Once, I read an article describing the experiences of people who have regained the ability to see after a lifetime of blindness. After relating to the world without sight, depending on all of their other senses to guide them, these people found it hard to assimilate the visual sensory input. For example, seeing an apple. You and I would immediately know what it is, just by looking at it. Those who were blind, would not know what the object was, until they picked it up, felt its roundness, smooth skin, smelt it's apple-y smell, or tasted it's juicy flesh. They had no idea what an apple should look like. They had no visual reference for anything. It was only over time that they were able to begin to make sense of the visual world.
Over 3 years out now from Aidan's death and I feel as though I have the opposite of this problem. I can no longer picture what my life would look like with a living Aidan in it. Immediately after he died, I had a running timeline of what I 'should' be doing and I could 'see' it all so clearly.
June 2010: "I should be 34 weeks pregnant, not lifting and carrying heavy boxes helping my friends move". I could imagine my big belly, almost feel his kicks.
August 2010: "I should have a newborn to take care of, off on maternity leave, not returning to work at a new job". It felt like a daily surprise that the room that was to be his was empty. How could he not be here?
December 2010: "I should have a baby to take to this family Christmas party, instead my arms are empty". Watching my relatives coo and awe over my cousin's baby who was born in July 2010, I felt angry when the first present of the night was handed out to her, the 'youngest'. That gift, that title, should have been Aidan's.
April 2011: "It's a year since he was born...if he had lived I would be planning a 1st birthday party". But instead I was on bed rest again, agonizing over the fate of baby number 2...and wait a minute, he should have been born in August and would really only be 8 months old...and I likely wouldn't be pregnant again, and thus not concerned about baby number two...
Then Kaia arrived, and the timeline of the way life 'should' have been was permanently altered, because likely she wouldn't be if he was...and how could I see anything else but her? The farther out I am from his death, the harder time I have imaging what life with him should look like. Over time I have slowly gone 'blind' to those should haves. I've lost reference to what my life with him would have been. Most days my life is filled with who and what is...not who or what is not.
Yet as I lay in bed at night, quiet, in the dark, I so often think before I drift off to sleep: "I miss you Aidan. I wish you were here".
He truly never goes away.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Happy Birthday!
My baby is 2 today! She's wonderful, adorable, smart, funny, engaging and gregarious. She can also be a whiny, bratty, biting, scratching, Dora-demanding, hot-mess of a toddler!
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Kaia, "You know, you really wear me out. But I love you anyway".
And I'm pretty sure, despite all our faults, you'd tell Daddy and Me if you could that you "love us anyway too".
Happy 2nd Birthday to my extra special girl.
*Updated to add: Go check out last year's post about her 1st birthday party. Holy Hannah (as my mother would say!), CHECK OUT ALL THAT HAIR! From basically bald to flowing golden curly locks in one year). Sweet!
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Kaia, "You know, you really wear me out. But I love you anyway".
And I'm pretty sure, despite all our faults, you'd tell Daddy and Me if you could that you "love us anyway too".
Happy 2nd Birthday to my extra special girl.
*Updated to add: Go check out last year's post about her 1st birthday party. Holy Hannah (as my mother would say!), CHECK OUT ALL THAT HAIR! From basically bald to flowing golden curly locks in one year). Sweet!
Monday, July 1, 2013
Down hearted
Sorry I haven't written in awhile. It's not for lack of wanting to...just life always seems to get in the way. Plus I spent the month of June reading the entire series of Game of Thrones (books 1-5), which was over 4000 pages, so I spent a good portion of the month reading. I'm now in withdrawal...I wish the next book was coming out soon.
On to more important things.
No we aren't pregnant.
And after my cardiologist appointment this past week, I'm wondering if it's a good idea health-wise.
My heart is currently functioning well, however I do have a 'moderate' amount of aortic regurgitation which means that a portion of the blood passing through my aortic valve from my left ventricle tends to leak backwards through the valve rather than all flowing out through my aorta. Basically my cardiologist is telling me that valve surgery is in my future. She's 'hoping' I will get 10 more years out of the valve, but at some point it will need to be replaced in order to help preserve my heart function. Currently this type of valve is replaced by open heart surgery, meaning you have to be put on by-pass while your heart is stopped and worked on through a giant incision through your chest. According to my good friend Google, it has a 1-3% mortality rate (which is probably higher with Fontan patients like me). My cardiologist is hopeful that by the time I need my valve replaced it will be done by catheter, making the procedure less risky and less invasive. I'm so hoping too.
Hearing this is upsetting, although not ENTIRELY surprising. I've done my reading, and from what I've read Fontan patients usually begin having heart problems as they grow older, and valve surgery is fairly common in heart patients. It is hard to begin applying those statistics to yourself though. It's scary. If I were to get a non-tissue valve, I'll have an increased risk of clotting and will need to be on blood thinning medication indefinitely. A big annoyance and not a pleasant prospect.
However, what was worse, was that this cardiologist started telling me about the possibility that one day I may need a heart transplant. I know my parents were told when I was a child, that I was not eligible for a heart transplant and that the Fontan operation was my only option. This cardiologist is telling me that things have changed in the last 25 years, and now would be considered for a heart transplant if I needed one (yippee!), however Fontan patients like myself have a 30% chance of DYING ON THE TABLE during the surgery (definitely not yippee). If they survive post op, the outcomes are usually good...but the risks are high. It also means living on the transplant list. You can't travel, you're tied to a pager every day, wondering "will this be the day my heart arrives"...and there is the possibility that one won't be found and you'll die waiting. Also, fun fact: women who have had children have a harder time being matched due to the antibodies they have made against the fetus.
A transplant also isn't a cure all...you'll be on anti-rejection medications forever (increasing your risk of infection and cancer) and transplanted hearts fail on average around 15 years, meaning you'll either die or need another one. Only 69% of female transplant patients are alive at 5 years.
This is VERY upsetting because damn it all, I want to be an old lady. I want grey hair and wrinkles. I want to go back to school and change my career trajectory. I want to travel with my family, or alone with Brian, and one day I might even want to retire! I want to see my grandchildren grow (should I be lucky enough to have them). I want a full life, with the normal expected life span. Hearing all this stuff about my heart is making me think about my life long term. For example, I better stay in a job that has good medical benefits, good disability benefits and life insurance, because at some point, I might (will?) need them. So scratch working in a small medical clinic, I'll have to stay at a big hospital. I should also definitely get on with my plans for school. I need to move towards a career that is less physically demanding. We should also not plan to move to a smaller city. The hospital I need is here.
Those concerns are obviously all long term, and in my own benefit. In the short term, I (we) want another baby. I want a sibling for Kaia. Especially if there is a chance I might not be around to see her as an adult, I want her to have the comfort of a (living) sibling. It's so maddening because part of what has come with living so well with my heart defect, is my own expectation that I will pretty much be able to live a normal life, including having the number of children I want (or at least TRY to have the number of children I want). If I let myself be scared off trying for another child, fearing that it may damage my heart, I feel it would be tantamount to letting my heart defect stop me from achieving my dreams.
It's put a lot of thoughts in my head this week. How to I reconcile my short and long term desires? It's led me back into looking into surrogacy. Here in Canada, surrogacy is legal, however you aren't able to directly pay for a surrogate the way you are in the States. You are however, responsible for many other costs. Including, (but not limited to, of course), the IVF fees ($10,000+), the lawyers ($1000s), DNA testing ($1500) the expenses the surrogate will incur including travel costs, maternity clothes, extra food costs, and the possibility that she will need time off work which means you'll be paying her salary. The website I went to listed $35,000 as a total conservative estimate.
*Sigh*
This is all well and good, but first someone (out of the goodness of their own heart) has to offer up her uterus for 9 months. And maybe, maybe, if all goes well, you get a baby (or two?) out of the deal and the lovely woman who has helped you gets a few more stretch marks and the knowledge of a job well done.
Makes me wish my parents had tried a little harder to give me a sister (preferably one who loved me lots and liked being pregnant). My brother is fairly useless in this case. Thanks for nothing Mom and Dad. ;-)
On to more important things.
No we aren't pregnant.
And after my cardiologist appointment this past week, I'm wondering if it's a good idea health-wise.
My heart is currently functioning well, however I do have a 'moderate' amount of aortic regurgitation which means that a portion of the blood passing through my aortic valve from my left ventricle tends to leak backwards through the valve rather than all flowing out through my aorta. Basically my cardiologist is telling me that valve surgery is in my future. She's 'hoping' I will get 10 more years out of the valve, but at some point it will need to be replaced in order to help preserve my heart function. Currently this type of valve is replaced by open heart surgery, meaning you have to be put on by-pass while your heart is stopped and worked on through a giant incision through your chest. According to my good friend Google, it has a 1-3% mortality rate (which is probably higher with Fontan patients like me). My cardiologist is hopeful that by the time I need my valve replaced it will be done by catheter, making the procedure less risky and less invasive. I'm so hoping too.
Hearing this is upsetting, although not ENTIRELY surprising. I've done my reading, and from what I've read Fontan patients usually begin having heart problems as they grow older, and valve surgery is fairly common in heart patients. It is hard to begin applying those statistics to yourself though. It's scary. If I were to get a non-tissue valve, I'll have an increased risk of clotting and will need to be on blood thinning medication indefinitely. A big annoyance and not a pleasant prospect.
However, what was worse, was that this cardiologist started telling me about the possibility that one day I may need a heart transplant. I know my parents were told when I was a child, that I was not eligible for a heart transplant and that the Fontan operation was my only option. This cardiologist is telling me that things have changed in the last 25 years, and now would be considered for a heart transplant if I needed one (yippee!), however Fontan patients like myself have a 30% chance of DYING ON THE TABLE during the surgery (definitely not yippee). If they survive post op, the outcomes are usually good...but the risks are high. It also means living on the transplant list. You can't travel, you're tied to a pager every day, wondering "will this be the day my heart arrives"...and there is the possibility that one won't be found and you'll die waiting. Also, fun fact: women who have had children have a harder time being matched due to the antibodies they have made against the fetus.
A transplant also isn't a cure all...you'll be on anti-rejection medications forever (increasing your risk of infection and cancer) and transplanted hearts fail on average around 15 years, meaning you'll either die or need another one. Only 69% of female transplant patients are alive at 5 years.
This is VERY upsetting because damn it all, I want to be an old lady. I want grey hair and wrinkles. I want to go back to school and change my career trajectory. I want to travel with my family, or alone with Brian, and one day I might even want to retire! I want to see my grandchildren grow (should I be lucky enough to have them). I want a full life, with the normal expected life span. Hearing all this stuff about my heart is making me think about my life long term. For example, I better stay in a job that has good medical benefits, good disability benefits and life insurance, because at some point, I might (will?) need them. So scratch working in a small medical clinic, I'll have to stay at a big hospital. I should also definitely get on with my plans for school. I need to move towards a career that is less physically demanding. We should also not plan to move to a smaller city. The hospital I need is here.
Those concerns are obviously all long term, and in my own benefit. In the short term, I (we) want another baby. I want a sibling for Kaia. Especially if there is a chance I might not be around to see her as an adult, I want her to have the comfort of a (living) sibling. It's so maddening because part of what has come with living so well with my heart defect, is my own expectation that I will pretty much be able to live a normal life, including having the number of children I want (or at least TRY to have the number of children I want). If I let myself be scared off trying for another child, fearing that it may damage my heart, I feel it would be tantamount to letting my heart defect stop me from achieving my dreams.
It's put a lot of thoughts in my head this week. How to I reconcile my short and long term desires? It's led me back into looking into surrogacy. Here in Canada, surrogacy is legal, however you aren't able to directly pay for a surrogate the way you are in the States. You are however, responsible for many other costs. Including, (but not limited to, of course), the IVF fees ($10,000+), the lawyers ($1000s), DNA testing ($1500) the expenses the surrogate will incur including travel costs, maternity clothes, extra food costs, and the possibility that she will need time off work which means you'll be paying her salary. The website I went to listed $35,000 as a total conservative estimate.
*Sigh*
This is all well and good, but first someone (out of the goodness of their own heart) has to offer up her uterus for 9 months. And maybe, maybe, if all goes well, you get a baby (or two?) out of the deal and the lovely woman who has helped you gets a few more stretch marks and the knowledge of a job well done.
Makes me wish my parents had tried a little harder to give me a sister (preferably one who loved me lots and liked being pregnant). My brother is fairly useless in this case. Thanks for nothing Mom and Dad. ;-)
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Barren
Barren
(as defined by Webster's Dictionary):
Infertile
Last April when my period returned after having Kaia, I figured I wouldn't bother starting any type of birth control. Although we didn't exactly WANT a second child at that point, I felt fairly confident due to my previous experiences of needing added progesterone to get pregnant, that it likely wouldn't happen on its own. And hey, if it did, that might be welcome change and a sign from the universe that we should just go with it.
Turns out, I was right. (Sometimes it sucks be right all the time).
We've been 'not trying/not avoiding' for a year now and can now officially be classified as among the 'infertile'. Not surprising. I have a feeling if we had never added in the progesterone with either Aidan or Kaia we would have gotten that designation the first two times around.
What pains me to admit however, is that in January we decided that we'd start actually 'trying' and started on progesterone for the second half of my cycle. It worked the first time in both of my previous pregnancies, so I felt it was bound to at least do SOMETHING. January I started with 100mg of Prometrium once a day starting after ovulation. It did NOTHING. My luteal phase was short as always and I had spotting for a number of days before my period as usual. Okay, I figured, no biggie. I got pregnant with Kaia using 200mg once a day. So, we upped it to 200mg for February...and March...and April...and the spotting continues. My luteal phase is slightly longer, but I have yet to need a pregnancy test to tell me I'm not pregnant (which I should since the progesterone should stop the uterine lining from shedding, thus cuing me to pee on a stick). I've yet to make it past day 27 of my cycle without spotting.
Shit.
My family doctor said she is willing to prescribe Clomid to help strengthen ovulation which will hopefully sort out my luteal issues, but if we need any further help than that, she'd refer me again to the fertility specialist we saw in the Fall of 2010. That fertility specialist had the easiest time in the world helping me get knocked up. One ultrasound for a follicle check and a prescription of Prometrium later and 'ta-da'! They said it was almost too easy. Too bad what followed was not.
I don't know what to do. I have a hard time admitting the level of my desire for another child to my doctor or my friends and I haven't even mentioned it to our families, because I'm so afraid that giving a voice to my wish will somehow make it harder if it never happens. I still carry so much disappointment and sadness around both my pregnancies and Aidan's loss that I'm not sure I can really stand to add another defeat to the pile.
Sometimes I like to trick myself and think "Hey, maybe you don't REALLY want another baby. Let's just hold the phone and think back here for a moment. Remember how little sleep you got with a newborn? Remember the nervous breakdown you had over trying to breastfeed? And the 14 months of pumping? Remember the quasi-sleep training and the hours and hours of nightly crying that preceded it? Oh, and hey...remember your water breaking in the second trimester...TWICE? Remember the combined 27 weeks of bed rest? Remember the lack of income? Remember the stress and the worry and the fear? Remember the preemies, one living and one dead? The NICU? Remember Dr. Eeyore? Remember how they have ABSOLUTELY no idea why your placenta exploded once, let alone twice. Remember? Life is much better now that all that's behind you." It would honestly be so much easier if, like friends of ours who have just one daughter and are happy to keep it that way, we didn't want any more children. No more choices to make. No more decisions to stress over. One (living) and done would be so easy.
But, I do. I do want another baby. I have Kaia, who I am more grateful for every day. She lights up our lives. And I had Aidan. He made me a Mom. Who even in his absence continues to teach me things and helps to make me a better person. How special and important they both are to me. How much I love them. OF COURSE I want another child. Both Brian and I do. And one day, I bet Kaia will want a sibling. I would love to make that happen.
I honestly feel that likely, our third child is possible. Right now, he or she waits in the fabric of the universe, just waiting for our genetic material to combine, implant and begin to grow. According to the reproductive endocrinologist that we saw in 2010, the likelihood of us being able to conceive is high based on the fact that we have before, it will just take the right combination of patience, medical technology and genetic material. I know this isn't the case for EVERYONE, but since I'm still fairly 'young', the possibility is on the higher side. That the 'likelihood' ends at the two pink lines is what gets me. It makes me quake in fear that there are no guarantees beyond that.
I'm just not sure I have the strength to really GO for it based on our pregnancy history. I'm not sure I want to pour time, money, energy and hope into a pregnancy that would take more than a few pills and a bottle of wine to make happen. If it happened on it's own, naturally and easily with little or no outside help...and things went badly again, it would be awful, and heart breaking and soul crushing. If it all went badly again and we had spent months (years?) going to doctor's appointments, multiple invasive tests, failed procedures and PAID for all of it to happen, well that's just like rubbing salt in the wound. Maybe our current infertility is the universe's way of telling us it's just not meant to happen, and we'd be better off not tempting it again.
I just all makes me so sad. I never blamed any of my own actions for Aidan's death or for either of the early pPROMs. But I have such anger and disappointment when it comes to my body. How could it fail me so badly, not once but TWICE? How could things go so wrong? I don't even really feel that I had much to do with Kaia's positive outcome. It's like she lived in spite of my body's failings. The bed rest, the gallons of water, the good food, good hygiene, all the supplements, the love and hope I clung to were only my way of attempting to counteract the absolute failure of my uterus. That Kaia lived is only due to her own hardiness and because biology didn't screw up *quite* enough to cause her death. Kaia lived because she, and we, got extremely lucky. From my earliest memory my body has been deemed 'less' because of my heart defect, which my pregnancy history only seems to confirm.
The idea that I would dream of chancing all that again; that I would dare to even contemplate it in the face of my body's obvious unwillingness to cooperate smacks of hubris. We got lucky once, what makes me think I deserve that again?
On the other hand, I feel like I am failing that third baby of mine if I don't try. If I choose comfort, safety and physical ease over the fear of loss or hardship, what kind of mother am I? I imagine third baby out there, just waiting for us to make him or her a reality, but unfortunately third baby brings no guarantees about how long he or she plans to stay, or how healthy he or she plans to be, or how mentally or physically healthy he or she will leave me. There are never any guarantees when it comes to children, but I feel somehow, like we have less of a guarantee than most. We have more of a reason than others to believe it will all go badly, more of a reason to fear the worst. Third baby, you aren't even real and I already love you, want you, wish you were here...but I don't know if I can risk it again.
The hardest thing for me maybe, is that I know I can live without third baby. Life will still be good. It will still have meaning. Because I have Kaia, I can go on. I didn't feel that way before or after Aidan. The desire to have a living child was so intense, so overwhelming, it was all I could think of. I could not imagine my life without at least one living child. Even while I stared at the ceiling on bed rest with Kaia, swearing that I would not put myself through this again, I knew I wouldn't quit in my desire to have a family. I was prepared to do anything, pay anything, risk anything.
But I'm not anymore. For me, primary infertility and secondary infertility are two very different things. As much as I love third baby, he or she does not take precedence over my current child and my current life. I have other dreams now, which I am prepared to put on hold, or delay, but not give up on, to have another baby in my life.
Which in the end, for me, is the saddest thing of all. I know if third baby were to make it here, alive and well (which sometimes feels as impossible as a planned mission to Mars), third baby would be as loved and as cherished and as needed as Aidan or Kaia. He or she would be cease to be abstract and would become real.
And, oh how I want him or her to be real.
I'm just not sure I have it in me to try.
I'm sorry third baby. Mommy's so sorry.
(as defined by Webster's Dictionary):
1: not reproducing: as
b : not yet or not recently pregnant c : habitually failing to fruit
b : not yet or not recently pregnant c : habitually failing to fruit
Infertile
(as defined by Medicine.net):
Infertility means not being able to get pregnant after one year of trying.
Last April when my period returned after having Kaia, I figured I wouldn't bother starting any type of birth control. Although we didn't exactly WANT a second child at that point, I felt fairly confident due to my previous experiences of needing added progesterone to get pregnant, that it likely wouldn't happen on its own. And hey, if it did, that might be welcome change and a sign from the universe that we should just go with it.
Turns out, I was right. (Sometimes it sucks be right all the time).
We've been 'not trying/not avoiding' for a year now and can now officially be classified as among the 'infertile'. Not surprising. I have a feeling if we had never added in the progesterone with either Aidan or Kaia we would have gotten that designation the first two times around.
What pains me to admit however, is that in January we decided that we'd start actually 'trying' and started on progesterone for the second half of my cycle. It worked the first time in both of my previous pregnancies, so I felt it was bound to at least do SOMETHING. January I started with 100mg of Prometrium once a day starting after ovulation. It did NOTHING. My luteal phase was short as always and I had spotting for a number of days before my period as usual. Okay, I figured, no biggie. I got pregnant with Kaia using 200mg once a day. So, we upped it to 200mg for February...and March...and April...and the spotting continues. My luteal phase is slightly longer, but I have yet to need a pregnancy test to tell me I'm not pregnant (which I should since the progesterone should stop the uterine lining from shedding, thus cuing me to pee on a stick). I've yet to make it past day 27 of my cycle without spotting.
Shit.
My family doctor said she is willing to prescribe Clomid to help strengthen ovulation which will hopefully sort out my luteal issues, but if we need any further help than that, she'd refer me again to the fertility specialist we saw in the Fall of 2010. That fertility specialist had the easiest time in the world helping me get knocked up. One ultrasound for a follicle check and a prescription of Prometrium later and 'ta-da'! They said it was almost too easy. Too bad what followed was not.
I don't know what to do. I have a hard time admitting the level of my desire for another child to my doctor or my friends and I haven't even mentioned it to our families, because I'm so afraid that giving a voice to my wish will somehow make it harder if it never happens. I still carry so much disappointment and sadness around both my pregnancies and Aidan's loss that I'm not sure I can really stand to add another defeat to the pile.
Sometimes I like to trick myself and think "Hey, maybe you don't REALLY want another baby. Let's just hold the phone and think back here for a moment. Remember how little sleep you got with a newborn? Remember the nervous breakdown you had over trying to breastfeed? And the 14 months of pumping? Remember the quasi-sleep training and the hours and hours of nightly crying that preceded it? Oh, and hey...remember your water breaking in the second trimester...TWICE? Remember the combined 27 weeks of bed rest? Remember the lack of income? Remember the stress and the worry and the fear? Remember the preemies, one living and one dead? The NICU? Remember Dr. Eeyore? Remember how they have ABSOLUTELY no idea why your placenta exploded once, let alone twice. Remember? Life is much better now that all that's behind you." It would honestly be so much easier if, like friends of ours who have just one daughter and are happy to keep it that way, we didn't want any more children. No more choices to make. No more decisions to stress over. One (living) and done would be so easy.
But, I do. I do want another baby. I have Kaia, who I am more grateful for every day. She lights up our lives. And I had Aidan. He made me a Mom. Who even in his absence continues to teach me things and helps to make me a better person. How special and important they both are to me. How much I love them. OF COURSE I want another child. Both Brian and I do. And one day, I bet Kaia will want a sibling. I would love to make that happen.
I honestly feel that likely, our third child is possible. Right now, he or she waits in the fabric of the universe, just waiting for our genetic material to combine, implant and begin to grow. According to the reproductive endocrinologist that we saw in 2010, the likelihood of us being able to conceive is high based on the fact that we have before, it will just take the right combination of patience, medical technology and genetic material. I know this isn't the case for EVERYONE, but since I'm still fairly 'young', the possibility is on the higher side. That the 'likelihood' ends at the two pink lines is what gets me. It makes me quake in fear that there are no guarantees beyond that.
I'm just not sure I have the strength to really GO for it based on our pregnancy history. I'm not sure I want to pour time, money, energy and hope into a pregnancy that would take more than a few pills and a bottle of wine to make happen. If it happened on it's own, naturally and easily with little or no outside help...and things went badly again, it would be awful, and heart breaking and soul crushing. If it all went badly again and we had spent months (years?) going to doctor's appointments, multiple invasive tests, failed procedures and PAID for all of it to happen, well that's just like rubbing salt in the wound. Maybe our current infertility is the universe's way of telling us it's just not meant to happen, and we'd be better off not tempting it again.
I just all makes me so sad. I never blamed any of my own actions for Aidan's death or for either of the early pPROMs. But I have such anger and disappointment when it comes to my body. How could it fail me so badly, not once but TWICE? How could things go so wrong? I don't even really feel that I had much to do with Kaia's positive outcome. It's like she lived in spite of my body's failings. The bed rest, the gallons of water, the good food, good hygiene, all the supplements, the love and hope I clung to were only my way of attempting to counteract the absolute failure of my uterus. That Kaia lived is only due to her own hardiness and because biology didn't screw up *quite* enough to cause her death. Kaia lived because she, and we, got extremely lucky. From my earliest memory my body has been deemed 'less' because of my heart defect, which my pregnancy history only seems to confirm.
The idea that I would dream of chancing all that again; that I would dare to even contemplate it in the face of my body's obvious unwillingness to cooperate smacks of hubris. We got lucky once, what makes me think I deserve that again?
On the other hand, I feel like I am failing that third baby of mine if I don't try. If I choose comfort, safety and physical ease over the fear of loss or hardship, what kind of mother am I? I imagine third baby out there, just waiting for us to make him or her a reality, but unfortunately third baby brings no guarantees about how long he or she plans to stay, or how healthy he or she plans to be, or how mentally or physically healthy he or she will leave me. There are never any guarantees when it comes to children, but I feel somehow, like we have less of a guarantee than most. We have more of a reason than others to believe it will all go badly, more of a reason to fear the worst. Third baby, you aren't even real and I already love you, want you, wish you were here...but I don't know if I can risk it again.
The hardest thing for me maybe, is that I know I can live without third baby. Life will still be good. It will still have meaning. Because I have Kaia, I can go on. I didn't feel that way before or after Aidan. The desire to have a living child was so intense, so overwhelming, it was all I could think of. I could not imagine my life without at least one living child. Even while I stared at the ceiling on bed rest with Kaia, swearing that I would not put myself through this again, I knew I wouldn't quit in my desire to have a family. I was prepared to do anything, pay anything, risk anything.
But I'm not anymore. For me, primary infertility and secondary infertility are two very different things. As much as I love third baby, he or she does not take precedence over my current child and my current life. I have other dreams now, which I am prepared to put on hold, or delay, but not give up on, to have another baby in my life.
Which in the end, for me, is the saddest thing of all. I know if third baby were to make it here, alive and well (which sometimes feels as impossible as a planned mission to Mars), third baby would be as loved and as cherished and as needed as Aidan or Kaia. He or she would be cease to be abstract and would become real.
And, oh how I want him or her to be real.
I'm just not sure I have it in me to try.
I'm sorry third baby. Mommy's so sorry.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Imagining Three
"Aidan do you know what today is?"
"It's my birthday Mommy!"
"Yes, you're right it is my big boy! Aidan, how old are you today?"
"I'm three!"
"Yes you are! What are we going to do today for your birthday?"
"Go to the zoo! I love the zoo!"
"Are we going to see the lions and tigers and gorillas and turtles?"
"Yes, and the Orange-tans too!"
"Orange-tans? Oh right, yes, the O-RANG-U-tans, yes we can see the Orangutans too. Aidan, this is a very special day. Three years ago you were born and you were so small. See this picture here? Yes, that's you. Look at how tiny you were. Tiny tiny feet, tiny tiny hands...tiny, tiny everything".
"I'm not tiny, tiny anymore....I'm a BIG boy, now!"
"That's true. You are a big boy, now. You're a big brother now too. But three years ago, you were so, so small that you had to live in a warm plastic box for a long, long time until you were bigger and stronger. You had tubes and wires going every which way. Yes, see this picture? Mommy would sit beside you and hold your little hand in mine and put my hand over your head to keep you calm and feeling safe".
"Why, Mommy?"
"Because you were so small Mommy couldn't always hold you. We had to wait a long time for you to get big and strong so you could come home. Your doctors and your nurses and your RTs said they have never seen such a remarkable boy! You did so well and surprised just about everyone! Even me!"
"Even YOU?"
"Yes my baby boy. It took you awhile, but you grew so well and got so strong and healthy, I could hardly believe it. You barely even look like that tiny baby anymore. Except for your feet and your nose, those look just the same. Just like your Daddy's"
"Some day, I'm going to be as big as Daddy and drive the car, just like him!"
"That's right, you will. You're a big boy already who can run and jump and count to 10 and say his A, B, Cs!"
"A, B, C, D, E, F, G..."
"Yes Aidan, that's very good. Okay, it's time to get your shoes on...time to go to the zoo!"
"Yeah!"
"Wait, Mommy needs a hug and a kiss from the birthday boy!"
"Love you Mommy."
"Love you too, Aidan."
***
Forever and Always my baby boy.
"It's my birthday Mommy!"
"Yes, you're right it is my big boy! Aidan, how old are you today?"
"I'm three!"
"Yes you are! What are we going to do today for your birthday?"
"Go to the zoo! I love the zoo!"
"Are we going to see the lions and tigers and gorillas and turtles?"
"Yes, and the Orange-tans too!"
"Orange-tans? Oh right, yes, the O-RANG-U-tans, yes we can see the Orangutans too. Aidan, this is a very special day. Three years ago you were born and you were so small. See this picture here? Yes, that's you. Look at how tiny you were. Tiny tiny feet, tiny tiny hands...tiny, tiny everything".
"I'm not tiny, tiny anymore....I'm a BIG boy, now!"
"That's true. You are a big boy, now. You're a big brother now too. But three years ago, you were so, so small that you had to live in a warm plastic box for a long, long time until you were bigger and stronger. You had tubes and wires going every which way. Yes, see this picture? Mommy would sit beside you and hold your little hand in mine and put my hand over your head to keep you calm and feeling safe".
"Why, Mommy?"
"Because you were so small Mommy couldn't always hold you. We had to wait a long time for you to get big and strong so you could come home. Your doctors and your nurses and your RTs said they have never seen such a remarkable boy! You did so well and surprised just about everyone! Even me!"
"Even YOU?"
"Yes my baby boy. It took you awhile, but you grew so well and got so strong and healthy, I could hardly believe it. You barely even look like that tiny baby anymore. Except for your feet and your nose, those look just the same. Just like your Daddy's"
"Some day, I'm going to be as big as Daddy and drive the car, just like him!"
"That's right, you will. You're a big boy already who can run and jump and count to 10 and say his A, B, Cs!"
"A, B, C, D, E, F, G..."
"Yes Aidan, that's very good. Okay, it's time to get your shoes on...time to go to the zoo!"
"Yeah!"
"Wait, Mommy needs a hug and a kiss from the birthday boy!"
"Love you Mommy."
"Love you too, Aidan."
***
Forever and Always my baby boy.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Just another day at the office
He has creamy pink skin. Rosebud lips. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. A covering of
peach-fuzz hair on his head. He is loved. His room is waiting at home for him. He is 7 and a half pounds of glorious perfection.
Except for the brain damage.
She's standing at her son's beside gazing down at him. She is sore and slow and tired, with her swollen post-partum belly covered in sweats. Her husband stands stoic beside her. They don't know what went wrong. He was fine, fine, fine on ultrasound just days ago. They have just finished a conversation with the nurse practitioner covering her son's care that day. It's not good, but it's not the WORST either. He's got a chance. We'll have to see how he does once we finish the cooling protocol and do an MRI. Then the real waiting begins. It might be years before we know what he's going to be like. Able? Disable? Walking? Talking? Deaf? Blind? Who knows. We left our crystal ball at home today.
She's standing at her son's beside gazing down at him. He is still. So still. He has tubes and wires coming out of every which way. The amount of technology surrounding his bedside looks like it could control a missile and is equally formidable to anyone who doesn't know it's purpose. His nurse (my colleague), offers his mom the chance to do his bath. You know, something totally normal, if she didn't have to work around the breathing tube, the umbilical lines and the urinary catheter.
His mom begins to cry. As tears roll down her cheeks she wrings her hands and manages to choke out, "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt him!"
I'm going about my day, trying to mind my own business while charting on my patient, but standing 3 feet from her, I can't help but hear everything she says. My dead baby mother's heart responds so keenly, as I know what she is REALLY saying.
I'm afraid I already hurt him. I'm afraid I've killed him, or damaged him beyond repair. He's broken and it's all my fault.
As a nurse I could tell her "it's not your fault" and really mean it. She did nothing wrong. It was an accident. Nobody meant for this to happen. Not the midwife, not the pediatrician, not the doctors, not the nurses, not her husband, not the baby and certainly not his mother. But I know, she will blame herself...we always do.
A few days later he is breathing on his own. Learning to eat from a bottle. He will have challenges, but he will go home. His mom is holding him and she looks a little better. At least she smiles back at me.
He is one of the lucky ones.
Another day, I'm over at the fridge. Searching around for the containers holding my patient's breast milk so that I can draw it up into tiny syringes to push down the tube in his nose into his stomach where it will hopefully stay to be digested and not end up back on my shoes.
I look over into the room next door. The lights are dim, even though it's the middle of the day. The staff doctor is speaking quietly to a couple sitting in matching rocking chairs by their son's bed side. They are absolutely still. I can tell just by their posture, and the blank looks on their faces that it's not good. His nurse leans over to me and whispers, "she's talking to them about withdrawing fluids..." They have already been told their son is beyond hope. Unlike other organs which can recover from a lack of oxygen, the brain cannot. His death certificate will read asphyxia. Withdrawing fluids will help to not prolong things.
Withdrawal of fluids is completely appropriate in this case. It is only offered in situations for which nothing can be done, and the family has agreed to a DNR. But as I stand there watching that couple hear a doctor speak so calmly and plainly about hastening their son's death, I remember what it's like to get that news. Nothing can be done. No hope. Beyond saving. Might as well end it now. It hurts. Hurts like a gut wound. You feel your stomach dropping out beneath you. You feel dizzy and sweaty, like if you could only just block your ears, your mind, your heart, maybe all this awfulness will just go away and leave you and your family alone. But it won't and it doesn't.
I look at the parents. They are so completely, totally ordinary. A month ago she was probably at her grocery store, or in the mall, or at church or at work, getting belly pats from well meaning old ladies chirping "oh, looks like it's any day now!" She likely smiled and then rolled her eyes as they walked away. He probably assembled the crib and attended birthing classes feeling like a fish out of water. Worried about being a good enough dad, and maybe even rubbed her feet after a long day.
A month from now she will be back at that grocery store, slowly walking down the aisles. Avoiding the one with diapers and wipes and formula, because even though she was going to cloth diaper and breast feed, it's all just too big of a reminder. He will be at work, shooting the shit with the guys...but breaking a bit inside when colleagues mention their kids. He'll quickly look away and busy himself with something else. This year won't be what they thought it would. No camping trips with an infant. No holiday parties with the 'grandparents'. Just them, alone again in an empty house. I can see it all because I've lived it, and now they will too. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
***
How is it that so many babies traversing the,what? Maybe 10 cm total?, through the cervix and down the birth canal go from 'fine' in one spot, to 'dead, or dying' and the end? It seems completely ludicrous that the only 10 cm you absolutely HAVE to cross in your life is the most dangerous of all. Good job mother nature. You can be such a cruel bitch.
***
Oh look at that, it's 7 o'clock. Quitting time. Yep, just another day at the office.
Should have been a librarian.
Except for the brain damage.
She's standing at her son's beside gazing down at him. She is sore and slow and tired, with her swollen post-partum belly covered in sweats. Her husband stands stoic beside her. They don't know what went wrong. He was fine, fine, fine on ultrasound just days ago. They have just finished a conversation with the nurse practitioner covering her son's care that day. It's not good, but it's not the WORST either. He's got a chance. We'll have to see how he does once we finish the cooling protocol and do an MRI. Then the real waiting begins. It might be years before we know what he's going to be like. Able? Disable? Walking? Talking? Deaf? Blind? Who knows. We left our crystal ball at home today.
She's standing at her son's beside gazing down at him. He is still. So still. He has tubes and wires coming out of every which way. The amount of technology surrounding his bedside looks like it could control a missile and is equally formidable to anyone who doesn't know it's purpose. His nurse (my colleague), offers his mom the chance to do his bath. You know, something totally normal, if she didn't have to work around the breathing tube, the umbilical lines and the urinary catheter.
His mom begins to cry. As tears roll down her cheeks she wrings her hands and manages to choke out, "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt him!"
I'm going about my day, trying to mind my own business while charting on my patient, but standing 3 feet from her, I can't help but hear everything she says. My dead baby mother's heart responds so keenly, as I know what she is REALLY saying.
I'm afraid I already hurt him. I'm afraid I've killed him, or damaged him beyond repair. He's broken and it's all my fault.
As a nurse I could tell her "it's not your fault" and really mean it. She did nothing wrong. It was an accident. Nobody meant for this to happen. Not the midwife, not the pediatrician, not the doctors, not the nurses, not her husband, not the baby and certainly not his mother. But I know, she will blame herself...we always do.
A few days later he is breathing on his own. Learning to eat from a bottle. He will have challenges, but he will go home. His mom is holding him and she looks a little better. At least she smiles back at me.
He is one of the lucky ones.
Another day, I'm over at the fridge. Searching around for the containers holding my patient's breast milk so that I can draw it up into tiny syringes to push down the tube in his nose into his stomach where it will hopefully stay to be digested and not end up back on my shoes.
I look over into the room next door. The lights are dim, even though it's the middle of the day. The staff doctor is speaking quietly to a couple sitting in matching rocking chairs by their son's bed side. They are absolutely still. I can tell just by their posture, and the blank looks on their faces that it's not good. His nurse leans over to me and whispers, "she's talking to them about withdrawing fluids..." They have already been told their son is beyond hope. Unlike other organs which can recover from a lack of oxygen, the brain cannot. His death certificate will read asphyxia. Withdrawing fluids will help to not prolong things.
Withdrawal of fluids is completely appropriate in this case. It is only offered in situations for which nothing can be done, and the family has agreed to a DNR. But as I stand there watching that couple hear a doctor speak so calmly and plainly about hastening their son's death, I remember what it's like to get that news. Nothing can be done. No hope. Beyond saving. Might as well end it now. It hurts. Hurts like a gut wound. You feel your stomach dropping out beneath you. You feel dizzy and sweaty, like if you could only just block your ears, your mind, your heart, maybe all this awfulness will just go away and leave you and your family alone. But it won't and it doesn't.
I look at the parents. They are so completely, totally ordinary. A month ago she was probably at her grocery store, or in the mall, or at church or at work, getting belly pats from well meaning old ladies chirping "oh, looks like it's any day now!" She likely smiled and then rolled her eyes as they walked away. He probably assembled the crib and attended birthing classes feeling like a fish out of water. Worried about being a good enough dad, and maybe even rubbed her feet after a long day.
A month from now she will be back at that grocery store, slowly walking down the aisles. Avoiding the one with diapers and wipes and formula, because even though she was going to cloth diaper and breast feed, it's all just too big of a reminder. He will be at work, shooting the shit with the guys...but breaking a bit inside when colleagues mention their kids. He'll quickly look away and busy himself with something else. This year won't be what they thought it would. No camping trips with an infant. No holiday parties with the 'grandparents'. Just them, alone again in an empty house. I can see it all because I've lived it, and now they will too. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
***
How is it that so many babies traversing the,what? Maybe 10 cm total?, through the cervix and down the birth canal go from 'fine' in one spot, to 'dead, or dying' and the end? It seems completely ludicrous that the only 10 cm you absolutely HAVE to cross in your life is the most dangerous of all. Good job mother nature. You can be such a cruel bitch.
***
Oh look at that, it's 7 o'clock. Quitting time. Yep, just another day at the office.
Should have been a librarian.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
The Ides of March
Where have I been lately? Nowhere special. I'm at a low energy point, probably due to the continuing dreariness of winter. I hate winter. I'm sick of the cold. I'm bored with my winter wardrobe. I'm boycotting the outdoors until the sun shines and I can see the grass. I haven't felt like exercising and haven't felt like getting out much. Instead I've been reading...A LOT. I discovered Goodreads soon after Christmas and OHMYGOD, it's like I've found my tribe. Hello people who love books more than movies, more than social interaction, more than food! I've read 30+ books over the last couple of months and I go nowhere without my Kindle. Sometimes during the day when I'm home with Kaia, I'll follow her around, Kindle in hand, waiting until she gets distracted playing on her own for 3 minutes and in that time I'll try to read a few more pages. I know, I'm a book junkie. "What's that Kaia? Sorry baby...mommy missed that totally awesome amazing thing you just did because I was reading." Mother of the year award over here for sure.
***
So how is Kaia, you ask?
She's walking!!! (Take that Breus mole, pPROM, prematurity and hip dysplasia!!!)
She finally started to walk at the beginning of February just before she was 19 months actual (17 months corrected). Just as suspected she would, she did it first at Grandma's house while Brian and I weren't there. Kaia's stubborn. VERY stubborn, especially with us. Any time we would try to encourage (or coax, trick, or bribe) her into walking, she would freeze up, flail around on the floor and cry, so I knew it was going to take someone who she's generally more agreeable with (such as the grandparents) to get her walking. That first day she took about 6 steps total unassisted and since then she's been hanging on to things less and less, and becoming more and more adventurous. She still walks like she's either a zombie, or very drunk, but she can bend down to pick something up without falling and has walked a bit outside while wearing her winter boots. Her orthopedic surgeon who we visited last week was happy with her hip development (looks good on x-ray!) and pleased to see she was walking, so if he's happy, I'm happy. It often amazes me when I'm distracted and see her out of the corner of my eye and think "who is that? Oh wait, that's Kaia WALKING!" It's awesome to see her become a bit more independent.
What else?
She's got a few more words, but not as many as I thought she would by now. According to her pediatrician she is suppose to have 15-20 words at 18 months which is about where she's at (unless you count animal noises as words, then she's got double that). However, she still grunts, moans and whines a lot and points to whatever it is she wants. She understands a ton, and can point to pictures in books of things I didn't know she knew, but she doesn't like to use her words as often. I'm finding this kind of baffling. I talk to her ALL THE TIME. I repeat things a million times a day. I pause when I'm speaking in order for her to answer. I'm doing all the things you're suppose to in order to get your kid to talk, and we're still stuck on whining more than I would like. I'm not concerned, per say...just a bit frustrated because I would love to know what she is thinking and you can only tell so much by "uh uh UH!!!". It's also hard not to compare your kid to others. According to my mother, I was talking full sentences by the time I was 18 months, and one of my friend's kids is practically a savant when it came to acquiring language (she was picking out letters correctly by the time she was 17 months), so the fact that Kaia's yet to (understandably) string two words together feels like we're behind.
In order to have a record somewhere (and where else is the best place but posted publicly on the internet?), here are the words she's (somewhat) mastered:
-Up (this is far and away her clearest word, usually uttered standing at my feet with her arms stretched)
-Mama
-Dada
-Keys
-Cheese
-Grapes
-Apple
-Banana
-No (always said in a sing-song voice "no-no-no" while shaking her finger)
-Hi
-Bye
-Lynx (our cat, but it comes out -ynx)
-Please (pees!!!!)
-Down
-On
-Off
-Uh-oh (usually said when she purposely drops something off her highchair tray)
-Wow
-Shoe and Boots (both of these I would only be able to make out if she had her shoe or boots in her hands as they are very vowel sounding "ooe" and "oooots". This goes for "Snow" too...'noooowww').
-Tickle (always repeated "tickle-tickle-tickle" while she tries to tickle our arms or under our chin).
-Various animal noises including howling "oooooo" for a wolf.
I'm always surprised she doesn't have a word for her bottle and/or sippy-cup (there is much pointing and whining and crying if she's thirsty). Nor does she ever ASK for milk or water. Don't kids usually have a word for that ('wawa' anyone?) A friend of mine's daughter is 3 and still uses her baby word for 'milk' which was 'white'. I'm not sure how much clearer I can emphasis the words "WA-TER" and "Mmmm-ILK". We'll keep trying though.
She does have a couple of "Kaia-isms" which aren't exactly words but I thought I'd record them here because damn are they ever cute. The first is 'duba-duba-duba'. This was first uttered while she had her fingers together and we finally realized she wanted us to sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider". Then somehow this same 'word' transformed into meaning "open" when she stood at the baby gate that prevents her from falling down the stairs. No idea how she made that leap. It's weird, but we understand what she means now, so I suppose it works. For 'yes' she kind of makes an 'uh-huh' noise but basically uses her whole body to agree. She kind of nods her head and bounces her torso and looks at you expectantly. You really know she means "YES!!! ABSOLUTELY!!!". I also LOVE how she says "I don't know". She throws her arms out to the sides in a palms up gesture and says "I don't know" in the same way Scooby-doo would say it where it basically sounds like a long cascading vowel sound with a "?" at the end. It's the cutest thing ever. Must remember to get this one on tape.
Kaia loves things that jingle (she's got ears like a bat for keys hidden in pockets or purses), things with buttons (picks up anything that remotely resembles a phone and says "Hi"). She can throw the craziest tantrums over nothing which include red face, tears and ear piercing screaming, but her mushy fishy lipped kisses totally melt your heart. She loves animals, and screams with joy while standing at the window watching the dogs run around in the park behind our house. Kaia eats fairly well, and can use a fork, but often chooses not to since that would ruin the tactile experience of eating. She has definite food likes and dislikes and will NOT be talked into eating anything she's not completely sure of (and will pull away and give you the "are you CRAZY?" look like you've just offered her booger or dirt to eat when it's a piece of potato). She also likes to share food and will gladly feed you a piece of whatever she's eating, but will throw anything on the floor she doesn't want (crusts of bread are a current 'will not eat'). She charms all the adults in her life, including her grandparents, aunts, uncles and babysitter. She gets called "good" by them a lot, which is lovely to hear about your kid, but I'm pretty sure it means she saves all her "not so good" moments for Brian and I. I suppose this isn't unexpected, and in my better moments I try to take it as a compliment. We all save our inner most selves (good and bad) for the people we trust the most, and this is Kaia's way of saying "I trust you to still love me and look after me, even when I'm not on my best behaviour". Thanks kid, I love you too.
When I really look at it objectively, Kaia pretty much falls into the category of 'average toddler'. She's average weight (24 lbs) , average height (81 cm) with an average sized head (47cm) for her corrected age of 18 months as measured today at the pediatricians. She fits into 18-24 month clothing. She sleeps 12 hours at night with a 2-3 hour nap in the afternoon. She's hitting her milestones (roughly) on average, and was really only held back physically because of her cast. I have to remind myself at times that it's silly to get hung up over comparing the exact moment when she could sit up, crawl, walk and talk with others because less than two years ago I feared she wouldn't survive. Or if she did, that she would be plagued with handicaps resulting from her gestational and birth circumstances. The fact that she's so completely AVERAGE is a miracle in itself.
You don't often hear parents brag about it but here it is: Whoo hoo! My kid is AVERAGE!!! Hurray!!!!
***
Two women at work who had babies within weeks of when I had Kaia (but ya know, full term and without all the drama), have recently just had their second. Full term and healthy. The one who had a boy first, had a girl and vice versa for the other. Two kids each. One boy, one girl. Ta da! Perfect family. My sister-in-law is approaching twenty weeks as we speak, and when we found out about the pregnancy last month they were humming and hawing over whether to find out the sex this time at their 20 week scan (they didn't last time). I hope it's a girl for Kaia's sake since then at least if she never gets a (living) sibling she'll have one boy and one girl cousin. On the other hand it will be another family who has what I could have had.
Do other people wonder about this who've had an opposite gendered living child after the dead one? I think about it sometimes. What would it be like to have a boy? Growing up I honestly imagined myself having a girl, and I'm glad that one dream has been fulfilled...but when Aidan was born, I got attached to the idea of a little boy running around my house. I was so happy when Kaia was born alive that it didn't even occur to me to be concerned about what gender she was. But, I confess, in my dreams of having another child it's generally a little boy. I would be happy for a healthy baby and a normal pregnancy either way, but a boy would somehow restore the mom-son relationship that I lost when Aidan died.
***
I've missed him more lately. Some situations at work have been sad reminders, and one of the books I was reading ('love Anthony' by Lisa Genova) I had to put down for awhile because it's about a woman grieving a dead son. It was just too overwhelming.
Grieving his loss has become such a part of who I am that sometimes it catches me off guard at how sad I can still be, and how much some things still affect me. I wonder if that will subside in time too?
I miss you Aidan. I wish you were here, always.
***
So how is Kaia, you ask?
She's walking!!! (Take that Breus mole, pPROM, prematurity and hip dysplasia!!!)
She finally started to walk at the beginning of February just before she was 19 months actual (17 months corrected). Just as suspected she would, she did it first at Grandma's house while Brian and I weren't there. Kaia's stubborn. VERY stubborn, especially with us. Any time we would try to encourage (or coax, trick, or bribe) her into walking, she would freeze up, flail around on the floor and cry, so I knew it was going to take someone who she's generally more agreeable with (such as the grandparents) to get her walking. That first day she took about 6 steps total unassisted and since then she's been hanging on to things less and less, and becoming more and more adventurous. She still walks like she's either a zombie, or very drunk, but she can bend down to pick something up without falling and has walked a bit outside while wearing her winter boots. Her orthopedic surgeon who we visited last week was happy with her hip development (looks good on x-ray!) and pleased to see she was walking, so if he's happy, I'm happy. It often amazes me when I'm distracted and see her out of the corner of my eye and think "who is that? Oh wait, that's Kaia WALKING!" It's awesome to see her become a bit more independent.
What else?
She's got a few more words, but not as many as I thought she would by now. According to her pediatrician she is suppose to have 15-20 words at 18 months which is about where she's at (unless you count animal noises as words, then she's got double that). However, she still grunts, moans and whines a lot and points to whatever it is she wants. She understands a ton, and can point to pictures in books of things I didn't know she knew, but she doesn't like to use her words as often. I'm finding this kind of baffling. I talk to her ALL THE TIME. I repeat things a million times a day. I pause when I'm speaking in order for her to answer. I'm doing all the things you're suppose to in order to get your kid to talk, and we're still stuck on whining more than I would like. I'm not concerned, per say...just a bit frustrated because I would love to know what she is thinking and you can only tell so much by "uh uh UH!!!". It's also hard not to compare your kid to others. According to my mother, I was talking full sentences by the time I was 18 months, and one of my friend's kids is practically a savant when it came to acquiring language (she was picking out letters correctly by the time she was 17 months), so the fact that Kaia's yet to (understandably) string two words together feels like we're behind.
In order to have a record somewhere (and where else is the best place but posted publicly on the internet?), here are the words she's (somewhat) mastered:
-Up (this is far and away her clearest word, usually uttered standing at my feet with her arms stretched)
-Mama
-Dada
-Keys
-Cheese
-Grapes
-Apple
-Banana
-No (always said in a sing-song voice "no-no-no" while shaking her finger)
-Hi
-Bye
-Lynx (our cat, but it comes out -ynx)
-Please (pees!!!!)
-Down
-On
-Off
-Uh-oh (usually said when she purposely drops something off her highchair tray)
-Wow
-Shoe and Boots (both of these I would only be able to make out if she had her shoe or boots in her hands as they are very vowel sounding "ooe" and "oooots". This goes for "Snow" too...'noooowww').
-Tickle (always repeated "tickle-tickle-tickle" while she tries to tickle our arms or under our chin).
-Various animal noises including howling "oooooo" for a wolf.
I'm always surprised she doesn't have a word for her bottle and/or sippy-cup (there is much pointing and whining and crying if she's thirsty). Nor does she ever ASK for milk or water. Don't kids usually have a word for that ('wawa' anyone?) A friend of mine's daughter is 3 and still uses her baby word for 'milk' which was 'white'. I'm not sure how much clearer I can emphasis the words "WA-TER" and "Mmmm-ILK". We'll keep trying though.
She does have a couple of "Kaia-isms" which aren't exactly words but I thought I'd record them here because damn are they ever cute. The first is 'duba-duba-duba'. This was first uttered while she had her fingers together and we finally realized she wanted us to sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider". Then somehow this same 'word' transformed into meaning "open" when she stood at the baby gate that prevents her from falling down the stairs. No idea how she made that leap. It's weird, but we understand what she means now, so I suppose it works. For 'yes' she kind of makes an 'uh-huh' noise but basically uses her whole body to agree. She kind of nods her head and bounces her torso and looks at you expectantly. You really know she means "YES!!! ABSOLUTELY!!!". I also LOVE how she says "I don't know". She throws her arms out to the sides in a palms up gesture and says "I don't know" in the same way Scooby-doo would say it where it basically sounds like a long cascading vowel sound with a "?" at the end. It's the cutest thing ever. Must remember to get this one on tape.
Kaia loves things that jingle (she's got ears like a bat for keys hidden in pockets or purses), things with buttons (picks up anything that remotely resembles a phone and says "Hi"). She can throw the craziest tantrums over nothing which include red face, tears and ear piercing screaming, but her mushy fishy lipped kisses totally melt your heart. She loves animals, and screams with joy while standing at the window watching the dogs run around in the park behind our house. Kaia eats fairly well, and can use a fork, but often chooses not to since that would ruin the tactile experience of eating. She has definite food likes and dislikes and will NOT be talked into eating anything she's not completely sure of (and will pull away and give you the "are you CRAZY?" look like you've just offered her booger or dirt to eat when it's a piece of potato). She also likes to share food and will gladly feed you a piece of whatever she's eating, but will throw anything on the floor she doesn't want (crusts of bread are a current 'will not eat'). She charms all the adults in her life, including her grandparents, aunts, uncles and babysitter. She gets called "good" by them a lot, which is lovely to hear about your kid, but I'm pretty sure it means she saves all her "not so good" moments for Brian and I. I suppose this isn't unexpected, and in my better moments I try to take it as a compliment. We all save our inner most selves (good and bad) for the people we trust the most, and this is Kaia's way of saying "I trust you to still love me and look after me, even when I'm not on my best behaviour". Thanks kid, I love you too.
When I really look at it objectively, Kaia pretty much falls into the category of 'average toddler'. She's average weight (24 lbs) , average height (81 cm) with an average sized head (47cm) for her corrected age of 18 months as measured today at the pediatricians. She fits into 18-24 month clothing. She sleeps 12 hours at night with a 2-3 hour nap in the afternoon. She's hitting her milestones (roughly) on average, and was really only held back physically because of her cast. I have to remind myself at times that it's silly to get hung up over comparing the exact moment when she could sit up, crawl, walk and talk with others because less than two years ago I feared she wouldn't survive. Or if she did, that she would be plagued with handicaps resulting from her gestational and birth circumstances. The fact that she's so completely AVERAGE is a miracle in itself.
You don't often hear parents brag about it but here it is: Whoo hoo! My kid is AVERAGE!!! Hurray!!!!
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Two women at work who had babies within weeks of when I had Kaia (but ya know, full term and without all the drama), have recently just had their second. Full term and healthy. The one who had a boy first, had a girl and vice versa for the other. Two kids each. One boy, one girl. Ta da! Perfect family. My sister-in-law is approaching twenty weeks as we speak, and when we found out about the pregnancy last month they were humming and hawing over whether to find out the sex this time at their 20 week scan (they didn't last time). I hope it's a girl for Kaia's sake since then at least if she never gets a (living) sibling she'll have one boy and one girl cousin. On the other hand it will be another family who has what I could have had.
Do other people wonder about this who've had an opposite gendered living child after the dead one? I think about it sometimes. What would it be like to have a boy? Growing up I honestly imagined myself having a girl, and I'm glad that one dream has been fulfilled...but when Aidan was born, I got attached to the idea of a little boy running around my house. I was so happy when Kaia was born alive that it didn't even occur to me to be concerned about what gender she was. But, I confess, in my dreams of having another child it's generally a little boy. I would be happy for a healthy baby and a normal pregnancy either way, but a boy would somehow restore the mom-son relationship that I lost when Aidan died.
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I've missed him more lately. Some situations at work have been sad reminders, and one of the books I was reading ('love Anthony' by Lisa Genova) I had to put down for awhile because it's about a woman grieving a dead son. It was just too overwhelming.
Grieving his loss has become such a part of who I am that sometimes it catches me off guard at how sad I can still be, and how much some things still affect me. I wonder if that will subside in time too?
I miss you Aidan. I wish you were here, always.
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