I See You

I know what you're feeling. 

I know you think you're invisible, but I see you. I notice more than you realize. 

You probably feel like nobody would ever speak to you if you didn't speak to them first. 

I know how hard you try to connect with people, only to feel shut out and unimportant, and like everyone else connects so easily. 

I know that the people you wish you could truly matter to, those whom you truly want to connect with, never seem to feel that way about you.

You go out of your way to show how much you care, to pay attention and be present, and it's never enough. So you try even harder, even though you know that whatever connection you do make won't be enough for you.  You'll want more than the others can give.

And then you pull away, and put on the armor that feels like your favorite pair of perfectly worn-in jeans.

I understand this all too well, because I've lived this my whole life. This is my reality every single day- the struggle of finding where I belong.

I wear the same mask as you- the one with bright colors, and a painted on smile. The one that belies the loneliness and fear that hides beneath. 

I've worn that mask for years, because letting anyone see the truth would make me feel weak and pathetic, and nobody wants to be around a pathetic mess. So I stand in the periphery, pretending I am content to be passed up and unseen by most. All the while wishing for what never seems to come my way.

Some days, it's just too much, and I just want someone to notice me, without me having to say a word. Some days I need to matter, and it's soul crushing when I don't. I tell myself that I don't care. But I do care. I care too much. 

It's not our fault, you know. We didn't do anything wrong. It was the  circumstances we were thrust into that filled our heads with the garbage we tell ourselves. 

It's the pain from the broken shards of our hearts that makes it almost impossible for us to open up and trust, even though we want to so badly. 

It's the years of feeling forgotten and invisible that has caused this insatiable need to be noticed.

Where we came from, and the things we've endured are not our fault. But we do control where we stand today, and where we are headed.

I am not a sum of the disappointments I felt growing up. I continually tell myself that I can no longer give the garbage in my head power over who or what I am today. 

I am no less than anybody else.

The biggest truth I have to constantly remind myself of, is that while I am in my head screaming that I want to be noticed, other people are in their heads, shoveling through their own piles of trash. 

I don't own pain and sadness. And when I feel like nobody sees me, I have to remind myself that it's not about me- that maybe their garbage is consuming them, just like mine is consuming me.

I am not any more damaged than anyone else in this world, and neither are you. 

We are all beautifully broken. 

Forgotten

I was raised by my dad and my stepmother. My stepmom has been a part of my life since just before my 2nd birthday, and I call her mom. 

My birth mother was in my life sporadically at best- she was an absentee mother. That I remember, I never even called her mommy or mom, I only called her by her first name. 

I would go years without hearing anything from her- no birthday cards, no letters, no phone calls. Nothing. Then, out of the blue, she would call, and promise to come see me, or tell me she was sending me a present, and time after time, I was disappointed.  

Sometimes she would ask me to come stay with her for awhile, and part of me desperately wanted to. She was a stranger to me though, and I was too scared... too hurt... too afraid of hurting the parents who raised me, to say that I wanted to go see her. It was an impossible situation for a child to be put in. 

I grew up feeling unwanted and unloved by the one person in the entire world who was supposed to love me beyond all else. I was pretty sure she didn't even remember when my birthday was. I learned early that I didn't matter, and that I was easily forgotten. 

I also have three (half) siblings who were raised by my birth mother- two of whom I hadn't seen for close to 30 years, and one who I had never met- until a weekend in 2008.

My maternal grandmother passed away on August 18, 2008. She was the only person on that side of my family who ever kept in touch with me. She would write me letters occasionally, and she sent me birthday and Christmas cards every year. She always included ten or twenty dollars, even after I reached adulthood. I told her she didn't need to, but she insisted that I buy myself a treat with the money. It was cute, and it meant everything to me that I was important to her.

One day, I received a call from a maternal aunt (whom I had never spoken to before) letting me know Grandma had passed away, and when the funeral would be. I was shocked that anyone even remembered that I existed, let alone thought to call to inform me. My aunt said she came across my phone number in Grandma's address book.

I felt sad and gave her my condolences, but I wasn't planning to go to the funeral. I had never been part of that family, and I felt like I would be an intruder during a private family time- their time to grieve and say goodbye. 

I had also just lost my Dad two months prior, and was still grieving over him. I felt a sharp pang of guilt at the thought of attending the funeral, and seeing that side of my family, as if it would be some sort of betrayal to him.

Things changed when the phone rang again, about an hour later. This time it was my older brother. I have vague memories of playing with my brother when we were small (we're 11 months apart) and I have a few photographs, but we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since 1980. The memories seemed more like a fading dream that I couldn't quite recall.

I always carried my brother in my heart, and so desperately wished he could be part of my life. I had hoped that he remembered me all those years, but I honestly figured that he had forgotten all about me. I assumed they had all forgotten about me. 

To say I was shocked when Nathan called is putting it mildly. He asked me if I would come to the funeral. I instantly wanted to go, but I didn't want to seem too eager. I told him I would consider it, but I couldn't make any promises.

After some careful consideration, and discussion with my husband, we decided to make the drive from San Diego to Phoenix. 

I was terrified to see the family I had lost so long ago- the family that seemed to have forgotten that I even existed. But I wanted to say goodbye to my grandmother. More than anything though, I wanted a glimpse of the family I had missed out on for so many years. 

I decided to go to the funeral, but I was just going to sit in the back and observe. I wasn't planning to speak to anyone, because I didn't want to cause any drama at an already emotional time. 

As I sat in the back of the chapel, I watched the people who filled the room. I searched their faces, looking for some resemblance to myself- looking for eyes and noses and hair like mine. I assumed I was related to a lot of them (which I was) but I didn't know a soul. It was such a strange feeling. 

And then I saw her. I recognized my birth mother instantly, and I was quickly able to piece together who my brothers and sister were.

I sat in my seat and watched my long lost family interact with each other- support each other, hold each other, and cry with each other. I felt numb, and sad, and so very lost.

I could see the love that they had for each other. A love that I had never been included in. It felt like a dagger right in my heart. 

I watched my birth mother hold and cuddle one of her granddaughters, and I felt a twinge of sadness and jealousy for a moment. Jealousy seemed an odd feeling for a 36 year old to be feeling, but I couldn't remember ever feeling that type of love and affection from her, and it was something that I had wanted from her for so long.

My heart broke as I watched Nathan sob uncontrollably as he stood over Grandma's casket. They were very close as he grew up. She was there for him a lot of times through his tumultuous childhood, when no one else was, including my birth mother. 

I waited until after the services were over, and then summoned the courage to introduce myself to Nathan. Actually, it was more like I was pulled to him. I had an overwhelming urge to comfort him, and I had no choice but to go to him. I was following behind him, and I called his name. He stopped and turned around, and said, "yeah, what?"  

His face showed no sign that he recognized me. For a split second, I considered just offering my condolences for his loss, and then racing to my car. I wanted out of there so badly!

Instead, I walked closer to him, and said "Hi. I'm Lisa." I could barely get my voice out. 

The little sister whom I had only met one time before was standing next to him, and she audibly gasped when I introduced myself. Nathan instantly bear-hugged me, and started sobbing again.

I also met my younger brother for the first time, and an aunt, and a couple of nieces. As we talked, my sister just kept grinning from ear to ear every time we made eye contact. It was heartwarming, and surprising, to see that she was happy to see me.

My birth mother was standing just a few feet away from this scene, where all four of her children were together for the very first time. But I couldn't go talk to her. I couldn't be the one to reach out to her. The hurt little girl inside of me needed her to come to me, to show me that she wanted me. I shouldn't have had to be the one to chase after her.

I stood there, both hoping and terrified that she would come to me, but instead she walked away. 

In that moment, I was slightly relieved that she didn't come over to me. I had no idea what I would have said to her anyways. Then I decided that I had made a mistake introducing myself.  I started to convince myself that I made an already upsetting time worse. I wished I had stayed in the shadows, and left quietly like I had planned.

But as we drove away from the cemetery, I was suddenly flooded with feelings of heartbreak and hurt. All of the feelings from my childhood, that had been kept under lock and key for so many years, came spilling out.

When she walked away from me that day, she showed me once again that I was unwanted and unworthy of her love. It was like being abandoned for a second time.

I found myself at a fork in the road that day. I had an opportunity to stay in touch with my siblings, and to finally get to know them.  Would I take the path that included my siblings, and possibly my birth mother? Or would I wait another 30 years to see them? I wanted to get to know my brothers and sister. I have always wanted to know them. The adults in our lives failed us though. It should have been important to them to make sure we had a relationship with each other.  

However, I wasn't sure I was ready to have my birth mother in my life, and I wasn't sure she even wanted to be in my life anyways.

I was terrified to take the risk, because I didn't know if my heart could survive more rejection from her.

Edited to add: Despite the unbelievably sad tone of this piece, this event was the beginning of my journey into forgiveness.  The path has been filled with bumps along the way, and moments that I wanted to give up- plus I discovered that forgiveness is often fluid. I have learned so much about myself, and I have become a better person, and a better mother, so I wouldn't change a thing that has happened.

Some Stuff I Hate

The last post I wrote was called "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things."  It was fun, so I thought for this one, I would flip it, and give you a list of some stuff I hate.

So, without further ado...

I hate coffee. The smell, the taste... I can't stand any of it. If the aroma is especially strong, it sometimes makes me gag. Nothing like a good dry heave in Starbucks!

I despise the drop-off/pick-up line at my kids' schools. I refuse to drive into the parking lots at their schools, because the other parents (and the teenagers at the high school) drive like assholes. I park on the street and make the kids walk. I don't think it will kill them.

I deplore being lied to in any way. I really don't even like the little white lies people tell to try to spare someone's feelings.  I would rather you be brutally honest with me, instead of being fake.

I hate fake people.

Cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. Barf.

I loathe judgmental people. I know, I know... we all judge sometimes.  But if you're hateful and holier-than-thou in your judging of others, I really don't like you. Wait. Does that make me judgmental?

My lack of self confidence.

People who don't know how to turn the clicking sound off on their iPhone, and then type a dissertation on their phone in a quiet waiting room. Like the lady sitting across from me right now.

I have an extreme dislike for folding cold laundry. Actually, I cannot fold laundry unless it's warm. I'll restart the dryer over and over and over again if I have to. OCD anyone?

Hmmm... I'm sure there's more stuff I hate, but that's all I can think of for now.  So tell me, what do you hate?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

(Did anyone else read the title in the singing voice of Julie Andrews?)

I stole the idea for this post from a funny lady who writes a blog called Never Fry Chicken When You're Naked. That's pretty good advice if you ask me. It's good advice even if you don't ask me.

Anywhooo... In no particular order, these are a few of my favorite things. 

Sleeping in on the weekend. Although, thanks to my minions, it rarely happens. But when it does, it's heavenly. 

Going to Target.... ALONE.  I get precious little time to myself. Shopping is pretty much it, and I don't even get to do that by myself very often.  So when I have the opportunity, I'll walk the aisles slowly and daydream about all the things I would buy for myself, if I wasn't buying 73 boxes of cereal and 194 boxes of granola bars. Tragic, I know. 

Reading a good book. 

Going to the fabric store. I'm still a beginner in the art of sewing, but I love walking through the fabric store. All the colors, patterns, and textures bring me so much joy. 

Listening to my kids laugh. And don't tell anyone, but I actually kinda like it when they're sarcastic little assholes to each other- as long as it's not mean spirited. 

Watching HGTV. My current addiction is Fixer Upper. Chip and Joanna Gaines make me want to move to Texas just to have them remodel a house for me. 

Hearing the flock of geese that fly over my house twice a day. 

My dogs- god they're dumber than a box of rocks! I love that they sleep on their backs with their bellies exposed to the world. Oh, and I love finding their tickle spots, and making their legs kick uncontrollably. 

I'm not really a breakfast person, but I do love a good omelette. I can't make them, which is fine, because breakfast always tastes better when someone else cooks it. Like at a restaurant. 

Road trips! There's just something about long car trips that appeals to me. Maybe it's the scenery. Maybe it's the silly car games. Maybe it's the snacks. Whatever it is, I wish we had time for more of them!

Genealogy. I started tracing my family tree after watching the very first episode of Who Do You Think You Are? and I became instantly hooked. It's the ultimate puzzle.  (Full disclosure, I got sidetracked for 3 hours today in the middle of this post, by an email from someone looking for help with their family tree...)

The smell of food being grilled. Unless it's coming from the neighbor's yard, because that's torturous. 

And finally, laughter. I love to laugh, even at myself. 

Celebrity Worship

I have never really understood celebrity worship.  Sure, when I was a kid, I crushed on Donny Osmond, Leif Garrett, Chachi, and Bo Duke.   Plus, I had this whole imaginary world in my head about Cher being my real mom.  When I got a little older, I was in love with Blackie (John Stamos during his General Hospital days, for you younguns!)   

However, by my teenage years, I outgrew that fangirl stuff, and I really didn't care about celebrities anymore. One time during high school I was at Magic Mountain with some friends, and they happened to notice Micky Dolenz standing across the walkway from us. For those of you born after about 1980, Micky Dolenz was in a band and tv show called The Monkees.  My friends walked over to where he was, and were acting like, well, a bunch of teenagers, oohing and ahhing over him.  I went and got in line for a churro.  

There were a couple of girls from my high school who became actresses (well, one was just modeling at the time, but started acting later, and has become very famous, and one I don't think did anything after graduation.)  Anyways, the whole school was gaga over them.  Me?  I thought it was cool for them, but I wasn't busting my ass trying to become bff's with them, like a lot of other people were.  Sure, they were nice girls- at least I think they were.  I wasn't cool enough to actually hang out with them or anything, but neither one of them ran away screaming when I crossed their paths!

I've gone through most of my adult years with a supreme lack of caring about the lives of most celebrities.  Living in Southern California the majority of my life, I've had opportunity to encounter celebrities quite a few times, and I just never really cared.  

Well, maybe except for that one time when I got to meet Mikhail Baryshnikov after seeing him perform. I got his autograph (the one and only autograph I have ever asked for) and I may have swooned just a little.  But come on, it was Baryshnikov!!

Don't get me wrong, there are certain people whose work I enjoy, so I'll see a movie, or watch a tv show specifically because they are in it.  And I'm happy to hear when good things happen in their lives, and saddened when bad things happen.  But that has pretty much always been the extent of my interest in the lives of celebrities.

It used to be that celebrities were out of reach for the common person.  We saw them on tv and in magazines, but there was a definite barrier between the famous and us regular folks.  Fans could write a letter to a fan club, and hope for a response, but it wasn't very likely to happen, and it surely would not come from the star themselves.  Social media has changed all of that though.  We can hear firsthand from our favorite stars, and many even interact with their fans on a regular basis. 

I was a bit shocked when I joined Twitter, and was actually responded to, and then followed by a few celebrities.  I don't follow many famous people, because ultimately I still really don't care.  The few whom I do follow and interact with, all bring more to the table than just promoting their latest projects, or showing off how utterly fabulous their lives are.  They share parts of themselves that make them seem just like you and I, or they use their fame in a positive way to help others.  Those are my kind of people!

However, I will admit that in the past year, being able to occasionally interact with these people whom I admire, I may have become ever so slightly star struck.  Not because they are famous though, but because of how they reach out and make a difference in the lives of others.  I have definitely gained a new understanding for celebrity worship. I get it a little more now.  At least some of it.  

What I will never, in a million years, understand, is the flip side of being able to communicate with celebrities through social media.  I cannot wrap my head around the people who spend time online and disparage, name call, insult, or flat out attack celebrities they despise.  I do not understand how somebody can treat another human being that way.  And I vehemently disagree with the idea that when someone is a public figure, they're "asking for it" by putting their lives on display.  I don't care if you dislike their music, acting, tv show they were on, sports team they played for, or the book they wrote!  So what if you adore their spouse's ex!?  How is berating another human being (famous or not) fulfilling and positive in your life?

Although I try to avoid it, I see this happen pretty much every day on social media- grown-ass adults acting like schoolyard punks, or members of the mean girls club.  And then we wonder why bullying seems to be on the rise among our youth?  Look at the example being set for them every time they log on to the internet!

I know I'm not going to change how people behave online, but it sickens me that so many people don't bat an eyelash as they insult another human being, and they actually take great joy in it.  It kind of makes me wonder if they would say such horrible things to someone's face. Or how they would feel if roles were reversed, or if it was someone they really cared for that was being treated in the same hateful manner.  

Another Layer of Paint

I don't know why I do it.  Every once in a while I take a risk, and force myself out of my comfort zone.  Then I lose control of my feelings and thoughts, and wish I had never done it.  All of the work I've done to keep myself in my tidy little box, behind a mountain of bricks, is undone in an instant.

My heart begins to feel things that I know can never be, and my imagination gets the best of me.  It's just like when I was a little girl, imagining the life I wish I had.  Conjuring up a reality that would never exist.

I begin to allow myself to think I'm more interesting, or more special, or more anything than I really am.  I stupidly think that I may matter somewhere outside of these four walls.

Then, very quickly, I realize what I've done, and I remember how invisible I actually am. Out of sight, out of mind.  I remember that I only exist in the periphery.  Always an outsider looking in.

The work to pull myself back inside of the fortress I've built starts over.  I have to fit my mask back into place.  I need to return to the safety, and comfort, and numbness provided by these barriers.  

I swear a thousand times that I will never remove my mask again, or leave the safety of the walls that surround me.  And stupidly I believe myself.  I believe that I can be stronger next time, and resist the urge to take the risk, no matter how sweet the reward may seem.

The reward is never there.  It's a mirage.  I know this, but sometimes my heart overpowers my head, and the vicious cycle repeats again.  Each time, I add another brick to my fortress, and to my mask, another layer of paint, more brilliant than the last, hoping it will be enough to protect me from myself next time.

The Worst Days of My Life

I've shared parts of this in the past- the good, happy side of this story.  If you haven't already, you can read about my miracle here.  But as time creeps closer to the 10 year anniversary of these events, I find myself reflecting more and more on the horrifyingly scary things that I went though, and how I came out the other side.  So here's my story, in all it's gory details.

Childbirth stories are usually happy, beautiful stories that a woman wants to share again and again, and everyone wants to hear.  Sure, there's pain, and screaming, and a room full of people looking up your vagina.  But in the end, there's a little bundle of joy to cuddle, and everyone is ecstatic, and proud, and crying tears of joy.  Some of us aren't that lucky though.  Some of us have a tale that sounds more like a horror movie. 

In September of 2004, about a month after two adorable boys joined our family through adoption, it dawned on me that my period was late.  Not really surprising considering the amount of stress I was under, from suddenly becoming a mommy to these two very needy little boys, plus dealing with social workers and court.  At my husband's annoying insistence I took a home pregnancy test.  You could have knocked me over with a feather when I looked at the pee soaked stick, and saw that it was a big fat positive.  I didn't cry tears of joy.  I wasn't elated.  I was truly and honestly stunned into complete silence.  I thought for sure the test must be wrong.  This had to be God's way of playing a cruel joke on me, because even though I spent years wishing for a baby, a baby was exactly what I didn't need at that point!  In fact, a baby could destroy the family I was just beginning to build, and tear my two little boys away from me, sending them to another foster home where they would wait once again for someone else to call mommy and daddy.

I was able to get an appointment with an OBGYN within a couple of days.  She confirmed I was in fact pregnant, and was able to see the teeny tiny heartbeat on an ultrasound.  I stared at the screen in disbelief, but then reality set in, and BAM! I suddenly felt the deepest joy I had ever experienced.  However, what she also discovered would explain the years of not being able to conceive, and would be the cause of major heartbreak and fear in the coming months.  You see, I had what was called a septate uterus.  This is a deformity within the uterus that makes it difficult to conceive, and often impossible (I would find out two years later that I should not have been able to conceive at all.)  It also makes the uterus resistant to stretching, which can cause miscarriage or premature birth.  My doctor explained that I had a much higher than normal chance of miscarrying, or if I did manage to somehow stay pregnant, I had an even higher chance of going into preterm labor.  After eight years of disappointment, I was so happy to finally be pregnant that I honestly wasn't concerned in the least.  And really, what could the big deal be if the baby was born a little bit early?  I knew lots of people who had their babies a couple of weeks early, and they were all fine!  

Because our adoption was not finalized yet, we decided to keep my pregnancy a secret from the social workers for as long as possible.  I felt that the longer my boys stayed with me, and the more bonded we became, the harder it would be for them to be removed from our family.  It turned out to be the right choice.  When I was about 5 months along, I finally told our social worker, and I was so relieved when she said that removing the boys would be detrimental to them, and they could stay with us! 

My pregnancy went along perfectly.  I had no morning sickness at all, and other than a little fatigue, and having to pee all the time, I felt great!  I did everything exactly right- I took my pre-natal vitamins daily; I gave up caffeine and junk food; I ate a very healthy diet; I didn't take any medications.  I treated my body better than I had since I was 12 years old.  I secretly laughed at my 22 year old sister (I was 32) who was four months further along in her pregnancy, because she was miserable.  

However, on January 2, 2005, everything would change.  It had been a normal Sunday, and I was busy doing housework, in between playing with the kids.  In the evening I cooked dinner, bathed the boys, read their bedtime stories, and got them all tucked into bed.  I finished up the last bit of laundry, and settled into my comfy recliner to watch t.v.  I sat there relaxing, feeling Baby Zack wiggle around in my belly (we found out about 3 weeks earlier we were having a boy, and had already picked out his name.)  It was about 10pm, the hubs was asleep on the couch, and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.  

All of a sudden, my solace was interrupted by a warm gush in my nether region, and I had a split-second flash of "Did I just fucking pee myself!?"  Baby Zack liked to use my bladder as a trampoline, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.  But just as quickly, that thought was replaced with panic and an instinctive "SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT!"  Within seconds, I was out of my comfy chair and in the bathroom.  By the time I got there, I was soaked in blood, and it started pooling on the floor around my feet.  So I pulled my jammies off, and sat down on the toilet.  I'm not sure why.  I don't even remember sitting down, I was just all of a sudden there.  Maybe it was an unconscious attempt to keep from making a mess on the floor, although that ship had sailed.  The next thought that entered my mind was that Zack was going to fall out of me, and into the toilet, and he would drown, and how would I explain that?  I don't remember making any sounds- I wasn't crying or calling for help.  In fact, it was eerily silent in the bathroom.  I just remember seeing blood everywhere, and thinking that my baby was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it.  I also remember feeling very alone.  All of a sudden I was snapped back to reality as my husband stood in the bathroom doorway.  I couldn't figure out how to tell him what was happening, and then I finally started sobbing.  I quickly wiped away as much blood as I could, and slipped on a pair of dark sweatpants.  As my husband led me out of the bathroom, I turned to look behind me, and saw what appeared to be the scene of a very violent crime.  I felt as if I were walking through molasses, but within moments we were out the door, with two sleeping kids in the car, driving to the hospital. The hospital was 10 minutes away. We got there in about 3 minutes, but it felt like an hour.

At the hospital, the nurse asked me how far along I was.  I told her I was in my 22nd week.  She didn't say a word in response.  She didn't really need to- the look on her face told me that it was likely too early for my baby to survive if he were born that night.  She quietly hooked me up to a monitor, and quickly found Zack's heartbeat.  It was strong, and the sound of it filled the room, and brought me a sense of calmness.  The monitor also showed that I was having contractions, although I couldn't feel them.  I spent the next four days in the hospital, with my feet elevated above my head.  I wasn't allowed to get out of my bed for anything.  Not even to pee, and let me tell you, trying to use a bedpan while almost 6 months pregnant is not easy!  Thankfully the bleeding and contractions stopped, and I was allowed to go home.  Somehow, Baby Zack managed to stay safely within my body.

Things seemed to go back to normal., although I was restricted to very little activity, which I tried really hard to listen to.  I had two little boys who needed lots of attention though, so I couldn't just lay around.  But I felt great, so I wasn't worried.

On January 16th, 2005, my world came crashing down around me again, only this time it would take years to recover from.  It was another seemingly normal Sunday, exactly two weeks after the bathroom crime scene incident.  I woke up that morning feeling a bit off.  I couldn't really explain it- nothing hurt, I wasn't sick, and I wasn't bleeding.  (If all the blood I described earlier wasn't enough tmi for you, here comes a little more.)  I kept going into the bathroom what seemed like almost every hour, because I felt like I needed to poop, but I couldn't.  I also found myself wanting to lay down several times throughout the day, which was really uncharacteristic for me.  As the day went on, this feeling of needing to go to the bathroom seemed to occur more frequently.   And then it happened.  I went to the bathroom, and a glob of mucous came out of me.  I quickly found my copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting because I had no idea what in the hell was happening!  I couldn't believe what I was reading though.  It said something about a mucous plug and labor beginning.  But how could that be?  I was only 24 weeks pregnant!  I called my doctor's office, but since it was Sunday, I had to wait for the answering service to get in touch with whichever doctor was on-call, and then wait for a call back.  It seemed like an eternity.  I explained what was happening to the doctor, and she told me go to the hospital just as a precaution.  So, I called my mom (who was at a different hospital with my 22 year old sister, who had just had her baby the day before) to ask her if she could meet us at the hospital that we were going to, and sit with the boys.  I apologized profusely for tearing her away from my sister and the new baby, mostly because I have a hard time asking for help, but also because I hate feeling like an imposition.

We loaded the kids into the car, and made the drive to the hospital.  As we got closer, I started having the most intense pain I had ever experienced in my life- I was having contractions, and they seemed to be about three minutes apart!  We arrived at the hospital, and I was taken immediately in to be examined.  My husband was in the lobby with the kids, waiting for my mom.  Just as I was trying to climb onto the examination bed, a contraction hit, and buckled my legs underneath me.  The nurse helped me onto the bed, and kept telling me to "breathe through it."  How the fuck could I breathe!?  It hurt too much!!  She asked how far along I was, and I told her I was 24 weeks 4 days.  She asked if I was sure, and I said yes.  I then had another very painful contraction.  The nurse examined me as soon as the contraction passed, and instantly her demeanor changed, and all hell broke loose!  The nurse shouted over her shoulder "WE'VE GOT A BULGING SACK!"  I had no clue what the hell that meant, but I could tell by the urgency in her voice, and the fact that she YELLED my business to the whole ward (so much for HIPAA) that it was not good news.  All of a sudden, there were lots of people in the exam room, and my bed was rolling out the door.  A voice coming from the blur around me was asking where my husband was.  Somehow I managed to remember that he had been waiting in the lobby for my mom.  Another voice told me that I was 8cm dilated, and I was having my baby right now!  I screamed, "IT'S TOO EARLY! I DON'T WANT MY BABY TO DIE!!  PLEASE DON'T LET MY BABY DIE!!"  It was only January, and I wasn't due until May.  I'm sure I scared the shit out of all of the other moms-to-be, and now have a lovely story about the time they went to the hospital to give birth, and there was a crazy woman screaming about her baby dying.  Some nurse tried awkwardly to console me as I sobbed uncontrollably.  I couldn't believe that after so many years of not being able to conceive, and going through our adoption, and then finally getting pregnant, I was going to lose my baby like this.  I felt terrified, and although I was surrounded by people, I felt so very alone.

They wheeled me into the delivery room, and suddenly my husband was there.  He was so calm in the midst of the activity around me, but I could see the fear in his eyes.  I was poked more than a dozen times before they could find a vein for an IV.  My body was going into shock and shutting down, so my veins were constricting.  Someone popped my amniotic sac like a water balloon, and then we were ready to deliver.  Unfortunately, it was quickly discovered that Zack was breach- one of his feet was in the birth canal.  I have no memory of the doctor coming into the room, but I later found out that while my husband was waiting to be brought into the delivery room, he saw her at the opposite end of the long hall.  He said a nurse caught up to her, said something, and the doctor dropped her bags, and ran as fast as she could into the delivery room that I was in.  I only became aware of the doctor's presence when she said she could try to deliver Zack in the breach position, but it would likely kill him.  I needed to have a c-section.

The delivery team moved me to an operating room, and started prepping me for surgery.  As they were getting ready, the NICU team was also setting up.  The neonatalogist came over and introduced himself, and explained what would happen.  At least I think he did, I was in and out of awareness by that point.  I did hear him ask if we wanted his team to do everything in their power to save our baby.  I cried and said I didn't know.  To this day, it kills me that I couldn't answer that question.  Just admitting it, and typing it out here gives me anxiety and makes me cry.  I couldn't even fathom that Zack could survive, and I was terrified to even hope that it was possible.  My husband quickly told the doctor to take every measure possible to save our baby.  I am so grateful that he was coherent enough to make that decision without me.

The next thing I knew, I was being sat upright, and something was jammed into my lower back.  They laid me back down, and I was instantly numb from the throat down- except that I could still feel people touching my belly.  Suddenly, I heard someone say they were ready to start, and I screamed, "I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!  I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!"  I was terrified that my c-section was going end up like one of those horrifying t.v. shows where the person could feel the pain of being sliced open during surgery.  The doctor assured me everything was okay, and that it was just a sensation of pressure, and that I wouldn't actually feel anything.  I wasn't sure I believed her, so I mentally checked out at that point.  I closed my eyes, and silently begged and pleaded with any god that would listen, to just let me die there with my baby.  I couldn't go on in this world without him.  I tried to make myself stop breathing.  Somewhere in the chaos of what was happening, I believed that if I could just stop breathing long enough, my heart would stop beating, and it would all be over.  Of course, I was hooked up to monitors, and I had an oxygen mask on, so as it turned out, dying wasn't actually an option.  Then I heard my husband talking to me, pleading with me to open my eyes.  The surgery seemed to take forever, but I was told that it was really only about 15 minutes from the first incision, to the last staple closing my belly.  The NICU team rushed Zack away before I could even get a glimpse of him.  It would be a couple of hours before I would get to see him.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw that night.

 

Zackary was born weighing 844 grams.  That's a mere 29 ounces, or 1lb 13oz.  He was bigger than he should have been.  Since I had almost lost him two weeks previously, his little body went into survival mode, and he started growing at a faster rate- that may have been what saved his life.  He had to be resuscitated when he was born, and he was given less than a 10% chance of surviving that night.  >His skin was paper thin, and would tear with the slightest touch.  To this day, he has a scar on the side of his rib cage, where his skin ripped when he was being removed from my uterus.  His skin was transparent, and he had no layer of baby fat to separate it from the muscles and blood vessels beneath, which gave him a strange red-purple color, instead of the healthy pink glow of a newborn.  His body was nothing more than a bundle of exposed nerves.  The slightest touch was painful for him, so we could only touch the top of his head and the bottom of his feet.  The bones in his skull weren't even in place yet, and they overlapped each other, giving him a slightly alien appearance.  His eyes were fused shut, and he had no cartilage in his ears.

 He lost several ounces the first few days of his life, dropping precariously close to one pound, but that was okay, because he was still alive.  He was fighting!

Four days after Zack's birth, I was discharged from the hospital.  Walking out, and leaving a piece of my heart behind was excruciating.  There were no happy family members escorting us out, no balloon or flower bouquets.  No smiling nurses waving goodbye and wishing us good luck.  Instead we walked out in silence, and we were watched with pitying eyes.  I sobbed the entire way home.  There was no "Welcome Baby" sign in our yard.

The first few weeks of Zack's life were the most painful and scary days I have ever experienced.  I sat helpless next to him day after day, and although he came out of my body, I wasn't allowed to touch him without permission.  I had to wait ten agonizing days before I could hold him, and that required two nurses and a respiratory tech, because of all the wires, and the ventilator tube down his throat.  I learned hospital jargon and medical terminology that no parent should have to learn.  I watched as his heart rate and oxygen levels dropped dangerously low.  I saw him turn blue and almost lose his battle several times, and then be brought back by the deft hands of his nurse.  But each day, this tiny little baby would prove just how strong and resilient he really was.

Zack spent 91 days in the NICU, and came home a healthy 3 month old, who weighed 5.5lbs and still hadn't reached his due date.  He defied the odds that were stacked against him, and surpassed all expectations.  It was a long road, and it took him several years to "catch up" both developmentally and in size, but he avoided almost all of the potential life-long complications often related to prematurity.  At almost 10 years old now, we still struggle with some sensory issues related to food, and he is still a little underweight.

I spent many years feeling guilty for everything my tiny baby had to endure, after all, it was my body that failed him- my deformed uterus that couldn't stretch enough to let him stay safe.  If I had only gone to the doctor to find out why I hadn't been able to get pregnant for so long, a simple ultrasound would have shown us, and my deformity could have been corrected.  And then maybe I would have carried him to term.  And then maybe he wouldn't have almost died.  And then maybe...

I spent years being hyper aware of every little sniffle or cough, because a simple cold had the potential to land him back in the hospital.  I held my breath for years, being terrified that something bad would happen and I would end up losing him.  I sat feeling helpless and heartbroken when his physical delays were glaringly obvious next to his peers on the playground, and I knew it was all my fault.

Because of all that I went through with Zack, and how incredibly lonely I felt (being abandoned by almost everyone I knew during all of this is a whole other blog post) I became a mentor in the NICU.  Helping other families during their prematurity journey has been one of the greatest and most healing experiences for me.  I still carry some guilt, and I probably always will, but I no longer have the debilitating panic that I used to.  And in the end, I see just how far Zack has come, and I am reminded that this little boy wasn't supposed to survive the night he was born.  He was stronger than anyone thought, and if a baby that small and sick can be that strong, then I can too!