pregnancy

Can I get a little less pee in my life…..

Posted on by Samantha


My kids let me sleep in this morning. Wait scratch that, my kids let me sleep. No it was not a joyous occasion. I woke to screaming and pee. Lots of pee. In all honesty they may have tried to wake me but the sleep deprivation was at an all time high.

I’m struggling with this parenting thing.

Did you hear about that lady who just dropped her six kids off in the woods. Just left them. Apparently she tried to trade them on Craigslist first for a trampoline. I mean who even has six kids? She must be crazy. Some people are just not meant to be parents. 

Yes I know I can’t just leave my kids some where. The shame of failure prevents me from doing so. Oh and my love for them. I was listening to some sort of sappy country song yesterday that proclaimed someday you will miss this. No I won’t miss days filled with nothing but screaming and pee. My brain will magically forget these days. They will become fuzzy memories. That’s how I ended up with six kids in the first place. Selective amnesia fueled by hormones.

I hear a lot of people say bad things about the Duggar’s and their parenting style. You know how their home appears to run like a well oiled machine. “Oh their poor kids, missing out on their childhood.” I snorted while I wrote that. I can’t get my older kids to lift a finger without a serious effort on my part. They would let the house burn down around them. Wait no they would attempt to save their iPhones, game systems, curling irons, shoes, etc. But not each other. They will also tell you how hard it is to be kid. “You just don’t understand Mom!” Yeah level 124 of Candy Crush is a lot like performing open heart surgery.

I read a blog the other day on how the writer believed three was the hardest number of children to parent. I had a good laugh with that one. That people with more children had an easier time. No we don’t. We have evolved in our parenting. We hear less, see less, and our reaction time is much slower. Or maybe I mean regressed. It is sink or swim in my household. But it took years to get here and obviously I am still not immune to my children’s shenanigans. Nor do I ever just get to ignore the piles of things. I don’t ever get to say screw it let’s just play all day like the memes suggest I do. Because that just means more piles and more piles of things. I have to carefully manage my time to get all the hugs in and dishes done.

Three kids, no not the hardest number. Honestly it is one. That is the hardest number. If you can survive one, you can survive two or ten. Going from zero to one is hard, scary, mind-blowing, insanity and add exhaustion. Two to six or ten is just exhausting. And you will never have enough money so that is a universal concern unless you are part of the 1%.

Most of what I say is tongue in cheek with a hint of truth. Actually days like today more truth less tongue in cheek but only because I smell faintly like toddler pee. I’ve had four cups of coffee so now I feel less defeated.

Did you hear about that mother of six who raised “happy” healthy children and kept a clean house. Yeah she had to do dishes like six times a day. Apparently someone always had a project due or needed help with math. I don’t even know how she managed to get every one dressed. She had to cook like a dozen eggs a day. Crazy. She must be a supermom!

Sigh.

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

20121119-114526.jpg

Conrad 9 months

cnne

Why I no longer blog…

Posted on by Samantha


Why I no longer blog…

I could make claims that I just don’t have the time. That would be untrue, I have the time. Or that I am busy doing other things. That would be untrue as well. I just don’t want to. I have no desire to be clever or attempt to amuse you. I do not need your camaraderie or adulation. I do not need to know that “you feel me.” That we are some how in the same proverbial shit creek without a paddle.

See I don’t want to be the overwhelmed, hurried, frustrated, bitter housewife. I don’t want you to be either. I don’t want to be “touched out” for the day. What is that even? Too many hugs have you down. That is insane.

I know not having a piece of yourself to yourself for even a minute is frustrating. Oh I get it. But after some perspective and long thought last night I realize we don’t get it. For a moment when I was cleaning Penny’s shit off Libby’s face, I thought “I am over this.” Over what unconditional love, the laughter of a small child, that look that crosses their face when they see you. Over make believe, tickles, and the complete utter trust that you can make everything okay with a kiss. Really bring on the shit flinging. I will take the bad for the moments of good. I will take the no privacy, lack of adult conversations, and the days of no showers.

See I am getting a taste of the future. Where the hugs are gone, the belief that mommy is some sort of superhero is out the window, and laughter is replaced with sneers. I will have plenty of time alone, sooner than I think. The thought terrifies me.

When I can’t come out for drinks or dinner because Penny has the flu, don’t feel sorry for me. I am right where I need and want to be. When I flake or disappoint you, sorry my bad. But that impromptu trip to the zoo or dinner with my husband is where my priorities lie.

This blog started out as just my sounding board. It was for shits and giggles. Then life got real. I became a grown up. And man did I let that get me down. So I implore you to not spend your days searching the internet for someone who “gets it.” You are not alone, some where some one feels just like you do. There is millions of other mothers who smell as bad as you, who cleaned shit off the walls, who haven’t slept in 11 years. And no I am not saying you don’t deserve a moment to yourself. You do.

Just realize that the sacrifice of time and your body is not a sacrifice. You are making a fair, worthwhile trade. Get off Facebook, put your phone down, and turn off the TV. I am going to heed my own advice. Hug a kid, call a friend(not text), run in the backyard, read a book, steal a quickie. Anything that does not involve a keyboard or touch screen.

And if you must stare at a screen, spend it watching things like this  

Skip the sad mommy blogs.

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.

 

 

 

We have lift off

Posted on by Samantha


It has been an exciting week in the Osborn household. The twins have tossed out their bottles and are solely using the cup. I know they should have been already on the cup. But when you have two eh you have to make up your own pace. Our pace is slow and whatever makes them stop crying. They have also graduated to a big girl bed. Yes one bed. We tried to convert their cribs into toddler beds and that was an epic failure. So they went back to their cribs which was also an epic failure. See I am not raising little people more like little monkeys. Little monkeys that like to climb, climb, and climb. They also like to occasionally fling poop. But eureka we have had success with the big girl bed. Which means I now have to sleep with my husband because they stole my bed.

We have been hitting milestones left and right. Liberty can follow instructions. For example she was trying to crawl under the couch cushions at the same exact time as her sister was climbing on the cushions. This upset Liberty so I asked Liberty to get down. To which she did. She did however promptly go over and yank on her sisters hair. But successful parenting moment none the less. Penelope will fetch her shoes and they don’t have to even be in the same place. Which they are never in the same place. But the kid brought back matching shoes.

I know this may all sound silly but I am so proud at the moment. You know so proud that I am convinced I am raising the next Einstein or Edison all because my kid brought me matching shoes.

Conrad has learned how to travel via the roll. This little massive dude rolls and rolls. Quite honestly I would like to stunt his growth and keep him as my chunky baby love forever. Seriously I have fallen in love with having a boy. I have dreams of light saber battles and clothing with robots fighting various creatures. I may have bought Star Wars curtains.

Recently I have possibly transcended parent teen relations and may have found some common ground with my oldest child. I don’t want to get too excited and jinx it. But I think we might be cool. If it only lasts for a month or even a week I will take what I can get. The other two are still a work in progress. Where I make strides with one I back pedal with another. Having girls is hard yo. Holy mother I have 5 daughters.

I have even recently discovered a few things about myself. I care. I care about complete strangers. I feel pain and sympathy for people I have never met and people that have yet to even exist. Once upon a time I was really stoked on being an absolute dick. I was a big fan of making fun of the elderly and small children, okay people all kinds. I am not sure what changed but now I have this desire to help. I may be ill, someone check my temperature. Is this what they call growth?

Last night my husband apologized for not being the man I married. For no longer being cool, for becoming social weird. He is going through some changes of his own. He is growing up, which I believe is way harder for men to handle. He doesn’t seem to realize that I wouldn’t trade the man he is today for the man he was 5 years ago. The man he is today has walked through hell and back with me. He has picked me up and brushed me off. He has raged with me and raged at me. We have fought hard and loved even harder. There are moments when he feels miles away and it breaks my heart. That is part of being in a relationship, breaking hearts, rebuilding, learning to love each other every day of our lives. There are moments when I can not get enough of him and moments when I have had enough.

I didn’t marry the man of my dreams, I married the man dreams are made of.

So yeah lots of excitement in the Osborn household, we are growing up!

 

Take a load off Fanny

Posted on by Samantha


After my near death experience I joined a plethora of support groups. I was in search of answers and solace. Instead it infuriated me, infuriates me. I thought reaching out and connecting with women who suffered the same or near same fate as me would lighten my load. Let me sleep at night. Hindsight is 20/20, some cliches are true.

In my pursuit of more children I risked my life. I was aware of the possible dangers and risks involved. I still jumped right in the oven so to speak. I was not childless. I knew the joy a baby brings. I had experienced that first coo, smile, laugh, word, those steps. My husband on the other hand had not and I was determined to give him that. When I achieved this goal it was not enough. I needed a son. I selfishly needed a son.

The choices we made almost made my husband a widower and my children motherless. I love my son but and yes I know a but seems to invalidate the previous statement. I do love my son but he came at a steep price. I don’t know if you have ever really faced your own mortality, if you know what that does to a person. I am forever changed. For the better or worse that is not yet known.

I have a son, my only son. I don’t know how parents of one child view that one child. I have always had many. I feel extra cautious, more hesitant to leave. Some where I lost that cool that only a mom of multiple children has. I obsess over the thought of losing him. The thought that I can not produce any more. He is my only son. I know I view this in a morbid sense and I am sure it has to do with the trauma associated with his birth. Sometimes I feel like I am living in a Shakespearean tragedy yet to happen. My only son.

I realize now that my choices touched the lives of everyone who loves me, who love my husband, who love our children. If fate had swayed in another direction the damage that may have been thrust upon them would have been great. I won’t say I have regrets. Okay I have regrets. Was it worth it sure, absolutely. We paid a price though. I paid a price. I don’t laugh as hard as I use to. The days no longer feel long. Time seems to be moving at an alarming rate.

When I hear a a high risk mother lament over the possibility of not having more children. When they ask the question is it selfish to want more. I want to scream yes. When other mothers say it is your decision, your body. I want to scream no you have children, a spouse, people who love you, it is not just your decision. You could be 1 out of 10,000. You could be 1 in a million. You could be dead.

A few months ago I was worried that I no longer had a purpose. I lost my identity in the pursuit of babies. I do not miss my uterus. I am okay with not having more children. Do I feel lost, somedays sure. Am I terrified, absolutely.

Will I ever be okay, I sure hope so.

This is growing up

Posted on by Samantha


My oldest daughter will turn 13 in little over a month. She was the catalyst into adulthood for me. I was 19 when I found out I was pregnant. I had just left a relationship or heck was maybe still in it when I started a dalliance with her father. I missed my period and of course panic had set in. I peed on a stick and nothing happened. It was very anti-climatic. So I tossed it in the trash and scurried off with friends to see The Blair Witch Project. Turns out what I found in my trash was way scarier than some movie with a snot covered chick running around in the woods.

It was a big fat positive. A late night phone call to the help line on the back of the box and 12 test later I resigned myself to the fact that I was indeed pregnant. I would then marry her father in some sad attempt to give her the life I never had.

When in fact I gave her almost exactly the life I had. I was a baby with a baby. Who then had more babies to fill the void in my life.

Her first year I was terrified like most parents. I once had a dream that I had put her in an oven and of course was panicked because babies do not go in ovens. I would have this reoccurring dream where my mother let her crawl off the side of a cliff and all I could do was watch it powerless. I am not sure what they meant. Maybe they meant I was scared of messing up. Maybe I wasn’t ready and I felt out of control.

I was an over bearing mother her first two years. I made list. I had rules on what she could eat and when she had to eat it. I took hundreds of pictures of her sitting, lying, sleeping, eating, basically every minute of her life. She is actually my only child with a complete baby book.

She was the first thing, person that I loved. She opened my eyes and mind to the scary yet wonderful feelings of being a parent. Of being a part of something bigger than yourself. She made my heart beat. And she scared the living crap out of me.

I wanted to be the best mother I could be. Actually I wanted to be better than that. I read baby books, lots of baby books. Every sneeze we went to the doctor. I would watch her sleep.

I remember her first words, her first steps, the first time she fell down. The time she smeared crap down the hallway and all over herself leaving my sister horrified. I remember feeling triumphant when I breast fed her. And heart broken when she stopped.

I vividly remember the time that I almost lost her. I had gone to the bathroom and when I came out she was just gone. I had left her coloring in front of SpongeBob. Ramsey was no where to be seen. I screamed and cried like a banshee all through out the house. I ran down the street. I pounded on my neighbors doors. Turns out she was hiding in the closet under my wedding dress. My screaming scared her so badly she didn’t want to come out.

Memories like that one stick out. My mommy fail moments.

When she was 7 she had her appendix removed. I had to carry her to the bathroom every day for almost a month after her surgery. She was so helpless. I just wanted to wrap her up in my arms and hug all the pain away.

That same year she would be the catalyst for another life altering event. My freedom and the end of my marriage to her father. She had fallen during an altercation between he and I. It was that moment when I realized I was failing her. This was not the life she deserved. I could not take her childhood from her because I made poor life decisions.

Fast forward to today. We have a whole new reality. A good reality. She is no longer my little baby. She is the same size as me. She has opinions and thoughts about life. She looks like me. It is almost like looking at my reflection. Which is so weird. I don’t tell her I love her enough. I mean I do but I don’t think she realizes the depth of it. I am the jerk that won’t let her roam the streets with her friends. The lame parent who makes her feel embarrassed. I am uncool.

Sometimes I just want to hug her for no reason. And sometimes I want to strangle her. But mostly I just want her to be. To be anything, everything, something.

I would also like her to load the dishwasher properly. But I will settle for happy.

302142_4688773817123_2145450029_n

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!!!