Life and Lemons and Such

We found out that I was pregnant in the ICU.

If my life was a movie, I think the soundtrack to the scene beginning in May 2017 would have caused increased heart rates, tense facial expressions, and intervals of hyperventhillation.

Fair warning: this is unsatisfying type of movie scene we’re talking about. The type that could be written by Lemony Snickett. It is truly a series of unfortunate events, and if you like stories with happy endings and plots that can be tied up in twine and eco-friendly, Pinterest-worthy gift wrapping, then you should look away now.

But if you’re willing to continue reading…..Look at my eyes in this photo. That’s pain. And fear. And Dizzy. And a twinkle of hope, before all hope was lost.

Because the moment this photo was taken was the first time I’d sat up after two entire weeks, 336 long hours laying supine.

I was 7 weeks pregnant, and I’d gained close to 30 lbs of fluid in my abdomen. About 2500 ml (10.5 cups) of which came out of me through a needle and tube after the pressure and crunch that is paracentesis, surgical puncture. That’s 169 tablespoons of pure unhappiness in a bottle, folks. And that was only the first time.

One of the first signs of my improvement before going home from the hospital was my insistence upon taking some photos of this misery because, I was going to “lay a major guilt trip” on our baby.

I would do no such thing, as it turns out, nor would I ever want to anymore. But I digress. There is something about dark sarcasm that I find helpful in awful situations, and the thought of leafing through large, graphic and relatively inappropriate, pages of a photo album with our infant was comforting.

And I suppose that is one additional aspect of this loss which has really been a massive insult to injury; I felt like the babies were sort of my apology from God, or the universe, for such an incredible and nearly insurmountable injury. A terrible accident.

A doctor treating me for infertility prescribed a medication regimen which was so aggressive it was nearly fatal. His belief that a rare condition, Severe Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome, as he put it, “is not gonna happen”, put into motion a relentless biological process which could only be stopped by time and mother nature. I was just along for the ride.

In the hospital, Jeff and my mom were my constant companions for two weeks. I was essentially never left alone.

Jeff folded and crowded his 6 ft 3 frame onto the tiny, two-cushioned hospital couch night after night without complaint. He set a timer and woke up with me every single hour through the night to call the nurse during a time when we were struggling to get the pain under control. A couple of times we got lucky and had the super cush, ICU chair/bed, which was nice. You know, for almost dying.

He sent my mom pictures when she couldn’t be there—like this one of me eating spaghetti hours after those jugs of fluid (pictured above) were being filled, which allowed me to eat again when I hadn’t in days (yes, literally).

Several times a day Jeff trekked all over the neighborhood to get me any type of food that sounded good, even when it might mean I’d take only one bite.

Such as this bite of burger.

When I went home I was still a very ill person. I had a walker, a donut for sitting, a commode, and I couldn’t do stairs. I could sit up for maybe 20 minutes on a good day. Getting up from a laying down position was painful. Changing positions made my lungs feel like the folded wings of a butterfly leaving its chrysalis. My belly and back were still swollen. Riding in the car was almost unbearable. And the level of muscle wasting that happened in two weeks without even standing up was obvious—I looked gaunt, skeletal. As a side effect from medication I felt constant swaying, as if I were on a large ship in a storm.

Several days later when I took my first shower in over two weeks, Jeff helped me rig a chair in the tub and I only managed to unsteadily wash my hair. But I did it myself, and I was elated. When I got back to the couch I vomited and then slept for 3 hours from the exertion.

I was Sick.

As my EMT professor used to say, “Big sick.”

My survival alone felt like a miracle. Finding out we were having twins was a bigger one.

I started to wonder if, though it felt more like happenstance than prowess, if my life was staging to paint me as a Goliath. Perhaps I had weathered the ultimate storm. But this idea was wrong, and I hadn’t. I’d encountered the rain shower and the hurricane was coming.

In the next weeks I would experience twin-level morning sickness, a reprieve and return to work, a pleasant and wistful two-hour ultrasound with a terrifying conclusion, bed rest for two weeks, twin childbirth, and the phenomenal loss of our twin boys, James and Zachary. At 21 weeks 6 days gestation, they were simply too young to be saved by even a Level 3 NICU.

Crushing. Pulverizing. Decimating.

And, my word, that is still. STILL. how it feels.

And even so….even though I was not “given” a pleasant, satisfying, or even humane ending to this story…..I’m still here. And I am learning to carry all of these feelings along with me as I practice having other feelings again too.

If there are two things I’d like to communicate as prevailing truths they are resiliency and hope.

When our babies died, many people said when this happens you never get past it. I feared I would never get past it. The pain is unbelievable. Believe me it is.

I think perhaps it’s true that you don’t get past it, really, but it gets better. And I hope if you’re reading this and you’re wondering about that for yourself, or someone you know, or even for me. I hope you know that I believe it does, and I believe it will.  Hold on, Mama, hold on.

❤