Our Third Pregnancy through Garth's Eyes

Vulnerable; That was the word you asked me to use in writing this. Vulnerable; The single term you could with almost certainty say I try to never be. I don’t want to allow it. I don’t want to show it. And yet, you may be right. I’m not sure there is a better way to explain our journey of the past eight months.

I won’t forget that Saturday in Boulder. The way you talked to me imposed something that I hadn’t felt in a long time; fear. I was scared that you were only eight weeks along with this pregnancy. I was scared that you said you didn’t feel ‘right’, and that you didn’t want to go on. I was mostly scared because I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. That was only the first time of many times I would feel that way in the coming months.

You know me better than anyone ever has. And because of that you know I like to always take the high road of “everything is probably fine right?” I tried that for a long time with Camden before I listened to you; Luckily I finally did and one surgery later he is better than ever.

But back to Boulder. I made the phone call, and got the help I thought would work. I was so confident that the prescribed drug would help, even if it took a little while. By that Sunday afternoon you looked like I’d never seen you look before. You were hardly breathing, and shaking slightly. I guess we are lucky to live as close to an ER as we do, although this trip didn’t exactly go as well as it could have.  The doctors and nurses chalked everything up to an adverse reaction the drug and dehydration. I’ll admit, after a few liters of fluid you were looking and talking more like yourself! “Just our luck. An adverse reaction!” I thought.

Four hours later we were at another ER after you had begun having seizures. Again, chalked up to an adverse reaction to your one single dose of medication. That ER physician, fresh out of residency was so rattled and concerned about other patients he didn’t even give you a chance. And worse, he didn’t seem concerned at all about our baby. And no one had seen what I had seen. No one had seen the violent shaking, the interrupted breathing, the gasps where it felt like you were just searching for your next breath. And so, we were discharged. Sent home. “Everything should be back to normal within 24 hours” they said.

When they weren’t I began searching, praying, reflecting, and praying some more. I hated myself for not listening to you over the previous weeks when you said you felt “slow”. I just figured it was the first trimester, of course you felt slower, you were making a baby! I hated that every doctor I called didn’t seem to care. Don’t get me wrong, I’m immensely grateful for all of the physicians we have seen and all they have done to help. And statistically most patients explaining what I had been trying to probably don’t have what you have. So their line of thinking in saying “it will all be alright”, or “it’s probably nothing” normally works out for them. But I’ve never felt so frustrated in my life by our medical system.

I felt hopeless, reading survey’s to you as doctor after doctor tried to say it was all depression during pregnancy. I felt worse when I heard your responses and knew that you had felt abandoned by me; That in some way you felt completely alone. I knew that in some regard depression did have something to do with what was going on, but then the grand mal seizures started happening. And no one believed what was happening. We would drive to every appointment and you would seize the entire ride there. We would drive home from every appointment and you would seize the entire ride home. I hated the car. I hated everything about trying to restrain you while also being relaxed. I didn’t want to cause you harm, but also didn’t want you to put your body through the window. 

I thought we finally had it figured out when I showed the video to a physician that it seemed was finally ready to listen. It had been two weeks since your initial ER visit. Two weeks of fighting and calling and visiting and repeating and seizures gradually building day by day, getting worse and worse. Finally someone listened. Within 25 minutes we were in the ER, an order put in for an EEG to monitor your brain activity during the episodes. We’d been down this road before. Camden’s EEGs always came back normal. Kyra’s did too. But this time I had a striking fear that something was going to be different. “Push the button each time you see an event so we can track the video with the brain activity”. And all you had were the smallest of seizures compared to what I had seen. The Neurologists were sure “everything was fine”. Your EEG looked normal. I felt torn. Had they actually captured everything? Still, after two weeks, no one had seen what I had seen. Some had seen bits and pieces, but no one had seen the full-blown events.

So then we played the waiting game of getting in to see a seizure specialist. How is it that we can’t get in to see a specialist for 3 months? By some miracle we got in early due to a cancelation. For the first time I thought we had it figured out. Non-Epileptic Seizures.  I felt like this doctor took us seriously, even though she hadn’t seen a “big one”. But what was the treatment? Nothing. Find your own doctor who specializes in these things. Find our own?

And so we sat for weeks more. All the while your seizures escalating in both frequency, length, and severity. All the while no one seeing what I saw. I had next to no patience with Camden and Kyra. I felt like I couldn’t keep up with the laundry, and cleaning, and eating or sleeping. Energy drinks suddenly became my “elixir of life” once everyone was finally asleep and I would open my laptop to get plugged in and work. And so I would work each night for 4 to 6 hours. And then I would force myself to still wake up and lift. Those 60 minutes in the gym were my break. Those 60 minutes were my escape. I knew that my body was fatigued and broken and sleep deprived, but I needed those 60 minutes to just let it all go.

And then the kids would wake up. The day would start. I had no idea what each day would bring. And yet somehow, through it all, I still wasn’t truly listening to you. I hated myself for not listening before, but here you were. Fighting with everything you had through every day. Do you remember the beginning of this? Do you remember having 20 or more seizures a day for weeks at a time? I can’t imagine the pain you felt. I can’t imagine the lack of independence. I can’t imagine not being able to control my own body or my own mind. I can’t imagine how empty you must have felt being able to hear me, but not do anything about what was happening to you.

I’ll never forget driving home one night. You want soup. So we went to get soup. Early on in this pregnancy I just decided whatever you needed, it didn’t matter the cost. It was about getting through every day. Every single day. One day at a time.

So Chick-Fil-A Chicken Noodle soup it was. I asked if you wanted me to just run and get it. You said you wanted to come along with the kids. So off we went. We made it to the restaurant and got our food with no events. I was so pumped! And then came the drive home. It was late, and as if riding the car wasn’t enough to normally send your body into a tale-spin, driving at night was just icing on the cake. All of the head lights streaming past seemed to instantly send you into the most violent of seizures. All I wanted to do was get you home. That drive from Chick-Fil-A probably takes 15 minutes at the most. On this particular night it seemed to take hours. This was one of your biggest seizures yet. I tried to help you, and I tried to shield the kids from seeing you, all while driving 80 miles an hour with my knees to get you home as fast as I could. I wept. All I could say was “I’m here Amy. You’re okay.” Followed by “Mommy’s okay guys. She’s just a little sick”. How on earth do you explain to a five and almost three year old that seizures are okay? I remember going to another room once everyone was in bed and just crying. I cried for a long time. I didn’t know what to do, how to help you, how to help our baby, or our kids. And honestly all I wanted to do was talk to my parents. I wanted to talk to someone about how to cope with this. I prayed and felt alone. I felt such a lack of faith. How many blessings had you received? How many had I personally given you? Why weren’t any of them working? I had family and friends I could reach out to at a moments notice. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like any of them would understand. And so I didn’t.

Within another day I had had enough. I prayed for help at the end of my rope. Your OB-GYN called me on his lunch break. I just unloaded on him for 25 minutes straight. I’m not sure I’ve ever had that experience with a doctor. Suddenly a chance at a second opinion went from a three month wait to a “Can you come tomorrow at 11am?”.

Within two weeks we were bringing our bags into Swedish Medical Center for a week long stay in the epilepsy monitoring unit. The week of Halloween. You were heartbroken that you would miss trick-or-treating with the kids. And let me just say that’s how it’s been this entire pregnancy. Even through all the seizures and the sickness your first thought has always been on the kids and on me. I’m not sure how we got so lucky.

After the first two days I thought this would be another EEG with only minor events. Why couldn’t anyone else see a big one? I didn’t get it. And then it finally happened. Three big seizures, the last of which was the biggest I had yet seen. All between 2am and 5am on the third day. I felt immense relief that at least someone else had finally seen what I had been trying to describe for two months. I laughed so hard when you thought your nurse was Jesus, partly because I finally felt free of this burden I had been carrying for months. I had tried my best to be your advocate and until that night I felt nothing had worked. I was so tired driving home that morning at 5:30am, but it was the first moment of true peace I had felt in months. I wept again and was thankful that some prayers had finally been answered.

I was grateful to the friends and family we’ve had helping us out.

I was grateful that we finally had a treatment plan to start getting you help.

I was grateful that the kids had somehow survived.

I was grateful that I had such a flexible job that allowed me to work remotely, and at whatever time of day or night that I could.

But mostly, and above all, I was grateful for you.

Even now, as we approach the end, and your life is still so incredibly miserable you are fighting your hardest through every single day. You are fighting the times when your mind tries desperately to dissociate. You are fighting the physical pains of a torn hip, of a seizure worn body, and of a growing baby. You have fought through multiple bouts of the flu, throwing up dozens of times. You have fought through ER visits for yourself to get fluids. You have fought through ER visits for our kids. You have fought through extra ultrasounds making sure our baby is healthy and okay. You have fought through my days of being irritated, out of patience, and out of energy.

Lastly you have fought through the times when it seems like everyone else around has moved on; the times when just because we got a diagnosis and are getting treatment that doesn’t mean life is any easier. Yes, your seizures have lessened. But they haven’t gone away. Not long ago you seized off and on for an hour straight. I wept again. I pleaded with God to know why these were still happening. And I don’t have an answer. All I know is you are the only person I know strong enough to have endured what you have.

You and I have said many times that no one is made to experience anything more or less severe than anyone else. We have so often heard from others “There is no way I could have gone through that.”

Well there is no way we could have either; we just did. You just did.

So above all I just want to say thank you. Thank you for never giving up. Thank you for giving me the chance to lift you up when you couldn’t lift yourself. Thank you for making me better. Thank you for giving me the chance to learn and listen. I’ve joked several times that the only reason you had to go through this was for me to learn. Although I don’t actually think that is the case, I have learned valuable lessons. I have gotten better and I will always try to continue that trend.

Sometimes our weekly grind gets tiring. Usually two to three appointments a week. My “Chick-Fil-A” Tuesday mornings with the kids after we drop you off at treatment. Our “Einsten Bagels” Wednseday’s with the kids after an OB appointment. Or even our “Mickey Mouse” Friday’s with the kids while you get prenatal chiropractic adjustments. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I know you feel bad for our kids because we’ve all lived in the car for the past eight months. I feel bad for them to because of how out of patience I have been.

But I’m not worried for the future. Because our kids have you as a mom. And every ounce of fight that I have seen you put out the past eight months lives in them.

So thank you for everything. Thank you for carrying another baby for our family.

No matter what happens next with the delivery, or the seizures, or any of it; thank you for letting me tag along. I don’t like being vulnerable. I don’t like really letting others in.

But I’m not going anywhere;

This is what I signed up for.

-Garth

My White Flag

This morning while doing my hair I felt the intense need to write a story that has been bouncing around in my head for some time. Immediately I thought, na, I don’t have a point or a good tie in yet, but again the thought came, it’s time to share.

So here I am, over-sharing again for no apparent reason because I guess that’s just who I am.

I’m sure you’re all keenly aware, and borderline annoyed at how often you’re reminded that my son was sick and had brain surgery.

Come on Amy move FORWARD already.

But I promise don’t want to talk about that.

I want to selfishly, and unapologetically talk about me.

Really, really about ME.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terribly uncomfortable but here goes:

You see a lot occurred in 3 years that I wouldn’t consider normal or easy, but it also isn’t the worst thing people experience. People endure far worse, and people often do so with grace. So I don’t think my story is unique or some amazing feet that the world should be proud of, but I think what happened to me on a personal level happens all too often.

I was 21 when a baby was placed in my arms that would spend the next 2.5 years chronically ill. I would spend 100s of nights up rocking a screaming infant, then toddler, then child, who was in chronic pain. I would see multiple specialists a week, endure many tests, debate with several doctors, and spend countless hours on google. I would spend many nights crying, pleading, begging, and breaking.

The funny thing is that when I look back at just those moments I am proud and I feel peace. I rallied for Camden. I rallied for the baby in my belly (Kyra) who kept trying to come too early in the middle of it all. I relied on my savior and I blasted through it all full speed with positivity and the ability to manage it all. I killed it!

Who I didn’t realize I needed to rally for was me. 

Now when I look back I can see what I didn’t see then. As a coping mechanism, I began to just turn certain needs off, because it simply wasn’t convenient for me to need them.  

Somewhere along the way I wasn’t taking care of myself, I guess I figured I would do that later.

I can’t pinpoint when the decline started honestly. I remember going to lunch with my sisters and watching them talk and laugh and feeling completely unable to authentically participate. I was spent.

To put it plainly, Amy wasn’t there.

Camden’s and Kyra’s mom was there.

Garth’s wife was there.

I was not.

They asked me if I was okay, I told them I was tired, and that’s honestly the last time I remember putting in the effort to be present beyond when my family needed me to be during it all. Unless I was experiencing raw deep emotion, like stress/worry/fear, I wasn’t present. I would attend girls’ nights for a while and answer a million questions about Camden, and then I would sit in my head, going through the motions of being excited about things like hot chocolate and dessert and the things girls do when they go out.  Except I didn’t feel excited. I simply didn’t feel anything, and it was exhausting to keep pretending like I did. I told myself that it was simply because I had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Eventually I stopped going, and I started hearing a lot of questions/passing gossip about why I didn’t have time to come to things, what I did with my time, etc etc. and I just moved on. Part of me wanted to scream, do you realized what I am dealing with all day? But instead I turned the social part of me off, and turned in more to my family.

Obviously, you know how the story goes. We did surgery, Camden recovered super well, Kyra managed to stay in my belly til near her due date, and life was tied up with a pretty bow.

The next year (this past year) would be the first year in my mom life my entire family was healthy and there were no trips to the ER. We bought our first home. Garth graduated and got a job that he loved, and life was SO GOOD.

But it didn’t feel good.  And boy did this make me so frustrated with myself.

Plainly and bluntly, last year was the lowest year of my life, and I  still hate saying that. But it is TRUE. It SHOULD be when Camden was sick. It SHOULD have been when he had surgery. It SHOULD have been when I was in chronic pre-term labor. But it wasn’t. It was last year. The pretty bow year.

It took me a long time to realize/accept because the decline in me was gradual and to me completely illogical.

I would get up and put on my workout clothes, only to walk to the basement gym and stand there with no drive to get a workout in. I excused it for the fact I take care of three young kids all day. Eventually I stopped even trying.

I didn’t keep in contact with anyone. I never texted people back, and I didn’t reach out. I was always exhausted.

I was walking in a fog I couldn’t navigate or figure out how to fix.

Eventually I completely stopped sleeping. Instead of laying in bed unable to sleep I just started being productive at night and excused away my lack of sleep for the fact that I was so busy. I was averaging maybe 3-4 hours on a good night. I just told myself you’re so busy! When you’re less busy you will sleep more.

I couldn’t make Amy be present.

One day while cleaning the bathroom I stood up and I looked in the mirror. I barely recognized who I saw and I wondered how much I weighed. So I got on the scale for the first time in a very long time and realized I had lost nearly 15 lbs. Which put me at a very, very low weight. I thought about the day and wondered, did I eat? Did I eat yesterday? The day before?

 It was in that moment staring at myself in a mirror I realized I was truly physically ill.

It still took me weeks to tell Garth, but by the time I did I was barely functioning. I was functioning on a level that I met my children’s basic needs but then I spent the rest of the day accomplishing nothing and feeling horrible about accomplishing nothing. Finally one night I managed to simply blurt out “this has been the worst year of my life”.

At first, Garth didn’t understand. I started telling him about my sleep, my weight, my lack of joy in anything, etc. We went back and forth trying to find a common ground. I started researching depression so I could find better ways to explain it to him and we had to work really, really hard together to get on the same page with it.

Depression has never, ever been something on my radar. It took me so long to admit that it could be an issue for me because I have never even had an inkling of it. I’ve always felt like a positive person, and when I looked back at the previous year I felt like I had handled it all with realistic positivity so how could I possibly be depressed now?

The problem was that I had fought so hard for everyone else, I had nothing left of myself in the end. Which forgive me for how dramatic that sounds! But it’s the truth. WE are important. Our needs are important. When we put them on the shelf too long, we break. It’s as simple as that.

I broke. I broke in a way I never would’ve imagined possible for myself.

Long story short, a while ago I was diagnosed with trauma-induced anxiety and depression. I have learned SO much from pulling myself out of such a deep hole. Somewhere along the way Garth helped me get the courage to fight, and I started pursuing every avenue I could to fight to understand and to manage it.

My bishop was wise and told me that first I would need to accept that this could be a life long struggle, not to just assume I could fix it and close the door.

That was hard for me. But because I am a mom I knew that I needed to learn everything I could about where I was at mentally so that I could have tools to cope and fight it should it ever creep in again.

When I look back I still get frustrated. I was so NOT present that the past year is foggy. There are things about Kyra’s newborn days I flat don’t remember. I remember SO much about Camden’s, but with Kyra’s I just can’t and that hurts me still. There are SO many people who I shut out and unintentionally pushed away because I just didn’t have the emotional stamina to reach out. There were so many people I COULD have reached out to, but I didn’t know how. There are a million apologies I probably owe, but will never be able to give.

I am doing really well at the moment, and I have really learned how to slow my mind and just take things a day at a time. Initially it made me feel so weak to be struggling, but I have come to learn that the people battling for the light at the end of the tunnel are SO strong, and they come back into the light that much stronger.

All that I know is that my one new years resolution was to feel like Amy again. A simple, mildly pathetic, goal. And I am so happy to be able to say I’m getting to know her again.

The season of life I am in right now is good. I feel good, my family is doing good, and we have great health all around. However, I have come to learn that everything truly has its season.

There will be times of triumph, times for the battles, times of peace, and times where we are low and we need our neighbor. The tricky part is that our seasons don’t all happen at the same time.

So if you’re in the midst of a battle, don’t be discouraged by someone's season of peace. When you’re low, don’t be afraid to reach out just because it seems like everyone else is so triumphant. We all have our seasons, some of us have every season in one short year.

Sometimes I think we get so focused on this comparing, we either miss the needs of those around us or we hide our own in order to keep up. We could help lift and encourage each other so much more if we weren’t always competing.

So this is me waving my white flag of surrender. Lets not compete, lets not compare, and lets not be ashamed of where we are at in life.  

I fell apart and I broke and I hid it so well that I was completely alone.

So maybe I’m writing this for me because I have this ever-obnoxious need to try to be as authentic as possible. Maybe it’s so I force myself to not feel any sort of shame about it. Maybe it will help someone realize that we don’t all have it all together. Maybe it will inspire someone to reach out to someone who could be struggling. Maybe it will inspire someone to smile more and just be kinder to his or her neighbors. Or maybe it will remind someone who is struggling that they’re not alone.

To My Kyra Girl

Kyra,

Oh Kyra. Where to begin?
I feel horrible that I haven't blogged in so long. I so carefully documented Camden's life through this blog, and somehow this year I have completely failed you. There are so many things I want you to know about your first year and about your entrance into our family.

You came at the perfect time for me. I myself would not have designed the timing in the way it happened, but that's because I have a limited perspective. Thankfully your Heavenly Father knows us best.

Getting pregnant with you required surgery and the confirmation of endometriosis. The moment I knew I was pregnant I checked your due date, and then I laughed and said "whoops". You were due Christmas day. I was so happy to be pregnant, but also so scared of the sickness. I was definitely sick again, sometimes throwing up 15+ times a day. But you gave me random days off, which Camden did not.

From an outside perspective, you entered our family equation during such a whirlwind. I had to be checked for pre-term labor symptoms before I even knew your gender. They told me at that appointment that I could lose you and that they couldn't stop it because it was too early. But we fought on. I couldn't slow down much due to all the appointments and late nights of pain with Camden, but you kept growing and doing well at every appointment. I was able to keep everything with pregnancy at bay until shortly after brain surgery when the constant labor and constant trips to the hospital to keep you in longer started. I remember crying in the hospital when they wouldn't let me leave because they couldn't stop my labor. I was 32 weeks and they told me it could be likely you would arrive soon. I cried because I felt like I couldn't catch a break and I was so tired of hospital stays. Looking back now I can see that you WERE my break. The constant labor, the reminder to slow down for you-- those were my needed breaks. Even being in the hospital laying in a bed, ordering whatever I wanted to eat, that was a break. They were my opportunities to focus on something other than chiari, my opportunities to be selfish and sit down and rest in the name of a healthy growing baby. Counting and timing contractions all day long gave me something to focus on that I could measure, quantify, control. You gave me something else to focus on, something else to be determined for, and something to look forward to. It took me a while to realize how much I needed those "breaks" but I did, and I am so grateful to have had them.

 Your labor was challenging to say the least, you were facing the wrong way the whole time but to everyone's surprise (and my pain) you cork screwed on the last push -- and you have not stopped surprising me since. I can't describe your entrance into this family in any other way than you are the spark off the bench that we needed at this point in the game. I wish I realized then how much I needed your spunk. You are such a funny, loud, assertive, dominant, adorable, little girl. So dainty and skinny, but SO feisty! Seriously, so much personality in such a little body!! You added the extra oomph we needed to push through 2015 and kick-start 2016.

Watching you grow and seeing more of your personality develop has softened my heart, lightened my load, and made me laugh time and time again. You have consistently been a complete Momma's girl. You laugh deep and in your belly. You smile in a way that takes up your whole face. You growl at people and push away their hands when you've had enough of their affection. You push daddy away when he kisses me and I'm holding you. You lean in when you want me to kiss your cheek. You randomly grab my nose and squeal with the most giddy loud laughter you can muster. You snore a dainty adorable snore. You reach for me and squeal anytime I enter a room. You crawl around this house like you own it-- and you kind of do. You terrorize Camden. You crawl so much with your hands full of cars that you look like you have a limp. You babble and laugh at your own noises. Your cry is the most painful horrid cry I have ever heard, and you seem to plan to keep it that way.
You fit perfectly into our crazy messy life, and you have carried me more than I feel I have carried you in this last year.
I'm so grateful to call you my daughter, and I can't wait to see who you become.

Love,
Mom.

Happy Endings and Battle Wounds

When I think about the past year, sometimes I feel a sting. Like I shouldn’t still be thinking about the past year. I have this idea in my head that I should have moved on by now. That people don’t want to hear me talk about it anymore, and like it is now “old news”. I feel a guilt associated with my bad days, as if having bad days means I’m ungrateful and weak. I feel like the fact I have continued to have some bad days means all the strength I felt I had before wasn’t real. I remind myself that things are much worse for so many people, and that things aren’t that bad for me. 

This cycle of pushing myself to find strength and beating myself up for losing it has continued for some time now. This week I decided I needed to either go back and better deal with the situation, or I needed to find a way to reprocess my current state of being. The more thought I have put into it the more I realized that it’s entirely possible that there is a distinct lack of talk about “life after the storm” as a society.

I’ve noticed that when someone is struggling people tend to instinctively tell them it will be okay. We point out how strong they are, we admire their ability to navigate their storm, and we praise their faith. We do not admire the aftermath, I’m not sure we even like to think about it. We want to hear that they triumphed. We want the happy ending tied up with a bow, and if the one suffering doesn’t see their happy ending we feel the need to point out how happy things are for them, or even how much less happy someone else’s situation is. There is no appreciation for the process.

I feel like I have had the concept of “everything will be okay” beaten into me. Everywhere I turned for relief I received the reminder that I just needed to remember things will be okay.

And things are okay, but things are also absolutely not okay. It wasn’t until this time last year that I realized these two states of being could coexist.  

The truth is I am different. My family as a unit is different. Life is different. That concept has proven almost as hard to accept as the chiari itself. I wanted to deny the ability for anything to cause permanent damage. I feel angry and impatient with myself. I tell myself it’s just dramatic and annoying I feel this way at this point.

It is as if I wanted to rely on The Savior hard enough that I would walk out of it all only better.

I am slowly learning that the battle wounds go hand in hand with the testimony gained. I had to fall down for the strength I felt to come, but that strength does not change the fact that I fell. Sometimes for scraped knees to heal a scar has to form.

When Camden points to his stuffed animal’s head and tells me it hurts it seems to shatter my world all over again. The fact that he remembers it is enough of a blow by itself, but the fear that he is using this to express his own pain is worse.

The first time Camden pointed to his head and said it hurt post op I felt it all come washing over me again. The fear, the sorrow, the anger, the questions. It comes back so fast it’s easy to forget how far we’ve come.

The recent drive we had to the ER for Camden’s possible seizures reminded me I don’t get to just turn away and decide I’m done. Life keeps going, and my life frequently leads to Children’s Hospital.  

Camden woke recently at night in what seemed like major pain and my mind can’t not go down the chiari road. We are so used to it being his pain and defining most of what he did. As much as I wish I could I will never separate the chiari from Camden. It will always be a factor, and always a fear.

When the neurologist explained the paperwork that would need to be submitted to any schools Camden attends it broke my heart a little.  

When I signed Camden up for preschool I got a distinct lump in my throat as I stared at the line I was supposed to write any medical diagnoses or chronic illnesses on.

Sometimes I cry that I still have not felt rest. That I am still so tired. So drained from all the guesswork, all the pain and tests I’ve watched Camden endure. I am ready for rest.

Some days as I watch him run around and play seeing his scar physically hurts me. It’s not just the reminder or the fact that he’s different from those he plays with, there’s just something about seeing your perfect little child’s body damaged that hurts a mom’s heart.

So here’s to being real about life after a storm:

 It’s true what they say, things are okay. I really have grown. I have felt fear and I have felt strength, I have felt bitterness and I have felt gratitude, I have been carried and I have crumbled—and I have the scars to prove it all.

Kyra's Birth as told by Garth

Once in awhile Amy asks me to write down my perspective of a certain event that has happened in our lives. Although this is something that I should definitely do for myself anyways, it has become a bit more frequent over the last two years. And so here we are again; another milestone, another experience, and not unusual a medical one at that.

            We were sitting in the sacrament service of our church meeting early in November when Amy told me she was having regular contractions. This was not unusual for this pregnancy and normally due to some form of over-activity and the cure was normally to sit down and relax for an hour and they would subside. The problem here was, in sacrament meeting we had been doing nothing but sitting. I remember Camden needing a diaper change, and so suggested maybe walking around would help the baby move positions and ease the contractions when she got back.  Well that was a stupid idea! A little over an hour later, with contractions still 2 minutes apart and 10 minutes into my Sunday school class we were out the door, dropping Camden off at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and en route to Rose Medical Center in Denver.

            At this point a few things were going through my mind:

1)   She is 33 weeks pregnant. Is this real?

2)   This is real. Is this why we came to Rose because they have such a good NICU?

3)   If she is in labor, I didn’t eat breakfast. This can’t be good. Don’t like your knees when we get there.

Well we arrived, and it being Sunday had to check in through the ER. She was 2 cm dilated, 70% effaced. Long story short, they gave her steroid shots to help the baby’s development should she come early, which she tested positive for (although the positive predictive value isn’t very strong ß biostatistics!). We were kept 2 days. The food at Rose was delicious. We were very bored. They stopped her contractions with blood pressure medication (the common practice performed and little to no risk to baby).

We came home with a prescription, modified bed-rest directions, and anxious/nervous minds about what would happen.  We cleaned the whole house just in case.

Contractions happened again that night, took the medicine, nothing happened.

Over the course of the next few weeks Amy would have contractions 2 minutes apart for hours on end, sometimes up to 13 hours straight.

Black Friday early morning (sometime prior to 4am) Amy tells me she’s contracting, so she’s going to get ready. I pack the bags again. We clean the house. Somewhere close to 6am we decide to sit down and watch a tv show and see if they continue (Thank you Suits). Contractions subside. Nothing happens again. Whew.

We ended up reporting to the hospital a few more times for contractions, or fluid leaks, all ended up being false alarms. But boy did I get good at speed cleaning, packing bags, and loading everything up in record time.

By week 38 we stumbled upon the Prodromal labor term. This fit what was happening exactly. Maybe baby just wasn’t positioned right? Who knows. 38 week appointment Amy was checked: still 2 cm, still 70% effaced.  Our doctor, whom was chosen because he does not offer inductions, is very pro-natural birth, offers an induction before Christmas. What in the world? Lets review the pregnancy: Camden is diagnosed with Chiari at 17 weeks = Amy contracts heavily for hours -> we go to the hospital. Camden has surgery = Amy contracts heavily for hours -> doesn’t tell anyone so we don’t go anywhere (So Stubborn!). 33 weeks very moving Sunday hymns influence baby girl to want to join in the signing = preterm labor -> hospital visit. 33 weeks to 39 weeks Prodromal labor, hours on end every night, no progress. Yes, 7 weeks of labor. Yikes. After A LOT of thought and consideration we accept the offer to be induced, but in the order of operations we still want to do things as naturally as possible. Dr. says he is confident once he breaks her water she could very well just go into labor and everything will be gravy (not literally). Walk Flat Irons mall twice over the weekend prior to induction to try and put Amy into labor, walking at least 3 miles each visit (too cold outside to walk with Camden). Lots of contractions, but they stop after a few hours this time, not to mention we are not going back to the hospital again unless her water breaks, or the contractions are extremely painful and different than before. Nothing happens.  Whew?

Tuesday morning of December 22: induction day. We are instructed to arrive at 6am. We arrive at 5:30am to check in. Another couple arrives before us.  They get checked in first. Pretty sure they got a bigger delivery room. We get the shaft again. From 6am to 8am we sit in the closet room (very small, not much pacing room, and come to find out neither our Dr. or nurse both of 20+ years at Rose have ever delivered in this room before. Ultimate shaft!). After two hours of doing nothing, Dr. finally comes and checks her. 2cm. 70% effaced.  All of those weeks of contracting did nothing.  Awesome. Were they real contractions? Absolutely. Everything showed on the contraction monitor each and every time. Perfect.

8:05am Dr. breaks her water. Here we go. Contractions are more intense. She contracts for two hours, with more intense contractions. 10am the nurse checks her. A little over 2 cm. 70% effaced, -2 delivery position.  No progress? Awesome. Shaft again. 7 weeks of labor and water breaking = no progress for baby girl. Lowest dose of Pitocin is started. We request an exercise ball for Amy. Nurse: “Let me see if I can find one”.  Mind you we have been to this hospital many times and I know for a fact there are multiple exercise balls in the closets of every other room we have checked into prior to induction. Shaft again.  Contractions are obviously more intense now. 30 minutes passes, where is the exercise ball? Nurse: “Let me see if I can round one up”. 15 more minutes passes. Nurse: “I haven’t even had a chance to look for a ball yet”. For the love why can’t we just get an exercise ball and we will leave you alone! (The exercise ball really helped Amy in transition of Camden’s labor, we also couldn’t get into the tub yet because Amy was still hooked up to all the monitors due to Pitocin being used.) Finally after an hour from initial request we get the flipping exercise ball. Then we leave the nurses alone for over an hour. Magic! 12pm we request a mobile monitoring system (which are wireless and waterproof) so Amy can get into the tub. Nurse checks her: 6 cm, 80% effaced. Things are working. Nurse: “Let me see if I can find the mobile monitors”. Here we go again. I should note, in each of our previous visits the nurses immediately offered mobile monitors. We know the hospital is busy on this day, 12 women in labor at exactly the same time as us. BUT as far as we know we are the only ones without an epidural, rendering mobile monitors available. 12:15pm Where are the mobile monitors? Nurse: I haven’t even looked yet. Shaft. 12:25pm Where are the mobile monitors? We really need to get into the tub to help with these contractions. Nurse: Let me see if I can find some. 12:30pm Another nurse from one of our previous visits passes by, immediately gets the mobile monitors. We get in the tub until 2:30pm and leave the nurses alone for two hours. MAGIC! Now suddenly our nurse, as well as two others are constantly waiting on us, after seemingly being annoyed by our requests earlier in the day.  Our conclusion: they thought Amy saying she would do it natural was a joke, and thought our requests were annoying if we were just going to get an epidural.  (I’m in no way saying that getting an epidural is bad, everyone’s labor is different. I AM however saying Amy is a FREAKING ROCK STAR). 2:30pm nurse checks Amy:  7.5 cm. 90% effaced 0 delivery position. 2:50pm Back to the tub. Intense back labor. Baby is posterior. Could make labor long and delivery very painful.  3:15pm back out of the tub. Nurse checks Amy: 8.5-9cm. +1 delivery position. Lean over the exercise ball on the bed. 3:20pm Nurse checks Amy: 10cm. Here we go. They call the doctor. He is there by 3:30pm. Amy is doing amazing. Breathing through every contraction like a champ. Amy says she needs to start pushing. Dr. says to give him 3 minutes to get everything ready. My thoughts: “3 minutes? You better do your best 30 second drill buddy she’s ready to push! This is your job!” 3:37pm Amy starts pushing. Baby flips to be anterior while this happenening, extremely painful. For the first time Amy says she is in intense pain and doesn’t know is she can do it. 3:47pm Kyra Gwenn Wright is born, and looking very blue. Blue? Is everything okay? Dr. “We are a mile high, all babies are born blue here”. Whew! Look at all that hair! 7 lb 4 0z, 20 inches, 8-9 APGAR. For the first time, we didn’t get the shaft!

The rest of our hospital stay was very nice. It’s amazing how annoyed the nurses seemed by us up until they realized we were serious about our birth plan. Then once they saw Amy doing what she did, utter amazement, full support, didn’t leave the room, gave her whatever she wanted. Dr. “Amy your control during that delivery was incredible. I wish all my patients were half as good as you”. That’s my girl! I know I couldn’t do it, but she can! Absolutely incredible.

Dr. Levy was incredible (although some of his comments were ill-timed for Amy’s liking haha). He did a wonderful job. Our nurses turned out to be great in the end. Although they are perfectly terrible at putting in IV’s (to this day Amy’s entire hand is still bruised from burst veins). As usual, the food was great, and I gained 4.5 pounds in our 1.5 day stay in the hospital. Perfect! We were home by the afternoon of the 23^rd. Kyra is beautiful. Amy is beautiful. Camden is…still unsure about who Kyra is. But we are officially a family of four! And that, is definitely not the shaft.

-Garth