Living in the Moment

I think this is a great follow up post on my last post. A little change in perspective.

My counselor discussed with me living in the moment. Initially, I kind of rolled my eyes. Most of the 'Living in the Moment' discussions I've had have seemed pretty irrelevant to me. I don't feel like I am the kind of person who lives in the past or dwells in the past. I feel a lot of the time like the past is for learning, and that I just need to focus on the future and the next step.

However, living in the moment isn't just about not living in the past, it is also about not living in the future.

You can ask anybody who knows me. I'm a planner. I have plans, goals, dreams, aspirations. I spend a lot of time thinking about the future and my goals. My plans change often, but I always have a general outline of what I want to happen in my life in the next (insert period of time here). School, marriage, family, I even think about retirement and grandchildren. It is comforting to me to have a plan. The times that I feel the most helpless or out of control are times when I don't have a plan for the next step.

I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing. It is important to have goals and have a direction you want your life to head in. However, there are definitely drawbacks to spending a lot of my time and energy focused on the future. The biggest one being that I'm missing the now.

Eric and I just celebrated our one year anniversary. The first year of our marriage is gone. We will never get that back. There were good things, and bad things, and mediocre things, but they are gone now. That first year of our lives as husband and wife is over. Time moves forward, it stops for no man. I can't change the fact that it's gone, but I do have control over whether or not in a couple of years I look back on this time and regret I was so focused on the future that I missed the now, the now we will never have again.

Since my first miscarriage, I have felt so strongly that having a baby would heal the hurt that I feel. Every subsequent loss has only served to push me harder into trying to get my take home baby. Yes, we are ready to start a family. We have talked about it, intimately, in depth, on multiple occasions, and the conclusion that we always come to is that we are ready to be parents. Well, as ready as one can be to be a parent. Emotionally, I want to be a mother so bad that it is physically painful sometimes to see others achieve that goal while I am left in the dust.

However, once we have a child, we can never go back to being just a couple with no kids. Sure, in 20-30 years they will (hopefully) all move out and we will be empty nesters, but we will still be Mom and Dad. And, although I am totally ready to commit my life to raising what I hope will be responsible, mature, healthy, happy adults, (I don't ask for much...) I don't want to look back on my life with Eric and think, "Wow, I really wished I had been more involved in that part of our lives. I wish I had enjoyed that more. I wish I could have that back and relive it."

And so, while there continues to be a plan, and while I am going to continue pursuing my goals, including the goal of motherhood, I have decided to try to be more mindful of the present moment, to enjoy it, to really live it. Because, I love my husband. I adore him. Every day, I feel like I am more in love with him than I could possibly be, and the next day that love is multiplied. I want to enjoy my life with him as it is right now, warts and all, because in the future, I will only have the memories.

My Desire

Yeah, I'm a nerd. I love Harry Potter. But, I was thinking today what I would see if I looked into the Mirror of Erised. As you may or may not know, the mirror shows you the deepest desire of your heart. If I looked into the mirror, this is what I think I would see:

Myself. Healthy, and pregnant with a little Juchau of my own.

I want to be a mom. I want to be a mom so bad, that it is physically painful. I never knew I could want something so, so badly. Each loss cuts me deep, wounds me more than I can even say.

The first pregnancy, I was just excited. I was overwhelmed and apprehensive as well, but I think those feelings are normal. Bringing a child into this world is a life changing event. Your identity completely changes. You are all of a sudden a mother, with a baby that is going to need to be taken care of. It's simultaneously exciting and terrifying. I can't say that I didn't think miscarriage was a possibility, I know enough to know that miscarriages happen. But, when it did happen, I was devastated. Completely devastated. Like the rug had been completely pulled out from under me. I landed on my ass, hard. I didn't know where to turn, but I was in too much pain to just stand up on my own and walk it off. So, I think I crawled at first. Crawled with eyes blurred with tears as the loss of a friend and my life in general smacked me from side to side. Then, one day, as I was yelling at my husband for God knows what (obviously not important, nothing we fight about is EVER important) he looked up at me and said, "You know what, I'm hurting too. That was my baby too." And I realized, I was on the floor crawling around, and he was on the floor crawling around, and for the first moment we were able to look at each other, grab on to each other, and help each other off of the freaking floor and onto our feet where we could compare bruised knees and awe in the ignorance that we didn't even think to lean on each other until that moment.

That is where strength in marriage comes from. Trials. Painful, earth shattering trials that will either tear you apart and fling you to the corners, or will bring you so close together that you marvel how you ever lived when there is a very important piece of you living in your partner.

The second pregnancy, I was quite a bit more apprehensive. I was still excited, and Eric was like a kid on Christmas. He would touch my belly and talk to the baby, tell them he loved them and he was going to take good care of them. He took the bad news the way he always takes it, stoically. Kisses me on the forehead, hugs me, tells me he's sorry and he loves me and lets me cry. That loss was painful, but with a smattering of guilt. One miscarriage, well, statistically people have them. I know very few women who haven't ever had one, and even fewer women who haven't had one and who are done having kids. But, I know even less women who had more than one in a row. I had a wall, and I didn't realize it but it had just gotten taller.

This pregnancy, I was not excited at all. I didn't even properly inform my husband. I swear I told him, but apparently I never actually said the words, "I'm pregnant." I probably said, "I might be pregnant, I'll know in a couple of days." I wanted to be sure, I wanted to get lab tests and see those numbers going up before I would begin to feel excited. Maybe I was little, titchy bit excited, after all, two pink lines is always an exciting and terrifying thing to see, but I just knew in my heart it wasn't going to take. I thought if I could just get to the 8 week mark, I would be ok. Once again, Eric was excited. I thought he knew, but I guess he was just excited at the possibility. He would put his hand on my belly, and talk to it, and talk to me about it. How it would affect our plans for the future. It's amazing how much you can love something that is just a little mass of cells.

I dreaded going to the bathroom. Every time I would wipe and it was clear, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then, I wiped and there was brown on the toilet paper. My heart sank into the floor. I know that brown spotting can be normal in early pregnancy, so I tried to tell myself that this was just cervical irritation and nothing more. Then, the next day, it was red.

I didn't cry. Not right away. I didn't feel like I could cry. I was sad, so, so sad. My sadness was beyond tears. A little piece of me dies every time I have a miscarriage. I look at women who have normal, healthy pregnancies and I feel sick inside.

If I'm honest with myself, I always knew I would have a hard time having a baby. I didn't have any good reason to make me think so. My mom had 4 pregnancies and 4 healthy babies. Sylvee had no problems with her pregnancy. She had so little problems, she didn't even know she was pregnant until Ivory started kicking her! My grammie had a couple of miscarriages, but she also had 7 healthy pregnancies. But, when I hit puberty, I just had a feeling, a nagging doubt in the back of my mind, that I would struggle with getting pregnant.

Well, I can get pregnant OK. I just can't keep the pregnancies very long. And, every time I lose a baby, my wall gets thicker. At this point, if we do get pregnant and STAY pregnant, I won't be able to enjoy it as much as I would if I hadn't had all of these problems. The first trimester has become a terrifying aspect for me, like a monster in a closet.

I want to be a mom. I want to be a mom so bad, it is physically painful. I see teenage girls getting pregnant for fun. I see women who get pregnant and don't want to gain any weight, so they starve their babies. I see women get pregnant and decide they can eat whatever they want, but don't want the test for gestational diabetes because they have to get poked by a needle. I see women who are addicted to drugs have multiple pregnancies, and have multiple babies carted away. But, I see the other side. I see women, like me, who would walk on hot coals to get pregnant and stay pregnant. I see women who are willing to have painful procedures, take medicines with terrible side effects, and suffer every month, just to see those two little pink lines, just to see that little heart fluttering away on the screen. I know how much I would love and cherish my child, how I would sacrifice everything and anything to have a healthy baby in my arms. Sometimes, the pain is so bad, I don't know if it is my stomach or my very broken heart, I'm just writhing on the bed or in the tub, sobbing, and praying.

My husband is an atheist, and he is even praying.

At least I'm not alone in this. I know there are millions of couples who struggle to have a baby, whether they deal with infertility or multiple miscarriages. (Side note, Do you know what the medical term is for a woman who has multiple miscarriages? Habitual Aborter. Tell me that isn't the absolute worst thing you have ever, EVER, EVER heard!!) There is a solution to my problem. Thank God for modern medical science! And, I still have faith. Not every second of every day. I do have weak moments where I sit in the bottom of my shower and cry because I feel like I will never be able to have a baby. But, most of the time, I have faith that someday I will hold my child in my arms.

Eric has been my rock through all of this. I know how badly he wants to have a baby in his arms too. When I have my weak moments, and my doubts, he looks at me and says, "We can do this. It's going to happen. I promise." When I look into his eyes, it gives me strength, and I feel like we can continue on this journey together. Because, as long as I have him, I can do anything.

In the meantime, I can just close my eyes and picture that which is the deepest desire of my heart. I imagine a baby moving and growing inside me, imagine the ultrasound pictures showing little fingers and little toes, imagine giving birth, imagine holding my child in my arms and smelling their head, kissing their face, holding them to my breast, even though I know when my open my eyes...

...my womb and my arms are both empty.

A Sample

Feedback is very appreciated. Let me know if you are interested in reading the rest, knowing full well that the entirety of the novel hasn't been written yet. And, Thanks in Advance for taking the time to read this!!

    The service was spoken in Russian. That was the one thing my mother insisted on. She never really learned how to speak English very well. She didn’t have a reason. Uncle Vlad spoke Russian to her, and so did I. She never really spoke with anybody else. Uncle Vlad bought her groceries, paid her servants, did everything he could to protect his sister from the cruel reality of the outside world.
    But no matter how hard he tried, or how much money he spent, he couldn’t protect her from the cruel advance of cancer.
     The officiator droned on and on about her, although it didn’t seem like he was talking about her, my mama. Katya Naumenko Tvardovsky. Born May 20, 1964. Died, much, much too soon.
    Standing there by her grave site, I felt numb. It was February, the world was cold and bleak and empty. The one and only light of my life, my mother, had been snuffed out. All that remained of her was an empty husk that only really looked like her in certain lights. Everything that was my mama was gone, gone, gone. But, even though my heart had been ripped out of my chest and was about to be lowered into the ground in a shiny, mahogany casket, all I felt was numb. Numb, numb, numb.
    Uncle Vlad stood next to me, his face set in a grim, hard line. He had fought the funeral plans every step of the way. I don’t think he meant to be difficult, I think he was in denial about his beloved sister leaving this world to join our ancestors in the next. So, he did what he did best. Argue, fuss, drag his heels. He bickered with the caterer, the florist, the officiator, even me. He would pick a casket one day and then change his mind the next. He went through my mama’s wardrobe multiple times to try and pick an outfit for her. He didn’t like anything that she had, saying, “My sister should’ve let me buy her nice clothes! No one should have to be buried in this garbage!” At this point, he would buy her a new outfit, then return it to the store the next day, saying, “This is not my sister. It is too cold, too formal. She would not like this,” and with those words he would begin pawing through her wardrobe again, muttering obscenities as he went.
    In the end, I picked out her outfit. It took me two minutes to find it. Her favorite dress. It was red satin with a black belt. She would often put it on, the dark red fabric in stark contrast to her milk white skin, and prance around the house in it. “Someday, Dimitri, I will go somewhere nice, and I will wear this dress.” Sometimes, I would even come to the house to find her wearing it under an apron while she cooked dinner or vacuumed.
    As Vlad and I had our final moment with my mom’s body before the casket would be closed, he admired the details. The simple gold band that was her wedding ring. A strand of pearls, a gift from my uncle, was around her neck. The dress was baggy on her twig thin body. She looked insubstantial, light, delicate as glass.
    “Katya was a good woman, a kind sister, a loving wife, and a devoted mother,” the officiator was saying, “She will be loved and missed by all who knew her. Katya’s son takes comfort in the knowledge that his mother and father are reunited in heaven, where they will watch him as he continues to be the best son he can be.”
    He lied. I took comfort in nothing. I was an orphan, and all alone in the world.
    Except for Uncle Vlad.
    The eulogy was falling on deaf ears. The officiators voice was like a low, throbbing hum. I was so focused on what was going to happen next, I didn’t have the energy in my body to listen, to hear, and to understand. Suddenly, everyone was looking at me. My Uncle Vlad gave me a gentle nudge, and I knew that the time had come.

The part I was dreading more than anything in the world. I took one step toward the coffin, then another, then another. Each step crunched on the frozen ground, as loud as a cannon blast. My ears were ringing, stinging with the bite of the chill air. I had a single red rose, my mama’s favorite flower. On it, I had tied a red ribbon and a note. My goodbye.

    “Say goodbye to your mama, Vorobyshek,” Uncle Vlad whispered in my ear.
    That was when the pain came. I had been icy and numb for so long, the heartache sheared through my like fire. The tears pounded, throbbed, forced their way out. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t help the sounds that came out of my mouth. First, they were just quiet sobs, but as I looked down on the casket that held my world, they turned into moans, than cries, than screams. I held it together long enough to place the rose on it’s designated spot on top of the casket, then the anguish weighed so heavily on my heart that my knees buckled and gave out underneath me, and I was lost.

     Here is how they indoctrinate you into the Russian mafia: They beat you with sticks until something breaks, either the stick or you, and you can’t make a sound. One single peep and you are out. After that, they give you a small job. Running a little cocaine or transporting some AK47s. Something small that involves only a couple of years of jail time. If you succeed, you are in, but even then only conditionally. Of course, your position in the mafia is always conditional.
    Failure is not an option. I’ve known many a man to be shot for screwing up. I know because I’m often the man pulling the trigger.
    My uncle’s long time hit man was a French man named Remi Lefevre. Remi was good, but he had a lot of what some people call ‘quirks’. My uncle just called him a ‘pain in the ass lazy Frenchie’ or something along those lines. Remi was one of the best hitters in the world, but he had a lot of requirements. Sometimes, I think he just liked seeing my uncle fume as he was forced to jump through hoops. He talked with this slow, lazy drawl and smoked like a freight train. I guess we shouldn’t have been so surprised when he was diagnosed with lung cancer and succumbed within 3 months of his diagnosis. At Remi’s funeral, my uncle spat in his grave. “Lazy Frenchie bastard! You up and die on me like that! I hope you are roasting in hell right this minute!” I took it as a sign of professional respect that my uncle didn’t unzip his  pants and piss on Remi’s head.
    And so, the spot was opened up for a hit man. It was a cushy gig; my uncle paid well for someone else to take care of his dirty business. I was not short on cash by any means, but I was wanting to prove myself to my uncle. I wanted him to look at me like an equal, a member. I was tired of being spoiled and babied. I wanted Uncle Vlad to look at me and see a man, not the little boy I knew he saw now.
    I walked into his office one day and announced, “I want Remi’s job.”
    There was a minute of steely silence that stretched into two minutes, three minutes, five minutes...
    I hadn’t been nervous going in there. I had so much adrenaline pumping hot and fast through my veins that I didn’t have time to feel nervous. But, as the minutes stretched, silent and empty between us, the nerves that had been diluted with fear began to fester and bubble inside of me, until I was just at the point of turning around and walking out of his office when he spoke.
    “Vorobyshek...” he said slowly, drawing out the word like it was an unfamiliar taste on his tongue. He sat up straight and sighed. “Just tell your Uncle Vlad one thing. Why? Whatever it is that you want I will buy for you.”
    “I don’t want money, or gifts.”
    “Then you are just testing my patience, yes?”
    “No,” I gulped back the bile that rose hot and bitter in the back of my throat, “No, Uncle Vlad, this is a serious request.”
    “Oh, Vorobyshek...”
    “I want a bigger role in the brotherhood. I’m a good shot, and I know I have the strength to pull the trigger...”
    “Dimitri, stop.” This was whispered, but I stopped cold. Uncle Vlad rarely called me by my first name. He continued in a voice that was cold and dead. “You are the only family I have left to me. You have no idea how painful it was for me to bury first your father, my best friend, a man I loved like a brother, and then to have to bury my sister, the only woman I’ve ever loved. You are all I have left of both of them. You are all I have left of anything. You are the reason I get up in the morning, you are my reason for living. I have no wife, I have no children, I only have you, my Vorobyshek. If I lost you, I would be lost.”
    “Uncle...”
    “No. The answer is no.”
    “But, I know I can do it...”
    “Absolutely not. Now, leave my office. I will call you when I am calm enough to speak to you again.”
    I thought for a second about protesting, but it was only a split second. Angry, hurt, I turned and walked out of his office.
    Before my mother died, I would have come to her with my grievances regarding my Uncle Vlad. She was the best listener, she never interrupted, never judged, never scolded. She just listened quietly, and would give advice if pressed. Since I couldn’t talk to her in person, I did the next best thing.
    The grave site was so new, you could still see the lines of the sod, which was a bright, blinding green compared to the crispy brown that surrounded it. They had just placed the headstone, a grey double heart shaped chunk of marble that bore both of my parent’s names. I was told when I was little that my father never had a real funeral, my uncle was so concerned with getting my pregnant mama out of Russia as quickly as possible that he had my father cremated and the ashes scattered somewhere. I found out shortly after my mama’s passing that she had kept a ziplock baggie with a couple of handfuls of ashes in the safe. Uncle Vlad put them in a beautiful box and buried that box in my mama’s casket, according to her wishes. Under their names was written, “Divisa in terra, resumptionem in Coelis” Divided on earth, reunited in heaven.
    I raised my eyes, staring into the depths of the steely grey winter sky. I took a deep breath, and blew it out in a puff of fog. I closed my eyes and sunk to my knees, feeling the dead grass crunch under my legs, feeling the cold, frozen earth spread its chill in tendrils that climbed up my body.
    “Mama, papa,” I whispered, “Are you there?”
    I kept my eyes closed, listening to the stillness around me. Willing with my whole body to hear something, feel something. Some sign that they were there, watching me.
    “Mama, papa...” I whispered.
    Then, all of a sudden, I felt them. I can’t describe it, they were just there. Not around me, but inside me. They were speaking, not with words, but right to my core. I felt limp and woozy with the suddenness of their presence, and overwhelmed by the love and peace they filled me with. I began to weep, not tears of sadness, but tears of something more. Something that was simultaneously sweet and painful.
    “Please, please help me,” I murmured, “Tell me what to do?”
    They didn’t leave, but they didn’t respond either. I sat for a couple of minutes, just enjoying the bittersweet of the moment. Cherishing the feeling. Then, right before I was about to ask them again, I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

Why Pancreatitis SUCKS!

Diagnosis: Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction type II, which means I have all the "classic"symptoms (severe recurrent pain, nausea, and vomiting), they've eliminated more obvious diagnoses, ie cancer, hepatitis, etc, and I've had at least two cases of elevated liver functions.

Solution: A procedure called an ERCP. I don't want to explain, so here's a link.

So, basically they go in and cut the sphincter that is causing the problem, and double check to make sure there are no stones in the bile duct. I had that done Friday morning.

The Upshot - This ERCP might be the solution to all of my problems.

The Downside - A small possibility that I might develop pancreatitis and end up spending a couple of days in the hospital.

Just my luck...

I went in, had the procedure done, they got my pain under control and sent me home. I'm home for a couple of hours feeling fine, then some pain starts creeping in. So, I do what any sensible person would do and take some pain and nausea meds with some water - first and only thing I've had to "eat" since Thursday night.

A couple minutes later, I'm getting pretty uncomfortable, so I decide to hop in a warm bath to see if that makes the pain manageable until the medicine kicks in.

15 minutes since the first little nudge of pain, I'm curled up in a ball on my bathroom floor contemplating the death I feel is immanent. I crawl to my phone, speed dial my husband who let's it ring just enough to let me think my final words to him are going to be immortalized in a voicemail message, but he picks up and I scream at him to come home now because I'm dying and he needs to take me to the hospital!!

Longest car ride of my life, followed by a wait of what felt like hours. I think (and I'm not exaggerating) there were 8 kids under the age of 10 in that waiting room, and their various parents were letting them run hog wild and SCREAMING! I told Eric to take me home because I wanted to die somewhere QUIET!

Luckily, they took me back then. My doctor came in, I don't remember his name but he looked like he was fresh out of Jr High. Regardless, he was a very nice, competent doctor. They drew labs, and eventually after I had been writhing for almost two hours, they gave me pain meds and fluids.

Then, my nice doctor walked back in and said, "Your pancreas is very angry!" He informed me that a normal amylase is in the 200 range. Mine was in the 1600 range. So, yeah, angry pancreas!

They can't give me medicine to treat it. The solution is to be admitted to the hospital for a couple of days, nothing to eat or drink, massive amounts of IV fluids, and control my pain and nausea until my pancreas calms down.

I'm just thinking of my pancreas as a teenage girl, and we pissed her of by messing around in her "room" and now she is pitching a "BF" and she is grounded with no "friends" (food) or "TV" (water) until she can calm down and learn her lesson. That turned it to be a fantastic analogy.

Anyway, that is why pancreatitis SUCKS!!

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

Today is Pregnany and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I don't suppose I can let the day pass without commenting on my experience with pregnancy loss.

I've always pictured myself having kids, although I was never the girl who loved children and loved to babysit. In fact, for the most part other people's children drive me crazy. My nightmare job would be running a preschool or being a Jr. High School counsellor (which, I maintain, is THE WORST job in the world. Seriously, those people should get hazard pay!) I maintain profound respect for people who work in those positions because somebody has to do it and it ain't gonna be me!!

Regardless, I have always felt that my life would be incomplete without children of my own. Finding my soul mate just brought those feelings closer to the surface. I not only want to have children, I want to have HIS children. And then, I found out I was pregnant.

My whole outlook on life changed in an instant. All of a sudden, I had life inside of me. I was looking at milestones that would be different from now on. We would have a baby for Thanksgiving, for Christmas. We would be celebrating our one year anniversary with me being "great with child" and just a few weeks from meeting our son or daughter. My parents would be grandparents, my grandparents would be great grandparents, and my great grandparents would be great-great grandparents. I could finally have the five generation photo that I had always dreamed of having, to display next to the four generation photo that was taken when I was a small child. I was going to be a mom, Eric was going to be a dad. I thought about the baby names we had picked out, I thought about decorating a nursery, I thought about who I was going to see for the prenatal care, diapers, and car seats, and just everything that welcoming a new little life into the world would bring us.

And then, as soon as it began it ended. There would not be a little one joining us this Thanksgiving or Christmas. My five generation photo would have to be put on hold, and I had to deal with the possiblity that it may never happen. Those names we picked would go back to the shelf, unused. There was no longer life inside of me. Even though the flame of motherhood had been lit, there was no baby for us to bring home. Then, to top off the emotional heartache, was the physical pain.

Mere days after discovering our loss, I faced another blow in the unexpected loss of a friend. A young woman who was only a couple of months older than me, struck down in the prime of her life. Then, just weeks later, I found myself holding my scared little sister's hand as she heard her baby's heartbeat for the first time, and a couple of days later found out that she was 24 weeks pregnant with what would be my dearly loved little niece, Ivory. I found myself sitting on the floor of my closet, crying, mourning my loss all over again. The realization that my sister was going to have a happy, healthy, full term baby was bittersweet. I would never, ever wish a loss on anybody. On the other hand, I found myself questioning what was wrong with me that I couldn't have what she had, what billions of women have had, the joy of motherhood. Everytime my parents speak about becoming grandparents, about their grandchild, it sends a sharp sliver of hurt through me. Every time I see another friend discover she is expecting, it hurts my soul. Not because I'm not happy for those things, but because it brings into sharp relief what I lost, and what I will not be a part of.

Although my loss has caused me heartache, it has also had it's positives. I've met women who have had similar experiences, and shared their pain. I've grown closer to my husband, closer than I could've imagined. I've had a chance to reevaluate my priorities, and as important and meaningful as my education and career are to me, I have recognized my higher calling, and I will continue to work towards it.

If I can point to one thing that has helped me the most in this situation, it has been being verbal about it. I'm not changing the world, I'm not changing people's lives, but I am discovering that speaking about our trials, sharing our imperfections, our hurt and our struggles makes us stronger. Shared experiences unite us. I am not alone. And, if you, like millions of women, have experienced this loss, you are not alone.

Miracles

I was reading an article on ksl today. It was discussing a little girl in West Jordan, Sierra Newbold, and the capture of the man who raped and brutally murdered her. It was really quite a spectacular piece of police work, with not a small amount of luck, and, as the police chief so elegantly said, "I myself believe it is divine intervention."

To which, of course, people on the message boards responded without fail, "If it was divine intervention, than why didn't God intervene and prevent that stuff from happening to that girl in the first place?" Like the mindless drone of insects, it was repeated practically verbatim in every other post. If there is a God, he would never let bad things happen.

The story, in a nutshell, is this (I posted a link to the full article below, and give full credit to Pat Reavy and ksl.): Three days after Sierra's body was found, a young woman has her Jeep stolen. She reports it to the police, and also tells her boss about it. Later that day, her boss walks into a bank where she discovers her employee's stolen truck in the parking lot and the man who stole it inside robbing the bank. She confronts the man in the parking lot, and is able to capture a picture of him on her phone. West Jordan police respond to the scene. The detective who was investigating the murder of Sierra Newbold catches wind of these developments, and has a feeling that he should go to the scene of the crime. Upon arrest of the suspect for the bank robbery and car theft, the detective notices black soot on the knees of the man's pants. He remembers that the field in which Sierra Newbold's body was found had been burned a few days prior to her murder, and that her pajamas were covered in this same black soot. Going on this hunch, they run DNA and lo and behold, they have a match.

Luck? Divine intervention? Just plain old good police work? I feel that it is a combination of all of the above.

Of course, that is not the point of this blog post. I read this story and think, "Miracle." Miracle that this family could have some closure, miracle that this man is off the streets and will never harm another child again, miracle that all of the pieces fell into place and led to this man's arrest. Others see it and say, "No miracle here. The miracle would've been her not being raped and murdered in the first place."

And, you know, they are right. That is a miracle. Every six year old girl on the earth today who hasn't been kidnapped, raped, and murdered, is a miracle. Every day that passes that this little girl is allowed to continue her life, alive and unhurt, is a miracle. Every young woman who goes on a first date without getting assaulted is a miracle. Every child who is born into this world healthy and whole is a miracle. Every day the sun rises, every night the sun sets, every breath, every touch, every minute, is a miracle. How do I know this? How do I see these miracles? Because, this life isn't a given. It is because horrible things happen to good people, because people make mistakes, because some people are truly cruel and evil, that miracles happen. If no one ever got hurt, or killed, or maimed, if every pregnancy was uncomplicated and resulted in a healthy newborn who would live a full life without ever having to suffer, if everyone was guaranteed a life without pain, or heartache, or loss, without suffering, there would be no miracles.

My heart hurts for this family. It isn't fair what happened to them. I picture the last moments of this little girl's life and it makes me physically sick to my stomach. (Not that I haven't had a moment without being nauseated in the past month, but you know what I mean.) But, here are the consequences of that incident: An innocent little girl is in heaven, and never has to suffer another moment. A mother has lost a daughter. A sister has lost her best friend. A father feels the emptiness of his home. A man was captured, a man who may be responsible for other incidents such as this. These parents, who have lived without their child for years, have hope that they will find an answer, find some closure. A community is mourning. Who knows how many little girls were saved by this man's arrest. Every mother who reads this story holds her child closer. Some people installed home security systems, some people bought guns, or big dogs, to protect their family. Maybe as a result of that, a life is saved.

When you take away the bitter, you take away the sweet. The more the pendulum swings back into pain and despair, the further it can swing forward into happiness and joy. Nobody wants the bad things to happen, but without those negative experinces, there is no joy in life.

So, take a minute today to see the miracles. They are all around you. Enjoy the good moments. Because they won't last. They can't last. And that is what makes them so, so, sweet.

Here's a link to the article if you would like to read it:
http://www.ksl.com/?nid=148&sid=21194209

Hospital Part Two

Now officially admitted to the hospital and installed in my room, Eric and I decided that he should go home and sleep. He was extremely reluctant to go, but A) He had to go to work in the morning, B) The only thing he had to sleep on was a rather uncomfortable recliner and C) He couldn't really do anything for me at that point.  So, he gave me a kiss and went home.

I did not sleep well that night. I was getting pain medication regularly, and the nurse would come in to check vitals every couple of hours. At 3 am, they came in to draw liver function tests (LFTs).

Dr. Watts' PA came in that morning to talk to me. He said that since they ruled out a biliary leak, they were looking at a couple of different diagnoses. He ordered a CT scan with contrast and (to rule out constipation) a suppository. Oh boy!

For the CT I had to drink contrast. They gave me six cups with the contrast divided equally among them and they mixed it with cranberry juice. I was supposed to drink one cup every 10 minutes. It was disgusting, but since I was NPO I was grateful for something to drink. Pain meds give you such a dry mouth, and even though I was getting IV fluids pumped into me I was still insanely thirsty. Then, after a dose of Ativan (because I am extremely claustrophobic, I had a panic attack getting a DEXA scan and that is just a bar that goes over your hips and legs, let alone a tube they slide you into), they wheeled me down for the CT. I had to sit a minute because they called me down a little bit to early, so I sort of dozed in my wheelchair and tried not to fall off of it. Then, they got me on the table and ran the contrast into my IV. Holy Hannah! They told me it would make my body warm, they failed to mention it would feel like my entire being was on FIRE! And, I felt like I was peeing my pants. (For the record, I didn't.)

The suppository wasn't incredibly successful, but I didn't think it would be. I have been backed up, but not THAT badly.

The news of the day: My LFTs were still elevated, the CT scan was normal. So, on to another sleepless night at the hospital. Highlight: My amazing father-in-law bought me JK Rowling's new book, which I had to read a page at a time because that's how long it would take for the pain meds to work and put me to sleep for 45 minutes or so.

Friday, Dr. Watts came in to talk to me. He said that my LFTs were still elevated, making interesting fluctuations, but still not normal. He decided that I should have a consult with a GI. So, I waited, and waited, and waited, but the GI never came.

Highlight of Friday: My mom and my sister came by and brought my little niece, and she snuggled with me. They gave me this awesome hot pad that was heated with water that would cycle through it, so it was always the perfect temperature. It felt really nice on my belly. Ivory loved it too, because it kept her nice and toasty while I was holding her. The nurses came in to ooh and aah over her, and we had a nice long chat. It was very relaxing and I was sad to see them go.

Eric came over every night after work, but being at the hospital was really hard on him. He felt really powerless and I could tell it was painful for him to watch me be in pain. He told me that he wasn't sleeping well without me at home, and he always looked so exhausted. One day, he said that he had a really vivid dream that I came home. He could hear me come in the door, say Hi to the dog, and crawl into bed next to him. He rolled over to ask me how I got home and I wasn't there.

Saturday, Dr. Watts came in again. LFTs still elevated. I told him the GI had never come in, and he told me that they never got the hepatitis panel ordered. My mom had done some research on Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction, and it describes my symptoms EXACTLY. Nausea, vomiting, intermitant severe pain, elevated LFTs. No jaundice, no fever, normal CT. Me to a T. I asked him about it, and he ordered an MRCP. He also decided to switch pain medication because I wasn't doing well on the one I was on.

Once again, they doped me up with Ativan before the test. Thank heavens they did! Even with the Ativan, I still was panicking a little in the MRI machine. The tube they put you in is TINY and the test takes like 45 minutes. I was very uncomfortable.

Saturay my mom and Dave came in and visited. Eric came by after work. At this point, I was at the end of my rope. I was physically, mentally, emotionally drained. I started to have a lot of anxiety, and I paged the nurse. An hour later, I still hadn't seen her. That had been going on all day; I would page them because I was in pain or extremely nauseated and dry heaving into my "horse condom" as Eric lovingly calls the blue emesis bags, and it would take them an hour or so to get into my room, by which point I was very uncomfortable. So, crying, hyperventilating, I called the number of the patient advocate and blubbered out that I think they all forgot me and I was so anxious and so upset and I really, really, really needed help!

Next thing I know, I've got three nurses in my room. The charge nurse came in and talked me down. They gave me some extra buspar and got me nice and doped up so I could sleep. Eric was really upset, and understandably so. I just had a meltdown and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sunday morning, they decided to discharge me. The MRCP was normal and my LFTs were, you guessed it, elevated. But, I had gotten to the point where I was off of IV pain meds and onto oral pain meds, so even though they had no answers, I was discharged. I was relieved, I was so ready to just go home.

So, that is where I am at now. I take a big handful of pills so I can function and nothing has changed. The pain is exactly the same, the nausea is exactly the same, and I have no answers. I'm going to try to get a referral to a GI and push for some answers. I'll try to keep everyone updated on this blog.

Once again, thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers! They are very much appreciated!

Hospital Part One

It's 3:30 am and I'm wide awake. The phlebotomist just came in to draw some blood, and now that I'm up I can feel the pain and nausea, again.

As you probably know, I had my gallbladder removed. The surgery was successful and uncomplicated, and for the first week, so was my recovery.

Then, in the wee morning hours of Wednesday, I was awakened with pain. Severe pain. The kind of pain that took your breath away and just hurt like crazy no matter what you did. After a couple of minutes it faded away and I fell back asleep. Maybe 30 minutes later, I was writhing again, only to have it fade away a few minutes later. This went on for a couple of hours.

I decided to get up and see if a hot bath would ease the pain. I also took  some pain medicine. After about 45 minutes in the tub, I found myself leaning over the edge to puke in the toilet.

I teetered into my bedroom to wake my husband just in time for our alarm clocks to go off. After I started vomiting, I decided to call in at work. I was pretty upset considering I just barely started the job and I was already calling in. Since I was supposed to be at work in an hour, I told my boss that I would come in until she could find sometime. So, I put on some deodorant, gagged and threw up in the sink trying to brush my teeth, did what I could with my dang hair, then hauled my sorry behind into work. I was only there for about an hour, but I was pretty miserable.

I called and left a message for my surgeon, took my last two Lortab and some phenergan, and fell asleep. I continued to have episodes of the pain, but the meds took the edge off. I had to get up on occasion to throw up, or more accurately, dry heave since I hadn't had anything to eat or drink.

At about 1:30, Eric called to check up on me. It was perfect timing because my meds had worn out. I still hadn't heard from my surgeon's office, so I decided to go to the clinic and get a shot or an IV. While I was waiting in the lobby (which, for the record, was weird), my surgeon office called me back. They wanted me to have some labs drawn and he wanted to see me.

Ariane and Dr. Walton got me shots - toradol and zofran - and since Eric needed to work and my sister needed to get out of the house, Sylvee and Ivory took me to see the surgeon.

I saw his PA. He and Dr. Watts decided to do another HIDA scan to check for a bile leak. They told me that if the HIDA showed a leak, that I would be admitted. The labs and the HIDA were both normal. I was sent home with pain meds and no answers.

We got home at about 7:00ish. I took two percocets at about 7:30. At about 8:30, the pain hit again. A complete 10. All my other attacks lasted 5 minutes tops. Five minutes passed, no relief. I ran another hot bath. Started dry heaving, which I had been doing all day. I called for Eric. 10 minutes passed. Started to panic. Eric was sitting on the bathroom floor watching me writhe in pain in the tub and dry heaving. 15 minutes. I tried deep breathing, different positions, focusing on other things. Nothing helped. I was praying. I started moaning, Lucius started crying, Eric was visibly upset. After 20 minutes, I told him: we need to go to the hospital. Now.</p>
<p>We arrive at the ER. It took an hour to get a room. The ER doc draws some labs and discusses possibly doing a CT scan. They get an IV in, and give me some dilauded and zofran. Finally, relief!</p>
<p>Wait, my pain isn't going away. And it wasn't going away. Time passes, no relief! So they give me another dose. And I was STILL writhing in pain! The ER doc comes back in and tells me that after consulting with the on call surgeon, they decided to admit me.

I had realized that this was a possibility, and I told Eric that, but I was surprised at how surprised I was. A lot of denial, I guess.

They gave me a third dose of dilauded because I was still in a lot of pain. They wheeled me into my room where the lovely nurse gave me phenergan and toradol and acetaminophen and I finally, finally had relief 4 hours later.

I'm exhausted now, but I will post more in a couple of hours. I appreciate all of the thoughts and prayers. Every time I am feeling depressed and discouraged, I get a little reminder that there are people out there who love me and who are rooting for me to get better. Also, my new employers have been unbelievably understanding and flexible with me, and I really appreciate it!

Example

I'm the oldest child. Of course, one of these days I might get a knock on the door from a half sibling courtesy of my bio dad, in which case I will invite them in and we will have a jaw about "good ole dad" har har. And, this unknown sibling might be older than me. Until that day comes, I am the undisputed oldest child.

As such, here are the responsibilities granted to me: 1) Maintain family repudiation and honor and improve on it whenever and wherever possible. 2) Provide my parents with a "practice" child to screw up on. Do #1 despite the damage inflicted by #2. 3) When my parents get old, I am responsible for removing their keys when they can no longer safely operate motor vehicles. (My mom will probably bite my finger off. For Dave, I will wait until he falls asleep. I'd do the same for my mom, but as far as I can tell she never sleeps.) 4) When my parents are old enough to experience incontinence, I will provide and change briefs for as long as necessary to maintain dignity. Then, when they are completely senile and (hopefully) won't remember, I will be the one picking out the best home can find and make regular visits to said Home to harass the nursing staff into keeping better track of my unusually energetic mother. 5) Planning their funeral, keeping my siblings from having a complete meltdown, reading a beautiful eulogy, and keeping it all together until I get home and I'm alone. 6) Setting an example to my three younger siblings.

For the record, all my siblings are supposed to do is provide grandchildren, which Sylvee has done excellently and will be a tough act to beat. Oh, did I mention I ALSO have to provide grandchildren?!? I almost forgot: since Justin is the youngest he had the added task of being the most loved member if the family, which he does better than any kid I know! (Although, Ivory is giving him a run for his money!)

I've given significantly more thought to the first 5 items on the list than the last one. I don't know that I ever thought I would do anything with my life that would make my siblings feel the urge to follow suit. But, then, my 12 year old sister called me on the phone one day.

She had just taken an aptitude test that said she would do well working in the healthcare profession. Of course, our mom works in healthcare. But then she said, and I could hear her wiggling with excitement on the other end if the phone, "We have a job shadowing day coming up, and I would like to shadow you."

Wow. Me? She wanted to shadow me? Wow! To say I'm flattered is an understatement. I mean, I am proud of my job. I love what I do. I just never thought my younger siblings would be interested in it, or even consider for a moment following in my footsteps. But, there it is.

So, although I will continue to focus on the rest of my list (it unfortunately gets more relevant the older my parents get), I will keep this little nugget of being looked up to close to my heart. I guess being the oldest child has its perks after all!

Surgery Today!

I had to be at the hospital at 6:45 am. I checked in, got my pre surgical labs (all good), and went upstairs to get ready for surgery.

My pre-op nurse was a very nice blonde gal who had just passed her Nurse Practitioner exams and was fascinated and very impressed with my job. It took them a really long time to find a vein, she had to call in another nurse who happened to know my in-laws. The second nurse found one in my left wrist, numbed it up (YEOWCH!), and stuck me. No flash. So, since it wasn't hurting me, she played around for a little while trying to find it and finally decided it want going to go. I usually have very good veins, but I think that I was dehydrated and that makes me hard to poke.

She switched to a vein in my right hand, and got the IV placed. They had me take some very nasty tasting meds, got me shaved (wasn't expecting that, but she didn't find a lot of hair to shave off; I'm very smooth), and got the lovely, crawly compression booties on me. I turned on the TV at this point because I was starting to get really scared and needed the distraction.

My surgeon peeked his head in, said Hi, and was quickly followed by my anesthesiologist and surgical nurse. The anesthesiologist was amazing! Her name is Dr. Bearnson I believe, and she was great. My anesthesiologist for my sinus surgery was this weird guy who kept talking about buried treasure.

When she came in, I started to really freak out. As you may or may not know, a good friend of mine passed away in March after the same surgery. She was also 22. I know that something like that is a freak occurrence, but I was still terrified. So, I started to cry and hyperventilate a bit, and my anesthesiologist said, "Oh, sweetie, it's ok. I'll take care of you!" Then she said, "I have something in my pocket that will make you feel better!" It was versed, and it did the trick! They doped me up, I kissed my mom goodbye, and they wheeled me back to the OR.

Once we were there, I changed beds, got all hooked up to the monitors, and then the anesthesiologist put on an oxygen mask and said, "Pick your dream!" and I was gone.

When I woke up, I was in a LOT of pain! And, it wasn't even my tummy that hurt, it was my chest! I was saying, "My chest hurts, my chest hurts!" And the nurse was scrambling to give me pain medication. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the pain improved and I became more and more alert. They gave me some cold water (delicious!) and asked if I wanted some crackers. My mouth was so dry, I didn't want dry crackers. Then she offered me applesauce. It was cold and wet and it tasted so good; I think I can honestly say it was the best applesauce I've ever had! I swallowed my pain pills, which helped with the pain a TON (who knew?) and I was deemed ready to be returned to my mother.

I've never been so happy to see her! I was just thinking, "I'm alive! I made it! Thank you, God, for tender mercies!" I was given some sprite, cookies, and jello. When I had surgery in February, I had a lot of nausea post-op, and when I told the pre-cert nurse, she told me that they would give me a sea sickness patch behind my ear before surgery. That thing is awesome! I had zero nausea post-op, it was amazing!

I know my family and friends were praying for a speedy recovery, because it wasn't very long at all that I was ready to get up and pee! I was pretty sore in my tummy and chest still, but I was ok walking around. Not very long after that, I decided I was ready to go home. I had no nausea and my pain was very manageable, and I was starting to nod off so I figured I was ready to go home and go to bed!

My mom told me that the surgeon said my gallbladder was scarred and really sludgy, and that my common bile duct is very narrow. My whole life, my gallbladder must have been working extra hard to push bile out and it finally crapped out. It was great to hear that, because my tests weren't very obviously gallbladder and the main reason I had surgery is because I had textbook symptoms. I will admit I was nervous that they would go in there and find a perfectly healthy gallbladder and I would have no answers and no relief. But, it turns out it really did need to be removed, and hopefully I will be feeling much better in the future.

I still have a lot of recovering to do, but I'm doing a lot better today than I thought I would. I've been up and walking around, which they say is the best thing for the chest pain. A big, big thank you for those who were praying for me. I know that those prayers were heard and answered because I am doing so well and the surgery went so well without any complications. (My Grammie must've been praying because she is so good, God always listens to her, lol!) Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you all!!

New Job!

Way, way back in February/March, I applied for a job. I saw it listed on craigslist, I was qualified, and it was a pay raise. I figured it wouldn't hurt, but that I probably wouldn't get it.

The company is called On Site, and what they do is they work with big companies to open clinics that are for the employees of that company and their families. The goal is to save money and provide better healthcare for these employees. The job would be a medical assistant at a clinic inside of Blendtec, a company that manufactures and distributes high quality blenders. (You can watch their "Will it Blend?" videos on YouTube.)

They called. I had a phone interview, I had an interview with the office manager, I had an interview with the CEO and medical director of On Site, I had an interview with the provider at the clinic, and a group interview with the president of Blendtec, the liason between Blendtec and On Site, the CEO of On Site and the provider, and a working interview. And, after all of that, I got an email saying I didn't get the position.

I was crushed! Throughout the whole interview process, I had really fallen in love with the job and with both companies. I loved On Site's commitment to affordable patient care, I loved Blendtec's focus on providing a healthy working environment to their employees and the way that they provided for the needs of the whole person. I loved the clinic, it was so beautiful and clean.

But, I didn't get the job. So, I licked my wounds, I picked up where I left off, and life continued.

About two or three weeks ago, I got a call. It was On Site, and they were wondering if I was still interested! Perhaps if it had been a different job at a different company, I would have said No, but I was so impressed with both organizations and I felt very strongly that I wanted to be a part if their team. On Wednesday, I got the news that I was finally, finally being offered the position, and I gladly accepted!

I am very, very exited to embark on this new adventure! On the other hand, I am sad to be leaving the clinic. I will miss my coworkers, I will miss seeing my father in law every day (although we will most likely be over at the house to visit more often now), and most of all, I will miss my patients. Yes, even the ones that drive me crazy! I love them all, and I am honored that I was able to help improve their lives, even if it was only in a small way.

Of course, now I will be moving on to a new set of patients, and a new group of people I can help, even if it's only in a very small way. As Walt Disney said in one of my favorite movies of all time, "We keep moving forward." Forward I go onto the next adventure!!

Sick!!

I've had a lot of people ask what's been going on with me, so I thought I would share what has been happening up to this point.

In the wee morning hours of Friday, I was awakened with severe abdominal pain and nausea.
I discovered my mom was awake. After a brief consultation, I threw up, and decided it was time to go to the ER.

The beautiful, kind, amazing ER nurse (I think her name was Donna) gave me some IV fluids, zofran, and dilauded. I'd never had dilauded before, so that was an experience!

They drew labs, which we all normal except a slightly elevated white blood cell count, which could mean something, could mean nothing. I had an abdominal ultrasound, which was normal. They sent me home with meds and an appointment to have a HIDA scan done on Tuesday.

I diligently took my medication, but I was still having pain and by the time 4 hours was up, I would start with the severe pain and vomiting again. When I shot out of bed at 1:30 to throw up a glass of water, I decided to go back to the ER. I had taken my pain and anti emetics 3 hours before, and was still having pain and nausea and vomiting.

Thus began what I like to call The Worst ER Visit EVER! They gave me a GI cocktail, which I promptly vomited back up. Oral zofran, still vomiting, so now oral phenergan, which the ER doctor said, "If you can't keep that down, we will give you a suppository!" And laughed.

Hello? Where's my IV fluids? And, for heck's sake, can't we try injecting three phenergan before you shove it up my butt?

After four hours, one abdominal xray, and no IV, I was sent home feeling just as crummy as I did when I arrived, except now I had a prescription for carafate. Which I have thrown up every time I take it.

Later on Saturday, my amazing angel if a father in law gave me some IV fluids and IV zofran, after which I was able to eat. Who knew what a difference eating and not throwing it up would make?

I slept the rest of the weekend and took my pills. Every morning, I would wake up hoping and praying that I would feel better. So far, nothing.

Yesterday, I tried to work. That was a disaster. I didn't take anything except the carafate and some Tylenol, and by the time the morning was over I was in tears. Dr. Bingham gave me more IV fluid and zofran, and my amazing husband made pork cops for dinner, which I was able to eat. Hallelujah!!

This morning, I had my HIDA scan done. Nothing to eat or drink and no pain medication for 6 hours. They injected a radioactive tracer into my vein, and we watched for an hour as my gallbladder lit up like the sun on the screen. Actually, we watched Criminal Minds. Shemar Moore is a great distraction when you are very uncomfortable...

The tech was waiting for the tracer to start to move from my gallbladder into my small intestine, which never happened. After the hour was up, she gave me a medicine that is supposed to make my gallbladder contract and release bile into my small intestine. 4 or 5 minutes after she started running the medicine, I started to get extremely nauseated. A couple of minutes later, I was in horrible pain. I started to wonder what the procedure was for vomiting, and tried to breathe through the nausea. At one point, I started crying because it hurt so bad. I couldn't really move, but my hands were clenched and I kept wriggling my feet and just tried to breathe through it.

Overall, a pretty miserable experience.

Eventually the pain and nausea faded, and I was all disconnected and sent home. We are waiting on the results, which will hopefully come tomorrow.

In the meantime, I feel craptastic. Hopefully, I will get some answers, but right now it's looking like surgery is still on the table. Thoughts and prayers are always appreciated, and I will try to keep everyone updated!

Ivory Marie

Here is her birthday story, as told from my perspective:

I called Sylvee one morning when she was about 38 weeks along. She answered the phone saying, "I was just going to call you!" and went on to tell me that she had been having contractions all night. They were about 5-7 minutes apart and about 90 seconds long. We walked around the mall, had some crepes, then went to Labor and Delivery. They sent her home.

This pattern continued for the next two weeks! The contractions never stopped, but she wasn't dilating. Her due date came, and it went, and still no baby! The night of August 10th, she went into Labor and Delivery once more. They gave her morphine and sent her home to sleep, but she didn't sleep. She was up all night laboring. I got a phone call at about 9 am from my mom saying, "We are going to the hospital!" I just had a feeling that this was it, my mom probably did too because she called me. I got up, took a shower, got dressed, kissed my hubby, and I was out the door. My mom texted me to tell me that Sylvee was about a 3 and 1/2, and 80% effaced.

I arrived at the hospital to find Sylvee in panic mode. She was "Oooing" through contractions, but it was really high pitched and her face was all wrinkled up. I knew that she was tensing up and that she would get relief if she just relaxed. I started doing her Hypnobabies cues, but she was still so tense. She started to cry, and say she couldn't do it. My mom looked her in the eye and very calmly told her that she could do this, she wanted to do this, and that she wasn't alone. The nurse offered her some Fentanyl to take the edge off. She checked her and this time she was at a 4 and 1/2 and 100% effaced! So she was officially in labor.

After that, Sylvee calmed down a lot and we were able to get through her contractions. I was usually by her head, giving her the "Release" cue and reading the scripts. Jack would hold her hand and just be a comforting presence. Mom was usually down rubbing her thighs and her feet. We would switch around occasionally, but that was what we did the majority of the time.

Dr. Juchau came in and broke her water. She labored so well through the rest of the day, but at about 6:00, she hadn't progressed past a 6 and her cervix was starting to swell. I think that that news discouraged her, because she kind of fell apart then. They put in a monitor that measured the intensity of the contractions, and they weren't strong enough to let her progress. They gave her some Pitocin. By that point, she was tired, we were tired, the Fentanyl wasn't working anymore, and she was looking at possibly having a C-section if she didn't start progressing. We talked it over, and she decided to get an epidural.

By that point, she had labored for about 20 hours after having regular contractions for about 2 weeks and she was just exhausted. She got the epidural, and she relaxed a lot. Jack took a nap, mom did some crocheting, Sylvee and I talked for a little while until she fell asleep, then I just stared at the monitors. I was getting a little anxious and cranky because all I had eaten all day was a scone and a turkey salad, so I went to the cafeteria and got some hot tea. When I came back upstairs, Dr. Juchau had just come in to check Sylvee and she just had a little lip. He let her labor for about a half an hour then checked her again. She was complete!

The nurse and the resident, Dr. Black, came in and started getting things ready for pushing. I held Sylvee's left leg, mom had her right, and Jack was by her head, holding her hand and supporting her. She pushed through two or three contractions and all of a sudden, she was crowning! I thought it would take a lot longer, and so did the nurse. She got Dr. Juchau, and he got everything set up. She pushed through a couple more contractions, then Dr. Black was "at bat". A couple more pushes, and the head just popped out! We could see a ton of black hair. Out popped an arm, out popped another arm, then WOOSH! Dr. Black pulled her out and held her up for Jack to see.

"It's a girl... I think..."

Yes, it was a beautiful baby girl! They plopped her right on mommy's chest. She didn't really cry, just kind of whined a little bit. They had to suction her out a because she was so gunky. She was 7 lbs 11 oz, 20 inches long. Sylvee and Jack had picked out names when she found out she was pregnant, for a girl they picked Ivory Marie.

I went to go look at her, and my first impression was that she looked just like Sylvee! She got Jack's long fingers and long feet and his lips and chin, but the rest of the face is all Sylvee!

Here is me holding her for the first time:

And here is Eric holding her the next day:

All in all, mom and baby are both healthy and happy. Daddy is happy, too. And, I am a very proud auntie of a very beautiful little girl!

Why Being a Perfectionist Sucks

My mom is seriously the most amazing woman I know. I know this because she raised me into adulthood without killing me or herself. I was not, I repeat, NOT an easy kid to raise. I was, how do you say, awful. Just rotten. Someday, I will have a kid just like me, and I'm not sure that either of us will get out of that situation intact.

Anyway, my mom, raising me, she put up with a lot. One thing that she (and I) had to deal with was my perfectionism. Being a perfectionist sucks. It sucks because nothing you ever do is good enough, because nothing you ever do is perfect. Your goal is unattainable. Other people will look at the things you do and be satisfied or even impressed, while you look at the same thing and see every little mistake in glaring detail. It would have a much simpler life if I could just let go of that need to be perfect and enjoy my life as it is. I'm making progress. Slowly but surely.

The thing that I think has been the hardest for me is school. I love school. I love learning new things. I love expanding my mind. I love having intellectual conversations and learning new words and conquering new challenges. I find the whole process very satisfying, EXCEPT when I fall behind. This last block was really, really hard for me. I was really sick the first couple of weeks of it, and since the classes were only 7 weeks long, I was immediately very behind and at a disadvantage. When I got into the class, I landed in a pile of assignments and concepts up to my knees. My knee jerk reaction was to be extremely overwhelmed, fall apart, cry, and crawl into a black hole. I decided instead to be very overwhelmed and do my best to trudge through it all.

There was one assignment in my English class that I really, really struggled with. I was supposed to be writing a synthesis using two readings that the professor chose for us. I got the reading, got into it, and realized I didn't understand it. Physics. More specifically, Stephen Hawking describing the Uncertainty Principle. I read those two pages over and over and over and over again and I just didn't get it. It was too abstract. I couldn't wrap my brain around it. My mind was rejecting it. I tried not to panic, I kept telling myself, 'I will look at it again tomorrow and maybe it will make more sense. I will sleep on it, then I'll wake up and I'll understand it.' Nope. No such luck. So close, but no cigar!

So, after doing this for a couple of weeks and finishing all the rest of my homework and taking all of my tests, I came to my English professor with my tail between my knees and admitted that I didn't do the assignment because I just couldn't understand it. Then, the word 'procrastinator' got thrown out there, as well as the words, "You got a B," and yes, I started to cry. In my defense, I did just start my period today and I've been dealing with the fact that if Kat was still here she would be turning 23 today, and just thinking about how much I miss her. Still, here I am, an adult woman, standing in a classroom in front of my English professor, crying. I started blubbering how this isn't like me and that I'm usually pretty smart and I'm a good writer and I don't usually put things off and I tried really hard but I failed and, and, and...

I think I scared him, because he said, "Oh, no, you are doing fine. You are doing good work."

And I say, "No, I didn't. I got a B!" See where the perfectionist rears her ugly head? I'm standing there crying because I felt like a failure. Because I got a B. Because I don't understand quantum mechanics. Because I usually do so much better, and I didn't. I didn't do a good job, I just screwed the whole thing up. And here's where the really negative thoughts come in: What if I'm not smart enough to get into the nursing program? What if I'm just not good enough to be a nurse, and I'm deluding myself into thinking that I could ever aspire to be one? Because in my mind, a B just isn't good enough. I don't even like A- that much. Actually, I hate A-. That little minus sign makes me crazy! The only way I'm going to be good enough is if I always gets As. I always do my job right. I always make dinner and it's always delicious. If my patients are ever upset, I'm a horrible Medical Assistant. If my husband is unhappy for any reason, I'm an awful wife. And, if I don't understand an assignment and I get a B in class, I may as well just drop out of college because I am so, so stupid!

So, after I sob like a two year old in class, I find myself sitting in my car, presenting myself with the verbal beating I had listed above. And that really is the nice version, it got much worse. In the midst of me verbally berating myself, my mom suddenly pops into my head. She just calmly says, "NaRhea, did you do your best? Did you try? All I want from you is for you to do your best. If it was hard and you did it anyway, that is a success."

This block was hard. Really hard. Maybe if I only had one class, it would've been easier. Maybe if I hadn't had the migraine from hell at the start of the block, it would've been easier. Maybe if these past 7 weeks I was at 100%, or even 90%, I would've gotten better grades. I wanted to give up at the very first. I wanted to just walk away, because the amount of work being presented to me coming in late was so overwhelming. And then, there is just the rest of my life that I have to deal with. I don't want to sit here and make excuses as to why I didn't get As this block, but I'm just so hard on myself all of the time and I need to cut me some slack.

This is me saying something to myself that I don't believe I've ever said before: You are allowed some screw ups. You are allowed a block where you got Bs instead of As. You know that you are smart, you know that you usually do really well in school. You know that you will do better next semester. Right now, just enjoy the fact that you finished this semester. And, remember, if you had just given up like you wanted to do so many times, you would have Fs instead of Bs. And Bs are so much better than Fs! You worked really hard this block and you really did a good job, all things considered. So (this is my mom talking now, I can hear her saying it), Stop crying, take a bath, and go to bed. Fall semester is a whole new page, a clean slate, and you will do better then, I promise.

Ok, mom. I'm getting in the bath now...

The Other Shoe

As human beings, we have the amazing ability to rebound from terrible things. I have a patient, I love her to death. This incredible woman has been through so much.  In a few short years, she lost her mother, two fiancees, and most recently her only daughter.

Despite all of this, she gets out of bed in the morning. She takes care of her dad and her son. Believe it or not, she still smiles sometimes. I admire her so much. The fact that she had had to bury so many people that she loved in such a short period of time, and yet she survives. It is truly a testament to the strength of the human spirit.

Sometimes, when life gives us a blow, we fall, we scramble back onto our feet, but even though we are upright, we are now tense, guarded. We are waiting for the other shoe to drop. We have lost our faith. Not totally, our else we would still be on the ground, but we are not the same.

Any woman who experiences a miscarriage will tell you that subsequent pregnancies had her living in fear. Living, yes. Going through the day to day, but with that nagging fear constantly in her mind. What if it goes wrong again? Its sad, because her innocence is lost. She had lost the ability to enjoy her pregnancy without fear.

I can't eliminate this fear. When I get pregnant again, it is something I have to live with. But, I make the vow here and now to do everything in my power to keep that fear from keeping me from enjoying my pregnancy. Because, I don't think it will hurt less if I'm resigned to something going on, and I do know that if I spend my whole pregnancy anxious about a complication and having everything turn out fine, that that will be 9 months I spent worrying for nothing when I could've been enjoying it.

So, I'm going to ignore the other shoe, keep my head up, and keep moving forward.

Sisters

Sisters. I have two. As the oldest child, I feel particularly protective of them. Maybe its because I have no older siblings to go to bat for me, or maybe its just because we are siblings. I love them both.

Since I am the oldest child and the span between myself and my brother is pretty big, I've had the unique experience of watching them grow up and, for the youngest two, remembering all of it.

Because of the situation surrounding our births, there is a fascinating phenomenon with the personalities of my sisters. I am very clearly the oldest, Justin is very clearly the youngest and the only boy. In the middle, though, it gets blurry. Sylvee is both the middle child and the youngest, Talia is the middle child and the oldest. So they picked up traits from each side.

Sylvee is generally the most easy going. She is like our mom, dreamy, creative, non confrontational. She will make an amazing stay at home mom, though knowing Sylvee she will start a business from home and strike it rich. She is probably the quietest of us all, and is often the one that slips through the cracks. There are times in my life that I wondered if she still lived with us, such is her way of just slipping quietly off and doing her own thing.

Talia is a firecracker wrapped in a cute little girl with freckles. She has attitude cleverly hidden up her sleeve, but always ready to crack out and bite you. I've been eagerly waiting her teenage years since she turned two, because I knew I would be out of the house and in a perfect place to observe my parents attempting to handle the whirling dervish. She is smart, driven, and passionate, like me, but where my gumption is on full display, hers is discretely wrapped in candy coating.

I can't say I ever fought with any of my siblings. I credit the age gap of the younger two and Sylvee's congeniality for that. No, I would say the thing I regret is the fact that, growing up, I ignored them. I didn't fight with them, but I didn't spend time with them either. It has been almost 4 years since I left home (time flies!) and they are all growing up without me.

Now I see my two sisters staring down at some pretty heavy duty obstacles, and my protective instinct rears its fearsome head. The truth of the matter is that I am powerless to help them. And, frankly, they don't really need my help. They have become two strong, beautiful young women and they are armed to the teeth to do battle with their trials. You can thank my parents for that, they have done a wonderful job of raising us to be strong and independent.

There is nothing in the world like a sister. I adore my baby brother, don't get me wrong, but the way I feel about him is completely different than the way I feel about my sisters.

I love them very much.

Hair!

Today, my little sister got married. She was radiant, everything went extremely well, and even though there was some stress involved, all in all it was a beautiful celebration of family, friends, and love.

This was also the first wedding ceremony I have been to since Eric and I got married, and seeing Sylvee and Jack's love made me fall even more in love with my amazing husband!

However, there was something brought to my attention today that I think is very important. It involves being a girl in the midst of puberty and being a teenager, and also hair.

My hair is curly. That is an understatement. My hair is fine, but there is a lot of it. And if you just add some water, it turns into these teeny, tiny ringlets. A billion of them!

I love my hair. I love playing around with it, I love sproinging my curls. This love, however, is a very recent thing. It wasn't until I was about 17 or 18 when I realised that I love my hair. Up until then, I HATED it. LOATHED it.

Today, I found my 12 year old sister in distress about her hair. Her hair is fine like mine, and mostly straight but if you get it wet and add a little water it gets really wavy. Very cute. But, here she is, sitting in the bathroom, crying because she, like the millions of 12 year old girls before her, hates her hair.

Of course, this is about so, so, so much more than hair. This is about young women everywhere struggling to love themselves. This is about body image, self esteem. This is about giving these young girls the gift of confidence. Loving yourself means so much. Without first loving and accepting ourselves, we can't truly share our love for others. Without that good self image, we resort to things that are destructive. I was 12 when my eating disorder began, and unfortunately that is a very common time for that disorder to manifest itself.

Young women, and some young men, are dying because they can't figure out how to love themselves. They are dying because they think they are fat and ugly. And, it isn't much of a stretch to say that sometimes, they are dying because they hate their hair.

I challenge you all to find one thing about your physical appearance that you dislike, and figure out a way to accept it, and perhaps even admire it. No changing it, just accepting whatever it is exactly the way it is. And, if you are a parent of a young woman, I would encourage you to talk about body image with her. And, whenever possible, tell yourself, your daughter, or even a stranger, how much you love their hair.

My Best Friend

Saying, "I married my best friend," is very cliched. I mean, everybody says that. Everybody.

So, let's think about it. What qualities do you look for in a good friend? Or, I should say, what qualities do I look for in a friend, because it's my life I'm writing about after all. But, you all can play along.

First and foremost, I am attracted to people who share my sense of humor. It's sick and twisted, intelligent, ironic, occasionally mature themed, and perhaps 5-6 degrees off center. The people who share this off-beat sense of humor are people I tend to connect to very quickly. People who don't laugh at my jokes, well, I can live without!

Intelligence ranks high with me. I have a very low tolerance for stupid people, very, very low. It's not like I hang out with geniuses all day, I don't, but people of a similar intelligence level as myself I find more likeable.

Belief systems are very important, although this does not in any way confine me to people who are LDS. In fact, there are people who are LDS who I feel do not share the same belief system of myself AT ALL! Basically, I believe that if people are kind to others, who constantly strive to better themselves, and who consistently make efforts to make the world we live in a better place, those people will be rewarded in the next life. Whether they worship Buddah, read the Talmut, or worship outside of an organized religion. People who are judgmental, who are cruel, who don't use what they have to help people in need, these people are not my friends.

I like people who share my common interests, but I also like people who have new interests to share. Sometimes they stick, sometimes they don't, but I always enjoy trying new things! (And, I like people who like to try new things!)

Finally, there is loyalty. A person who will stand by you no matter what. Someone who is your friend when you laugh, and when you cry. When the going get's rough, your true friends show!

So, how does Eric stack up?

Sense of humor? Triple check! He always makes me laugh. He e-mails me jokes, most of which I just roll my eyes at, all of which I laugh at. He loves it when I make jokes too. The other thing I love is that when either of us tries out a joke that isn't funny, we are honest with each other, we say, 'That joke SUCKS!' and offer advice on how to fix it!

Intelligence? Eric and I often have intellectual debates that end with one or the other (or both) of us Googling the answer. We are about 50/50. The best part is, he never rubs it in my face when I'm wrong, and I do the same for him. Because it's not about who is right or wrong, it's all about the conversation. And, we usually work in some jokes!

Belief system? We are so sympatico on that one! We occasionally have deep, philosophical conversations. During these talks, we often discover that we believe the same thing, we just call it something different!

Interests? Many common interests that we've shared from day one. We both love the outdoors, camping, hiking, National Parks. We also both love spicy food, dogs, cuddling on the couch, sushi and BYU sports. (BYU basketball+Jimmer Fredette+sushi=BEST.FIRST.DATE.EVER!) Eric has introduced me to riding motorcycles, Futurama, and bluegrass concerts. I have introduced him to Indian food, Monk, and the symphony. Together, we discovered a love of dressing up our 8lb dog.

Loyalty? Who can count how many times he's kissed away my tears, listened to me vent, cried with me? He has stuck with me when I've been tired and hungry and cranky. He is often the first to hear of my successes, as well as my failures. He loves me even when I'm driving him crazy!

So, can I say that Eric is my best friend? Absolutely, unequivocally, and unconditionally YES.

I married my best friend, and I love him more than the world!

Isn't he SEXY?! :D

My Friend

I have a friend, Shelley. Her husband's name is Trevor, and their son's name is Luke.

Luke was born at 41 weeks gestation, he is a beautiful baby boy, and his spirit was taken to heaven before his mother delivered his body on this earth.

Shelley is my friend. I sometimes call her the coolest person I never met. I "met" Shelley through my darling sister in law, Katie, who met Shelley through the similar experience of having an angel baby. Because of Katie, I started reading Shelley's blog, and eventually "friended" her on Facebook. I have never met her in real life, and now that she has moved across the country from me, I probably won't meet her face to face any time soon.

But, I follow her blog like a raving fanatic, because as I read it I think, "It's as though she is taking the words out of my brain and putting them in her blog!" She is intelligent, passionate, eclectic, and beautiful inside and out. And so am I.

All joking aside, I recently read one of her posts that touched me. And more than I am usually touched when I read her blog. This post was about how she is dealing with her fear during her current pregnancy. The thing that I think is most inspiring about it is how very, very real it is. She doesn't sugar coat it, she doesn't withhold her thoughts or feelings. It is raw, and real, and that is really a beautiful thing.

I want to share it because regardless of the situation, we all experience fear in our lifetimes. Sometimes, it is irrational, sometimes it is a consequence of a previous action, always it is something we can overcome. The important thing about fear is to not let it govern our lives, EVER! Shelley is scared. She is scared something will go wrong. She is scared to experience the same heartache she felt when she lost Luke. She is scared she will forget, and she is scared she will remember. She's scared, but she is doing it anyway. And that is why Shelley is an incredible woman, and my personal hero.

Here is the link.
Enjoy!

A big thanks and a huge cyber HUG for Shelley, for letting me share her story!