to get peeved. I know she was only trying to help me. Still, I wanted to scream, It's just not that simple! If there was an easy solution to my problem, I would have found it. There isn't one. There are possibilities, each that come with big risks or major potential problems or seemingly impossible to overcome obstacles. When I explained to her what my current thinking is -- that perhaps this is the time in my life to try out what I've always wanted to do and become a full-time freelance writer -- she quickly shot the idea down, telling me that in our suffering economy, such pipe dreams are just that -- pipe dreams.

I am trying not to let the advice of one woman steal my positive outlook on things. But then, why did I look and look and brainstorm and mull all day? I know she is likely right, that cutting the cord with a stable situation, saying goodbye to benefits and a 401K to try and make it on my own when everyone is scaling back is probably not the best idea. I know that if I don't pull in some sort of income, our savings will disappear mighty quick. I just don't know what else to do. I don't know what else is going to make my like work.   

The frustrating thing is that I feel all of this is on hold. There is little I can do now except wonder. I can't apply for new jobs, not with a maternity leave coming my way in July. I can't switch positions in my office, not with the most important part of my work year starting in about a week.

This is where faith is supposed to come in. Faith and prayer. Not that action is not also required -- I'm one of those Christians who believes in prayer as a supplement to hard work. I need to do the ground work and then trust that God will somehow provide, fill in the cracks that I can't control. Have faith He will, even if it's in ways I can't understand or wouldn't prefer.

I don't want to waste anymore nice days sitting in front of my computer, obsessively clicking away, searching for an answer that I'm not going to find. At least, one I won't find sitting here in my house. I need an action plan. Maybe there is little I can do now; maybe it's true that the future is more or less on hold. But there must be something.

I can pray everyday for God to help me learn to trust Him to provide for me and my family.
I can work harder to build or repair connections, an area of my professional life I've neglected since landing a full-time position out of college.
I can read up on skill areas that might help me in a future job search or career change.
I can try to meet with a few people who are working as full-time freelancers to get their advice.
I can draft a few query letters and work on creating a professional Web site.
I can start brainstorming lists of story ideas, even if I don't have the time or clearance now to start working on them.
I can sit down with my editor for another chat. Or if not him, with the development editor in our office.
I can learn how to budget my finances and figure out exactly how much money we need to bring in each month to survive somewhat comfortably, if at a more limited scale than we are living now.

Well, it's something. A start. An action plan.  A way to stay positive when smarty-pants industry folks and my husband and the universe seem to be conspiring to bring me down.