It’s in the Intonation

I say to Mister Finn, “I love you.”  And he says, “I la la.”

Nope, not ghost knots. Real knots.

It turns out I was especially worried about Mister Finn’s cough for a reason. {How does this parental “intuition” thing work?? What does it mean? How do I keep myself from having false-alarm freak-outs, now that I’m apparently developing a track record of sensing correctly when something is wrong with my baby?}

On Wednesday morning the cough was worse, and about 10 minutes after Wifey left for work I heard him wheezing. He also seemed to be having chest retractions. So I threw some diapers and my wallet in a bag and took him to the emergency room at the hospital where he was born and spent his third trimester. It was terrifying hearing his wheezing from the back seat. Tears were streaming down my face by the time we got to the ER. I called Wifey at work and she took the bus up the hill right away.

The kind yet condescending (or maybe kindly condescending?) pediatrician ordered chest x-rays, albuterol breathing treatments, and steroids to be given orally, which were promptly thrown up all over me. His lungs looked and sounded clear, but because they didn’t know if he was going to get better or worse, the pediatrician wanted him to stay overnight for observation.

We were treated really well, and the whole ER experience was not really too bad until a guy next door arrived thrashing and yelling, strung out on something. Apparently in hospital-speak “code orange” means “uncooperative guest; need police.” My anxiety peaked right around then. It was terrifying overhearing what was going on on the other side of the wall, and I really wanted to grab my baby and run out the door.

Upstairs in the pediatric unit,  A. did great all night (with breathing treatments every 2-3 hours from a Respiratory Therapist) and responded well to the albuterol, which further signaled that this isn’t an infection (other than the common cold, or some strain of it). We took turns sleeping in the crib with him– a sight no one batted an eye at.

The diagnosis was simply a virus that triggered a reflex in A.’s baby lungs to tighten– a very common reflex in babies (?). It was basically an asthma attack, but one that is specific to a virus, not an ongoing condition.

The whole thing was very surreal, like we couldn’t really believe this was happening. All the same sounds and smells and food as our big hospital adventure last year. The lasagna tasted the same. The feeling when the ladies came in to check the trash was the same.

We were discharged Thursday morning with treatments to continue giving A. at home, and we got home around 1pm. It seemed that as soon as we left the hospital he was coughing more and working harder to breathe. It continued after we were home for an hour and a half, so we called the the pediatrician’s office. The nurse there said if he was still having symptoms of difficulty breathing we should take him back to the hospital.

So, back to the ER. (This too felt like a repeat of last year, when I was discharged only to be readmitted two days later when my c-section incision opened.) After more exams by more nurses and doctors, the pediatrician examined him and said that he is fine!  He was still having some difficulty breathing purely because he’s still getting over the virus. The pediatrician also said that there is a wide spectrum of respiratory issues in babies, and A.’s episode was mild. The pediatrician isn’t worried about him at all.

We assumed that this whole ordeal was related to his prematurity, but apparently it isn’t (!?!) and this happens to full-term babies often. They said the best test indicating that A.’s lungs are “good to go” (with no lasting effects of prematurity) is the fact that he didn’t get a single infection –viral or bacterial– his entire first year.

For 2 days we did albuterol treatments via inhaler (which are completely painless, yet totally awful, with him screaming and kicking and it feels like we’re torturing him) and steroids. He hasn’t really been acting that sick; still crawling and laughing and “dancing” to his music.

I managed to write a rather cheery post about all of this on Mister Finn’s blog, for all of his friends and family to read, to let them know he is OK. (I cut and pasted some of that post into this one, which may be why the mood here is rather choppy). I suppose I also managed to be strong through the whole thing. But I’m kind of on the verge of falling apart inside. The whole thing was really scary, and seems to have left a hole in my heart. I thought about Maddie pretty much the entire time all of this was happening, obsessively, repeatedly remembering the details of her last hours.

When I’m living our beautifully chaotic every-day life, I thankfully take it for granted. When we’re thrust for 28 hours into a nightmare, I am reminded that I have no right to take our life for granted. I read people’s blogs –some utterly unimaginably devastating, some seemingly giddy with perfection– and am keenly aware that fankly, there are lives to be lived that are heavenly, and those that are hellish. Who/what puts people on either side of that line?–I have no fucking clue.  I do believe that it’s not black or white; of course there is some good in every bad story and vice versa. But really, people and their luck seem to fall on one side or the other, for no apparent reason. I don’t believe in people “deserving” the things that happen to them. It just happens, and one day you’re in heaven and the next you’re in hell. In the ER, in the hospital overnight, driving back to the ER the next day (and now as a fading haunt), frightening, nagging questions pulled at my insides: Why shouldn’t my family be thrust into hell like some of the other families with their babies in the hospital? Why does someone else’s beautiful child die and mine live? What is keeping us on the “heaven” side of the line, and are we secure in our place there? Why did Maddie’s sickness escalate into a nightmare, while A.’s only peeked in on one? The hospital is the place where my assumptions about life come crashing down all around me. There are no rules there, and no one cares which side of the fence you’re supposed to be on. Superstitions aren’t entertained and prayers are ignored. Any notion of “fairness” is laughed at.

I walked around Target yesterday in a partially celebratory (my baby is fine, right?), partially shell-shocked (my baby is fine, right?) daze, feeling like if I did not buy him this ensemble of board books then all hope might be lost. My past is filled with so many sullen strolls through the aisles of Target’s baby section (longing to be pregnant, then longing to not have a miscarriage… longing for my baby to not have a chromosomal abnormality… longing for him to be a “miracle baby” that survives the NICU without a scrape… longing to take him home… longing to care for him without a cloud of anxiety over my head… ) But here I am now: I have a baby. I have a beautiful boy to read these books to. To not buy them is to give up my place on the heaven side. So, I buy them defiantly, wishing I believed that someone was taking note.

Ghost Knots?

A. has a cough, and a cold, and I have a knot in my stomach that gets bigger every time he coughs.  It makes no sense that I would react this way; or it makes all the sense in the world, depending on how you look at it. It’s the end of the day and I’m exhausted from worry.  Fucking worry.

It is not really any different from any of the other coughs our sweet boy has had his first year of life. Why am I obsessing about this one? Ah, oh yeah, I guess I obsess about all of them. It just seems like he’s barely over one “innocent” cough/cold before he’s got another one! Do all babies get coughs this often?  For nearly every cough, we’ve called the after hours nurse line, or his pediatrician, asking if we should bring him in. They always say No, unless he:

a. is having chest refractions, and/or showing difficulty breathing

b. has a high fever and the cough is not getting better

c. is blue

d. is wheezing or making noises when he breathes

e. has the cough for more than 3 weeks

I know these things, I know what to look for, and yet loose grasp of their place in reality. Because I also know Maddie, and I also have lived through a three month NICU stay, complete with diagnoses of Respiratory Distress Syndrome and Bronchopulmonary Dysplasia. And then there’s “swine flu” on the radio. A lovely cocktail of anxiety.

Is he sick because I let him play in the water when it was possibly not hot enough out? (It seemed warm enough, but then the sun would go behind the clouds and the wind would blow…?..?)

While I find myself here, at this point in time,

there is a part of me that is still here.

What I want to know is, is there a part of my former preemie that is still here?

Or is he good to go?

Is this a “normal” cough? Are his lungs perfect now? He has not had a single infection, nor hospital stay, nor dose of oxygen or albuterol, nor antibiotics nor post-discharge breathing episode. He has not had RSV or pneumonia or bronchitis or bronchilococolitis (or whatever that cousin of bronchitis is called). A test last year revealed that he did get “paraflu,” the virus that can lead to “croup” but he did not get croup. But still, I worry. Thank god for wine, and thank god for the hour when it is acceptable to drink it.

Mister Finn never saw a pulmonologist post-discharge, because he did not come home on oxygen. But I wonder if I should get his pediatrician to write a referral for one so that we can have tests done to alleviate some worry? Do such tests exist?

This boy is the best thing in the world. I love him so much that sometimes it’s scary to think about how much I love him.

A Boy and His Puppy

When you were in the hospital we would bring home your dirty clothes and let Winnie smell them so that she would get to know you.

On the day we brought you home, it was a special moment when she got to meet you. She was very curious and excited, wagging her tail to say, “This is the creature I’ve been smelling!”

She tries to sneak licks, puppy kisses.

She takes naps next to you.

She likes to lay in the sun with us.

You reach your hand out to her and she comes and licks it.

We teach you how to pet her gently.

She plays on the floor with you.

She’s a part of our pack.

She always wants to be where you are.

You go on adventures together.

You crawl really fast towards her, which looks like this:

She is always curious about the new things you’re doing.

She brings you her Duck.

She is your friend.

Helloooo out there!

Big gap in blog writing for me!  I have been sporadically reading other people’s blogs, though I haven’t been commenting, or writing on my own.

This month we were visited by our very special friends, M. and family. Our place is smallish and open-ceilinged (read: no soundproofing) so it could have been disastrous with a 6 month old (Baby D.) and 13 month old (Mister Finn) but actually we did wonderfully in spite of our architectural handicap. We love this family, they are so dear to us. It had been too long since we’d all been in the same place. We packed as much as we could into 5 days, allowing for lazy mornings and babies’ naps.

[M. with Baby D., and Me nursing A. on a nurse log]

Other than that, things have been pleasantly un-noteworthy. A big change from last year! Today was our 5th wedding anniversary. Last June 19th, we were so stressed out we didn’t even realize it was our anniversary. I was checking in at the liver specialist’s office after having been recently weaned off Prednisone, while suddenly feeling incredibly ill with what I was certain was mastitis (I was right), when I signed the insurance form and saw the date and started sobbing right there at the reception desk. By the time I actually met with the doctor I was incoherent and inconsolable and in a lot of (breast) pain. He asked if I was having symptoms of Depression and I maintained, No you clod, everything just happens to suck right now! (I was wrong. Not about everything sucking, but wrong about not being Depressed.) He is a sweet, concerned man and was just trying to help; and I needed help, so you’d think we would have been off to a good start but I nipped it in the bud!

I’ve been keeping a bloggy baby book for A., to share with his friends and family, so when I finally write about his recent adventures I’ll post them here as well. He is crawling and has lots of teeth!

I’ve missed you far-off lovelies! I won’t be gone so long next time.

Family Name

This is the courthouse where I changed my name!

I’ve changed my last name to Wifey’s and Mister Finn’s, so that everyone in our little family has the same last name.

It was a really interesting process. We name-changers were banded together as a temporary community and shuffled through queues and official stamps and a hearing. There was a woman there with two men; they weren’t sure which one was the father of her baby. There was a tranny boy changing his name from Alissa.

Figuring out our family’s last name wasn’t totally straightforward because, well, we’re not straightforward. (ha! goodness). What’s a gay couple to do with the last name of their offspring? Well, for us the “traditional” model ended up making sense, with one parent giving birth and the other giving their name. We’re not big fans of the hyphenated name– they seem unruly with all their syllables (where do you draw the line? couldn’t you just keep stringing names together with hyphens forever?). Some last names can be combined gracefully into one new name (like Shelden + Harrington = Hayden), but such are not ours. We thought about taking an altogether new name but couldn’t arrive at one that didn’t feel random/forced. Probably the main reason we went with Wifey’s is that I love her name, rhythmically speaking. The way her first and last names go together has such zip. When I first met her I made up a song about her name that I still sing to her.

I will still use my own last name for my life in Artland. If I weren’t, I might feel more like I’m losing something. Rather, I feel like I’ve gained something: a name to mark my love and my life, the person I’ve become, the person I’ve chosen to love, and the person we made together. It feels good.

Happy Mother’s Day, To My Wifey

Markers

I got my Mother’s Day present three months early– kind of like how I got my baby three months early. I couldn’t wait til May, so I opened it in February on A.’s birthday, a few days after it arrived in the mail.

I was surprised to find myself wanting a “mother ring.” {Incidentally, Wifey was equally surprised to find herself wanting a video camera for Mother’s Day. Yet another instance where gender roles have crept up on us unsuspectingly…}  I barely knew what a mother ring was (which, by the way, is simply a ring or piece of jewelry that commemorates your child, perhaps involving the birthstone of said child), yet I found myself combing the internet for a unique ring to mark my becoming a mother; a symbol of my son that I would see on my hand all the time. Other markers have meant a lot to me: my tattoo, and my wedding and engagement rings. I am changed by major events in my life, so it seems fitting to have my physical appearance reflect that. The markers represent what my life has made me, and now they make just as much sense on my body as my fingernails or knee caps.

I had wondered about a planned “special moment” wherein the ring would meaningfully alight on my finger, but the birthday was such a crazy (good-crazy) day, the time for another ceremonious effort didn’t present itself. So, while I was nursing the boy before his welcome-to-the-world ceremony, I opened the box and untied the plum ribbon and slipped the ring on my finger saying, “Why thank you Mister Finn! It is beautiful!”

A.’s birthstone is an amethyst.  I was pleased to discover that Earth sometimes makes amethysts GREEN in addition to the standard purple. So, here is my ring: a green amethyst set in silver, on a gold band, custom made by Andrea of Plum & Sage. (The photo she took of it adequately shows off its splendor.)

I found Andrea on Etsy after reaching maybe the 14th page of Google entries for “green amethyst ring.” I couldn’t be happier with it. It is the perfect marker for my son who made me a mother.

ONE (again!)

Today is Mister Finn’s “adjusted-age” first birthday! I feel a real sense of accomplishment (here is a healthy one-year-old boy!), and relief (having made it through the most tender fragile baby months) and excitement: now we get to play.

This boy is so fucking wonderful. He is this tender morsel, a nugget of heaven I get to smell and kiss and nibble on. He lets me do these things as he carries on with his work, “oh Mama, if you must. But I’ve got to focus here.” I’m fixated on his feet lately. These sweet stinky chubby baby feet are the best thing in the world, I think. He is loving “this little piggy went to market” and we do it with most diaper changes. When it’s time for the littlest toe – “and this little piggy ran wee wee wee wee wee all the way home” – he is ecstatic with giggles by the time I get to “this.”

He is a content little guy; happy to sit and turn the pages of his books; lecturing his stuffed monkey with theatrical intonations and various hand gestures; rapping dominoes against a colander and then a block, thrilled by the different sounds.

He says “Mama” when I point to myself and say “Mama.” He says “Ah-GAH!” when we play the sneezing game, “Ah-CHOO!”

He likes to hold my hand when he nurses.

Interestingly, he is hitting his developmental milestones the same way I did as a baby–  a little early with the language/cognitive skills and a little late with the gross motor skills. He’s just starting to crawl, with more success going backwards than forwards. We’ve been spoiled by these luxurious months with a baby that will likely stay in the same place we set him. Our baby-proofing is going to go into high gear this week…

His favorite food is roast beef. He always gets a little panicky with excitement for it, like he can’t eat it fast enough.

He can drink from a cup by himself, though he usually needs a new shirt afterward.

We’re going to go out for cupcakes to celebrate his Birthday Part 2.

Easter

We had a lovely, mellow, rainy Easter up at my parents’ house. They live on a peninsula that used to be an island, which might become an island again someday! You never know, with Earth.

We dyed eggs.

The colors were very attractive.

I was thinking about Maddie a lot that day. And death, and babies,  and whether or not the universe has intentions for us bipedal primates with cameras.

Mister Finn opened plastic eggs with Great-Grama, and then closed them again.

He laughed with his Grampa.

Mommy blew bubbles.

We drank water from a big glass.

We wore the baby’s Easter basket on our heads.

We read our peek-a-boo book several times. Mister Finn had to roll up his sleeves so he could get to work and properly turn the pages.

We saw a rainbow on our walk to the beach with the dogs.

I made lemon curd bars for dessert, which we had with strawberries and whipped cream.

We pondered the glory of Spring, with it’s tender shoots blooming and promises of warmer days.