A journey like no other

In some circles, babies born to families after the loss of a child are referred to as "Rainbow Babies." The idea is that the baby is like a rainbow after a storm. A Rainbow Baby is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.

On May 22 we welcomed our little rainbow baby to the world, Teagan Violet Marie.

Some day, I'll be able to tell a teenage Teagan that I was in labour with her for over two months. Beginning at 28 weeks, I started having contractions and was put on strict bed rest. We were in and out of hospital, sometimes staying for a week and other times released within hours. We were even transferred by ambulance with lights and sirens wailing to a larger hospital when her entrance seemed imminent around 32 weeks.

I came off of bedrest at 35 weeks. It was such a glorious feeling to be able to walk around and complete simple tasks. The contractions continued, but never progressed to full-on labour.

At 36 weeks, I was at the grocery store picking up dinner supplies when I felt a small gush that stopped me dead in my tracks. My brain rambled through the possible causes and decided it simply couldn't be my water. I took another step and was rewarded with another gush. I quickly gathered my items and checked out. When I returned home, I told Adam that I was pretty sure my water was leaking. He asked what we should do and I decided that a wait and see approach was probably best. If it was my water, my contractions should pick up shortly, right?

I slept fitfully through the night without any notable contractions. The next day the leaking continued, but my body produced no other hint that labour was imminent. I waited until my in-laws arrived around noon before calling my midwives to report my situation.

Unfortunately, my laid back approach bit me in the butt. With 18 hours elapsing since the break and it being PROM (premature rupture of membranes), the midwives had no option but to transfer my care to the OB on call at the hospital. They confirmed that the fluid was amniotic in nature and began preparing for an induction.

While nipple stimulation could produce some pretty strong contractions, they weren't consistent and failed to make any changes in my cervix. Instead I was hooked up to the dreaded Pitocin to kick my body into gear.

Within a few hours I was having regular, painful contractions every four minutes. Unfortunately, they still couldn't budge my cervix of steel. With me still recovering from pneumonia and kidney stones, it all felt too overwhelming and draining. I knew that I couldn't endure labour naturally if I wanted to have any energy left to push so I asked for an epidural to buy myself some sleep and conserve strength.

By about midnight, I was 5cm dilated and the pitocin was maxed out. That's where we stayed for nearly two hours. My nurse noticed some troubling patterns in baby's heart rate around this time. It was hard to keep a constant monitor on her heart as she kept shying away from the machine so the doctor performed a few tests to determine her stress level and health. They all came back within normal range, but they decided to put in a fetal scalp monitor to more closely and accurately monitor her heart rate. She wasn't hooked up for five minutes before they realized that her heart was going from the 140's down to the 70's for almost a minute.

It was at this moment that fear gripped my heart that we were going to lose her. We'd had so many scares along the way, but this seemed like the real deal. I was certain that I would deliver a stillborn baby.

The next half an hour are a blur. A c-section was announced and everyone in the room flew into action. An oxygen mask was placed on my face and I was given nitrous under my tongue to stop the contractions. They placed my on a gurney and practically jogged down the hall to the elevators. I was in the OR being prepped within minutes.

I'd had a c-section with Felicity (due to her brow presentation), so I thought I knew what to expect. I didn't. This was a true emergency section. There was no music or banter or calming words. Everyone in the room was rushing and shouting technical terms and instructions. Instruments clanked and machines beeped as I lay behind my blue curtain. After what felt like an eternity, Adam was seated next to my head. I held his hand as tightly as I could.

Though I was neatly filleted, the doctor couldn't manage to grasp Teagan's head to pull her out. The clock continued to tick and I could feel the tension in the room rising. Apparently even three doses of nitrous couldn't stop my uterus from squeezing with all it's might and Teagan's head had wedged deep in my pelvis. The Pitocin had worked a little too well. The OB then decided to slice me vertically (making a T-incision) and remove Teagan by her feet. The doctor was swearing and panting and lifting my body off the table with her efforts. I was terrified and completely panicked. Finally the doctor was able to get her body out and she flipped the baby's torso onto my belly, head still firmly wedged inside. At this point, my midwives (who were observing) thought that we may have lost the baby (though they didn't tell me this).

With some very firm pulling, they finally managed to free her from my womb - six minutes after surgery began. They rushed her to the warming table and the silence in the room was deafening. No tiny cries pierced the silence. No gurgling or coughing. I watched in horror as my baby lay on the warming table, being bagged to get oxygen into her lungs. Her limbs lay limp. After what felt like an eternity, a tiny mew escaped. Adam and I both burst into sobs. Our baby girl was alive!

They took Teagan to the NICU and Adam stayed with her. I went to the recovery room for what seemed like forever. In reality it was nearly three hours before I was released to go upstairs and meet my daughter. When we reached the labour ward, my mum was perched on the benches looking very tired and very drawn. She had been waiting for five hours to see her daughter. We only had to look at one another for the tears to burst forth again. It was now 7am.

The nurses understood my panic and fear and brought my baby girl to me to hold and love over. Adam called from home (where he was getting the children ready for school) and we decided together that her name would be Teagan Violet Marie. She was tiny, 5lbs 8ozs, and peaceful and perfect. While it was quite the journey to bring her into the world, she was well worth the trauma.

The silver lining of the red plague

On one of the forums I regularly haunt, there was a discussion on why that time of the month can be a positive thing. At first I scoffed at the idea. After 14 months of trying to conceive a baby, I found the idea that there was anything positive about a failed cycle laughable. But as the idea rolled around in my brain, I realized that there were positives to having a period:

1. I actually get a period every 30 days. I didn't realize what a blessing this was until I started talking to other women struggling with infertility.

2. Soft, squishy, pretty mama cloth. It's my lingerie of that time of the month. I actually get excited choosing out which pattern and luxurious fabric will grace my tush for the day.

3. I can end any stressful days with a glass of wine...or three without worrying if there’s a tiny fetus in there also indulging.

4. It gives Adam and I a break from our regular amorous endeavours. We cuddle more (without it having to lead anywhere) and by the time my week is over, we’re both ready to start fresh!

5. I can play scientist with my Diva cup. Gross but true. I find it all fascinating!

6. It's another three weeks before that familiar pang hits of "what if?"

7. If I'm feeling delusional, my bloat is enough that I can stick out my gut and pretend that I'm pregnant to wig out my coworkers.

8. It means I'm still young enough to not be menopausal, which means we still have a chance.

So there you are. I guess there really is a silver lining to every situation!

Escaping the gloomies

I have been living through an extended period of what I call "the gloomies." I don't want to call it depression. Many people in my life suffer from that affliction and I don’t think what I’ve been going through is as serious as that. I just haven’t been myself. For nearly a year now, it’s almost like I’ve been watching a live stage production of my life instead of being an active participant.

My trip to England earlier this month brought this revelation to light. I had assumed that my struggle was because I’m a mum of two young children who also has a demanding career. When I arrived in England without the weight of my mum, wife, and career-woman roles, I thought I would instantly spring to life. Instead, I felt the weight of my own body and thoughts pulling me back from the fun and interaction I wanted to have. I found myself once again observing others. I realized that perhaps this was more than just everyday stress.

I’ve since found that just recognizing and outing my personality change has been therapeutic. Weaning Fliss has helped to even out my hormones and I’ve been doing a better job of recognizing that I can’t change who people are at work, I just have to find a way to mesh our working styles. I’m starting to feel as if I’m surfacing from a long submersion. I can feel the warmth of the sun again and the world seems a little brighter.

I’m left with a lingering feeling of guilt as I recognize what impact my gloomies have had on those around me. Adam, especially, has borne the brunt of my veiled existence. He has been carefully picking up the balls I’ve been dropping. Rarely complaining. Rarely asking why. Just quietly standing beside me, ready to catch me if I fell. I wonder what my extended family thought (especially those who haven’t seen me in 13 years). I feel as if I wasted a part of my trip by not truly living it. I find myself wanting to go back to have different, more involved conversations. I want to dance on the beach. I want to be silly and cuddly with my cousin’s baby. I want to snuggle with my parents and hug my aunts and uncles more. To just be the person I am instead of this pale reproduction I’ve become.

I’m peeling off layers now; getting closer to who I was. Who I want to be again: The fun one. The social one. The supporter and listener. The one who will comfortably talk with anyone and manage to draw out intimate details of their lives through casual conversation. I feel like any day now, that last gossamer layer will fall away and instead of watching from the balcony, I’ll be a part of the action. The curtains will part and the stage that is my life will be mine again.
Bring on the diva.

To dream the impossible dream

Lately I’ve been having what I can only describe as a mid-life crisis. It’s confusing and troubling and unsettling because I really do cherish and enjoy the life that I have. While I live my blessed, comfortable existence, something inside of me incessantly whispers that I need something more! Something different! Something exotic! Something exciting!

I’m sure some of this stems from the emotional trauma of trying to expand our family. With no way to change what has happened or to make a healthy baby magically appear in my womb, I grasp at ways that I can control my life. Things I can have influence over. Magic and wonder that I could embrace as my own!

I’ve started with my hair. This weekend I went from this:

To this:

I don’t know how much it’ll help. For now it seems to have taken some of the focus away from that little voice.

In the past, when this adventurous niggle raised its voice, I would either get a piercing or a tattoo. Somehow making holes and marks on my body seemed to quell the beast. I just have a feeling that it won’t be so easy this time…

See, I’m married to an eternal dreamer. Adam is always coming up with crazy ideas on how to make money. His last musing was to start a submarine tour business down in Costa Rica. (We both fell in love with the country and the people when we visited on our honeymoon.) For some reason the idea behind that dream stuck with me.

The reasonable part of my brain says that moving to another country to start all over is crazy and irresponsible. We moved from Ottawa so that our children could know their extended family, living in the southern hemisphere would hardly make that easy. I have a great job that pays well and has amazing benefits. Could I throw that away?

But this whisper speaks right to my heart. “Be free to live YOUR dream!” it taunts. “Live the life of excitement and exotic locations you always wanted!”


I mean, who hasn’t dreamt of leaving Canadian winters behind to pursue a half-baked idea somewhere warm and wonderful. My parents left England in their 20’s to set out on their own adventure across the ocean. Maybe this desire to stake out an exotic life in another country is genetic!

I fear regretting such a life-altering decision. I fear not making such a life-altering decision and regretting my inaction. I never want to lead a life of regrets. In fact, most of my days I make choices based on the fact that even utter failure is full of experience and lessons learned. Not doing anything is the worst action of all.

Ack, I’m so conflicted.

Have you ever been taunted with these crazy dream thoughts? Ever wanted to uproot your entire family to seek out the unknown? What did you do?

A losing streak like no other

The very event that was supposed to bring our family so much joy has instead brought nothing but heartache. This pregnancy was so wanted, so loved. I never even contemplated that such a miraculous blessing could go so wrong.

After undergoing surgery in March for my ectopic pregnancy, my levels quickly dropped from 4,000 to 200 within a week. My doctor assured me that he anticipated no further problems. Then the following week, my bloodwork showed that my hormone levels had climbed again to 600. When a second test came back at 900, my doctor called to discuss further treatment.

When you have a "persistent ectopic pregnancy" the only real option you're given is a drug called methotrexate. This is a chemotherapy drug that prevents your body from absorbing or processing folate - which rapidly dividing cells need to live. So it works on cancer and on fetal tissue.

I asked for alternatives. There were none. I asked for time. There was none. I had no option but to take an injection of a chemical so toxic that they enter the room with hazmat suits and buckets. They check the needle entry site a few minutes after the injection for chemical skin burns. They incinerate anything this substance touches. And they injected it into my body.

It's made me sick. It's made me tired. It's really like having a bad hangover for a week. Let's just say that I have a whole new appreciation for cancer patients who have to take the shot on a regular basis.

It's not the physical effects of the drugs that have really set me back in my healing. This pregnancy not only stole my dream of adding a third child to our family, but with the chemo, it also took from me a special bond with Fliss. With the drug in my system, I could no longer nurse Felicity. I was forced to wean her without any warning. Without any gentle weaning. One day she happily nursed for comfort and nutrition, the next day that option was stolen from her. From us.

I feel like I'm mourning another loss. With our breastfeeding relationship ended, Fliss is no longer my baby, but a big girl. That one thing that I could give her and no one else could is gone. She still asks for her "neh-nehs" five days later. Still slides fluttery fingers down to stroke my chest. And when I tell her that her nursies are broken, she looks at me with those giant blue eyes as if she can understand that I feel the same loss that she does.

Perception is everything

My pastor came to visit me this week to talk about Libi. Being relatively new to our church, I was looking forward to getting to know Mark on a more personal level. I hoped that perhaps he would pray for our family and maybe give me some answers as to why these things happen. What I didn't anticipate was his ability to completely change my way of thinking and in one hour advance my healing more than I've done in two weeks.

Mark told me that he believes that pregnancy is the bridge between the physical world and the spiritual world. It's such a special time for the mama because she's the only one who truly knows and connects with this new soul for nine whole months.

He told me that he believes that when a baby passes in utero or shortly thereafter, that soul is not lost. He or she does not head back to heaven to spend the rest of their days. That soul just waits patiently for another chance to cross into the physical world. He told me to think about my losses not as seven lost babies, but seven times that this soul has attempted to join our family. He said this must be a very tenacious soul who knows that for some reason, the timing is not quite right.

I can't tell you what this change in view has done for me. I no longer feel that I have seven dead babies in my heart. Instead, I feel almost a peace knowing that Libi will one day return in huggable form. I feel encouraged to continue our efforts to grow our family (in time). If this little soul has tried so hard to enter our world, the least I can do is open the door one more time.

Healing hearts

Every so often, my husband does something so spectacularly thoughtful that I fall in love with him all over again. Last night was one of those occasions.

Adam had run some mystery errands earlier in the night. Vague and deflective about where he was, I figured that he was up to no good, buying video games or gun paraphernalia.

Boy was I wrong.

When I went upstairs to go to bed, I cleared off the three baskets of clean laundry from my bed. When I turned around to flop myself into bed, I realized there was a little pile sitting on my pillow. A solitary red rose, a gift box, and a card.

Written on the envelope was this:

Inside was a card which immediately sent me into tears. Adam wrote every supportive word a grieving mother would want to hear. He was sensitive and touching and loving.

Inside the cardboard box was this:
A gorgeous hardwood box with a painting of a winter fairy on top. Given that it snowed the day we lost Libi, it was just perfect. But nothing prepared me for what was inside....
A heart shaped locket with Libi's name and the date that we lost her engraved onto the silver. Inside, Adam had printed the words "Never met, Never forgotten."

I bawled. I cried so hard that I made no noise. I then went downstairs and curled myself in his lap with my arms around his neck for what seemed like hours. With his thoughtful gesture, he had memorialized the little girl we lost. He had acknowledged my pain. He had given me something beautiful to remember her by. He reaffirmed that my choice in a life mate was the best decision I've ever made.

In the fairy box now rest the pregnancy tests that heralded her existence, the hospital band that signifies the end of her journey, and a little piece of my soul. I hope that someday her spirit returns to us so that I can replace the words in my locket with pictures of a little girl who found her way back.