Part Two: The Testimony

If you haven't read about Naomi's arthritis journey so far, you can pop back a post and read about how we came to be in this juvenile arthritis world. I wrote it to lay some groundwork for this post. The work that goes into getting a med change approved through insurance, supplemental insurance, pharmacy -- all coordinated through the hospital.  Once this massive machine is up and running, though, you forget all of the work and things run like clockwork. Until there is a change.

In July of this year, we got a letter in the mail that Jerry's prescription insurance is changing carriers effective August 1. It said in the letter that this would hardly affect us, we would probably not even notice the change in carrier. Except I knew. I've had to explain the medical history so many times, I didn't think for a minute that this wouldn't affect us. So obviously I sat on my bed and cried. It's often one of my first steps in dealing. 

We made it through the change rather unscathed. I mean, I spent hours talking to new insurance carrier, and they of course didn't have actual information until August 1 when the coverage started. And I talked to their normal department. They told me I would have to get Naomi's medication through the mail order because they considered it a maintenance medication. (Yes. They told me Humira for a ten year old was considered a maintenance medication. No. I didn't scream.) I talked to their mail order department, who although have heard of Humira, weren't sure that it would have to be a mail order prescription. They then sent me on to the specialty department. Each time, I get to explain the medication, the history. And generally, I get transferred to a different department.

Shortly after the transition in August, I got another letter that they would only cover it in 90-day supply. I asked if that was accurate. It is a concern for us, because the arthritis insurance is a branch of medicaid and they ONLY cover 30 day supplies. One representative told me it didn't matter, this was her primary insurance and what they say is how it will go. I let her know that I was uncomfortable housing $10,000 worth of Humira in my fridge. What if we lost power? (We have a generator, so that was more rhetorical.) What if my fridge breaks? Humira has to remain refrigerated until 30 minutes before the shot. But back to the biggest factor - I AM UNCOMFORTABLE HOUSING $10,000 WORTH OF MEDICATION IN MY FRIDGE.

That got worked out. A nice man let me know that no, it is not a maintenance drug (right?!!??!), and that they will continue covering it as a 30-day refill. 

Then last week, we get another letter.

Our coverage is changing, and they would like us to change our medication from Humira to..... "contact your physician."

First step, I called the insurance company. The lady I spoke to was very nice. She ran a practice claim through to see what this would mean for us. There was no information. All she could see was that it would require a prior authorization on January 1. There was no way to see what it was in regards to, we would have to wait until January 1.

So I called the hospital and I called her arthritis insurance. Because if you ever want to understand what's going on in the insurance world, the ladies that deal with it daily are a glorious wealth of information.

From this letter, it would seem that maybe they are just going to increase the copay? That's one guess. I asked if it would affect her if that was all it was. The U of M nurse said that her arthritis insurance only covers what her primary also covers. If our insurance decides she can't have Humira, then that's it. She doesn't get Humira. The only other option for her at this point is a drug that is by infusion. An IV med that requires a half day appointment at U of M. Neither of us understood why they would think that was better.  I asked her what I could do (she's the insurance ninja). She said you become an advocate. Call your representatives. Call your senator. Call anyone you can. And ask for insurance reform.  Write letters, make phone calls, contact offices.

Except I'm tired. And I don't really know a lot about all of the politics that go into insurance. If I absolutely had to, I'm sure that is exactly what I would do. But that is not what I wanted to do. 

Then yesterday.  I was cleaning my house, because that makes me very happy. I was sweeping my kitchen and praying. I let God know that I did not want to be an insurance advocate. I didn't want this to be how I spend my time. I know it's important, but please, not me Lord. Please don't let this be Your will for me. I know I'm being called to something, but please don't let it be insurance reform activist. 

Then my mailman came and beeped his horn. When we have a delivery, he drives up the driveway and beeps and drops off the package and the mail. So I stopped sweeping and grabbed our mail.

On top was a letter. From the prescription insurance carrier. 

And I set it on the counter.

I couldn't bring myself to open it. I was praying for an answer, and I wanted to make sure that God heard my actual prayer? Maybe I wasn't clear....  The last thing I wanted to do was read what these jerk faces had to say (as a general term regarding the insurance carrier - their employees have been quite pleasant).

So I prayed more, and I mopped.  Please don't let this be Your will for me. I don't have the energy to learn how to do this. Use me in a different way.

After I finished mopping, I opened the letter. I had to know what else they were going to throw at me. I was ready.

I stood in my kitchen and openly wept. My face in my hands, weeping. Please disregard the previous letter because your plan will continue to cover this medication. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. 

I was literally praying to God to stop this, don't let this be our path. And I was handed a letter during my prayers with the exact answer. The timing took my breath away. The greatness made me cry, a lot. 

I don't even know if maybe down the road, insurance advocate will be my role. I'll do what is needed, when needed. But thank you, Jesus, the answer is "not now."  

I knew I had to share this. The timing of the answer was perfect. God's perfect timing. Lord, hear our prayers.

Naomi's Arthritis Journey

Something most people know about our family is that our oldest daughter, Naomi, has arthritis.  She is now ten years old, but she was diagnosed eight and a half years ago when she was just 19 months old.  It was certainly an unexpected path in our life, and she has dealt with it like a champ. When she was first diagnosed, along with medication she also was prescribed physical therapy. She soon became the favorite in the clinic - not even two years old, working on her mobility.  They would set up little obstacle courses for her to maneuver through and, my favorite, would put her in a harness to take some of her weight off of her legs and have her walk on a treadmill. Although she often went along with the treatments, there would be times where she would just lift her tiny little legs and hover in the harness above the treadmill.  The challenges of an almost-two-year-old in physical therapy.

Naomi, the month she was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis

The first medication she was prescribed was Naproxen. It is a common anti-inflammatory drug, and it came in liquid form so she could drink it just like children's tylenol.  Within a week of her taking this, her mobility increased dramatically.  She would get out of bed and walk, instead of it taking until lunch time before she took her first step of the day.  We were amazed at the miracles of the medication, and were so very hopeful that she had the type of juvenile arthritis that she would eventually grow out of.

Three months on this medication, we had her routine bloodwork done.  It was then we found out her Naproxen was causing an undetected stomach bleed.  We were sent to U of M Mott Children's hospital (where her rheumatologist is) so she could receive a blood transfusion. She was 22 months old, and I watched my baby have a blood transfusion. This world of arthritis was bizarre and scary.  It was decided during that hospital stay that she would come back later in the week for arthrocentesis (a big word for "joint tap" - they would draw out the fluid on her knees and ankles with a needle and inject steroids directly into the joints).  And obviously we were due for a med change.  

It was after this hospital stay that we made the choice to move on to methotrexate.  In large doses, it is a chemotherapy drug. In small doses, it is an anti-inflammatory. This was my first experience realizing the power that insurance companies have over treatment.  Her doctor at the time was the head of rheumatology at the University of Michigan.  I trusted her with the treatment of my daughter. She explained the how and why of methotrexate, and that for decades it has been used in this way.  After the insane week of blood transfusions and arthrocentesis (and kindergarten open house for our oldest, and I was 8 months pregnant with twins....) I went in to Rite Aid to fill her new prescription. The new one that would not cause a stomach bleed.  And it was then that the pharmacy tech told me that it was denied. The dose of this chemotherapy drug was not correct, so the insurance company would not approve it. 

My world stopped. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I must have heard wrong.  I got loud with him, asked who at the insurance company I could talk to, who there knows more about this condition than the head of rheumatology.  Then I cried. And apologized. Because this young kid had absolutely nothing to do with it. So I wrote down everything he said, and I called the hospital. I was introduced to the world of prior authorizations and insurance hoops. I heard that it will be covered, we just need to do more paperwork. This is normal. NORMAL. Because Naomi has arthritis, she qualifies for Children's Special Health Care Services - a supplemental insurance that we pay for to cover anything arthritis related. It has been an immense blessing!!! And it also increases the amount of insurance leg work, because as I soon found out once things are approved through the primary insurance, the exact same process then has to happen with the supplemental.

The nurse was correct - the medication was covered and we soon had it in hand. It was a weekly injection, and unfortunately carried some side effects of it being a chemo drug.  It made her nauseated for a couple days. Each week.  Plus, the trauma of having a shot every week.  The whole situation was heartbreaking.  She would often cry so hard that she would throw up during the shot. We then started giving it to her in the bathroom so she could throw up in the toilet.  I would cry, she would cry, Jerry would pray over her. But it worked. Her arthritis got even better. So much so that she was free and clear from arthritis and we were able to wean her off of her methotrexate.  

Three months after her final shot of methotrexate, her knee blew up in a flare-up. We had already fought this battle and won. And I cannot explain the defeat and devastation of hearing it was back. The fight continued. The doctor still hoped that methotrexate would be enough to cure her of the arthritis, but next time we would have to wean off slower.  Two more times, we would hear that she was free and clear, and two more times while weaning off of her methotrexate injections her arthritis would flare back up. We knew that the arthritis could be controlled with methotrexate - even with the terrible side effects. But we also knew that it would never cure her. 

There were several other setbacks during her years of dealing with arthritis. Early on, because of her swollen fingers and toes, it was determined that she has psoriatic arthritis. It didn't change anything, but if there are "sausage digits" (I am absolutely not joking that that's what they are called. Trust me. I laughed, too), it means that it is this certain type of arthritis. When they mentioned psoriatic and asked if she ever had psoriasis spots, I realized that she was too old for cradle cap - so that's what was on her scalp.  If she would have a bad flare-up, the plaque psoriasis on her scalp would get worse, often causing hair loss.  When she was four years old, I realized that she always only mashed her food with her tongue in a very odd way. At four, she had an MRI (coupled with another arthrocentesis, since she was already under) and found out she had past arthritis in her jaw causing a small jaw. That appointment led us to a maxillofacial surgeon who deals with facial abnormalities. Which led to a sleep study. Which led to her tonsils and adenoids being removed. She also gets uveitis with her arthritis, which is inflammation in her eyes. She goes to an ophthalmologist every 3-4 months to make sure her eyes are ok. Uveitis untreated can lead to blindness. More recently she had another sleep study, which still showed apnea. So she now goes to the orthodontist and had a palatal expander to help increase the breathing space (and make room in her "very small jaw" for her "very large teeth"). Through it all, she has been so brave and such a strong person. 

After finishing her first 5k race

Honestly, so brave and strong. She ran a 5k race. My little girl with arthritis. Wearing her arthritis camp tshirt. Ran a 5k race. She was eight years old.

But I digress. Through all of this, we knew that methotrexate would control her arthritis but would not be the medication to clear her of it for good. New choices are scary. It is hard to be a parent making these choices for a child. It is surreal to sit in an office and ask "Will this affect her fertility?" She's 10. But we ask, because we have to know. The medication that we decided on is Humira. It is a biologic, it works higher up the immune system chain, and carries greater risks. And it works. Way better. Writing it all out, it seems like the decision to switch to Humira was a no brainer and I feel guilty for not choosing it earlier. However, because it works higher up the immune system chain, it means she is now even more immunosuppressed. She can and will catch anything that is going around, and her system will have a harder time fighting it. Things can get serious, fast. Also, there is a theoretical hypothetical increase of cancer with this new medication. It doesn't matter that the actual data shows that the increase isn't experienced in children. When a doctor tells you the option has an increase chance of cancer, you pretty much just say no thanks. Also, this shot hurts. The medication actually burns as it is injected. Due to all of her contraindications, most other arthritis medication options were off the table. Some are known to not help uveitis. Some aren't effective with psoriatic arthritis. We finally made the decision this past summer to switch to Humira.  

Even with all of our insurance experience in the past, and even though the nurse warned me it takes some time to get this med approved, I naively thought it wouldn't be so bad.

I was wrong.

It took over a month from the time the prescription was written to the time I was able to get it from Rite Aid. I am forever grateful for the amazing nurse that works at U of M. Nurse Anne is like an insurance ninja. Plus she knows and teaches the kids Tae Kwon Do at arthritis camp, so she is also a real life ninja. The nurse at Children's Special Health Care Services, Elaine, is also an angel. She works magic. Her job is coordinating the insurance through the State. Pure magic. The medication itself is insanely expensive. Rite Aid would not even order it until they knew that the insurances would cover it, because it is too expensive to keep on hand. I am pretty sure the cost is $1,500 per shot. And she gets them every other week. I am forever thankful for insurance, while simultaneously hating the power and the hoops they hold over patients. For weeks, I would make phone calls. Call the hospital, see where they are in the process. Call the insurance company - what other info do they need? Call Rite Aid. Call CSHCS. Then call the hospital again. My brain would just spin at how broken the system is and how hard it is to get what is needed. The fight to get injectable lidocaine took even more phone calls - I even called the manufacturer. It is incredibly difficult to get ahold of it. I finally, two months after the prescription was written, was able to get it filled at the U of M Hospital. By that point, driving an hour each way to pick up a prescription was absolutely worth it.

And now we stand on this side of all of that. This medication works so well. She doesn't get sick from it. For the very first time, since she was 19 months old, when we went to her ophthalmologist appointment he saw ZERO floating white blood cells (the indicator of inflammation). He has always seen at least a couple in there, even without a flare-up. She has no pain in her knees. She doesn't complain about joints hurting. And, thank God, there have been no indications so far of any of the possible negative effects of the drug. She plays outside in the snow. She cheers on an Upward cheer team. And she is so very very beautiful.  I have a testimony to share from yesterday regarding her medication and insurance, but I realized her history creates the background. 

Going through this does not mean we are superhero parents. I truly believe when you are faced with these situations, you just do whatever you need to for your child. We were handed some difficult tasks. It has been hard, emotional, and draining. And I would still do this every single day and fight for my daughter, because that's what parents do. Not because I am super mom, but because I am a mom. I suppose I am sharing for awareness. There is a lot that goes into any diagnosis. We have seen miracles, and we have faced heartbreak, and every child with juvenile arthritis has their very own story. Similar in so many ways, and so very different. I have met some fierce warrior moms, fighting this fight. None of them seeking praises. All of us praying for a cure. 

This is arthritis.

Photo Cred: Six Arrows Photography

New Year's Resolution

"Mom? Do you ever do anything fun?"

The other night at bed time, my youngest son turned and asked me those very words.  I'm used to many questions at bed time.  But this one threw me a bit.  I wasn't sure how to answer - snide sarcasm, angry bedtime mom, surprised defiance.... so I went with the tried and true, "What, honey?"

"Do you ever do anything fun?"

Ah, I see. I didn't, in fact, mishear you....

"I mean, you drink coffee.  And you check your tablet.  But you know, do you ever do... fun things?"

Right.  Well.  I, uh... I played Go Hogwarts with you today (Go Fish, with Harry Potter playing cards).  I, um, loaded the dishwasher. And my laundry is finished....

And thus began my existential crisis.  My seven year old saw my life and thought, 'Wow... this is pretty sad.'  If eyes are the windows to your soul, I would like to suggest that your children's mouths are mirrors to your life.  They pull no punches, and they see all.  

I managed through the rest of bed time. The timing of his question was truly uncanny.  Here it is, so close to New Year's Day that I have a list of resolutions bouncing around in my brain, just waiting to make it onto paper.  Great ones.  "Get healthy - physically, emotionally, spiritually!" "Maintain a clean house!" "Stay up to date balancing the checkbook!" (I've never claimed I was exciting...)  But now, instead of figuring out how to write these resolutions in my best handwriting on my fun notebook paper, I'm facing the unending depths of my child's question.  Do I ever do anything fun? Do I? What do I even like to do? Who am I, and who have I become?  

The beauty of all of this is that the question was asked very innocently. Which makes it all the more enlightening, honestly.  

So I've made my New Year's Resolution.

Do something fun.

It seems simple enough. 

Except....

Except not when you are a perfectionist.  Please know that I am not claiming that I do things perfectly.  Being a perfectionist isn't some great thing that gives amazing results.  What it IS is often paralyzing, procrastinating, never actually finishing anything, because finished results can be found to be imperfect. 

Added on top of that is this neat, rigid rule that my brain has where fun things are a reward for finishing the "not fun" stuff, like responsibilities and lame resolutions.  

You can probably see where this is going....  So somewhere in the inner workings of my brain, it tells the rest of my brain that I don't get to do the fun reward because I have not finished my To Do list.  Oh, did I mention that I am also queen of Unrealistic Expectations? Yep. That's me.  

Making this resolution may seem a bit lame.  I get it.  And inner brain me is celebrating because it thinks that it means that I will FINALLY finish my other resolutions from the past 37 years. 

But I'm hoping it means that this is the year that I finally take time to do something I enjoy, regardless of where I am on any of those other tasks. This is the year that I finally do a jigsaw puzzle. That I finally read a book for enjoyment. Maybe I'll even learn hand lettering (it's like calligraphy - you should totally check it out)!

And maybe next year my resolution will be "Redefine FUN" - because admittedly I'm pretty lame.  Eh, baby steps....

A Remembrance: Matthew John

I haven't written about our miscarriage yet.  Not publicly, anyway.  I've journaled my heart out, and shared brief tidbits.  I'm not sure what has kept me from writing.  I guess maybe because I wouldn't think it would be very entertaining.  Or it would bring more sadness to people who read it. But today marks one year since I heard the words, "I'm so sorry, there is no heartbeat."  And so I write today, more for me, to process through again. But I also know that I have read through several blogs about miscarriage, in those times where I just needed to grieve those moments of loss again, so I pray that someone might be blessed in reading this.  To that person I say, "You are not alone, your loss is real, and I am so very sorry."

There have been times when I felt that losing my baby before he was born allowed for an easier grieving process.  I have no memories with him.  There are no scents or sounds that bring back a memory of him. I don't even know what he would look like.  So there are times when that seems easier.  Until the reality crashes in.  I have no memories of him.  I have no idea what he looked like. Smelled like.  Sounded like.  I have only loss, and a dream of what could have been.  The world of miscarriage is confusing.  I had a due date in May, but that date holds no significance now.  Even the day we lost him is confusing.  On December 11, 2014 we found out there was no heartbeat.  By measurements, the best guess is that he died possibly two weeks earlier. December 12 was when he was born and the date we keep as the day he died, even though we know he had passed earlier.  There are days like today it seems unfair to not have specifics. I want to know what happened, and when, and why, and I have to carry on knowing I will not know.

Last September, we got the surprise of our life. After having five children, we opted for surgery to make sure we stayed at "just five kids."  Five years AFTER that procedure, I found out I was pregnant.  Surprise - vasectomies can fail!  It was crazy. We couldn't believe it.  I mean, 'seven positive at-home tests, positive blood work, confirming ultrasound' couldn't believe it.  We were so excited.  We thought we were done with five, but finding out we would have six children was a miracle, and made us realize we really DID want more kids.  We told the kids, they were excited. We told our family, they were excited.  There was so much joy in the thought of this new baby. This total surprise, work of God, miracle baby.  We found out through a new blood test that we were having a boy.  We did a gender reveal at Thanksgiving with my whole family.  We would have talks with the kids about what to name him.  I wanted Andrew. Jerry wanted Titus. The kids joked we should name him something Biblical, like Mephibosheth. The kids would come with us to all of the OB visits, and we would go out to eat at Bob Evans after, because nothing is more exciting than Bob Evans! They were all in the room when we heard the heartbeat at 13 weeks. I remember laying there, watching their faces as we listened to the whooshing.  They were all old enough to understand there was a baby inside, which was a new experience for us. They older ones were 5, 3, and 1 when I was pregnant with the twins.  It was very cool to have them all there for the appointments.

On December 11, we had our typical late afternoon appointment.  They called me back, and I explained to the nurse that we like to have our kids hear the heartbeat.  I told her, "We want our kids to hear the heartbeat. Can you please make sure there is a heartbeat first before they come back?"  She didn't listen.  She called them all in right away.  I lay on the table, praying she would find a heartbeat.  In hindsight, I think my body knew. I was so concerned she wouldn't find a heartbeat - moreso than usual.  So there I was, laying on the table, with my husband and 5 excited faces waiting to hear the heartbeat. And she couldn't find it.  She tried and tried.  The longer she tried, the harder I had to force the smile at my children, assuring them everything was ok.  She still couldn't find a heartbeat.  She called in the doctor, because she is better at finding it, she always finds it.  The doctor came in. She couldn't find a heartbeat.  The doctor said I would go in for an ultrasound.  My whole family sat in the waiting area in the hallway, waiting for an opening in the ultrasound room.  I remember trying not to cry as an expectant dad came out and sat down next to us with his row of ultrasound pictures, making a phone call to family to tell them everything looked good. 

They finally called me into the room, alone.  Jerry stayed in the hallway with the kids.  She put the ultrasound wand on me, and said, "Oh....  I'm so sorry.  There is no heartbeat." I saw my baby, laying still on the screen.  I kept thinking, oh my baby... my baby.  I started crying, trying not to, but not being able to help it.  She said, "I'm so sorry to ask, can you hold your breath while I record for the heartbeat."  I remember feeling bad for her. In my total sadness, I thought, how many times has she had to ask a newly grieving mother to be still so she could record the silence.  They called Jerry in, and I realized he didn't know yet.  I think he knew.  But he had to see it all for the first time, too.  There was our baby, laying still.  The nurses took our children to the staff lounge while we finished the ultrasound. 

We met with the doctor in her office. It is a lot to take in, all at once.  Nobody truly expects to hear this news.  We had a late appointment, and now we had to make decisions.  It was a Thursday, almost 5pm by the time we talked with the doctor.  She told us our options.  I could be induced and deliver.  I could have a procedure called a D & E where they put me under and take out the baby. And no rush, but if we wanted it before the weekend, they would have to know in 15 minutes to schedule with the hospital. Without even talking about it, we both chose the D&E.  I couldn't bear the thought of laboring, knowing I would give birth to a baby that had already died.  In fact, the thought that my baby was inside me already dead for two weeks was more than I could emotionally handle.  I felt like my body had betrayed me.  Why wouldn't it know?  How did I not know? Did I know and I was just ignoring it? We told the doctor we wanted the procedure, and she had the front desk contact the hospital.  She handed us the ultrasound picture of our baby.  Our last picture.  And after giving her condolences again, she said the most important words I have heard regarding this.  She stopped, reached across the desk, and said "There is nothing you did to cause this.  There is nothing you could have done to stop this."

"There is nothing you did to cause this. There is nothing you could have done to stop this."

I know there is someone out there who needs to hear that as much as I did.  Mom guilt is a terrible beast.  And when the entire health of a pregnancy is in the mother's hands, it is SO HARD to let go and realize these things happen OUT OF OUR CONTROL.  It isn't your fault.  It wasn't my fault.  Even still I will think, maybe it was that benadryl I took.... maybe I shouldn't have moved the couch.... I wonder if I slept on my right side instead of my left one night.  Nothing I did caused this.  Nothing I could have done would have stopped this.

After talking with the doctor, we then had to walk into the staff lounge and tell our kids.  What a hard thing.  There was a lot of crying.  Jerry did the talking.  Our baby is already with Jesus.  We are sad, and it's ok to be sad. We walked out and got in the van to leave.  It was dinner time and we had to feed our kids. We couldn't even think, yet life kept going.  There was more disappointment as we said we were not going to Bob Evans... we needed to get home.

I texted my sister on the way home.  She was the first person I told.  How do you tell people? I told her. In a text.  We still didn't know the plans from the hospital, but knew it would be the next day.  My brother-in-law happened to have the next day off.  She was available to watch my kids when we went to the hospital. We got home, ordered pizza, and started making phone calls.  My parents, his parents.  Once enough people knew, I posted it on Facebook.  The whole world knew I was pregnant, and I needed to say I wasn't.  It was therapeutic as I sat on my bed, crying. Waves of condolences came in. I would read through all of them, and cry.  The prayers and sympathies got us through that first day.

I couldn't sleep that night.  We still had no plan from the hospital, but we would get a call in the morning.  I was told not to eat or drink after midnight, so of course I was up at midnight.  We never settled on a name.  Jerry had fallen asleep on the couch, so I lay in bed looking up baby names.  I needed to name the baby I wouldn't get to have.  After reading through lists and lists of names and their meanings, I messaged Jerry (it seems ridiculous now - I just didn't want to wake him) Matthew John.  Matthew means "gift of God (YAHWEH)" and John mean "YAHWEH is gracious".  I truly believe that Matthew was a gift from the Lord.  And our Lord is very gracious. What a perfect name.  Matthew John. 

We got the call very early in the morning to be at the hospital in an hour.  I called my sister. She came over, and we left.  It was the worst feeling, driving to the hospital.  We had made this drive so many times before. I gave birth to five babies at Genesys. This time it would end in death. It was a dark and heavy drive in.

I get sick from anesthesia, so I made sure I told everyone I could.  The nurse who brought me back, I happened to know.  She was able to get my IV on the first try, and immediately gave me meds.  I'm not sure what. They were "the good stuff".  They brought Jerry back and we waited.  And waited.  Between the anti-nausea meds and the relaxers, I would doze off for an hour at a time.  I would wake up, almost on the hour. There was Jerry, sitting beside me.  Then I'd get another dose of something and I would drift off again.  I felt so bad that Jerry had to sit there, essentially alone, while I slept in a drug-induced stupor.  The doctor who would perform the procedure came in to talk to us.  We go to a group practice, so this doctor was different from the one the day before.  He talked us through everything.  I asked, if at all possible, if they could get a footprint or hand print, knowing it might not happen.  He said they would try their best to get us something.  We waited and waited.  Finally they rolled me back. 

After the procedure, the doctor met with Jerry in the waiting room.  The procedure went well.  He handed him a sheet of paper with tiny footprints. Our one tangible memory from our baby we would never meet. 

Tiny footprints that left a huge impression

I am so grateful that my sister could watch my kids.  It was a very long time.  I have no idea on exacts, but I remember being in the hospital, finding out it was 3pm, and thinking, I have to get home... my sister... They told me what I had to do to be released, and somehow I did them.  I remember falling asleep in the bathroom. But I woke up when the nurse asked if I was ok.  It was such a medicated blur for me.  I don't remember getting to the car. I do remember waking up in the Rite Aid parking lot as Jerry went to fill my prescriptions.  I remember stumbling into my house, saying thank you to my sister, and miraculously making it down the stairs to my bed before falling asleep. 

The next few days were physical and emotional healing.  The procedure was on a Friday.  There were certain things that would throw me into a cycle of grieving I couldn't break out of.  There was just so much sadness.  I have never been so sad.  On Sunday, we went to church.  I wanted to be able to see my friends while the pain was still raw.  I couldn't imagine healing, even for a week, then seeing people for the first time.  It was incredibly difficult, but I am glad we went.  One friend gave me a prayer journal.  That was instrumental in my healing.  I am not a journaler, yet I wrote and cried and wrote.  One day Naomi said, "Mommy, are you going to cry and write your feelings in your book again today?"  Yeah, baby, I am.  Another friend said she had something for us.  She made a prayer shawl out of the yarn she had gotten for his baby blanket.  It was perfect and amazing and so heavy with meaning. 

We received many cards and prayers.  Gifts and memories. We are grateful for them all.  We bought a memory chest for Matthew.  It sits in our living room, holding all of our memories of him.  It was huge for us to have a place for him and all of our memories. 

 

 

 

Our Matthew box

Friends of ours gave money toward a memorial for him.  We didn't bury him, so we weren't sure what to get as a memorial.  I spent many hours browsing through various sites, sobbing at the different things available.  I came across a place in Colorado that makes memorial stepping stones.  I loved that it was something portable (in case we ever move) and just how beautiful and perfect it was.  I ordered it, it arrived, and it was just perfect.  This stepping stone now sits in one of our gardens.  I can see it from my kitchen windows, and it makes my heart happy.

Right after we lost Matthew, I saw an ornament that was an angel holding the 2014 banner.  It spoke right to my heart, and I had to have it.  It was on our tree, stayed out all year on a shelf, and is back on our tree. Well, since we ordered it through Lenox, they send us catalogs every month, of course.  I was flipping through the catalog when my heart stopped a bit.  There was the most perfect figurine.  An angel holding a newborn.  I closed the catalog and sat and cried.  Then I would open it, and cry more.  I finally ordered it.  It arrived, and is as perfect as I had hoped.  During my hardest times last year, this prayer repeated in my head and heart: "Jesus, please hold my baby, because I never got to."  It would run on repeat.  Even today, it brings instant tears.  Please hold my baby.  So here it is.  An angel, holding my baby.  It brought so much healing to see it.  And now to have it in my house.  It is perfect. 

Jesus, please hold my baby because I never got to...

This definitely was therapeutic to write about.  I cried living through the memories.  I now finish with dried salt streaks down my cheeks.  I am willing to talk to any woman or family who has suffered through this loss.  It hurts more than I can explain.  When I hear of another friend losing a baby, I cry fresh tears for their loss.  If you are going through this right now, I am so sorry.  Nothing you did caused this, and nothing you could have done would have stopped this.  Your loss is real.  And I weep with you.

I thank you for all of the prayers and support in all of this.  Thank you for the support to my husband and family.  Husbands, kids, siblings, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all grieve and need support, too. 

I often wonder why we went through this.  We stopped our family at five kids.  God worked a miracle and gave us our sixth.  It was very clearly God's plan that this pregnancy happened.  I don't know why we lost Matthew.  I pray that God would use this for good.  If I can be of any use through this, please let it be known.  The month before we lost Matthew, I heard the song "Oceans" by Hillsong United after an OB appointment, leaving dinner at Bob Evans. I had such a heaviness in my heart when I heard it.  After we lost him, I realized sometimes we are called to walk a path that we would  never choose for ourselves.  It's in those walks that our faith is strengthened beyond what we could ever imagine.  Two parts of the song resonate in my soul every time I hear it now, and I think I'll end with those two parts.  My faith has definitely grown by walking out into paths I didn't think I could handle. 

"You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find you in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand."

"Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior"

Cookie Ministry; The Rice Way

Last summer was a very busy, overwhelming summer.  I never got around to writing this when it happened, but I've been meaning to.  I will do my best to relate the experience as it happened instead of in hind-sight. 

The background:  My husband wanted to start a new ministry at our church.  Short version - we bake cookies as a church, then we deliver plates of cookies to all area businesses.  We thank them for working in our community, and tell them that God loves them.  No obligations, just cookies and God's love.  Cool stuff.  Who doesn't love cookies?

Now, I'll save you the drama of how my summer was so crazy busy before the creation of this ministry, and how my brain was so full that I could not even bear to hear the words "Cookie Ministry" in my house without getting an eye twitch. And how the ONLY open day on my calendar now had "Cookie Ministry" written on it, in red.  It was a great ministry. For my husband to run.  Anyway, I'll save you the drama... 

The actual organizing of the ministry and the making of the cookies went off absolutely perfectly (of course - my husband planned it, he's really good. :) )  The Sunday that we were going to distribute the cookies happened to be a Sunday that we had to be at both services. If you've ever noticed that we are never at both services, you would be correct.  It's not a "plan to win" for the Rices.  But this particular Sunday Jerry and I both had things to do at both services - he was running the cookie table, I was singing in a women's choir.  During the second service while I was singing, I was watching in the back as my one child slid through an entire row of chairs on his back, while two other children were dancing around, and two other children sulked.  I watched with flared nostrils, wide eyes, and clenched teeth. Luckily, right after I sang, I could remove all five and happily head home.

But first... the cookies.  My oldest child was very much looking forward to delivering a plate of cookies and telling them that God loves them.  He is our natural evangelist.  I knew I wasn't getting out of that church without a plate of cookies to deliver.  We chose the Meijer Gas Station as the business we would bless.  If our kids behave for church, we bribe them with slushees.  (Don't judge. There's a reason bribery has been around so long - it's effective.) Normally one of us runs in and gets all of the slushees and distributes them in the van to the *deserving* children.  So, if I take cookies to the Meijer gas station, I can get the slushees WHILE doing ministry.  Two birds, one stone.  Let's overlook the fact that my kids most definitely did not deserve slushees on this particular day. That was a parenting fail I was willing to accept at the time.  

So we pile into my 15-passenger van with a plate of cookies.  I use the 3 minute drive to the gas station to lay out the plan to my children.  We will walk in, deliver the cookies, thank them for working, tell them God loves them, pick out ONE treat, and we are done for the day.  Jerry had to stay late after service, so I was flying solo.  I could do this.  I could do this....

Before we head in, I go over the plan just one more time, so we are all clear of the expectations.  Man, I've got this.  We can do this!

Deep breath. Exhale.

We walk into the gas station.  Ethan won the job of handing the plate of cookies to the cashiers since he was the oldest (and most enthusiastic).  He hands over the plate of cookies.  I hear, "Thank you for working here. God loves you. Here are some homemade cookies."  We did it!!!!!!!!!!!

Then I hear an ear-piercing screech coming from my youngest.

"Faith Elizabeth!!!!  What is the matter?!?!?"

She replies, "I WANTED TO TELL THEM THAT GOD LOVES THEM!!!!!"

"Well, honey, you still can.  Just tell them. They are right there."

Through sobs, "God <sob sob> loves you!!! <sob sob>"

Ok. Some focused breathing, I can do this. That wasn't so bad.  She's little and cute... we're ok.  I give instruction one more time that we can pick out one treat.  And then my children scatter.  This might not be that big of a deal to most, it's a small gas station, relatively empty.  But I was raised on a solid diet of after school specials and am wildly aware of the risk of kidnapping from a public place.

The more you know, you can find out every way possible to be kidnapped!

I take a defensive stance in the center of the gas station, facing the doors.  Feet spread apart, each arm out as if my hands have sensors that can track my children when I can't see them.  I'm looking maniacally back and forth from the candy aisles where my three youngest have disbursed to the back corner where my two oldest are sizing up the slushee machines. 

I keep thinking, please hurry... just choose something... please hurry.... Instead, it's like my children have never seen candy before.  'Reeses?  What is this? Chocoloate? Peanut butter?  I don't get it...'  please hurry... please hurry....

I walked over to the candy aisle to try to speed up the decision process.  After looking at every single candy bar sold in that store, Naomi decides on CheezIts.  Faith grabs a pack of gum.  Josh chooses the biggest king-size candy bar I have ever seen.  Whatever. Good choices. Let me just get the boys their slushees and we'll be ready to ......

I turn around and see Ethan walking toward the checkout counter.  He is unsuccessfully trying to squeeze a lid onto a slushee that he has clearly over filled.  Red frozen sugar is pouring out onto the floor as he walks and squishes the lid more and more.  My eyes pop open, jaw drops. In my *calmest* mom-in-public-I-want-to-yell voice, I whisper yell, "Ethan. You are pouring slushee all over the floor.  Stop moving." 

He looks up and says, "What.  I didn't know."

Of course you didn't know, because you AREN'T ALLOWED TO POUR YOUR OWN SLUSHEE. Ever. Never have you ever been allowed to do that.  Ever.

I started looking for napkins to clean up the mess, while simultaneously capping the guilty slushee and setting it on the counter so it can't puke any more red dye onto the floor.  When I turn around, one of the cashiers is cleaning up the mess.  Mortified, I whispered to Ethan, "The lady that you just thanked for working here and blessed with cookies is cleaning up your mess."  I walked back to her, apologizing for the mess, apologizing for my kids, apologizing for this whole hot mess that I brought in, and finished cleaning up the spills.

Meanwhile, having been distracted by cleaning up Ethan's slushee mess, Josh has decided to pour himself a slushee.  My four year old. The one who already chose the gigantic candy bar.  Of course his slushee is pouring all over, but by now I already have napkins in hand and clean it up before causing another "Clean up in aisle 5."  I glance over and notice that Noah has also poured himself a slushee. I guess it's get your own slushee day - I wish I had known. Luckily he didn't spill his, so I tried to spare my annoyance, I needed to save my energy. Besides, this means we are finally ready to pay and leave while I still can maybe show my face in Meijer again.

I notice that Josh still has his life-size candy bar in his hand.  Knowing I am so close to the freedom of leaving, I kneel down and calmly say, "Josh, I need you to go put your candy bar back.  You chose a slushee and you know we are only getting one treat each."

Not surprisingly, he didn't take this news well.  He went face first into the floor, screaming and crying. I put his now unwanted slushee on the counter, took a deep cleansing breath, and was ready to check out.  This needed to end.  I needed to end this.  Please let me pay and leave....

The second cashier looks over the counter with a sad, concerned face and says, "Oh no! Is he ok?"

I smiled, somehow I managed to smile, and I said, "He wanted the candy bar, then poured himself a slushee. Sometimes we make poor choices... How much do I owe you?" 

I paid.  I picked up my screaming child from the floor.  I directed my remaining four children that they needed to get to the van, now.  I looked past the line forming behind us, focused on getting back to the safety of my van.  On my way out, carrying my now flailing and screaming child, a woman held the door open for me.  She smiled at me and nodded.  It wasn't a condescending smile.  It was an "I've been there" smile.  I nodded back and smiled.  High five, lady.  We've got this.

If I were to look in hind sight, I would have never taken my children into that gas station at that time.  I would have gotten them home, fed them, given them time to unwind, then head back at a time that would have been more successful for everyone.  But parenting doesn't happen in hindsight.  Parenting happens in a string of on-the-spot bad decisions.  Because sometimes we make poor choices....

One thing I know for certain, those women will never forget the day that the Rice family brought them cookies to show them that God loves them.  At least, I never will.

Actual cookies baked at our church for the Cookie Ministry

The More Dangerous Game

I realize the most dangerous game involves hunting humans.  This is a slightly less dangerous game we've been living - busyness to the point of burnout.

For three years now, our lives were in overdrive.  By nature, Jerry and I both tend to "over-volunteer."  You know, when you are in a meeting and the leader asks if someone would like to take the lead on a project, and you sit there with the crickets praying someone will volunteer?  We are the answered prayer.  I'll do it.  Not out of guilt (most of the time), not for fame, not for fortune.  Just because we both like to organize, and plan, and we are pretty good at it. 

But these past three years has taught us a very valuable lesson.  There is a such thing as too much. 

There is a such thing as too much.

About two and a half years into our over-committed, running on survival mode, when will this end experience, we knew it was way too much.  We were ready to be done.  D.O.N.E.  Oh, how I longed for the days when my only responsibility was housekeeping and homeschooling my five kids.  It was right about this time that a friend shared a blog about busyness.  In this blog, the author explained that she held her busyness like a badge of honor.  People would ask how she was, and she would answer "busy" - as though that was a pleasing answer, a status symbol, a show of importance.  And how she learned that the busyness was causing stress, and disappointment.  (Maybe I'll find that blog... and when I do, I'll insert that link right here.)

Reading that came at such the perfect time for me.  I was already ready to trade in being busy for just being mom.  But I still harbored a lot of self-inflicted guilt over it.  When you are wired to be overly-involved, stepping back feels unnatural and scary.  What am I going to do with myself if I actually have time to be?  But I read that blog, and it made me realize that being busy was NOT fun for us anymore.  Being busy in college, or as newlyweds, or as DINKS - totally rocked that.  Over-scheduled with five kids?  Not so much fun. It was affecting us as a family, and as a couple.  No bueno.

When you are overwhelmed, everything is overwhelming.  I have said this to others to help them through situations they were facing.  It's very true, albeit hard to recognize when you are in the midst of it yourself.  It took a while to not only identify it in myself, but also to own it.  Pride was sitting there with a big, fat smile, daring me to admit I couldn't do it anymore. 

Luckily, most of my commitments were wrapping up.  I was grateful to not have to step down, but to survive through the end. 

So that's where I am now.  My children have finished schooling for the year, a full month earlier than previous years.  I am on zero committees.  I am not a leader of any group.  I am nothing.  (Ok, ok - I'll stop the melodrama.)  And I'm going to be honest - it IS unnatural and scary.  I feel like I need some type of rehab to get acclimated to the free life.  Someone to guide me through how to function when you actually have brain capacity to plan a day, a week, heck maybe even a month ahead of time for your family. 

I wish I could say that everything is back on track, my house is clean, my projects are done, my kids are playing lovingly without conflict.... Sorry, I just blacked out there for a minute.  What was I saying? 

An artist rendition of what my brain looks like.  Just kidding - it's my basement

I have a friend that says "Later never happens."  Well, later does happen.  Later is now.  And that's what it looks like.  I found it! I found later, and it's ugly. My brain honestly feels like what is shown in this picture.  A few years of  "I can't deal with that now, I'll set it here.... for later."  I remind myself that it took a long time for my house to fall apart, it will take some time to get it back together.  But as I am cleaning and organizing (and purging!!!!!), it really is bringing a sense of peace.  My life of chaos is slowly melting away with each room I clean.

I am confident that just as I will somehow make my way through that overwhelming heap of insanity in my basement, I will somehow make my way through the overwhelming heap of insanity that took residence in my brain. 

And I hope that once I take a few loads of mental garbage out to the curb, I'll be able to write again.

I'm not going to wear busy as a badge of honor any more.  I am retiring that title. I am trusting that I will be able to change my response to "How are you?" to something more meaningful.  Like wonderful, blessed, at peace, joyful, happy, loving life.... but, you know, no pressure. 

 

Ethan's Birth Story

Because I am feeling nostalgic as my oldest turns double digits, I found myself reminiscing about his birth.  Then I was going to post a status about it.  Then I realized it was long enough for a real post... This one is really for me, hoping that in some way writing down the birth story will somehow return my 5' tall 10 year old back to those tiny days, even if only in my brain...

Disclaimer: This is a birth story.  It will tell about events surrounding a birth of a human.  Just keep that in mind....

Since Ethan was our first child, I was still working through his pregnancy.  I was a first-line supervisor in the sealer department at GM Truck & Bus.  I could probably recite a fancy job description, but in reality my job was to stand and watch trucks move by really, really slowly while people applied sealer to all of the seams.  Although I loved my people, I did not love my job very much.  I decided that I would take a nice 2 weeks off before my first-born's arrival to be able to relax, NOT stand for 12 hours a day, and get things in order around my house.  Ethan was due February 12 and although I can't remember my exact last day on the job, I am pretty sure it fell in the late 20s of January.

On January 30, 2004, Jerry and I dined at Mr. Brown's Steakhouse.  You know, on the corner Linden and Lennon.  It has since changed ownership/names about 10 times. And I don't think that's an exaggeration.  I was so hungry. SO hungry.  I remember getting coconut shrimp as an appetizer for my full rack of ribs.  And a cherry coke.  Except they made their own cherry coke, so it was the kind with the grenadine....  Mmmmmm....  I drank up the cherry cokes like they were going out of style, ate about 3 coconut shrimp in this delicious candy-flavored dipping sauce. Then couldn't eat any more.  I cried.  In the restaurant.  I cried, 9 months pregnant, because I couldn't fit another piece of food in my mouth and had a full rack of ribs coming, and I felt like I was going to throw up.  I watched Jerry eat his food, then we went home with a full rack of ribs in a to-go.

We watched TV, and at about 11pm, I started having contractions.  It was really exciting!  They were stronger than braxton-hicks, but not really painful.  Just exciting!  Jerry got the stopwatch, paper, pen, and clipboard.  They were easy (did I mention they were easy?) contractions, about 8-10 minutes apart.  At some point, he went to bed to get rested for what was sure to be an exciting day!  I stayed up, and since they were so regular, decided to start addressing my birth announcement envelopes.

I finally was going to fall asleep around 5am.  I was tired.  Tired enough to sleep with fairly regular contractions.  I was drifting off to sleep in my recliner, when the song "Caribbean Queen" comes BLASTING from our bedroom.  Jerry had set his alarm to wake up so he could take care of me.  Only he was really tired.  And that song played on and on and on.  I yelled for him to SHUT. IT. OFF!!!!

Later that morning, about 6:30am, my contractions started coming 3 minutes, 1 minute, 3 minutes... piggy backing.  Still really easy contractions, but this must be it, right?!?!?  We called L&D at Genesys and talked to a nurse.  She was very kind, but let me know that if I was talking through my contractions... that was not hard labor.  Deflated, I decided to shower, and after the shower Jerry would go and get McDonald's for breakfast.  I get out of the shower and my contractions all but stop.  <exasperated sigh>  I guess this wasn't labor afterall.  Jerry was very kind and understanding, and jumped in the shower so he could get those McMuffins ASAP.

But before he could leave, as I was sitting on the couch in our family room, I feel a *pop* ... GUSH.  My eyeballs turned to saucers, and I said "My water broke!"  He chimes in "Are you sure?"  Well.... I'm pretty sure I didn't just wet myself unannounced (that would come in later pregnancies...), so yeah!  I go up to the half-bath (the closest bathroom) and there was NO toilet paper.  I couldn't reach over my 9 month pregnant body to reach the cupboard.  I called to Jerry "I need toilet paper!"  but all I can hear is him running (RUNNING) up and down the stairs.  He was gathering our hospital stuff.  I appreciated that... but what I would have really appreciated was some toilet paper.  "I need toilet paper, Jer...." I called again.  (thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump - 7 footfalls to get upstairs and get more stuff).  "I need TOILET PAPER, Jer...."  (7 more footfalls...)  How much did we PACK?!?!?  Just everything they said to in "What to Expect"...  And although I appreciated him packing up our hospital bag, what I really would have appreciated was some TOILET PAPER, JER!!!!  He finally popped in, reached in the cabinet that was literally within arm's reach of me (if I had been able to move in the slightest around my belly...), handed me toilet paper, and some dry clothes. 

Then it happened.  My first hard contraction.  Although memories of pain fade over time, what I do remember is that suddenly someone reached into my pregnant belly from either side, and decided to just remove it with their bare hands, for about 90 seconds.  WOW - so that was a contraction.  Blinding pain... I learned how to breathe through this... how do I breathe?  I can't remember how to breathe!!!  Annnnd... done.  It was gone.  Birds were chirping, I was chipper - I WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY TODAY!

Jerry got a little frantic, trying to get me to focus and get in the car.  I was busy making phone calls between contractions.  "Mom, my water broke - we are heading to the hospital!"  <world stops as next hard contraction comes.... 90 seconds.... and.....>  "Dar!  We are headed to the hospital! I'm in labor!!! Call in to work! (she was working Saturdays then)"   <world stops as next contraction hits>  Jerry started getting really edgy.  "Come on, nett.  We have to GO... I'll make phone calls later!  I need to get you in the car!"  Yeah, yeah - we'll get there.  Why are you freaking out so bad?  I just wanted to <world stops... another contraction...> call my family.  It's in the <world stops... such pain....> birth plan. 

I vividly remember the 30 minute drive to Genesys.  I also remember that we probably made that drive in 15 minutes.  I remember Jerry having the gas pedal all the way down as we weaved in and out of traffic on I-75.  I remember being white-knuckled holding on to the "oh sh--" handle, crawling up the window with each contraction.  I remember calling Blue Cross to tell them I was going to have a baby (???? I am sure in some book I read, it said to be sure to notify your insurance when checking in to a hospital).  I remember handing the phone to Jerry because <world stops.... contraction>  I remember the lady thinking I was crazy for calling them...

We skidded to a stop in front of the Women's Center at Genesys.  Jerry tried to get me to take a wheelchair back there.  Geez, Jer, I got this!  My contractions are 5 minutes apart.  That is what my kind and loving husband has told me because he is in charge of timing them.  It was not that long of a walk back to labor and delivery, I'll be fine.  Except I had to stop twice because <world at a screeching halt - standing up contractions are horrible...> my husband and soon to be father of my first child had <world stopping again? But... it just stopped a second ago...> LIED TO ME.  My very strong contractions were less than 2 minutes apart.  He didn't want to "freak me out" so he stretched the truth, and I was so blinded by pain that I couldn't look at a clock to tell the difference.

I was immediately taken to a triage room instead of sitting down for check-in (but in our hospital tour, they said I would check in.....) where they started asking me questions for check-in.  I could hardly answer, so Jerry answered for me.  I remember having my eyes closed, breathing through contractions, shaking my head "no".  Nurse: "Any surgeries?" Jerry: "She had her thyroid removed."  Me: "*puff puff puff* no *puff puff* it was *puff puff* destroyed not *puff puff* removed...."  Did this man even know me?  Is that even my husband over there?  The doctor comes in and is going to check my dilation.  I offer her my wet clothes to look at (I SWEAR it said to keep that in a What to Expect book....) and she declines.  She checks me, her eyes get big, and she says "She's at 7 and a half... get a room... get her a ROOM...." 

Before we leave triage, someone asks "Do you want anything for the pain?"  No... no, I'm ok.  The birth plan allowed it.  I would start off with nothing, but if needed, it would be acceptable.  I remember saying no, I remember the nurse turning to walk out of the room, and I remember <world stops - so much pain> me screaming out "YES... YES I WANT DRUGS!!!"  I remember looking at Jerry in a panic because she left.  The lady that would get me drugs LEFT THE ROOM!  I said yes, did she hear me say yes?  I said yes... He told me that she heard, she had to go GET them.  Oh.... oh good.... I need drugs.....

The next couple hours are a bit hazy....  What I DO know is that yes, they administered the drugs, and yes, they worked.  Oh, there was still pain, I think?  Hmmmm...  I can't even believe those things are legal, and I can't even care at this point....

Dude, you have a dart in your neck!!!!

 I remember that at some point my parents and sister did arrive.  I actually think my sister made it to the hospital before us...  I remember that I wanted it silent for my contractions.  All talking in the room must STOP - I am in pain....  I am pretty sure that this is the labor where there is video of me trying to eat a popsicle while under the influence of stadol.  I remember further along when I would (apparently) swear, everyone would look at me, and I would say "Sorry.... I pushed..." (You are NOT supposed to push until it is time!!! -- I read that.)  My doctor came in and asked if I was ready to push yet.  I asked how long it would take.  He told me 15 minutes.  I said ok.  I'm not sure if I would have disagreed if he had said a longer time.  At this point, what could be more painful than hard labor?

I got the answer quickly.  Pushing.  Pushing is more painful than contractions.  Jerry was holding a leg and counting for me.  One... Two.. Three. FourFive6789  "Sir... count slower...."  One... Two.... Three.... four..five.six.789.  "Slow down, dad...."  I remember feeling like pushing longer a couple times (once I got into it) and the confused look on Jerry's face as he got to 10 and I didn't stop.  "eleven?  ... tw... twelve..???"  I remember the look on my sister's face as I was pushing.  A perfect mixture of awe, joy, and sheer HORROR.  Yes, she looked terrified as this tiny head would show up, then disappear.  I remember my mom crying.  They asked if I wanted a mirror to be able to watch.  WHAT?!?! NO!!!!!  No THANK you....  I guess I started holding back on my pushing, and my doctor wanted to do an episiotomy.  He said, "This is going to hurt a bit... I'm going to numb you..." and grabbed the BIGGEST needle I have ever seen in my life, and started to head where I would NEVER want someone with a needle to head.  Know what hurts worse than pushing? Getting stuck with a needle where you would never want to be stuck with a needle, while pushing, during hard labor.

I think he was going to wait until after my next contraction to do the episiotomy.  You know, let me have some time to numb.  What nobody expected was that I would numb enough that during that very contraction, I would push uninhibited and that my baby would shoot out.  Yes. Shoot out.  I bore down, pushed with all I had, and I watched my doctor do a one-two grab as my baby flew out.  He CAUGHT my baby.  I was surprised at this (who wouldn't be!?!?) and unknowingly let out an "oh sh--"  My first words to my newborn, beautiful baby.  Ah, the joys of motherhood... 

"It's a boy!!!!"  I cried, Jerry cried, my parents and my sister cried.  And Ethan cried.  Oh that sound.  I did it.  We did it.  He's here.  I want my baby!  I'm done!!!!

Then they flopped the slimy little tiny thing up on my chest (wait, what?  This isn't what they look like in the soaps....) and told me to push again.  What in the... What?  I have to deliver afterbirth?  Did I just stop reading the books??? 

What I expected to be handed after giving birth (Ethan - 6 months)

Things are really blurry after that.  I'm sure Jerry cut the cord (that was in the plan...).  They had to sew me up - I guess if you go from crowning to shooting an 8 pound 5 ounce baby out in one contraction, some tearing occurs... The doctor said "This isn't going to feel very good... I have to numb you."  I remember telling slimy, covered in my own body fluids, baby Ethan on me "That man is going to hurt mommy right now...."  I told the doctor "That was 20 minutes...." and he smiled and shrugged.

The next day was the Super Bowl.  My dad brought in a 30 Pack of White Castle to the hospital to celebrate.  I watched that game by myself as Jerry slept next to me.  The nurses would pop in from time to time, especially after big plays.  The Patriots vs. the Panthers.  Patriots won.

The next day we left the hospital.  That was it.  We were allowed to take this tiny baby out of the hospital and take him home.  Nobody even cared that we had never done this before...

And there you have it.  That is how my first born came into this world, 10 years ago today.  It did help to get it in writing.  I can see, feel, and smell that perfect round-faced, blue-eyed baby boy, even if only in my memories.  And it brings such joy to my heart.   I love you, Ethan, and I always will!  Happy birthday.  (Don't worry - I won't make him read this... ha!)