Evil Stomach Bug Chronicles: Victims I and II

For the last week, Avery's had a nasty stomach bug that's created such chaos in his little digestive system, he's been able to clear rooms single(ahem...)-tootedly. I can't begin to describe what this little experience has been like to deal with while pregnant and nauseous at all hours of the day.


Last Friday, my poor, sick little boy finally started to feel a little better. Hooray! (Cue the overly-dramatic "Dum, dum, dummmmm" music.)


Or so I thought. Turns out, the beast that had been living inside my dear child was just releasing its grip on him long enough to squirm its way into another body - mine. The result?


Saturday = complete and utter agony.


Sunday = I finally listened to my husband and drove myself over to Urgent Care, received some IV fluids (to ward off dehydration) and some IV Zofran, which until this stomach bug fiasco had been my saving grace for nausea-related instances. Four and a half hours later, I was on my way home, feeling considerably better than when I'd gone in. By 8:00 that evening, however, I was back to my vomiting self.


Monday = Back to Urgent Care. Blood tests, urine sample, more IV fluids, different IV anti-nausea medication. My results were as follows: viral stomach germ - no treatment other than Pedialyte and Reglan (the new anti-nausea med) to keep the deydration and vomiting at bay. No bladder infection. (By the way - Pedialyte? Did this Dr. know I was 28 years old?? Yep -- apparently this horrible-tasting little beverage has a unique characteristic in that its electrolytes are absorbed straight through the stomach lining and doesn't have to be fully digested in order to provide benefits to the body. Hm...still doesn't taste good.)


After another 3+ hours in Innovis (this time, because the ER and Urgent Care were so busy, I got a lovely "overflow room," which consisted of a gurney, rolling stool, pillow and blanket placed in the hallway of the ER with a curtain draped around it. Oh - and it was right next to the ice/water dispenser and blanket warmer. What lavish accommodations!), I finally left feeling better than I had in days.


I sure hope this bug is done with our household. It's left some marks on us (me) that we (I) won't be forgetting for quite some time.

Seeing Red

*If you have a weak stomach, please don't read the rest of this post. Please.*

Sunday.
I went grocery shopping.
Concocted Pioneer Woman's Baba Ghanoush.
Made scalloped potatoes and ham for supper.
Tried to tell Avery he didn't need to watch Spiderman 3 for the fourth day in a row.
Washed the supper dishes.
Baked cookies for my grandma, who helps with her church's version of the "Welcome Wagon."
Washed baking dishes.

And started to miscarry.

Being nearly 8 weeks pregnant, the last thing I expected when I took a bathroom break was to find red-tinged toilet paper. My mother is a nurse, as I've mentioned, and she calmly and confidently told me not to get too worked up; that some women have spotting during pregnancy. I was to just monitor the situation and call my Dr's office in the morning.

So I did. I monitored the situation like a fanatic.

Every couple of hours I would sit straight up in bed, unable to shut off my mind and return to sleep. Is it worse? Has it stopped? I would try to fool myself into feeling confident, trying to walk slowly to my bathroom like I had all the reason in the world to take my time.

Like my brain wasn't clanging against my skull with jittery nervousness.
Like my hands weren't shaking uncontrollably.
Like my heart wasn't trying to pang its way out of my chest.
Like it wasn't a strong conscious effort to take a deep breath.

So with those shaking hands, I swiped again with the toilet paper. It was redder, darker, and there was more of it. And was it just my mind overworking, or was I feeling some cramping?

Each time I went to check, it was worse than the time before. My heart was plummeting to places that were shady with their incredible sadness and negativity, and each time it dove down there, I reeled it back in, attempting to stay positive.

When morning finally came, my husband kissed me and told me everything would be okay. He left for work, and I called my OB nurse...and left a message. I felt like I watched every damn minute tick by until she finally called back - nearly two hours later. She told me that some women experience bleeding between their 6th and 8th week of pregnancy, when the embryo burrows down into your uterine lining. She told me this doesn't happen to every woman, and it doesn't occur during every pregnancy. I was to come in for some blood tests to check my hormone levels. I was also told that some women's bodies don't produce enough progesterone to support pregnancy, and that if I had low levels, they could supplement them to help my body be more stable for the baby growing inside.

I called Matt. He was coming home to watch Avery so that I didn't have to keep track of a two-year-old while I had blood drawn.

I put in Spiderman 3 and headed for the shower. I undressed and looked down at my barely-showing belly.

What's happening? I wondered for the hundredth time in about 8 hours.

I said a little prayer and stepped into the shower. (Why do I only think to pray when things are scary or not going well? What makes me think my prayers will be answered? For someone who isn't incredibly religious, it seems a bit pathetic to reach out to God when I don't regularly make Him a part of my daily life.)

As I felt the hot water stream down my body, I looked down. And saw clots. Horrible, deep scarlet splotches dropping to the floor of my shower, and being quickly whisked down the drain. I made myself look up and continued showering. I finished, stepped out of the shower, and hoped the worst was done.

The cramping wasn't my imagination, and it continued.

Matt returned home, and I left for the clinic. After I registered, I entered the lab waiting room. Do you know how many large, pregnant bellies one sees on a Monday morning in the lab? Thirteen. I counted. And that was in a 20 minute time frame. Finally my name was called, and I followed the phlebotomist back to have my blood drawn. I have "terrible veins" apparently, and watching the vile woman wriggle that needle in my arm, searching frantically for my vein just about put me over the edge. But I just closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and imagined bashing her head against the Band-Aid dispenser.

I was told that it should take only an hour to have the results back. I was to call my OB nurse again and let her know we were awaiting my results. I had left the clinic at 10:45 that morning, so by my calculations, I should have my results by noon - at the latest.

I tried to show I was cool, calm, and collected - I waited until 11:51 to call. And left another message. I endured their insanely long, informative but infuriating voicemail message about pregnant women needing to get flu shots, and how their line is answered "between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm. We are not available to take your call right now, so please leave your name, date of birth, chart number, your doctor's name, and contact number, and we will return your call as soon as we are able."

Which turned out to be three minutes before 2 pm. Do you know how evil your mind can be in that length of time? Very.

It turns out my Hcg (pregnancy hormone) and progesterone were extremely low. I was told that the normal level for a pregnant woman's progesterone is 20 - mine was 1.4. And the tale I was told about getting this hormone supplemented, should it be lower than normal? Apparently a pregnancy is only worth "saving" if your levels are 10 or above. The OB nurse informed me that it's best "just wait and see how things play out. We don't want to try and save a bad pregnancy."

Wow. Did this woman take lessons to become cold and careless with her words?

I sat propped against the pillows in my bed.

I tried to stay calm.

And dammit, I needed to pee. I was beginning to despise the bathroom. Every time I entered, I would cling desperately to the hope that maybe this time I wouldn't see blood. And every time the bleeding was worse.

I hadn't cried yet after hanging up with the nurse. On my way out of the bathroom Matt asked me how I was. Evidently he hadn't heard the phone ring; he didn't know of our news. All I could manage was, "The nurse called back. Not good." Then I scurried back into my cave/room and burrowed into the covers. I just wanted to sink in and never surface again. I rolled onto my side, facing the closet, and saw all of the maternity clothes hanging there. I looked down, and at the foot of my bed was the double stroller I had purchased at a garage sale only a couple weeks earlier.

I was sobbing so hard I thought surely I would wake Avery from his nap.

How could this be happening? We wanted this baby. It was no accident that we were expecting! And after two unplanned pregnancies before this one with no problems to speak of, why this? Why us?

---------------------------------------------
I have to go in today for more blood work. They will need to check whether my body has done its job and pushed everything through, or whether a doctor will have to assist with completing that job. It's called a D & C. And I am desperately hoping that it's not necessary.

I believe I'm a strong woman.

I know I will get through this. And I know we will try again when we're told it's safe. But I know there will be fear of this happening again. And I believe it will make me more reserved and cautious about announcing a pregnancy, should we be fortunate enough to have another.

The absolute only positive thing that has come from this is that I look at Avery and see a miracle. The stars aligned, we were blessed, everything went as it should have with his fetal development.

Of that, I am now so incredibly grateful.

We've Been Busy

As you can see, we've been busy with a few things around here. Tattoos, toilet training (which is slow, at its best), and eating stuff. And not just any old stuff. Yes, there's the usual crayon here and there. But in addition, almost a week ago now, this kid swallowed a nickel -- or at least I'd have bet good money that he had. As the days went by, and I found no coins in the dirty diapers, I started to think maybe I had just imagined Avery gagging and then swallowing hard...and then coming up a nickel short on the 15 cent deposit into his piggy bank.

But alas! Today I opened the average smelly diaper, and there it was! I'll spare you the photo I so badly wanted to take. But let me just tell you it didn't look like it does now when it went in.

I thought we were getting past this "Everything must go in my mouth!" stage. Evidently I was wrong.

You title it - Part One

****I thought I was doing quite well coping with the changes that have occurred in my family over the years. Turns out, all it takes is a little reminder, and I'm back where it all began. I've attempted previously to put this all down on paper, and after reading Jennifer's post yesterday, I took them out to try and finish one. After deciding they were inadequate, I started this one, and so far it's given me what I wanted. I just can't seem to come up with a title I'm happy with.****




One autumn day, during an especially grueling beet harvest, my father had a heart attack. I was in the seventh grade that year, and he was just 42. He’d been feeling some arm pain and thought it was caused by his bum shoulder, which was constantly getting dislocated. Dad's remedy for this had always been to ram his shoulder against a door frame in our house, or to use one of his seldom-used dress belts as a sling until he had time to set it back in place.

The details of how my father actually got to the hospital are a little foggy. All I know for certain is that after school that day, I met my sisters at our town's grocery store (which was owned by our maternal grandmother); where my paternal grandparents picked us up to take us to the hospital in Fargo.

When we got there, Dad was sitting up in his hospital bed, looking a little strange in his gown and mussed hair, but wearing his usual smile and joking around with us. I don't really remember how long he was there, or glimpsing any sign of fear in him, but I was old enough to realize a heart attack was serious business, no matter how minor my parents told us it was.

Once Dad was home, Mom sat my sisters and me down to talk to us about the changes that needed to take place. According to her, Dad had three strikes against him; he was a smoker, he had a very stressful job, and he ate terribly. Mom said we were all going to have to work together to try and change each of those things, and to make it a little easier for Dad to stick to them. She told us we had to start eating healthier, which would include a lot of chicken and fish, Dad was going to have to quit smoking - and she was going to try, too - and that he'd likely have to figure something else out for a career.

I couldn't imagine any of this. There are few things that stick out more clearly in my mind than my father smoking. Every morning, my sisters and I would wake up, pick out our clothes, and start the descent down the stairs of our home. Halfway down, we'd encounter a wall of smoke, created by my father as he downed a pot of coffee with his cigarettes each and every day. Sunday and Monday evenings were strictly for watching football, and I can recall many nights spent sitting on my father's lap, hearing the click of his lighter, the sizzle of tobacco and paper being sucked aflame, and the deep inhale and exhales of that putrid smoke, while the Vikings played on the television. The only thing that interrupted the up/down motion of my father's cigarette to his mouth was the up/down motion of potato chips to his mouth. Pepsi quenched his thirst, and if ever he offered me a sip, I could always taste cigarettes and salt on the rim of the can.

Suddenly, suppers consisted of baked cod, lemon pepper chicken, and steamed vegetables without butter or salt. My mother is an amazing cook, but far too often, she would get distracted from her cooking and the meat would wind up resembling fish or chicken jerky. Where was the homemade pizza? Where was the beef stroganoff? Even the milk was different! Instead of 2%, my mother was now purchasing Calci-Skim, which tasted like chalky water to my sisters and me.

During one of these uncomfortable suppers, my father told us that he was going to quit farming. He was going to sell his half of the farming operation to his brother, Kevin, and was planning to take a job at our local Case-IH dealer working in their parts department. His eyes were so sad. Farming was the only thing my father knew. But he tried to appeal to us all by telling us that this meant he'd have more regular hours. Rather than staying home to plant, combine, or repair broken machinery, he'd now be able to take us to the lake cabin more often, make it to our sports events, and be around in the evenings if we needed help with homework.

For a while, things were looking pretty promising. Dad got the job selling parts, and seemed to like it well enough. He had always been a very quiet man, so the smile we saw on his face each day was all we had for reference. He had quit smoking, he was eating the healthy meals my mother made, and his new job certainly was less stressful than farming.

My mother only lasted a few days - maybe a week - on her path to quit smoking. When my sisters and I confronted her, she said something along the lines of, "I'm not the one who needs to do it, your father is. I was just going to try with him, but I decided I'm not ready yet." And a few months down the road, we noticed that in the evenings Dad was coming up from his woodworking room in the basement smelling like cigarettes. No one said a word. We knew how much life had changed for Dad in these last months, and though we disagreed with what he was doing, we were certainly not going to tell him so. After a few weeks of this routine, however, Jessica, Danielle, and I spoke to our mother about what was going on. She told us that we should confront our father; tell him that if he loved us and wanted to live to see us grow up, that he would quit smoking for good. Danielle, the most brazen of us girls, walked up to him in the kitchen and told him just that through tear-filled eyes. My father just stared, his own eyes filling, then took her in his arms, hugged her, and told her everything would be all right.

The Kodak is Kaput

Yup - that's right.

Obviously I've been talking too much lately about replacing my EasyShare. I also probably shouldn't have spoken about Avery being obsessed with the camera and seeing himself in photos.

Today, while I was working on my Libby's Pumpkin Roll in the kitchen, Avery decided to be a photographer. This wouldn't have been so bad if, upon discovery of this situation, I hadn't turned on the camera to check it, seeing a partially black screen. The remainder of the screen, I might add, is now made up of criss-crossing gray lines, a couple of red and blue streaks, and a pulsating light.

I guess we're getting that new camera sooner rather than later.

Crafting is Dangerous!

I think I mentioned the fact that my mother has lent me her sewing machine, right? Well, I've had for a good couple of months now. So, being the devoted daughter, I thought maybe I should show her my gratitude. We (my sisters, mother, and I) have started trying to use less single-use plastics. Most noticeably, this results in fewer plastic grocery bags. So I thought: I'll make her a cute fabric grocery bag!

Enter: Dangerous craft tool - the rotary cutter.

*Here's a hint. Don't try to pick up a piece of material while you're still holding the engaged rotary cutter in your hand! Oops. Learned that one the hard way.*

Anyway, the bag was coming along nicely. Oh!! And I forgot to mention! I'm making this without a pattern (I maybe should have kept that detail to myself until I'm positive the bag is a success - oh well). I'll post pictures if and when it's completed to my liking.

For now, just let this be a little reminder to BE CAREFUL!

Holy Lord, Almighty.

Children.

They make us laugh until our cheeks and bellies ache, they frustrate us beyond the brink of insanity, and they can suspend our heart rate in an instant. Case in point:

Last night, after attending a softball game with my sister, Danielle, I returned home to find my son still up at 9:15 pm. Bedtime in this house is usually 8:00-8:30 for persons less than 3 feet tall. He was cozied up in my husband's lap, oohing and aahing over Matt's computer game (another story entirely). Matt claims he laid him down twice, and after a screaming/crying fit both times, he gave up and decided to wait until "The Mommy" got home.

So Avery and I sit and cuddle for a bit (I didn't expect to get this opportunity so late in the evening, after all!), and about 10 minutes later, I announce: "Ok, time to go night-night. Let's go." Avery, being the good little trooper he usually is, walks toward his bedroom with minimal complaining. I open his bedroom door, and he goes running in, past his crib, to the opposite wall. He then loses his balance, plops down on his butt, pitches forward, and face-plants right onto the corner of our baseboard heater.

Oh Lordy.

(This would be an instant in which my heart rate was suspended indefinitely.)

I race over to him. He's already wailing. His hands are plastered to his little face, which is the color of a ripe tomato. As I pry them away, I see blood. (I'd just like to make it known...I am the calm one. Matthew is a blubbering sack of overreaction in instances like these.) I walk out of Avery's bedroom, cradling him in my arms, grab the first thing I see (the bib from supper), and apply it to his cut. Then, with the most serene voice imaginable, I ask Matt to please get me a cold washcloth. At this point, my husband is displaying his "Oh Shit" look, and goes into a tirade about suing our apartment managers.

We stopped the bleeding. Matt finally calmed down a little. Luckily, my mother, who is a nurse, happened to be in Fargo last night. She came over to check it out and give her input on whether a doctor visit or stitches were necessary. A little Liquid Bandaid, and a little extra TLC, and our little Clumsy Clyde was off to bed.

Another victory for "The Mommy."

The Lonliness of Blogland

You know how an empty auditorium sounds when you shout out into the darkened space? It's as if your lonely voice bounces off all the walls, like they are even capable of rejecting your thoughts, and anything you whisper, shout, sing, etc. comes rushing back at you.

That's how I'm feeling about blogging right now. With the exception of my glorious Aunt Darcy, nobody seems to find it necessary to comment. So...if there's anyone out there -- COMMENT DAMN IT!

It would be even better if you'd leave your name. That way I wouldn't have to be afraid that I have some random stalker reading my posts and giving his/her two cents' worth.

~~In other news...I had my upper wisdom teeth removed on Tuesday. Alas, there is no more wisdom left in me! Because of this, I currently look as though I belong to some sort of Chipmunks gang. We'll see if I can get a minimally unflattering picture to post - I'm not making any promises though.

~~K - I found one...if you look closely, you can even see my bruise. *Sniff, sniff*