A Tale of Two Mamas
Trying to keep someone IN timeout
Archive for Life and Death
June 28, 2011 at 9:22 am · Filed under #3, Actual posts about being moms, Life and Death, Our family, PDB - PetriDish Baby, Things I really shouldn't talk about
Disclaimer: This is extremely graphic - so if you don’t want to read the details or decide this might just be too much…leave the website for a few days. I will try to post daily so that at some point over the week this post will become part of the archives.
I went back and forth on whether to post this information and truth-be-told - it’s therapeutic to me. It helps to recount the situation and have one last cry while doing it. I realize it’s part of my past/history and that’s alright. I feel like we all have bad things happen to us and around us and sometimes it’s alright to talk about them instead of letting them linger in the background only to come up later in life.
Secondly, I’m doing this because I do get lots of traffic from people who are looking up selective reduction, IVF, triplets, and want to know about experiences. I remember myself newly pregnant and doing every search imaginable looking for that one person who had the exact symptoms and feelings. Fortunate for me, the internet is a great place and there’s always some whacko that meets your searching perimeters!
I’ll start off from yesterday morning. Margot and I got in the car and drove to the hospital. We decided to go to Thomas Jefferson University where our RE had recommended in Philadelphia. I had talked with the genetic counselor prior and set the appointment.
On the drive there - it was somber. We talked with Emmy on the phone and Margot read email and facebook messages to me as I drove. We entered the city and parking garage. Walking to the hospital - all I could think of was “this is the last time I will walk down this sidewalk with three babies.” I knew that walking down the same sidewalk hours later - I would have one healthy, alive baby and two dead ones.
We noticed upon approaching the hospital that the first floor had a very upscale and nice Indian Restaurant. It just so happened to have a lunch buffet too. Nice.
We went up to the third floor - suite 300. Inside it was packed with people. All different kinds of people, Muslims dressed in full garb, blacks, Mexicans, single people, coupled people. Then there was the two of us. Chinese and whitie lesbians. We had both independently decided to “dress up” for the appointment. We figured it we looked professional we might get better care. Weird, I know…
So I checked in on the computer and within a few minutes we were called to the front to “settle up”. To pay the $1799 it would cost. In my mind while Margot was paying I just kept thinking that we paid $3,500 to get pregnant and get a heartbeat….now we’re paying $1,799 to end two heartbeats. It made my stomach ache. I hated that there was a financial component to this. As if it’s not bad enough just to have to walk in and do this…
We then met with the genetic counselor. She asked if a genetic counselor she was training could sit in on our session and we agreed. We went over the risk of downs, spina bifida, and other genetic issues. I was shocked that after finding out that my mom and grandma had glaucoma that I have a 50% chance. I knew there was a chance but didn’t realize it was that high.
The good thing about having a Chinese donor is that as far as genetics go…I couldn’t have done better! Chinese are least likely to have genetic issues and mixed with my whitie genes - we appear to be the next super human.
Margot kept asking questions about the nuchal screening and neck folds and the genetic counselor pretty much said that 98% chance that all three babies were fine and there were not going to be genetic issues.
After the hour long meeting we were told to leave, go for lunch and come back at 1pm. So we went to the lobby where Margot said she couldn’t eat. I said “I’m fucking hungry” and despite it being absolutely inappropriate - I needed food. We walked to the bottom level of the restaurant and sure as sugar - the Indian food smells took us away.
We ate, and ate, and ate, and ate. I made sure not to eat too much because I still have a bit of a barf factor and it would not be good if I puked in the middle of this. We were both speechless. I knew if I talked I would cry and get upset. Margot admitted to me that her biggest fear is that I would get up in the middle of the procedure and walk out. I reassured her…I didn’t “think” that would happen.
We paid the bill and walked upstairs back to suite 300. I checked in using the computer. We sat down again and within a few minutes we were escorted back to the ultrasound area. In the waiting room I was the only white person, Margot and I were the only couple over 30, only ones to have a full set of teeth, and only ones to have no tattoos. Then to top it off…we were dressed nice. So to say the least…felt a little out of place.
They called our name shortly after sitting down and we made our way back to the ultrasound room. The tech applied warm gel to my belly and Margot sat on my left side. The tech told Margot that it’s really best if she didn’t look. I didn’t look at all. She also asked if a group of med student interns could watch the procedure. I said “no”. Typically, I wouldn’t care. I realize it’s a teaching hospital, and quite frankly. I think it’s important that doctors learn all aspects of care. However, this time…I just couldn’t be *that* person. AND…I was already letting the genetic counselor intern watch.
After she had completed the measurements and jiggled my belly to get one of the babies to move correctly she left the room without saying anything.
She entered the room with the nice intern, nurse, and doctor.
The doctor was warm and asked how I was doing. I shrugged and said “not good”. He was an older man with a beard and short. I liked him. The nurse I had spoke with on the phone last week entered the room. She stood at my feet. Throughout the procedure she stayed there and scratched my feet.
The doctor and the ultrasound tech had a mini-conversation while looking at the monitor. They talked about transverse, A, B, C, angles, and then they came up with a game plan. They would keep A. A is closest to the cervix. We asked about measurements for nuchal screening and A was 1.2. Which is perfect. All three babies were measuring accurately and so it just made sense to take the other two that were higher in the cervix and might be easier to access.
They sprayed alcohol over my belly and then rubbed betadine on my belly for a few minutes. Then the doctor opened a 6 inch needle. I really wasn’t so freaked out about that. Hell, 4 IVFs later using big ass gauge needles…this one wasn’t bad at all. He told me it would sting upon entry.
The first baby was B. B was located on my right upper side. He took an angle going down and entered the needle through my belly. It did sting. Once he was in and through my skin I didn’t feel it as much. I later found out from Margot that his goal was to inject the baby’s heart with the saline. I had assumed during the surgery that it was just the sac. Then he had to jab. Hard. He missed. The ultrasound tech kept telling him where to go. He kept missing. I kept looking at the tiny hole in the ceiling and wishing I could crawl through it like a tiny mouse. With each jab I just kept thinking that he’s killing *my* baby. I wanted him to stop. He had to try to use a different needle. So he pulled that needle out and inserted a new one. I wanted to walk away and just live with having three babies. He kept jabbing. It hurt. Badly. I knew that the baby was moving around and all I could picture is that he/she was running away from the needle. Then I kept thinking about how feisty Emmy was. I thought that baby B had that same spirit. At that moment…I wanted that baby. Finally, after me emotionally checking out and them having to take a few breaks - they finally got it. He said he was “in”. The ultrasound tech confirmed he was in and he injected the saline into the baby’s heart. The doctor looked at me while pushing the syringe and said “half way there”. They had to wait for the baby’s heartbeat to stop.
Baby B - dead.
After that I looked at Margot and told her I couldn’t do it and that maybe twins wasn’t so bad. I really was half way to that mindset. I’m glad they didn’t give me a break because I think I would have gotten up and walked out.
The doctor got another needle ready and talked to the U/S tech to figure out which way to get to Baby C. The needle went in and thankfully, within two or so jabs they were able to get in. Doctor attached the syringe to the needle and plunged out the solution. It took forever. He said he was finished.
I felt empty. Ashamed. Sad. I had just killed two babies. One very feisty baby. Just like my Emmy.
The doctor left the room and I got my clothes back on. They said to leave for 30 minutes and come back and they’ll do an ultrasound. So we went to the waiting room.
I was upset, tears, eyes red, crying and walked into the waiting room. I had to use the bathroom and was somewhat shocked to see that there was no blood or fluid. I half assumed there would be. I was glad to see there wasn’t.
When I exited the bathroom we sat down in another bizarre group of people. Across from us was thug boy and his girlfriend, thug girl. Thug boy had a set of dentures that were too big for his mouth and when he talked they slipped out. He looked at me and said “this whole time I thought we were having and boy, and now we’re having a girl.”. He kept looking down at this ultrasound pictures.
Then there was a black girl with short dreads sitting to the left of me. She said she was having twins and just wanted healthy babies.
There was another larger woman in the waiting room and I felt sorry for her. She had noone there for her. She was doing this alone. She didn’t look happy or sad and was holding a sheet of baby ultrasound photos.
Then there was us. Visibly upset…with one healthy baby moving around and two dead ones.
We waited in the waiting room for a long time and then we were finally called back. The doctor came in and shook our hands. They checked out the two dead babies to make sure they were still not alive. Then she scanned in on the alive baby.
There she was. Baby A. At first she had her back to us and you could see her moving a little. Then she instantly flipped over. As if to say “hello”. She raised her arm.
The u/s tech printed out pictures and we now see that not only did she raise her arm…she is flicking us off.
I’m holding onto that photo so closely. I look at it constantly. That’s our baby. The one we will meet and the one that will join our family.
I know I will think about Baby B and C often. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t be their mama too.
December 25, 2008 at 11:48 pm · Filed under Life and Death, Milestones
Christmas is nearly over–the family is finally asleep after a long day of unwrapping gifts, eating and playing. Graem got a ton of toys, and best of all, bunk beds. She’s actually sleeping in them right now, which is an achievement for us.
I thought I’d see you again for one more Christmas–it brings tears to my eyes thinking of the anxiety every holiday would bring as I struggled to balance a visit with you with my family. I was hoping you would get to see the kids open their gifts. I especially wanted you to see that Graem is reading–I can almost hear your voice boasting about how I was reading at three, and here Graem is three days shy of four.
I still can’t believe you’re gone; I can still hear your voice from the last phone call I had with you. I knew something was wrong, the way you asked to see me and Dennis, “just your two kids and no one else.” If only I had listened… I would have seen you one last time. I miss you so much, and now am so sorry that I felt you were an inconvenience at times. I cry about you a lot–at work, in the car, in my sleep.
What I miss about you the most is the comfort knowing that you were there. I could always ask you about something, anything. Not that I did–I know I often acted like I already knew it all. But now that you’re gone, I’ll be doing something, wondering what to do next, and automatically think to myself, “I can just ask Dad.” But now I can’t. I often wonder about what things you had left to show me or teach me. Or if there were any recipes I forgot to get from you.
My memories keep bringing me back to February of last year, when we went to Chinatown for Chinese New Year together. Every time I look back at those few photos, I realize how sick and fatigued you were, but how much you wanted to go. It will always mean something to me, spending those few hours with you and Dennis, Shawna and Graem. It was the trip that you showed me which salted fish it was I had to buy–is it called ham gui? I don’t even know the name of it–but I was worried that I would never know how to buy it or find it, and that I would lose those dishes that you used to make for us.
Graem cries for you every now and then, slowly more infrequently. It’s so hard to see her cry about you, because inevitably I start crying too. And then I beat myself up for not being strong for her. But I can’t lie to her, I tell her I miss you too and that I’m sad. Then I tell her that she won’t be sad forever, and that we have to remember you. I am so thankful that she knows who you are, and that we have photos and a movie of you together for her to remember, and to help tell her little sister about you. And I’m glad that you got to meet Emmy–we’ll always remember how you called her Little Buddha. She’s only gotten chunkier since you saw her! And she smiles so much.
I am so thankful for these kids. I really think that without them I would have gone nuts with grief. But they make me keep going, and certainly make me smile when I don’t think I can.
I hope you can see and hear us, wherever you are. I hope you can see how much we all miss you and love you.
Love,
Margot
November 27, 2008 at 3:23 pm · Filed under Life and Death, Milestones
Shawna and Emmy are asleep, Graem is frying her brain on SpongeBob, Dennis is on his computer. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m in legal limbo, since we can’t get our hands on my dad’s death certificates, plus it’s a holiday anyway.
We already went out for a little walk and grocery shopping. It was nice to get out, it’s getting a little stifling in here. I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, but every time I try to start organizing something, I can’t really move forward or finish. I can’t really nap, I’ve eaten as much as I can.
So here I am. Every now and then thoughts of my dad pop into my head. I dreamt about him last night, I saw him in his scrubs, smiling and happy, and healthy. I told him I loved him, and that was about it. I feel like he’s here at times, since I’ve been here a number of times when he’s been in the hospital–it’s like he’s just there, but he’s here. So often he’d be resting upstairs, and the rest of us would just be hanging out talking and eating. Waiting for the fleeting moments when he’d have enough energy to hang out with us. Or we would just head to his bedroom to chat.
I can’t believe he’s gone, it’s like a dream. Being around his stuff is like being around him. Trying to organize it, you can start to categorize his life, imagining how he saw himself as a reflection of his belongings. This overabundance of expensive shoes, cameras, tools, art supplies. Seeing his cameras in particular has been emotional. I remember being around my dad and his cameras ever since I was a baby. I’d “play cameras” with him–he just loved to tinker with them all, and he’d let me hold them and play with them along with him.
That’s the thing about all his collections of stuff, none of it is precious or archival. He loved to hold them use them, actually interact with his things. No white gloves for my dad, a collection is of no use if you can’t touch it. That being said, it’s not like he ever really used his tools. He had piles of toolboxes, each of them labeled: “wrenches,” “hot glue,” “rachets,” “solder,” “rivets,” and “special tools.” But then he’d taken them all out, as if to play, and he displayed them all in his garage, in order, to show that he’d collected every one there was out there. Gala would tell us about how he’d sit there, and just look at them, admire them.
I guess if I were at home, I’d be cooking or something. But I really don’t care right now, can’t think of it. I’m not sure what else to do.
March 9, 2008 at 7:14 pm · Filed under Cancer, Life and Death
We just got back home, unpacked and half-bathed (I have yet to bathe). I’m glad to be back home, and away from the hospital insanity. My dad seems to be recovering well–he’s awake, his stats look good, and is on pain medication. The down side is that he’s starting to get depressed: he’s upset that the surgery didn’t go quite as he expected, the tumor was more aggressive than anyone had thought, and he now has an ileostomy and a colostomy. I think he’s also starting to realize that he will be fighting this the rest of his life, on some level or another.
It’s hard because I’m just relieved that he made it through surgery–both of them–and seems to be healing up well. I kept thinking the past two days that he seemed stronger, healthier and better off now than how he was when I drove down last week. There is also something reassuring about him being in the hospital–being cared by others than himself.
I have to admit I was a bit appalled by the hospital he is in–and am greatly appreciative of our local hospital. The hospital is pretty run down, not even up-to-date with HIPAA regulations and privacy screens, and worst of all: it had some of the filthiest bathrooms I have ever been in, including interstate rest stops! We made sure to wash our hands frequently, but half of the hand sanitizer dispensers were empty. I know we bitch and moan about our hospital, but even before the recent renovations, our hospital was so much cleaner and well-maintained. I just hope that my dad’s hospital makes up for their maintenance in quality of care. The nurses in the surgical ICU were fabulous–most of them were Filipina, which was nice for us: my aunt and my dad both worked the Filipino connection with them.
Hopefully my dad will get to talk with his surgeon tomorrow (he hasn’t seen him since his surgery, which is surprising), and maybe he’ll be moved to a regular bed.
February 23, 2008 at 6:45 am · Filed under Cancer, Life and Death
I cry all the time now–I cry at work, I cry when I get home, I cry when I wake up and can’t sleep any more. I don’t want my dad to die, I don’t want to bury 2 parents in less than a year. Then I start thinking about my mom, and I start missing her–the idea of her, I guess. I google her, and I find articles she’s written, people she used to work with. I google those people–I vaguely remember meeting some of them in her lab. I remember spending Saturdays at the lab with Dennis, our only entertainment the stinky mice they studied and beakers.
I toy with the idea of emailing those people. I want to know who she was…but then I wonder if I should just let it lie, and let the dead stay dead. Would they even remember her? How could they not…to spend years of research together, and then have a partner (in so many ways…) just vanish. Did they call? Did they wonder? I was too young to wonder or notice.
And then last night I thought of where I want to spread my mom’s ashes: Wave Hill, along the Hudson River waterfront where we grew up. My mom used to take us there–one of the few remaining memories I have. Respite for her on a weekend, rolling down hills and playing around the koi pond for Dennis and me. I also thought it would be an interesting counterpoint to what I do for a living–it would be interesting to revisit it now as an adult and a landscape architect. Different eyes. I wonder if that huge beech tree is still there, if the gardens are still the same. I just remembered how in high school a friend and I made pesto at home for lunch, and then drove over there to have a picnic.
My dad, my poor dad. It’s not fair, he just finally kicked all the drugs, and we’re just starting to rebuild our relationship. More around Graem now. I watch him interact with her, and it reminds me of how he was when Dennis and I were kids. He was a great dad, once. He was the one we always wanted to play with and spend time with, not my mom. He was just more fun.
I can’t remember when he became so frail, it was a few years ago. I guess it must have happened when I moved out of the house for college, and came to visit less and less. All my memories of my dad are of a strong, arrogant, garrulous person with a sometimes fiery temper. When Dennis and I were about 2 and 5, he could lift the two of us, one in each hand, arms outstretched. The push-ups, the chin-ups, the martial arts that he would show off to us and encourage us to do…and now he spends most of his time in his massage chair, or in bed. I suppose the loss and pain in his life, the drugs, the cancer–all have diluted him to what he is now. I just missed when it happened.
I hope–pray–that he kicks this. I feel like we’re so close, he has struggled through so much with the chemo and radiation, suffered so much nearly alone. He just has to make it to this surgery–then all will have been done, all that could have been done. The rest is up to the universe.
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