Every once in awhile I get tagged on Facebook- the last one was "25 random things about me" since I had already gone above and beyond (I just tried to type beyove and abond but that didn't look or sound right -so then I figured I had a case of Runny Babbit-itis. ) Anyway, I had already gone above and beyond and last summer did 100 random things about me, so I just picked my favorite 25 and cut and pasted it into facebook. It still took awhile.
Given my current dry spell of blog topic ideas- I'm going to steal from facebook, and reserve the right to post any "tags" here as well as there. However, I am not going to tag anyone here, but feel free to take it upon yourself to answer these same questions on your own blog ☺
Here you go mommies - a different kind of survey for a change - it's all about your first born! Just copy and paste it in a new note for yourself!Let's see how much you remember!
1. WAS YOUR FIRST PREGNANCY PLANNED? Ha ha.
2. WHAT WERE YOUR REACTIONS? disbelief, fear, confusion, more fear
3. HOW OLD WERE YOU? 20
4. HOW DID YOU FIND OUT YOU WERE PREGNANT? blood test
5. WHO DID YOU TELL FIRST? BFF Jamie
6. DID YOU WANT TO FIND OUT THE SEX? Yes
7. DUE DATE? Valentines day 1997
8. DID YOU HAVE MORNING SICKNESS? yep
9. WHAT DID YOU CRAVE? beef jerky, Farr's brand cinnamon ice-cream (not together)
10. WHO/WHAT IRRITATED YOU THE MOST? Don't remember, probably everyone and everything.
11. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CHILD'S SEX? Boy
12. DID YOU WISH YOU HAD THE OPPOSITE SEX OF WHAT YOU WERE GETTING? sorta, (girl clothes were cuter) mostly just wanted a healthy baby
13. HOW MANY POUNDS DID YOU GAIN THROUGHOUT THE PREGNANCY? 50
14. DID YOU HAVE A BABY SHOWER? yes, from a few friends after the baby was born
15. WAS IT A SURPRISE OR DID YOU KNOW? I knew
16. DID YOU HAVE ANY COMPLICATIONS DURING YOUR PREGNANCY? Nope. Just that he was 8 weeks premature.
17. WHERE DID YOU GIVE BIRTH? Cottonwood Hospital , Salt Lake City
18. HOW MANY HOURS WERE YOU IN LABOR? Not sure- I was in denial that I was in labor- it was Christmas eve. I had things to do, places to go.
19. WHO DROVE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL? John
20. WHO WATCHED YOU GIVE BIRTH? John, my mom, Jamie
21. WAS IT NATURAL OR C-SECTION? natural
22. DID YOU TAKE MEDICINE TO EASE THE PAIN? Oh yeah.. Love that epidural
23. HOW MUCH DID YOUR CHILD WEIGH? 3' 11"
24. WHEN WAS YOUR CHILD ACTUALLY BORN? December 24th
25. WHAT DID YOU NAME HIM/HER? Nicholas
26. HOW OLD IS YOUR FIRST BORN TODAY? 12
Showing posts with label Birth Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Birth Story. Show all posts
Friday, February 13, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The best Christmas present I ever got
I have a friend who is having a hard time with her pregnancy right now. She's having twin girls and she's only about 6 months along. She's been on bed rest for awhile now and just got out of the hospital. Knowing my history with pregnancies as she does her comment was "This is terrible. I am definitely not doing this ever again. If this were my first pregnancy I would still be done having kids. (she has two other boys) I don't know how you did this (the whole "high-risk pregnancy" thing) four times." 
My response was that I didn't do that four times. Each of the pregnancies got worse. Other than the usual garbage that goes with being pregnant, my pregnancy with Nick was great. Every doctor's appointment went along the lines of "you're doing great, the baby's doing great, see ya next time..."
The biggest issue I had during the pregnancy was what to name the baby. John and I fought about this for awhile. Finally the only name we could agree on was Nicholas. And so Nicholas he was to be.
So like I said, every thing was great with the pregnancy, until it wasn't. There was no bed rest, no medication, no tears. Just the usual pregnancy stuff. He was due on Valentine's day 1997. But it was two months before that on Christmas Eve 1996, and I started having horrible stomach pains, and like I said I still had two more months, eight more weeks to be exact, so it couldn't be contractions, because I had weeks and weeks and weeks left. (only eight I realize, but you try telling a very miserable pregnant woman, that that isn't forever.)
Besides, it was Christmas Eve. And I was totally queen of procrastination. During the month of December besides being an exhausted pregnant woman, I had a job, and so when Christmas Eve rolled around I still had a lot to do. So many little "last minute things" to pick up. 
I spent some time that day doing errands with my mom and little brother, and every 10 minutes or so they would ask "Are you sure you're okay?" "Yes!" I'd say. "It's just gas or something." And then I would start chewing on more antacids. My little brother kindly pointed out that if it would make me feel better I could just fart and they wouldn't mind.
Later on I spent a good part of the afternoon driving myself around taking care of the last minute things I needed to do. In the snow. In my car with the stick shift. With those horrible gas pains arriving every 6 minutes now. I'm truly surprised I didn't crash or at least stall the car. I remember the pains to be nearly paralyzing as the muscles would tighten in my stomach ever more painfully. Too painful to walk or talk or breathe. I think I ate a whole bottle of antacids. 
I would have gone to the hospital to get things checked out, but it was Christmas Eve for heaven's sake! I had things to do! Places to go! We were going to a party at my aunt's in Park City that evening that I was excited about. There was no time to spend hours at the hospital only to be eventually turned away. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just false labor. Merry Christmas."
And so when my errands were done (or at least the stores were all closed) I went home to change and get ready for the party, and wait for John to get off work. (please excuse the next few lines of this story, gross as they may be, I think they are important- I can't just say "then something happened so I called the doctor.") So at some point I had to pee, and when I was done, I happened to glance at the used toilet paper and what I saw totally alarmed me. It looked like alot of snot. Alot of bloody snot. So not normal. So I FINALLY called the doctor. Being Christmas Eve and all, all I got was the answering service and the guy told me to go to the hospital immediately. Good thing since those gas pains were only about 3 minutes apart by this time.
John was supposed to be home any minute, so I spent my time packing a bag- overnight stuff for me, the video camera (oh yeah, I have footage of that blessed event, fortunately my BFF Jamie was very kind, so it's PG rated), and an outfit to bring home the baby in. My favorite little outfit that I had been given by some loving friend or family member. Not having much experience with baby clothes, I really had no clue what the little numbers meant, and all the outfits were pretty small anyway, so I didn't think much of the fact that the tag said 6-9 mos.
We went straight to the hospital, John drove like a lunatic. I was admitted immediately, it was confirmed I was indeed in labor, and no they couldn't stop it. By the time we arrived I was dilated to an eight. I had enough time to say that yes I did want an epidural (my Lamaze classes didn't start for another week, I was in no way prepared to even think about natural child birth). When I asked about taking him home, they gave me the most incredulous look, and said that he was more than likely going to be on the next helicopter to be life flighted to Primary Children's Hospital where he would stay for weeks or months. MONTHS?!?!
I really started to freak out at this point. I knew we were totally unprepared to be real parents, let alone deal with a sick baby. I hadn't even cleaned out the "storage room" and set up a nursery yet. I was just trying to get through Christmas. Two young kids raising a healthy baby was scary enough, and already I had failed to be a good mother by not rushing to the hospital when the pains first started. I hadn't realized I had been choosing shopping and parties over the health and well being of my baby.
With a grand total of one push, out popped my teeny tiny 3 pound 11 ounce baby boy. Nicholas John Berrett. And he was healthy and perfect. And he got to stay at that hospital instead of being rushed off to the other one for really sick kids. He only needed a little bit of oxygen for a day, and that was it. Well, that and an IV in his forehead, and a feeding tube down his nose, and an incubator for a bed.
I considered changing his name at the last minute. I didn't want people thinking I named him Nicholas because he was born on Christmas Eve. I could hear it in my head "Jolly old St. Nicholas, lean your ear this way..." But like I said, it was the only name we could remotely agree on. ( He does admit that kids tease him every once in awhile, but it doesn't bother him)
We visited every day for the next three weeks. Feeding him, and talking to him, and holding him. It felt like playing with a little doll. A life like little doll. We'd change his diaper, and burp him, then kiss him good-bye leave him to the excellent care of the nurses and go home. I guess it's somewhat fortunate that we had these last three weeks to find a crib and get the room ready for him. We were pretty poor, but fortunate enough to have good friends and generous family to help out with things.
Then one day they said we could take him home, something I had prayed for every day for three weeks was coming true, but I was totally freaked out! Are you kidding me?!?! Who am I to take care of a baby? How can they, these trained nurses who have been taking care of him night and day for three weeks just hand this little person to me and say "Good Luck!"?!?! Were they insane? Didn't they know how totally inadequate I was for the task? But I bought the cutest little preemie outfit to bring him home in, because by then I realized 6-9 mos was ginormous, passed their CPR test, and off we went.
Of course despite my fears he was okay. That didn't stop me from holding him for the next two months straight. I even slept with him on my chest. I needed to feel him breathing at all times. I was just so afraid that he would stop and somehow it would be all my fault.
And so despite my fears and inexperience, and many, many mistakes, somehow I find myself 12 years later wondering at how that teeny little bean is almost as tall as me, and how I was so blessed to have such a fantastic kid. I feel so very blessed every day to be his mom. Happy Birthday, Nick. We love you.
My response was that I didn't do that four times. Each of the pregnancies got worse. Other than the usual garbage that goes with being pregnant, my pregnancy with Nick was great. Every doctor's appointment went along the lines of "you're doing great, the baby's doing great, see ya next time..." The biggest issue I had during the pregnancy was what to name the baby. John and I fought about this for awhile. Finally the only name we could agree on was Nicholas. And so Nicholas he was to be. So like I said, every thing was great with the pregnancy, until it wasn't. There was no bed rest, no medication, no tears. Just the usual pregnancy stuff. He was due on Valentine's day 1997. But it was two months before that on Christmas Eve 1996, and I started having horrible stomach pains, and like I said I still had two more months, eight more weeks to be exact, so it couldn't be contractions, because I had weeks and weeks and weeks left. (only eight I realize, but you try telling a very miserable pregnant woman, that that isn't forever.) Besides, it was Christmas Eve. And I was totally queen of procrastination. During the month of December besides being an exhausted pregnant woman, I had a job, and so when Christmas Eve rolled around I still had a lot to do. So many little "last minute things" to pick up. I spent some time that day doing errands with my mom and little brother, and every 10 minutes or so they would ask "Are you sure you're okay?" "Yes!" I'd say. "It's just gas or something." And then I would start chewing on more antacids. My little brother kindly pointed out that if it would make me feel better I could just fart and they wouldn't mind. Later on I spent a good part of the afternoon driving myself around taking care of the last minute things I needed to do. In the snow. In my car with the stick shift. With those horrible gas pains arriving every 6 minutes now. I'm truly surprised I didn't crash or at least stall the car. I remember the pains to be nearly paralyzing as the muscles would tighten in my stomach ever more painfully. Too painful to walk or talk or breathe. I think I ate a whole bottle of antacids. I would have gone to the hospital to get things checked out, but it was Christmas Eve for heaven's sake! I had things to do! Places to go! We were going to a party at my aunt's in Park City that evening that I was excited about. There was no time to spend hours at the hospital only to be eventually turned away. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just false labor. Merry Christmas." And so when my errands were done (or at least the stores were all closed) I went home to change and get ready for the party, and wait for John to get off work. (please excuse the next few lines of this story, gross as they may be, I think they are important- I can't just say "then something happened so I called the doctor.") So at some point I had to pee, and when I was done, I happened to glance at the used toilet paper and what I saw totally alarmed me. It looked like alot of snot. Alot of bloody snot. So not normal. So I FINALLY called the doctor. Being Christmas Eve and all, all I got was the answering service and the guy told me to go to the hospital immediately. Good thing since those gas pains were only about 3 minutes apart by this time.John was supposed to be home any minute, so I spent my time packing a bag- overnight stuff for me, the video camera (oh yeah, I have footage of that blessed event, fortunately my BFF Jamie was very kind, so it's PG rated), and an outfit to bring home the baby in. My favorite little outfit that I had been given by some loving friend or family member. Not having much experience with baby clothes, I really had no clue what the little numbers meant, and all the outfits were pretty small anyway, so I didn't think much of the fact that the tag said 6-9 mos.We went straight to the hospital, John drove like a lunatic. I was admitted immediately, it was confirmed I was indeed in labor, and no they couldn't stop it. By the time we arrived I was dilated to an eight. I had enough time to say that yes I did want an epidural (my Lamaze classes didn't start for another week, I was in no way prepared to even think about natural child birth). When I asked about taking him home, they gave me the most incredulous look, and said that he was more than likely going to be on the next helicopter to be life flighted to Primary Children's Hospital where he would stay for weeks or months. MONTHS?!?!I really started to freak out at this point. I knew we were totally unprepared to be real parents, let alone deal with a sick baby. I hadn't even cleaned out the "storage room" and set up a nursery yet. I was just trying to get through Christmas. Two young kids raising a healthy baby was scary enough, and already I had failed to be a good mother by not rushing to the hospital when the pains first started. I hadn't realized I had been choosing shopping and parties over the health and well being of my baby.With a grand total of one push, out popped my teeny tiny 3 pound 11 ounce baby boy. Nicholas John Berrett. And he was healthy and perfect. And he got to stay at that hospital instead of being rushed off to the other one for really sick kids. He only needed a little bit of oxygen for a day, and that was it. Well, that and an IV in his forehead, and a feeding tube down his nose, and an incubator for a bed.I considered changing his name at the last minute. I didn't want people thinking I named him Nicholas because he was born on Christmas Eve. I could hear it in my head "Jolly old St. Nicholas, lean your ear this way..." But like I said, it was the only name we could remotely agree on. ( He does admit that kids tease him every once in awhile, but it doesn't bother him)We visited every day for the next three weeks. Feeding him, and talking to him, and holding him. It felt like playing with a little doll. A life like little doll. We'd change his diaper, and burp him, then kiss him good-bye leave him to the excellent care of the nurses and go home. I guess it's somewhat fortunate that we had these last three weeks to find a crib and get the room ready for him. We were pretty poor, but fortunate enough to have good friends and generous family to help out with things.Then one day they said we could take him home, something I had prayed for every day for three weeks was coming true, but I was totally freaked out! Are you kidding me?!?! Who am I to take care of a baby? How can they, these trained nurses who have been taking care of him night and day for three weeks just hand this little person to me and say "Good Luck!"?!?! Were they insane? Didn't they know how totally inadequate I was for the task? But I bought the cutest little preemie outfit to bring him home in, because by then I realized 6-9 mos was ginormous, passed their CPR test, and off we went.Of course despite my fears he was okay. That didn't stop me from holding him for the next two months straight. I even slept with him on my chest. I needed to feel him breathing at all times. I was just so afraid that he would stop and somehow it would be all my fault.And so despite my fears and inexperience, and many, many mistakes, somehow I find myself 12 years later wondering at how that teeny little bean is almost as tall as me, and how I was so blessed to have such a fantastic kid. I feel so very blessed every day to be his mom. Happy Birthday, Nick. We love you.Thursday, December 11, 2008
A tale of two birthdays
So, it's my birthday today. Or, at least it was anyway. I gave it away. I celebrated my last birthday 9 years ago today the day my beautiful little baby girl was born. I get to be 24 forever. 
Of course we didn't plan it that way, as with anything to do with my pregnancies, nothing ever goes as planned. Madison was due on Feb. 2, and of course back then we didn't know that 8 weeks early was standard for my babies.
I could have gone back to the hospital that day, but I was already kind of busy. It was a Saturday, and Nick would be celebrating his third birthday the day before Christmas, and that was the best day that month to have his very first "friend party". He was my first child, and I wanted him to do all that fun stuff, so although it was my birthday I had still arranged to have a little party at one of those birthday places where they have games and rides, and they take care of all the work. (Lucky for me since I was supposed to be in bed!)
I spent the entire party sitting at a table trying to deal with the worsening contractions all the while pretending like nothing was wrong. (I didn't fool anybody) We went straight from the party to the hospital and Madison Kirsten Berrett was born an hour later. She was a beautiful little 4 pound baby girl. And healthy, too. She only had to stay in the hospital for two weeks.
Of course Nick knew she was a girl all along. From the moment we told him we were going to have a baby, to him it was his baby sister. We, on the other hand, had no idea. A friend of mine was telling me how she didn't like to find out beforehand the sex of her babies, she liked the idea of finding out at the hospital. "It's a girl!" The idea intrigued me, and John and I disagreed on the matter, but when it was time for the ultrasound I sat in the waiting room arguing with myself up until the moment the lady asked "So, do you want to know what it is?" Part of me wanted the surprise, but a stronger part of me needed to know, to be able to plan, and buy cute outfits, and all that stuff. "Yes!" I said! I needed to know! But then you know what? She kept her legs closed the entire time. The tech did her very best, but she could never see anything. (All my boys were a different story- they were more than happy to flash anybody who came by)
I went into labor the first time on December 5th. Coincidentally that was the due date I was supposed to be born, but I was 6 days late. They were able to easily stop the contractions, and when they did another ultrasound, they asked again if we knew if she was a boy or a girl, and did we want to know. This time I was able to say "no". If I had come this far, what was another month? (Actually it was only a week, but I had no way of knowing that)
We had no idea how long I was going to be able to stay pregnant. When I went to the doctor on Dec. 4th, I was 31 weeks along and reminded the doctor that my last baby was born at 32 weeks. He checked me out, and said "you look fine, I'll see you in two weeks." Of course I was in labor the very next day. 
I was hoping for a millennium baby. It was December 1999, and I had every hopes to have the very first baby born January 1, 2000. You can bet I would have spent New Years Eve out jogging around the neighborhood. John was positive she would have been born in January. For Christmas he gave me matching earrings and a pendant with garnets- January's birthstone. 
Other coincidences surrounding our birthdays are that we were born in the same hospital, and although I didn't realize when I picked my doctor, he was the son of the doctor that delivered me. For some reason the name came up in conversation with my mother one day. "Dr. Barton? My OB was a Dr. Barton." At my next visit I asked, and sure enough his father had delivered babies at that hospital back in the 70's and 80's. 
So she is of course the best birthday present I have ever received, and every once in awhile somebody asks me if it bothers me to share with her, and I can answer completely honestly, that no it doesn't. How could it bother me to share with such a sweet, wonderful little girl? (and my only girl) I am happy to share the day with her, or better yet just give the whole day to her. To her birthdays are still something to look forward to, they are exciting, and wonderful, and her excitement is contagious. I'm just glad she wants to share the day with me. 
I've already had all the "good" birthdays. I've already been 5, and 8, and 12. I can drive, I am way past dating (thank goodness!), I can vote, and sign contracts, and even buy alcohol if I were so inclined (which I'm not). So I am happy to stay in my early twenties for the rest of my life. 
I think in seven years, I'll make a minor exception to the rule. On that day she will be 16, and I will (technically) be 40. We're gonna have to plan something big. 
Of course we didn't plan it that way, as with anything to do with my pregnancies, nothing ever goes as planned. Madison was due on Feb. 2, and of course back then we didn't know that 8 weeks early was standard for my babies. On the morning of my 24th birthday however, I knew. I was already on bed rest, and I sat on the couch watching John and little Nicholas decorating the Christmas tree. The contractions were starting to come back, and the little bottle of pills the hospital had given me a week before seemed to be doing little to stop them. I thought there was nothing else the doctors could do. (and boy was I ever wrong!)
I could have gone back to the hospital that day, but I was already kind of busy. It was a Saturday, and Nick would be celebrating his third birthday the day before Christmas, and that was the best day that month to have his very first "friend party". He was my first child, and I wanted him to do all that fun stuff, so although it was my birthday I had still arranged to have a little party at one of those birthday places where they have games and rides, and they take care of all the work. (Lucky for me since I was supposed to be in bed!) I spent the entire party sitting at a table trying to deal with the worsening contractions all the while pretending like nothing was wrong. (I didn't fool anybody) We went straight from the party to the hospital and Madison Kirsten Berrett was born an hour later. She was a beautiful little 4 pound baby girl. And healthy, too. She only had to stay in the hospital for two weeks. Of course Nick knew she was a girl all along. From the moment we told him we were going to have a baby, to him it was his baby sister. We, on the other hand, had no idea. A friend of mine was telling me how she didn't like to find out beforehand the sex of her babies, she liked the idea of finding out at the hospital. "It's a girl!" The idea intrigued me, and John and I disagreed on the matter, but when it was time for the ultrasound I sat in the waiting room arguing with myself up until the moment the lady asked "So, do you want to know what it is?" Part of me wanted the surprise, but a stronger part of me needed to know, to be able to plan, and buy cute outfits, and all that stuff. "Yes!" I said! I needed to know! But then you know what? She kept her legs closed the entire time. The tech did her very best, but she could never see anything. (All my boys were a different story- they were more than happy to flash anybody who came by) I went into labor the first time on December 5th. Coincidentally that was the due date I was supposed to be born, but I was 6 days late. They were able to easily stop the contractions, and when they did another ultrasound, they asked again if we knew if she was a boy or a girl, and did we want to know. This time I was able to say "no". If I had come this far, what was another month? (Actually it was only a week, but I had no way of knowing that) We had no idea how long I was going to be able to stay pregnant. When I went to the doctor on Dec. 4th, I was 31 weeks along and reminded the doctor that my last baby was born at 32 weeks. He checked me out, and said "you look fine, I'll see you in two weeks." Of course I was in labor the very next day. I was hoping for a millennium baby. It was December 1999, and I had every hopes to have the very first baby born January 1, 2000. You can bet I would have spent New Years Eve out jogging around the neighborhood. John was positive she would have been born in January. For Christmas he gave me matching earrings and a pendant with garnets- January's birthstone. Other coincidences surrounding our birthdays are that we were born in the same hospital, and although I didn't realize when I picked my doctor, he was the son of the doctor that delivered me. For some reason the name came up in conversation with my mother one day. "Dr. Barton? My OB was a Dr. Barton." At my next visit I asked, and sure enough his father had delivered babies at that hospital back in the 70's and 80's. So she is of course the best birthday present I have ever received, and every once in awhile somebody asks me if it bothers me to share with her, and I can answer completely honestly, that no it doesn't. How could it bother me to share with such a sweet, wonderful little girl? (and my only girl) I am happy to share the day with her, or better yet just give the whole day to her. To her birthdays are still something to look forward to, they are exciting, and wonderful, and her excitement is contagious. I'm just glad she wants to share the day with me. I've already had all the "good" birthdays. I've already been 5, and 8, and 12. I can drive, I am way past dating (thank goodness!), I can vote, and sign contracts, and even buy alcohol if I were so inclined (which I'm not). So I am happy to stay in my early twenties for the rest of my life. I think in seven years, I'll make a minor exception to the rule. On that day she will be 16, and I will (technically) be 40. We're gonna have to plan something big.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
My Miracle Baby
Tomorrow is Zach's birthday. He'll be six. He's my miracle baby. I've cried more tears over him, and had more prayers said in his behalf than all my other babies put together. At one point I even had doctors telling me I should just abort him and start all over again. There was a lot of risk involved, but oh how we feel so blessed and thankful to be celebrating six years with him.
The trouble started in the beginning. I think I was only six weeks along or something. I don't think I had even told anyone besides John that I was pregnant before we found ourselves in the emergency room because I was bleeding. I had lost a baby before, and I had to get to the hospital to find out if everything was still okay. That night was awful, for so many reasons that I don't need to go into here, and it is probably on my top ten list of most terrible nights in my life, but it was probably a blessing in disguise. 
The real drama started the next week at a follow-up appointment at another ultrasound office across town. They were much nicer than the cranky technician at the hospital, I didn't even have to fill my bladder for them to get a good picture, and I'm sure if I had they would have let me fill it up the traditional way, other than the hospital's way. I even got to see the screen as they were doing it. 
The good news was there was still a heartbeat, but the bad news was is that it was twins, and only one baby was still alive. It's hard to describe what went through my head in those few seconds it took for the ultrasound lady to tell me that. For half a second I was having twins. Two babies. For half a second I had visions of double strollers and matching outfits, and twice the chaos. But just for half a second. How was (am?) I supposed to feel about losing something I never knew I had in the first place? "Congratulations! You've won the lottery! Oh wait, sorry. My Bad. That's a 6, not a 9. Sorry about that." In my journal that night I wrote- I'm sad. I want a miracle and the other one to be all right.
6 years later, and I'll be honest, I still wonder what life would be like with two Zachs. I'm still a little sad when I think about it every once in awhile. But then I think of twice the mess, and twice the sleepless nights, and then I read my friend's blog and she talks about her twins, and even last week, as I was reading it and what her two year olds are up to and then just one word popped into my head- "Conspirators". Not just twice the mess. This could be one of those situations where the total is greater than the sum of it's parts. But I am sure my friends, the parents of these adorable little girls would tell you that the joys more than outweigh any of the troubles.
"So what next?" I ask. "What happens to the other baby?" They just say that the dead baby will just dissolve (ew) and my body will absorb it. (Ew-ew.) And they wanted to do more follow-ups, so I was to come back the next week.
At the next appointment I remember laying there on the table watching the monitor, looking for that reassuring little heartbeat to know that I still had the one baby, and relieved to see that he had grown, and then I noticed something. (Which I am sure caught the ultrasound lady's attention right off) I wrote this in my journal that night- The other one is still there. I'm confused, but I don't say anything. (maybe it's a miracle!) 
(This is the part where my memory gets a little hazy- shock does that to you) Another doctor came in, and they looked and they looked, and they measured, and they double checked, and they followed the blood flow in the umbilical cord, and it took quite awhile. And their super-friendly, outgoing attitudes were replaced with very nice, but very serious expressions. And then, we had to go sit and talk to the doctor, the guy who's name is on the door, the expert in this area. We had to sit in his office. The last room you want to sit in when you visit with a doctor. With him behind his desk, and John and I on the other side, and then he explained my "condition".
I had or the babies had, what is called TRAP Sequence. Twin Reversed Arterial Perfusion Sequence. 6 years later, and I still remember those words. I even spelled them right without spellcheck. Basically the umbilical cords were messed up, and the dead twin was stealing blood (and therefore nutrients) from the healthy baby. I guess this happens in like less than 1% of identical twins. Then (and this is where it gets really hazy) he proceeded to outline the list of problems that can occur from this. Everything from missing a finger to heart failure before he was even born. There was even a really good possibility of terrible chromosomal abnormalities, that if the baby survived til birth he would have no quality of life, probably be in a lot of pain, and then die within a few days anyway. I don't want to bore you with numbers and percentages, but they were bleak. The odds truly were against us. 
This is the part where I started having doctors offer to "take care" of this pregnancy, and then I could start over fresh in a month or two. Several times I had that offer laid at my feet. This was a baby I wanted, and loved, and could provide a happy home for, and I never imagined or thought in my wildest dreams that abortion would be offered to me as a viable solution. How crazy is that? 
John and I each dealt with this news in the only way that we could. I went home and crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head and cried and cried and cried. John went straight to the computer to learn all he could. And what he learned was terrible. He wouldn't even show it to me. Grotesque images of deformed babies who had sucked so much life out of the healthy twin, that the dead one was twice the size of the living one. 
The one image that will stay with me forever is an ultrasound a had a couple weeks later. The other baby was moving. The really creepy part was that because the blood supply he was stealing was inadequate, only the bottom half of the body was developed. It had no heart, no head, no arms or brain, but it did have a smaller torso, and legs, and those legs were kicking. Because it did have a nervous system. Like the creepy science experiment I saw in college where they cut a frog in half and hooked the spine up to electricity to watch the legs kick.
We did learn that there was a surgery that was another option. There was a doctor in Philadelphia who could do a surgery when I was twenty weeks along that would separate the twins, and fix it, but it would cost somewhere around $75,000 or more, and insurance wasn't gonna pay for it. "Experimental" they called it. And it was only successful like 50% of the time anyway. 
I think by this point I wasn't on bed rest any more, but I still spent a lot of time in bed crying and praying. Wishing that pulling the covers over my head would make it all go away. Friends and family were never far away, doing what they could, and praying for us as well. 
And all those prayers were heard. The chromosomal analysis we had done at 13 weeks came back normal. While both babies continued to grow, Zach's growth remained healthy and normal (if slightly on the smallish side) and the other baby seemed to get smaller and smaller on the monitor, but only because Zach was getting bigger and bigger. The special surgery wouldn't be needed, and Zach was healthy and strong.
My mom came out to stay with us when I was about 28 weeks along. She slept on my couch for two months and took care of my other kids, and cooked and cleaned, and I was put back on bed rest (because by then I had already had two babies with no drama in the pregnancy born 8 weeks early). She stayed as long as she could, and when I was 36 weeks along, she had to go back to work.
So Zachary Ian Berrett was born at 10:47 pm on August 20th, 2002. He was my biggest baby at 4 lbs 13 ounces. And he was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. The moment they put that bloody, slimy, disgusting, little thing on my stomach, I fell in love. They always whisked the others away first to make sure they were okay and clean them up. He was so perfect he got to come home with me. All of my other babies had to spend 2-3 weeks in the hospital before they were strong enough to come home. 
I saw the other baby when it came out of me, it looked like a little gray mushroom. I think we had to sign papers so they could take it back to some lab for study. We didn't name it or anything.
So I got my miracle. When all this started before I even knew how bad it was gonna get, I was praying for a miracle. While I didn't get that particular one, I know our prayers were answered, and I will forever feel blessed to have my healthy, blue eyed little boy Zachary in my life.
The trouble started in the beginning. I think I was only six weeks along or something. I don't think I had even told anyone besides John that I was pregnant before we found ourselves in the emergency room because I was bleeding. I had lost a baby before, and I had to get to the hospital to find out if everything was still okay. That night was awful, for so many reasons that I don't need to go into here, and it is probably on my top ten list of most terrible nights in my life, but it was probably a blessing in disguise. The real drama started the next week at a follow-up appointment at another ultrasound office across town. They were much nicer than the cranky technician at the hospital, I didn't even have to fill my bladder for them to get a good picture, and I'm sure if I had they would have let me fill it up the traditional way, other than the hospital's way. I even got to see the screen as they were doing it. The good news was there was still a heartbeat, but the bad news was is that it was twins, and only one baby was still alive. It's hard to describe what went through my head in those few seconds it took for the ultrasound lady to tell me that. For half a second I was having twins. Two babies. For half a second I had visions of double strollers and matching outfits, and twice the chaos. But just for half a second. How was (am?) I supposed to feel about losing something I never knew I had in the first place? "Congratulations! You've won the lottery! Oh wait, sorry. My Bad. That's a 6, not a 9. Sorry about that." In my journal that night I wrote- I'm sad. I want a miracle and the other one to be all right.6 years later, and I'll be honest, I still wonder what life would be like with two Zachs. I'm still a little sad when I think about it every once in awhile. But then I think of twice the mess, and twice the sleepless nights, and then I read my friend's blog and she talks about her twins, and even last week, as I was reading it and what her two year olds are up to and then just one word popped into my head- "Conspirators". Not just twice the mess. This could be one of those situations where the total is greater than the sum of it's parts. But I am sure my friends, the parents of these adorable little girls would tell you that the joys more than outweigh any of the troubles."So what next?" I ask. "What happens to the other baby?" They just say that the dead baby will just dissolve (ew) and my body will absorb it. (Ew-ew.) And they wanted to do more follow-ups, so I was to come back the next week.At the next appointment I remember laying there on the table watching the monitor, looking for that reassuring little heartbeat to know that I still had the one baby, and relieved to see that he had grown, and then I noticed something. (Which I am sure caught the ultrasound lady's attention right off) I wrote this in my journal that night- The other one is still there. I'm confused, but I don't say anything. (maybe it's a miracle!) By the next week I noticed it still getting bigger, and this time I voiced my thoughts- "Um, isn't that other baby supposed to dissolve and go away?" I asked. "Why does it look like it's been growing?" It didn't look like the other one, it wasn't growing like the other one. And then my emotions took a weird turn here. I was barely trying to figure out how to mourn a baby I never really had, wishing against odds that it would turn out alright and now I wanted it gone! I wanted it to dissolve and go away and leave my other baby alone!
(This is the part where my memory gets a little hazy- shock does that to you) Another doctor came in, and they looked and they looked, and they measured, and they double checked, and they followed the blood flow in the umbilical cord, and it took quite awhile. And their super-friendly, outgoing attitudes were replaced with very nice, but very serious expressions. And then, we had to go sit and talk to the doctor, the guy who's name is on the door, the expert in this area. We had to sit in his office. The last room you want to sit in when you visit with a doctor. With him behind his desk, and John and I on the other side, and then he explained my "condition".I had or the babies had, what is called TRAP Sequence. Twin Reversed Arterial Perfusion Sequence. 6 years later, and I still remember those words. I even spelled them right without spellcheck. Basically the umbilical cords were messed up, and the dead twin was stealing blood (and therefore nutrients) from the healthy baby. I guess this happens in like less than 1% of identical twins. Then (and this is where it gets really hazy) he proceeded to outline the list of problems that can occur from this. Everything from missing a finger to heart failure before he was even born. There was even a really good possibility of terrible chromosomal abnormalities, that if the baby survived til birth he would have no quality of life, probably be in a lot of pain, and then die within a few days anyway. I don't want to bore you with numbers and percentages, but they were bleak. The odds truly were against us. This is the part where I started having doctors offer to "take care" of this pregnancy, and then I could start over fresh in a month or two. Several times I had that offer laid at my feet. This was a baby I wanted, and loved, and could provide a happy home for, and I never imagined or thought in my wildest dreams that abortion would be offered to me as a viable solution. How crazy is that? John and I each dealt with this news in the only way that we could. I went home and crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head and cried and cried and cried. John went straight to the computer to learn all he could. And what he learned was terrible. He wouldn't even show it to me. Grotesque images of deformed babies who had sucked so much life out of the healthy twin, that the dead one was twice the size of the living one. The one image that will stay with me forever is an ultrasound a had a couple weeks later. The other baby was moving. The really creepy part was that because the blood supply he was stealing was inadequate, only the bottom half of the body was developed. It had no heart, no head, no arms or brain, but it did have a smaller torso, and legs, and those legs were kicking. Because it did have a nervous system. Like the creepy science experiment I saw in college where they cut a frog in half and hooked the spine up to electricity to watch the legs kick.We did learn that there was a surgery that was another option. There was a doctor in Philadelphia who could do a surgery when I was twenty weeks along that would separate the twins, and fix it, but it would cost somewhere around $75,000 or more, and insurance wasn't gonna pay for it. "Experimental" they called it. And it was only successful like 50% of the time anyway. I think by this point I wasn't on bed rest any more, but I still spent a lot of time in bed crying and praying. Wishing that pulling the covers over my head would make it all go away. Friends and family were never far away, doing what they could, and praying for us as well. And all those prayers were heard. The chromosomal analysis we had done at 13 weeks came back normal. While both babies continued to grow, Zach's growth remained healthy and normal (if slightly on the smallish side) and the other baby seemed to get smaller and smaller on the monitor, but only because Zach was getting bigger and bigger. The special surgery wouldn't be needed, and Zach was healthy and strong. My mom came out to stay with us when I was about 28 weeks along. She slept on my couch for two months and took care of my other kids, and cooked and cleaned, and I was put back on bed rest (because by then I had already had two babies with no drama in the pregnancy born 8 weeks early). She stayed as long as she could, and when I was 36 weeks along, she had to go back to work.My water broke the day after she left to go back home to Utah. 36 weeks. That's seriously a record for me. My water broke in the middle of the night and a good friend and neighbor came to stay with our kids and sleep on the couch until someone could relieve her. My water broke, but the contractions didn't start so the hospital put me on pitocin to get things moving along. What a horrid, exhausting, painful, day. My water broke at midnight, but Zach wasn't born until after ten pm the next night. I got an epidural this time, and the pain was so bad I was crying and begging for it first. (I've heard that pitocin makes the contractions downright unbearable- I believe those rumors)
So Zachary Ian Berrett was born at 10:47 pm on August 20th, 2002. He was my biggest baby at 4 lbs 13 ounces. And he was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. The moment they put that bloody, slimy, disgusting, little thing on my stomach, I fell in love. They always whisked the others away first to make sure they were okay and clean them up. He was so perfect he got to come home with me. All of my other babies had to spend 2-3 weeks in the hospital before they were strong enough to come home. I saw the other baby when it came out of me, it looked like a little gray mushroom. I think we had to sign papers so they could take it back to some lab for study. We didn't name it or anything.So I got my miracle. When all this started before I even knew how bad it was gonna get, I was praying for a miracle. While I didn't get that particular one, I know our prayers were answered, and I will forever feel blessed to have my healthy, blue eyed little boy Zachary in my life.Happy Birthday, Zach.
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