Pregnancy

Surviving Placenta Accreta

Posted on by Samantha


I died last year and was lucky enough to get another go at life. I can’t tell you what heaven was like but my waiting room was filled with long gone comedians who once were on Hollywood squares and my grandmother. It was warm, bright, and I laughed. Then I woke cold, confused, in the worst pain I have ever felt. I was told to cough, they yanked a tube out of my throat, and then I threw up.

It took months to feel human again, months to stop crying, months to close my eyes without seeing what played out in that delivery room. Dying is pretty awful when you are not ready to go. You would think that when you survive it you would have a new zeal for life. You do for a moment. And then you discover it wounds you in ways you can’t imagine or see.

Placenta Accreta is an obstetrical condition that affects 1 out of 533 pregnancies. In the 1970’s it was 1 out of 2500. The rate of cesarians has made what once was rare commonplace.

Placenta accreta is a serious pregnancy condition that occurs when blood vessels and other parts of the placenta grow too deeply into the uterine wall. There are 3 degrees or levels of severity accreta, increta, and percreta.

Accreta is when your placenta attaches too deeply to your uterine wall, increta is when it invades the muscles of that wall, and percreta is when it grows through the wall and attaches to nearby organs. Specifically your bladder in most cases.

As many as 90% of patients with placenta accreta require blood transfusion, and 40% require more than 10 units of packed red blood cells. Maternal mortality with placenta accreta has been reported to be as high as 7%. Maternal death may occur despite optimal planning, transfusion management, and surgical care.

Placenta accreta appears to be more likely when a mother has uterine scarring from a c-section or D&C but has been known to occur with no prior uterine damage.

Early detection is of the utmost importance. It can save a mother’s life and in many cases her uterus. Early detection allows surgeons the ability to minimize blood loss. Treatment usually consists of a preterm c-section and hysterectomy, if a woman would like to save her fertility they may leave the placenta in situ. Leaving the placenta in situ and treating with methotrexate allows it to be absorbed back into the body.

Mine went unnoticed till I delivered my son vaginally. I had risk factors. At one point my perinatal doctor even said your placenta appears to have attached to the wall of your uterus funny. That she would monitor it. An MRI is a useful tool for early detection. But the most important factor is having doctors experienced with this disorder. I did not have those doctors. Even with weekly 3D ultrasounds mine went undetected.

I had placenta percreta, it grew through my uterus and attached to my bladder. The portion of placenta that my doctor manually delivered caused my uterus to abrupt. I received 9.5 units of blood, was intubated, central lines in my neck and arms, uterus removed, and bladder repaired. I luckily escaped cardiovascular damage.

When my doctor came to my ICU room she was in tears. She told me she was thankful that I had made it. That she thought she was going to lose me. That she and I were lucky that I lived. It was a rare human moment, she appeared more fragile than me. I even felt sorry for her. Over the course of this year I have questioned, blamed, and even hated the doctors whose care I was under. I have reached a point of clarity and even forgiveness. But above everything else I want awareness to this condition. I had no idea what is was till I survived it.

1 out of 533 pregnancies.

Ask questions, be informed, be your own advocate.

And please spread the word.

Knowledge is power and it can save a life.

 

 

A Rebirth Story Redux

Posted on by Samantha


It seems surreal this was just 9 months ago. It feels like a life time ago………..

Where have you been Samantha? Well I have been living, birthing, dying, living, and loving. Sitting at home fresh from my roller coaster ride of a week I thought I’d share my birth story, while it is still fresh not that I will ever forget it.

The end of my pregnancy was becoming miserable, being in the early stages of labor for weeks will piss a mama off let me tell you. After bed rest, false alarms, more bed rest, and more false alarms, I won’t mention the random illnesses I picked up at the end we made it to our induction week. Yes it was a week.

I’ll skip over the insane amount of time it took me to get to 10cm and start at Wednesday morning November 14th around 10:00 am. My epidural had finally kicked in after a long morning of half my body being numb. I was high and fuzzy all over. I had noticed my bottom felt heavy. I had realized it was time, Matt wanted to know if I needed to call a nurse. I opted to try to go back to sleep. I know rational response to a head coming out of your vagina.

The nurse came and checked me at 10:20. She told me not to cough and she was getting my doctor. By 10:34 I had little Conrad in my arms. I don’t even think I pushed. He laid on my chest while my doctor attempted to deliver my placenta. It became very clear within minutes that something was wrong. My doctor started asking for strange instruments to try to scrape out my placenta. She asked me if I was okay with a hysterectomy if it came to that. I was confused but said yes.

My body started to shake, my teeth were chattering, and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. My doctor was packing my body with towels and still asking for these strange instruments that apparently come in every size but no one had the one she needed. I kept telling them I was cold, they were holding me down. By this time they took Conrad from my arms and handed him to Matt. My doctor was going to get an OR ready, I was having a hysterectomy, I was losing too much blood. She left.

Two nurses hovered over me, covering me with blankets, one was attempting to draw blood, the other was trying to put in another IV. I was so cold and Matt was a hazy blur in the corner of the room. Something bad was happening, the nurse was in the hall yelling for a doctor. The man who put in my epidural enters the room, more like runs. He was yelling and pulling at my bed. He’s telling the nurses to stop touching me. He needs blood, we need to go. The bed starts to move and I tell Matt I love him as they wheel me away.

The trip to the OR was a blur, there was more screaming. He needed blood, no one would give him blood. Who is this dick that won’t give him blood was all I could think. He kept telling me I was going to be fine, to stay with him. I didn’t feel fine, nothing felt fine.

I must have nodded off I woke to men rolling me onto a table, I was still shaking. I had never been so cold. My doctor was there telling me she wouldn’t leave me. She was wearing a goofy plastic face mask. A man named Ellis told me he was going to take care of me. Where did the other man go? This man named Ellis put a mask over my face. He told me I would feel pressure. Someone cut my throat, okay that is what it felt like was happening. I could taste blood. I was suffocating.

The next few hours would be even more of a blur. I imagined I was on Hollywood Squares with my Grandmother, Phyllis Diller, and Paul Lynde. It was warm and bright. Paul kept making me laugh. Someone was waking me, I was still cold. I was told to cough, it was violent, it hurt, they pulled something out of my thoat. I wanted my husband. I couldn’t see, I needed my glasses. I was throwing up. I was asleep again. I would wake two more times. My doctor came in, she was crying. She wanted to know if I knew what happened. I did I think. I have no uterus.

I sat in the recovery room while they gave me more blood, the blood was cold. Why was every thing so cold? Where was Matt? How was my baby? Where were my glasses?

I was ready for the ICU.

The next 24 hours was really a blur of pain, awkwardness, and more pain. Thank goodness for morpapheine. I would be poked, prodded, poked, and prodded some more. Over the next 24 hours I would learn the torture my body went through, they called it trauma. I wouldn’t get to see my baby and the anguish on my husbands face was worse than that damn cold.

My placenta invaded the muscle of my uterus and attached to my bladder, no matter what I would have walked away with no uterus. I haven’t wrapped my head around it really. I can’t look at the 8 inch incision across my stomach without crying.

But I’m thankful. I’m thankful to those nurses and doctors who saved me. I’m thankful to have a family that loves me. I’m thankful for Matt. I’m thankful for that doctor who yelled and screamed for me. Funny enough I was mega pissed at him for giving me a crappy epidural just hours earlier. He made up for it, haha.

My care once out of the ICU was shoddy at best. One day every nurse thought I had just a vaginal delivery, one came in to check the uterus I no longer had. The next day I was the girl in 311 that almost died, they wouldn’t leave me alone. It was back and forth with every shift change.

Part of me wants answers. I want an explanation how it went so bad so fast. I’m walking around with donor blood having lost most of mine, no uterus, various holes, and bruises. I’m a mix of happy, sad, angry, and confused. I may need a support group. I’m sure Matt does.

On November 14th, 2012 at 10:34 I gave birth to Conrad Abraham Osborn, by 11:04 I had lost 40% percent of my blood and was being sliced open, at 12:35 I was being wheeled into a recovery room minus one uterus and cervix, and at 1:44 I was alive looking at my husband thanking God or who ever for giving me another day.

Paul Lynde would have to wait.

Conrad Abraham Osborn

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Conrad 9 months

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On a serious note

Posted on by Samantha


It was like opening my eyes and seeing for the first time. I did not recognize the woman I had become. I believed the lie. I let it eat me up inside.

Postpartum depression occurs in 5-25% percent of women following childbirth. The number is actually unknown, that would be what I call a rough estimate. Your age, socioeconomic status, the quality of your relationship or lack of, formula vs breastfeeding, tobacco use, stress, birth related trauma, the risk factors go on and on.

Postpartum depression is a dirty term among mothers. We shame each other into denying any feelings of inadequacy, grief, and sadness. We say things like you should be happy, you had a baby. Giving birth can get dangerous, tough good mothers suck it up and do what has to be done. We often hide our feelings of anguish.

In my case I projected this supermom image. In reality I was far from it. I had trouble sleeping. I had trouble getting out of bed. I was disinterested in my children, husband, and friends. I often cried alone hidden away in a bathroom. I did not engage my children. I stopped talking and sleeping with my husband. I became obsessed with anything and everything that was a distraction from my every day life.

By the time I realized what was happening I had nearly lost my marriage and my life.

Today I feel the overwhelming need to help in any way I can. First and foremost we need to stop shaming women, stop denying their feelings of sadness and inadequacy. To offer a helping hand not a judgment. We need to get our stories out there, we need to be heard.

This is where I need your help. I would like to compile letters, emails, pictures your thoughts, your stories of your struggle/struggles with postpartum depression. They will be unedited, uncut, okay maybe some spell check and compiled into a book. Not a blog but words on paper.

Please share this blog with your mother, your sister, your wife, your daughter, your friend, the neighbor across the street.

There is no monetary compensation for participating. Your story may help one woman or ten or thousands break their silence and seek help. My intention is to compile as many of your stories as I can and then seek backing for production through independent donations.

Writing has been cathartic for me. Just this simple blog makes me feel heard. That I am not alone. Sometimes that makes all the difference.

Please submit all correspondence to:

Email: samsandy80@yahoo.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Candy-Bottoms/310777708974370

If you would like to write an actual letter and please do, see above email to request a physical address.

 

 

 

Stages of loss?

Posted on by Samantha


Yesterday while watching Pretty Woman and contemplating how screwed up that movie really is. Seriously that movie is no fairy tale. I started to ponder how much therapy I would need to feel some what normal again. Coming off the initial high of just being happy to be alive I have enjoyed an onslaught of various emotions. Mostly anger.

I am angry that something was taken from me violently and traumatically. Yes I know women have hysterectomies every day. They sit down with their gynecologist and determine it is the best course of action for their ailment. Yes I know I have lots of children. Yes I know I could have none. And hey fuck you that doesn’t make it sting any less. My uterus and I have had a love-hate relationship when it comes to baby making. Sure it is only fitting the bitch would try to do me in. Please pardon my foul language. I am angry.

I was sliced open hip to hip, my uterus and cervix were cut out of me. You had a c-section you feel my pain, physically sure. Mentally no. See they took a baby out, not your womb. My scar is not a happy scar. I look down at it and see my husbands face as they wheeled me out of the delivery room. I think of the words I mouthed and how I thought they were my last.

I can’t pick up my children because my bowel might spill into my vagina. I can’t have sex too soon because they stitched the top of my vagina shut, oh and my bowel and bladder may spill into my vagina. The twins shun me, mommy can’t pick us up, mommy can’t play. Mommy sits and cries. And the pain. How about the countless hours I have spent on the bathroom floor from the pain. Sure I can eat but I can’t digest it. Every time I take a bite of food I think about the fire and searing pain that will rage through my abdomen later. What’s two months right? What’s two months of pain? What’s two months of your babies crying if you try to hug them, refusing to come to you? Really just a drop in the pan of life right? Quit being a baby Sam.

Oh and the helpful commentary about how you will never be the same again. You won’t like sex, the pain won’t go away, well this happened to so and so. Shut up, you are not helping. My husband who already feels a million miles away, too scared to hug me. I’m too fragile. Also with preconceived notions on how I may be.

How I may be?

I’m angry with myself for being alone. For being antisocial. For being pretty friendless and real limited with family. Here’s a clue Facebook is a joke. Interaction in real life is how one fosters relationships. Okay I have 6 kids, it’s hard to have friends. In the end maybe that’s why we have 6 kids in an effort to not be alone. No one wants to come hang out with me and listen to stories on how Penelope flung crap at her sister. They want to see shows, have a drink, enjoy life. I get it. It still stung when I sat in the hospital for a week and the only faces I saw were doctors, nurses, and my husbands. My husband who couldn’t look at me without crying or himself being angry. I’m angry that my husband had no shoulder to cry on, no one to lean on. The stark realization that we were really an island.

On the flip side thank goodness for the kindness of strangers. Women I barely know who have taken time, money, and energy out of their lives to help. It is pretty crazy how a casserole can make you feel less hopeless.

I have beautiful children. I have an amazing sleeping baby boy next to me while I type this. Who’s here by the grace of God. I am blessed.

I’m also human, made up of complex emotions that I can’t begin to fathom or understand. I’m healing, we are healing. I know this takes time. It doesn’t make the toll any less though.

What’s next bargaining, denial? I don’t know I’m thinking whatever stage is eating an entire carton of ice cream.

Help I’ve Fallen…..

Posted on by Samantha


This pregnancy stuff is rough. Finding myself wedged between a crib, wall, and toy box at 3:29 this morning was a fun time.
I had reached the pacifier I had randomly knocked behind Penelope’s crib in my desperate blind search for it. I even managed to shove it back in her mouth from between the bars of her baby prison, I mean crib.
But there I was fat, tired, out of breath, and stuck. I wanted to call for help but then I would wake the babies I just quieted.
So I sat there and laughed to myself. My plight was a ridiculous one. I half laid there for a good 20 minutes. If I could have reached my leg to chew it off I would have. The rubber ball in the toy box next to me wasn’t going to be useful. I may have fallen asleep.
Some how I managed to crawl out of my predicament. I don’t know how maybe it was sheer will. I’m a little worse for wear from it. How sexy is a limp?
The possibility of being discovered in the morning laid out like a beached whale by my husband or my children might have been it. It would be mighty hard to dole out sarcasm at them afterwards.
Honestly I had to pee and that is a strong motivator.
Pregnancy won this round. So I’m not as limber or thin or structurally stable as I once was. Lesson learned.
Maybe it’s time to wean a certain baby off the binkie or this mama may need to get life alert!!!

Motherhood: I was made for this……

Posted on by Samantha


Each week I will feature your submissions on motherhood. Please submit your thoughts and stories to outlaw_momo@hotmail.com. This week we have a lovely post from a mama on her breastfeeding journey. 

 

I was MADE for this moment. I was born with everything I need for this.

So, it should be easy, right?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been so wrong. When my son was born, he latched on quickly for nursing and I thought things would go smoothly from there. But then, a few weeks in, he started vomiting. Every time he nursed, he’d vomit. Reflux. Lovely.

I soon realized that he didn’t vomit when he was drinking milk I’d pumped that had gotten to room temperature. I didn’t know why, but I knew that worked. So, I’d just pump and feed him that way. Super. One problem. I couldn’t get any milk when pumping. I tried everything I could think of. I spent hours online looking for remedies. But with all the pumping I’d do in a day, I’d maybe get 2-3 ounces total. Yeah, that’s not going to work.

So, after visiting with my pediatrician (who was very pro nursing), we decided it was time to make the switch to formula. It broke my heart. I felt like there was no way I could reach a lower point. But that’s when I found out how cruel women can be to each other. That’s when I discovered extreme lactivists. These were those women I’d seen on television… pushing nursing in public. They’d even say “breastfeeding” (gasp!) instead of nursing. They were far too provocative for me.

And suddenly, I was hearing from other women that I hadn’t tried hard enough. That my son wasn’t going to be as healthy as he could because *I* was lazy. Because *I* took the easy way out. It hurt. A lot.

So, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I spent evenings just praying that nursing would be different this time. I didn’t want to set a goal for myself that was too high, so I decided on 6 months. If I could nurse her for 6 months, I’d be happy. This time, my child didn’t have reflux! Hurrah!! No problems to contend with! Well, except the pediatricians. My daughter had been born early and was extra tiny. She was way off the weight chart. She wasn’t even close to the bottom line. So, her doctors (plural, since we were seeing different docs each visit) had serious concerns about her weight. They were concerned that she wasn’t getting enough to eat.

Immediately, I realized that nursing was never going to be easy for me. Again, I spent hours online looking for solutions. This time, I found a massive group of support. Women banding together to help one of their own. Suddenly, I was linked to resources with advice and information. And then, I hit my lowest point in my “lactation career”. I took my daughter to the pediatrician for a checkup and the doctor told me that she was too small… that I was starving her and she’d grow up with brain damage. She told me I HAD to start supplementing with formula and that I needed to add Karo syrup to the formula to help her gain weight faster. I broke down. All I wanted to do was feed my child in the most natural way possible. Was that really too much to ask?

I broke down sobbing and researched the formula most like breastmilk. I made her a bottle and she refused to drink it. So, in despair, I reached out to the mass of women online who had been my support system. They suggested that I contact a local La Leche League. NO WAY! The LLL was the organization full of lactivists who condemned me with my son! But, I needed the help and the support. I contacted the LLL and immediately heard back from a wonderful mother. She shared her heart and shared my hurt. She gave me links to wonderful information about typical growth of breastfed babies and I went back to the doctor for a follow up visit. This time, I was prepared. I had a folder full of information that my daughter was doing JUST FINE. Again, I saw a different doctor. This time, the first words out of her mouth were, “Well, she’s a little small, but I think she’s just fine.” My jaw dropped. I was armed and ready for a fight, but this doctor had a different point of view. I talked to her about my breastfeeding history and my research. She agreed and told me that she’d be happy to see us regularly. She wasn’t worried about my daughter at all… she thought my daughter was doing “just fine”! I was elated.

I won’t say that the rest of the story is smooth sailing, but I will say that things went smoother. We ended up moving to another doctor who ran tests on my daughter, but he never questioned my breastfeeding. I made it to my six month goal and was excited to keep going.

I’m thrilled to tell you that my daughter nursed until she was 15 months old! I never would have thought my story would end that way.

And the most suprising part? I became the woman I thought I never would be. I nursed my daughter whenever and WHEREVER she was hungry. Sure, I used a cover. And sometimes she threw it off. And there were times when I had to quickly cover my breast (yep, I said it). In fact, my daughter went with me twice to an Alabama football game. And there, surrounded by 101,820 of my closest friend, I nursed my daughter.

I am a lactivist and that is not a dirty word. I support breastfeeding. Sure, we can be modest about it, but that doesn’t mean we have to feed our children in a bathroom! I won’t deny that there are women who can be cruel about it. There are times when you try everything at your disposal and breastfeeding still doesn’t work. But the point is to try. Breastmilk IS best and science has yet to come close enough.

I’ve seen shirts that say, “I make milk. What’s your superpower?” I can’t say that I like those shirts. Feeding your child isn’t a superpower. It’s something we’re built to do. And for some women, it’s harder than others. And the ability to breastfeed doesn’t make you any better than anyone else. Just as being a mother doesn’t make you better than someone who has struggled with infertility. We all have our struggles. It’s surviving that’s the superpower.

A chance to dream

Posted on by Samantha


The other night Libby woke up fussy. I of course grabbed her out of her crib for some snuggle time. Hoping I could get a few hugs and she would quickly fall back to sleep in our bed. As she laid next to me I noticed the faint smell of urine. And my dilemma began. She was almost back to sleep, do I risk changing her and waking her fully? Or do I risk a pee soaked baby and bed in the morning? I decided sleep was the best option. And then it dawned on me holy shit I would chance being covered in urine over missing out on sleep. What has happened to me?

Sleep. Sleep is something I pray for, plead for, and have even cried over. Once upon a time I suffered from insomnia. I also did not work and all my children slept through the night. Do you know what a cure for insomnia is, babies! I can fall asleep leaning against a wall longer than two minutes or heck sitting on the toilet.

Sleep. I daydream about sleep. Sleep is better than sex. Yeah I would take sleep over hot sex. Ask my husband. An orgasm requires work and energy. Sleeping does not.

Life lately feels like I’m in a bad sitcom. I’m the cranky, frazzled, tired house wife. That no one listens to. My husband is neglected and my children are insane. My oldest child is confused by microwave macaroni and cheese. My second oldest wants to know what an orgasm is. No she doesn’t read my blog. I can thank iFunny for that one. My middle child because the twins count as one tries to curl her hair with plastic combs and thinks its funny to say F U. No she doesn’t read my blog. I can thank her older sister for that one. The twins well they are everything you can imagine twins to be. It is nearly impossible to be in two places at once.

And all this mama can think about is sleep. Sleep why do you taunt and tease me so?

Sleep.

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Blog Series: Continuing Kate’s Story

Posted on by Samantha


Dear Baby,

Your mother is starting to get very scared. You are only 3 short months away from joining me here, and things are starting to feel out of control. Of course I am excited and happy about your grand entrance into the world, but I am also scared.

Being so far from family, there may not even be anyone there to greet you when you arrive, other than your father and me. As a little baby you wouldn’t even know the difference, but your grandparents do, as well as your parents. This is a joyful moment and everyone that will be of significance in your life should be there for that moment. Also, most new moms want nothing more than their mothers at their side, reassuring them. This possibility alone is terrifying.

Being 21, I have no idea how to take care of an infant. I’ve only held one baby in my life for a total of 30 minutes. I’ve never changed a diaper, or put one on. I won’t know what to do when you wake up in the middle of the night crying other than to hold you. I don’t know how to make a bottle for you, or even how to assemble the confusing little things. I don’t know how many times I am supposed to feed you, or if I’m supposed to feed you every time you cry. And I can’t have my mom to come over to help…

Your father knows some things about babies, but he leaves so soon after you come. Which is another distressing thought. You will hardly be a month old before our little family will get split apart. And as hard as that fact is to accept, it is even harder for your father.

When I feel you kick I’m elated and always hurry to put my hand on you. But I also start to think of all these things and I feel myself becoming overwhelmed. As your mother I already want to give you the world, but I don’t even know how to just manage giving you the things you need. Having everyone tell you that you’ll learn and it’s instinct and people will help is all very nice, and most likely true, but at this point in time it is very hard to see. I have friends where we live, but they are not my mom and I could really use my mom. Maybe someday you will understand when you have children of your own.

Knowing that this little life is all yours to mold and raise and teach is terrifying. You’re not a dog that you just have to feed and walk once a day, you’re a little human being and the possibility of doing something that will have repercussions on your life and views is very daunting. When you’ll first arrive you will depend on me and your father 100 percent. For us to feed you, clean you, keep you safe. Of course I want to live up to the bill, but the question is, can I?

Every mom gets pre-momjitters, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier. I just want to be the best mom I can be so when you are finally the age to leave and make a life for yourself I don’t have to worry. I just have to be proud and wait to see what amazing things you will accomplish.

So, we may not have the easiest ride together in the beginning, but I promise to love you with all of my heart and try my best to make as little mistakes as possible. To always put your needs first above anyone else, to always let your smiles fix any bad day. To change a thousand diapers until I have it down, to become a pro at making bottles. To be your mother first and your friend second. To be able to look at you and know that I wouldn’t of changed a thing. To know that even though it may not of been the easiest ride, it was definitely worth every second of it.
I can’t wait to meet you. Just 3 more long months.

Love,
Your Mother

Please submit your stories, thoughts, pictures, rants, etc to outlaw_momo@hotmail.com

Blog series: In the beginnings

Posted on by Samantha


I am beginning my blog series with Kate’s story. Your early twenties are a tricky time and can be filled with confusion and trepidation. Throw in love and babies, you can find your world turned upside down and rocked. Saying goodbye to old dreams, forging new paths, and finding a whole new you. With a new set of dreams. Thank you Kate for your honesty and letting us into your world for a moment.

Kate’s Story……

The day I found out I was pregnant, I cried. For hours. I had just dropped my husband, Joe off at work around 5 in the morning and headed over to my friend’s house with a pregnancy test in tow. I took the pee of my life, and around 3 minutes later I found out just how life changing that pee really was.
I’ve never been religious, but I was making all kinds of deals with God that day. At 20 years old, in a new place with a new husband, I was not ready for a baby. But life doesn’t always care about your feelings. I cried while my friend, Kala, tried to be some means of support but without a time machine hiding in her bedroom, it was kind of a long shot.
At lunch I drove on post to see Joe and I just wordlessly handed him the pregnancy test. He was so happy, his eyes lit up, his smile took up his whole face and then he turned and saw MY expression. Needless to say, it was a long lunch.
For days I wanted nothing more than for my body to reject the baby. After all the doctor told me how 1 in 4 pregnancies don’t end in a baby, and how it’s no one’s fault. So I sat by waiting, hoping, that I would be the 1 in 4. Being my husband, Joe could obviously see that I wasn’t at all thrilled, but he never for once thought that I was actually sitting by hoping that our child would not come of term. I even told myself that it would better for the baby if I miscarried them. That at this age I couldn’t give them what they needed, or wanted. That I didn’t even know if I loved them. Every mom I’d ever heard talk about when they found out they were pregnant said that even if it was unexpected, they already loved them and wanted them, so there must have been something wrong with me.
I really wanted to call my mom and tell her, to ask for advice, but being 20 years old I figured no family member would exactly be thrilled, so we waited. I could tell that Joe was itching to tell his parents, but at my request we kept the matter quiet.
Looking back I never realized how hard things must have been for my husband during that time. For him to be excited beyond measure, they way a father should be, and then for him to have hide his feelings because there was no way at that time I could deal with seeing anyone excited over this development. For him to come to the realization on his own that he would be deploying to Afghanistan only weeks after his first child was born. For him having to sneak off and cry alone over this and then having to come back and be strong for me. I believe selfish is the word you might be looking for there…
About 2 and a half weeks after finding out I was pregnant, my wish came true. I started to miscarry. I woke up from a nap on a Saturday and I was in the most pain I’d ever been in my life. I was doubled over on the bed, crying, and gasping for air. I was almost like a period cramp, only 20 times worse. Joe burst into the room looking terrified and as soon as he saw my hand wrapped around my stomach, he went pale. The only word I could get out between the bursts of pain was, “hospital.” We rushed to the car and Joe drove for about the 3rd time ever in his life. We made it to the emergency room in great time and we got in line for admittance.
I remember standing there looking at the person in front of me who seemed to have nothing wrong with them but a cold and telling Joe “ My baby’s life is at risk, tell them we are cutting.”
I was taken back to get blood tests taken, but apparently I was so dehydrated that they could not find a vein and I ended up throwing up as well as almost passing out while they still had the needle in me. Once that happened, blood tests became not so much a priority. A ER doctor came in and gave me vaginal exam and they came to the conclusion that I was so dehydrated that my uterus was contracting and my body was trying to push the baby out. Pretty much, I was going into very early labor at only 6 weeks.
All of a sudden, everything changed. I no longer wanted to be the 1 of the 4. I no longer wanted the very thing I’d been wishing for these past weeks, the very thing that was happening to me now. I just wanted for my baby to be ok.
They took me back to get an ultrasound to see if the baby was even still alive and it nearly put Joe into tears when they wouldn’t let him back with me. I remember him staring after me hopelessly as they wheeled me around the corner. The nurse doing the ultrasound didn’t seem worried or pre occupied with the fact that my child’s life could be at risk, and actually asked me how my day was. A very curt answer shut her up. Throughout the entire sono, she kept the screen away from me so that I couldn’t see what was going on, and every now and then would shake her head or do a “tsk tsk”. I asked her if she could see the baby and all I got was a “hush.” After about 5 minutes I got a “no, I can’t see the baby”, but that was normal for how early I was. Then it came time to look for the heart beat. This must have only lasted about 2 minutes, but it felt like hours to me. I kept asking her if she could hear it or see it on the monitor and I kept getting the “hush” response. After what seemed like hours she finally told me that I could clean myself up and that someone would be by in a moment to take me back to the original room I was in. I again asked her if she heard their heart beat but without so much as looking back, she left the room.
I had just enough time to get dressed before they brought in the wheelchair and took me, not to my room, but to the ultrasound waiting room where thank god, my husband was. He flooded me with questions about the baby’s situation and all I could do was shrug my shoulders. And then again, we got to play the waiting game. As we sat in the waiting room, waiting for someone to take us back to ER room, I started to mentally beat myself up. After all, this was all my fault. I wanted to miscarry, I wanted this baby to not make it and now look where I was. I felt sick to my stomach. How could I wish this on my baby, what was I thinking!? I couldn’t stop thinking that I had condemned my poor innocent little baby to this. That if I had been happy and loved them from the moment I found out about them, that none of this would have happened. That I wouldn’t be in a hospital room waiting to hear if I was still going to be a mom or not.
Finally, after about 30 minutes, we were taken back to our room. Joe was literally holding his breath as the doctor came in to tell us the results. It was good news…partially. The baby’s heart beat could be heard and was regular, right where it should be. They couldn’t get a visual, but again, that was normal at how early I was. Then, the bad news. Apparently, while trying to draw blood they were able to find a vein and get out just enough blood to get a platelet count. For those of you that don’t know, platelets have to do with your white blood cell count, and your white blood cells have to do with helping your blood clot when you have a cut. The lower the count, the harder to get a clot. When you are pregnant, your platelet count is supposed to be around 250,000. Mine was barely at 50,000. Obviously by looking at me, you could tell that I was not bleeding anywhere. However, they couldn’t see the baby. So there was a chance that my baby was bleeding to death inside of me. Only way to find out is with time. Either you miscarry, or you don’t. I think that’s around the time I started to cry.
The next 3 and a half hours consisted of multiple nurses and one captain who could find a vein on a dead man, but not me, swirling around me as they poked and prodded looking for just one vein to get a IV drip started. I had to get at least 2 liters of a saline solution into my system, which was more for me than the baby. Finally, a vein was found and the drip was started.
As I laid there on a hospital bed with bruises up and down my arms, a saline drip connected to me, a child that may or may not be dying inside of me, I looked down at my flat stomach and said, “ you’ve got to fight, because your mommy and daddy really, really want meet you.”
Once the saline drip was finished, I was sent home around 2 am. The following Monday I was scheduled to get my platelets tested again to see if they had risen at all.
In the end, my platelets rose to a normal count, I did not miscarry, nor did I have anymore problems afterwards. A few days after we called my mother-in-law to tell her the news and honestly she could not be more thrilled. In fact, I could hear her screaming on the phone from across the room. After talking to her, she helped me see how much of a happy moment this was and though after my stay at the hospital I had defiantly became more attached to the baby, I became excited for the first time. The next calls that followed were to my mom, Joe’s dad and grandparents, and my dad. Apart from my dad needing a few days to come around, everyone was very excited and very happy for us. My father-in-laws actual words were “ This is the best thing that could ever happen.”
I am currently 6 months pregnant and I am very looking forward to my little bundle of joy joining me in the world in less than 3 months! They are due on November 22, 2012, which happens to be on thanksgiving this year, which is very appropriate. The event is somewhat bittersweet with the baby coming and Joe leaving so close together, but the thought brings on more smiles than it does frowns. I have plenty of ideas to keep Joe in touch with the baby from phone calls to a quilt I am having made that feature pictures of him for the baby to wrap up in. Our child will know the father that is off fighting to keep them safe.
If I could give expectant mothers any advice, especially those that are younger and find themselves scared, or considering other options, I would say, never take them for granted. Everything will work out fine. You might be scared at first, but you will learn to love them before you ever even feel them kick and as a mother, you will learn to care for them. Whether you’re married, divorced, single, still in high school, you will have support from somewhere. Babies are happy things, miracles, and they bring everyone closer together.

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Please submit your stories to outlaw_momo@hotmail.com

Penis, turtle, no penis

Posted on by Samantha


Alert the presses, Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, we have a penis people or a turtle. But I was told by a medical professional it was in fact a penis not a turtle.

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Now our happy news does come with a small glitch. I have total placenta previa which means my placenta completely covers my cervix. Now I still have the chance it will migrate up and voila no issues. But it is also not firmly attached to the uterine wall. So I get to take it easy. I will continue to be monitored by a high risk OB/GYN. And magic 8 ball sees a c-section in my future. Damn there goes my tummy. I should have kept my mouth shut about birthing 5 babies and having no stretch marks.

Damn you karma.