Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Boo from Our Crew

Warrior caught RSV, which was complicated by anemia, and -- after stopping breathing and turning gray a few times one night -- logged another fifteen days in the NICU, where he received a blood transfusion and feasted on oxygen.

BUT he made it home just in time to don his Superman cape!

Baby Girl fully considers her leotard to have crime-fighting powers too.  Muscles all around!


This was the first year of big kid trick-or-treating for Little Guy.  He was leading the pack, racing to the next doorway.  No timidity, no holding back.




Once Buddy Boy was completely certain there were no wolves lurking behind our neighbors' doors, ready to pounce on unsuspecting trick-or-treaters, he was all about it too.


So! Many! Muscles!





Mouth full of candy and arms full of Daddy.  A very happy Halloween.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Home


 After a 37 day stay in the NICU, our little Warrior was discharged at last.




The children had only ever seen him once, through a window, but they loved him already.






Leaving the hospital was a little peek into the children's world as of late.  They'd been riding these elevators all summer long, visiting me, and they were old pros.



We stopped in to say goodbye to the wonderful nurses in the High Risk Perinatal unit and to bid a fond farewell to room 634, which served as both my sanctuary and my jail cell for those seven long weeks.


World, meet Warrior!



It's been more than a week now, all of us home.


It is so, so good.


There's a lot of healing going on around here.  Baby Girl has a book called Baby Faces with a picture of a sad baby.  She wants to read that book every day, and every time she tells me, "Her sad her mommy go doc doc.  Soooo sick, can't come home.  Her cry for her.  Want her come home."  A little projection seems to be therapeutic.  Along with a lot of snuggles.


The boys think it's "exgusting" that this perfect little creature dirties his diaper.  They love holding him, right up until they get the slightest hint that something could be in progress.  Then, it's hot potato.






Warrior's a bit delicate still, not moving along on the weight gain as quickly as anyone would like and having trouble with reflux, but we are working on it.  He's an expert at meeting challenges.


He likes to be held pretty much all the time.  Lucky for him, I find myself with about a 37-day deficit in baby holding, so it works well for both of us.




He looks just like the Mister, and the most like Buddy Boy of his siblings.  One of the funny--in retrospect, at least--moments of Warrior's birth was when I woke up in the Trauma ICU on a ventilator and started communicating in sign language with one of the nurses who has a Deaf cousin.  The Mister says I was just signing away, asking the color of Warrior's eyes and wanting to know about his hair, as well as Little Guy's kindergarten open house.  Priorities, of course!  Anyway, I'm thinking he may keep the dark hair and that those navy blues will turn chocolate brown like his daddy's.



This little one survived in hopelessness and persisted in battle, and we have been so blessed to receive him.  Our Warrior is precious to us.

Monday, August 25, 2014

A Quick Update

Just a quick update, copied from my Instagram feed.  More to come when I'm back to feeling wordy again.  Thank you so much for being with us through all this...


Elizabeth here, finally feeling strong enough again to type.  Thanks be to God for this moment...I got to hold my miracle of miracles for a few minutes this morning! Our sweet baby, Henry Duke Snodgrass, who made it through so many months of danger. He's bound to be one of the biggest babies in the NICU born at 5 pounds, 7 ounces, and he is getting stronger each day. He still needs a little help with his breathing and is not yet able to feed by mouth, but he will get there. We know he doesn't back down from challenges.

As for me, my surgery went differently than expected. All the doctors thought I had both placenta previa and placenta accreta. Once they got in by vertical incision to deliver Henry, though, they found that the placenta came away fairly easily from the uterine wall, so I did not have to undergo at that time what would have been a very risky hysterectomy. However, in the recovery room following the delivery, I had a major hemorrhage, which is a rare situation caused by what one doctor called the "hyper vascularity" of the area of my placenta previa, which is probably what appeared on all the imaging to be placenta accreta. Because I was already prepped for placenta accreta, though, with arterial catheters having been put in before surgery and large amounts of blood having been put aside for me, I was able to be saved with 15 units of blood products, a breathing tube, and embolization of my uterine arteries. The doctor who oversaw the anesthesia and blood products elements of the entire day told me yesterday that she believes it is 100% a miracle that I am alive now. 

So, it wasn't what we expected, it wasn't what we planned for, it comes with more challenges in the days ahead, but it was ever so clearly God's loving provision for us. We are so grateful that he spared Henry's and my life. And we thank our dear families and friends for the overwhelming, humbling level of support, encouragement, and prayer. We are glad to be walking this path.
Elizabeth here, finally feeling strong enough again to type. :) Thanks be to God for this moment...I got to hold my miracle of miracles for a few minutes this morning!  Our sweet baby, Henry Duke Snodgrass, who made it through so many months of danger. He's bound to be one of the biggest babies in the NICU born at 5 pounds, 7 ounces, and he is getting stronger each day. He still needs a little help with his breathing and is not yet able to feed by mouth, but he will get there. We know he doesn't back down from challenges. As for me, my surgery went differently than expected. All the doctors thought I had both placenta previa and placenta accreta. Once they got in by vertical incision to deliver Henry, though, they found that the placenta came away fairly easily from the uterine wall, so I did not have to undergo at that time what would have been a very risky hysterectomy.  However, in the recovery room following the delivery, I had a major hemorrhage, which is a rare situation caused by what one doctor called the "hyper vascularity" of the area of my placenta previa, which is probably what appeared on all the imaging to be placenta accreta. Because I was already prepped for placenta accreta, though, with arterial catheters having been put in before surgery and large amounts of blood having been put aside for me, I was able to be saved with 15 units of blood products, a breathing tube, and embolization of my uterine arteries. The doctor who oversaw the anesthesia and blood products elements of the entire day told me yesterday that she believes it is 100% a miracle that I am alive now. So, it wasn't what we expected, it wasn't what we planned for, it comes with more challenges in the days ahead, but it was ever so clearly God's loving provision for us. We are so grateful that he spared Henry's and my life. And we thank our dear families and friends for the overwhelming, humbling level of support, encouragement, and prayer.  We are glad to be walking this path.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Saying Goodbye to the Childbearing Years



After 171 weeks of my life spent expecting babies--some who made it to birth and some who did not--I find myself now inside the last week I will ever spend in such expectation.  In just a few days, when a precious baby boy is removed from my body, my womb--by necessity--also will be.  This is not a place the Mister or I have ever wanted to go.  Truly, we would have been so very happy for me to be able to bear children for many years to come.  We desired to accept all the children God would give us.

But, as I keep having to remind myself, we have!  These are the children God has given us.

Our blessings have been abundant, and we are grateful.

Yes.  It is with reluctance that we leave these years of childbearing.  To know that there will be no more days spent with a curious toddler patting my back while I succumb to morning sickness, no more moments spent wondering if those were the first stirrings of a baby, no more trips to the maternity store for bump adornments or just some pants that will stretch big enough, no more evenings of the Mister coming home from work and laying his hands on my tummy to see if he too can catch a kick, no more hiccups or somersaults or endless discussions of names, no more staring through squinted eyes at ultrasound screens in hopes of a glimpse of a face or hand.  This is the end.

It's an acceptance that part of being open to the possibility of new life is being open to the possibility that there will be no new life.

It is also a beginning.  The beginning of a time we did not anticipate, but which we trust will be good, because it is ever so clearly within God's plan for us.

We will one day be those people who eventually stop buying diapers, who can plan trips without worrying that they will be canceled for morning sickness or childbirth or nursing needs, who don't stock a small nation's supply of squeezy pouches in their pantries.  We will keep ourselves to a tidy two or three rows of an airplane and we will all still fit in a minivan.  The children will one day outgrow the witching hours and 7 o'clock bedtimes. They will eat their suppers, they will play outside unsupervised, and they will flush their own potties.  We will find our groove as a family of six, and I think we will love it.

There may always be a twinge of sadness at the thought of what might have been, a forward-flashing whiff of nostalgia for the hope of a long, long dining table full of rowdy children, a memory of an unmet dream.

But maybe not.

Maybe we will be too busy rejoicing in the beauty of what is.

I hope so.  I intend so.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

The Final Countdown

Just twelve more days of bed rest!  The surgery now has been officially scheduled for August 21, the day the baby hits 34 weeks gestation.  I'll get an epidural bright and early that morning, then be taken down to interventional radiology for the balloon catheter procedure intended to help with blood loss, then at 10:30 AM, we'll have a baby delivery (!!!) followed by more surgery for me.  My part of the surgery could take 3-4 hours, or it could be simpler than that.  I'll hope to be awake in the afternoon and see the baby in the NICU the next day.

This has been a rough go for everyone, and I'm pretty desperate to regain the privilege of caring for my children, as well as our newest addition.  I'm under no illusion that all will be easy post-delivery.  My recovery will be pretty extensive, and my baby will be hospitalized.  But we will be on the road to being reunited as a family, and that will be awesome.  I hope I'll never again let the immense privilege of my calling escape me...even for a second...even among dirty diapers and sibling tangles and an endless sea of crumbs.  Caring for my children is a balm to my heart.


The Mister, in his infinite genius, set up a basketball goal in my room.  It's been a very popular addition to the social scene here.


As a throwback to 70s basketball fashions, today Little Guy was sporting his brother's short shorts.  And a shirt with his brother's monogram.  He says these items were in his drawer, but I'm wondering if perhaps it was he that was in his brother's drawer.  :)


It's really been a team effort on the home front, with my sweet Mama and our dear Nanny leading the charge, and my wonderful mother-in-law providing relief to the weary.  Not to mention my precious friends, who have pitched in with play dates for Little Guy and meals for the family!  We've got one amazing village, and we are so very thankful.  

The Mister, as usual, has stepped up to the plate big time in my absence, skillfully meshing always demanding work responsibilities and recently increased home responsibilities, mostly at the expense of his already minimal sleep patterns.  He's managed the weekends solo, moved practically every piece of furniture in the house to accommodate new living arrangements, stayed on top of mail and paperwork and back to school arrangements, played Tooth Fairy and grocery-getter, handled medical appointments and diabetes classes, and just generally made the whole thing work.


And last night, he treated me to an in-hospital hair doin' by my stylist!  He's a sweetie.


We've got a little 4th birthday celebration in the works for Buddy Boy tomorrow, and my Daddy is scheduled to arrive.  It's bound to be a good day!

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

The Spice of Life

In the hospital, not much changes from day to day.  I choose my food from the same menu that I've now perused for more than seventy of my most recent meals.  There's no humidity, no wind, no warming rays of sunshine, and the temperature is always 67 degrees.  The shades go up and the shades go down, but any time past ten in the morning, the overhead lighting needs to come on.  My vitamins come right after breakfast and supper, my anti-contraction meds come every four hours 'round the clock, my shower follows the fetal monitoring, blood draws are an every-three-days treat.  Each day is a reasonable facsimile of the last.

But the staff members.  Oh, the staff members.  They provide the spice of life around here.

Perhaps my favorite is the Go-Getter.  She's young and fun, but she is motivated.  Go-Getter is planning a path to nurse practitioner, and she jumps for any opportunity to do something cool.  When the first nurse blows your vein trying to get in an IV, she calls another nurse who looks over your veins with uncertainty, and then that nurse calls Go-Getter.  Who slides that IV in no fuss, no muss.  Boom.  And then she raves about your juicy veins.  Gross?  Maybe, but all is forgiven in the world of IV successes.

SuperTech is a lot like Go-Getter, except she's a nurse technician.  A nurse technician who does the best blood draw in the tri-state area, is ever-vigilant to keep your water jug full, waits to change your sheets until after your crumby little children have visited, and just generally makes life pleasant.  She pumps up your air mattress pad on the regular, and you never hesitate to ask her to open or close your blinds, because she's just great that way.

The Chatty Night Nurse is lovely and so totally European.  She's more thorough than any of the other nurses, the only one that ever pulls out a stethoscope or checks the pulse in your feet.  Chatty Night Nurse wears shoes that squeak across the floors in the night, but it doesn't really matter, because she's got you up talking, anyway.  Whether it's the disorder she discovers in the bedside supply drawer or the incomplete information displayed on the dry-erase board, she's always got something to cluck about, something to tend to.  Chatty Night Nurse has a tendency to ask for a verbal response to her midnight bed checks and to require weigh-ins and blood draws in the pre-6AM hours.  With someone else, you might tire of that, but she makes you feel united with her in the drive for order and efficiency.  You mean that IV was flushed twice within a 12-hour period?  Hoo-rah!

The Bubbly Fellow finds herself working on the Fourth of July and dresses...like a sparkler.  Because, you know, some people might not get to see any that night.  Her words.  Head to toe black, with silver sequins exploding across her chest and shoulders, topped off with a hair adornment that sparkles and shimmies while she assesses your blood loss and orders magnesium.  She's the one you seek out when your back hurts after a couple weeks of bed rest, when you're wondering about a change in medicine, when you just want one more detail of the surgery plan explained more thoroughly.  She relates, she sympathizes, she problem-solves, and she has seriously impressive accessories.

The Bubbly Fellow has a counterpart in nursing, the Bubbly Nurse.  Bubbly Nurse wears hot pink clogs and also ascribes to your big hair beliefs.  She monitors your baby bedside and for twenty minutes, gives a running commentary about him lacing up his Nikes a little tighter this morning and being an athlete, an over-achiever, showing off for his mommy.  She calls his heart rate decelerations dipsy-do's and when she's not satisfied with the brand-new resident's assessment of the dipsy-do's, she runs the results down to the attending doctor, just to be sure.

The Circumspect Resident comes on a little more slowly.  She spends the first three weeks of bed rest showing up at your bedside every morning at 6:15, prodding your tummy with ice-cold fingers, inspecting your legs, running through a rote list of questions--all of which you regularly answer in the negative-- and then leaving without so much as a good-bye.  But after a couple days off, she shows up and tells you she's been thinking about you all weekend, hoping that things were still going ok.  And that just might bring a little sting to your eye.  After that, she never leaves without saying goodbye.


The Menu Planner works for food service, delivering the meal trays.  She seems to favor meat-heavy meals, or else she's got something against cheese.  Jury's still out on that one.  But if one day you dream up a way to divert from the ordinary menu and order macaroni and cheese as your entree, she will let you know--in a jolly way--that she thoroughly disapproves.  She thinks it's something her son might order, but you--YOU!--should not.  And if she happens to be the one dropping off your lunch of grilled cheese a couple days later, oh! woe to you.  Never have you seen a head shake so gravely.


Giggles is the housekeeper.  She comes giggling in each morning, greeting you with a giggle, replying with a giggle to your inquiries about how she's doing, giggling that she's just here to take the trash.  And then again in the afternoon, a knock at the door is followed by a giggled announcement that it's time to sanitize the room.  More giggles about the dirty lunch tray and any towels that might be in the linen deposit, and then a last peal of giggles as she wipes down the bed rails with rubbing alcohol and giggles herself into the hallway.

Nurse Matter-of-Fact is all business for the first couple of days she cares for you.  Perfectly friendly, but no personal stories, no inquiries about your life outside.  Just medicine and monitoring and routine checks, right on schedule.  But one day, she finds you in a mess of tears over a proposed medical plan involving a good bit of pain and discomfort, and she immediately tells you that that plan will need to be "reassessed."  And then she goes to bat for you with the doctors and the head nurse, and you overhear her describing you as "extremely reliable," "careful," "trustworthy."  And by the time she comes back, the plan has been changed to one that achieves practically the same result and involves no pain or discomfort, but more work for your nurses.  You cry in amazement and she wins a forever fan.  She also calls you "doodlebug" from there on out.

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A salute to all you hospital staff members out there!  You make a difference in each patient's day.  And when a patient spends a while inside, YOU are their spice of life!

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Thank you so much for all the prayers being said for our family, for all the kind and encouraging words you have offered.  We are truly overwhelmed by the love that has been shown our family...so many fun visits with friends, mail deliveries, play dates for the children, meals for the home crew.  So much love.  Thank you!  I hope to do the same for each of you one day.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Still Here. 30 Weeks.

30 weeks today.  Cheers!


I've figured out that Fridays in here are tough.  I came in on a Friday, so each Friday marks another week away from home (three, this Friday).  Each Friday marks a week since the last time our family has been together.  Each Friday has been met with previously un-topped behavioral woes among the children.  Each Friday, it feels like I've been here a really long time, but still have so very much longer to go.

So, on Fridays, I cry.  The rest of the week, I usually do ok, except when Baby Girl glues herself to my lap at the end of their visit, and bawls to stay with me or for me to come home.  Or, when Buddy Boy's lip trembles as he asks Ten more days? and I just can't bear to tell him that it's so many more than that.  Or, when Little Guy has spent hours snuggled at my side, but weeps that he hasn't spent any time with me when it's time to go .  I cry then, too.  But mostly, just Fridays.

Mama and Nanny are earning stars in their heavenly crowns each and every day, managing my three rascals.  The children seemed to sense a power vacuum, once I was firmly established at the hospital and the Mister was back at his desk, and they each have been doing their earnest best to work their way up--through some sort of battle of the baddest, behavioral display of shock and awe-- to alpha dog status or something.  Their world has been all shook up, and I know that accounts for a lot of the turmoil, but it's been disturbing to see just how devious they can be without me around to enforce standards.  So, that's a challenge.  More for Mama, Nanny, and the Mister than for me.  But goodness, reality hurts sometimes.  And there's the tendency to feel like a failure.  How thankful I am to have people willing to see my children through this most difficult time, and to keep on loving them!

Oh!...how I wish I were there for Little Guy losing his first tooth.  The excitement, the milestone, the fairy visit.  


How I wish I were there to find the littles in bed together.


We are used to so much togetherness.

Most importantly, though, the baby is still cooking and, truly, THAT is what I am called to be seeing about right now.  I've had some selfish moments where I've thought, I wish we could just have the baby and start the path toward restoring our family life now.  But I snap out of those pretty quickly when I think of how very badly I hurt for Buddy Boy when he suffers from his conditions, and how very badly I would hurt for this baby if he were to suffer.  More time in this hospital bed makes his suffering less likely.  Baby is where he needs to be.  I am where I need to be.

There must be something all of us are meant to learn from this.  We just haven't fully unearthed it yet.