Today on facebook, I "liked" the page for the blog over at A Belly For Me, A Baby For You. They were recently featured on CNN. The basic story is that they are filming a documentary of a surrogate pregnancy. The surrogate happens to be the sister of the intended father. The twins she is carrying are biologically those of her brother and sister-in-law. They've had a lot of controversial, and uncalled for, comments.
This afternoon she asked: Let's reverse the question, would you be able to let another woman carry your baby/babies via surrogacy? Do you already have someone in mind? What do you think the hardest part about it would be?
Being that I have and am again let another woman carry my baby, this question peaked my interest and reading the comments really got me thinking. It's something friends and family have asked me in a round about way. It's usually something like "How are you doing? Is it strange having someone else pregnant with your baby?" The short answer to this is, yes, it is strange. As a woman, it is not a natural thing to have another woman pregnant with your child. The comments on this particular question were mostly positive. There were a few that said they could not do it or the answer I can't stand...if you can't have children, then you aren't meant to *gag*. But most said they would if they were in a position to do it financially and had a need.
The recurring answer to the hardest part was a lack of control and giving up feeling your child grow inside of you. Of course, giving up all that is involved in pregnancy is hard. I have been blessed to have experienced pregnancy and birth twice with Aubrey and Blaine. Although I was not the glowy, happy pregnant woman and was pretty much miserable 6 months out of 9, I would still love to be able to experience it again. It's the way it's supposed to be. I can't explain what it's like to wait for another woman to find out she's pregnant and tell you that you will be a mother. I can't explain what it's like to listen to her talk about your baby in a way only she knows him or have others come up and congratulate her on her pregnancy while you're together and want with every fiber of your being to shout out that it's your baby. It is just hard. And even thought it's hard, you are so grateful for every detail she's willing to share and every moment you are expecting, even if no one can see the physical signs. As an intended mother, you have to be able to tell those feelings of hurt, grief, and, yes, even resentment where to go. They don't belong in a surrogacy journey. You have to be able to focus on the miracle it is that another woman can and would do be willing to experience those things for you and share those things with you. Sure, there are times those feelings have and I'm sure will again get away from me and I retreat to my room to cry. I think that's natural. You don't all of a sudden stop hurting for what you've lost because someone is kind enough to give it to you another way.
There were also lots of "only if my sister did it" or "yes, my best friend would". That is a beautiful sentiment and amazing when it works. My first thoughts of surrogacy (way back in 2005) included a family member doing it for us. The truth is that when the rubber meets the road, not everyone is cut out to do this and that is perfectly okay. I don't want anyone who is not comfortable with it to do it for me! I like to think I would do it for any one of my family members that needed, if I were able. Truth is, that's something I will never know for sure. It's much easier having been the recipient of such an extraordinary gift to think I could give it if the roles were reversed.
As for the control aspect, that is what makes it of paramount importance to chose someone you trust with...well, your child's life. No one will be happy in a surrogacy relationship where a pregnancy is being micromanaged. It just doesn't work. I needed someone who I felt would treat my baby the way I would. I have been blessed with two of those women.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
The longing for more...
Brandon and I have always wanted a large family. When we were dating, he used to joke that we'd keep having children until we had two girls, whenever that may be, because he didn't think he could handle three girls :) In 2004, with the news that my uterus needed to be chunked in the biohazard bin, that dream all but died. It's hard to describe knowing that something is impossible yet wanting it more than you can handle. We looked into different ways to expand our family but none felt right. Then in 2006, I found gestational surrogacy and the idea that we could still have biological children with the help of someone exceptional. There were lots of roadblocks in the way of that dream but we spent the next three years pursuing it and November 29, 2009, Abram was born after a nearly flawless journey from IVF cycle to birth. (If you want more on that check out my posts from March 2009-December 2009. I recently did and was moved emotionally back to that incredible place.)
With Abram, we made the decision to be open books about surrogacy and our struggle to become parents for a third time. I chronicled the whole thing here and for our facebook friends and family. There really was nothing hidden and I felt great about that. I wanted to be an avenue for information to anyone curious about surrogacy and a champion for "normal" couples everywhere that needed reproductive help. Our surrogate, Dawn, got pregnant the first try. We had no embryos left from that IVF cycle and felt that was our answer to whether we'd ever pursue a fourth child. But again, the thought of one more time was never far from our minds.
After getting the all clear on my health at the beginning of the year, we began to entertain the idea of another journey. Dawn is happily retired and the thought of not only having to do IVF again, but also finding another surrogate to help us was daunting. Could we be so fortunate again? Over the past few years, I have developed many relationships with surrogates and intended parents from across the nation. I quietly spread the word within the surrogacy community that we were contemplating a second journey. In May, I found out my friend, Ivy, was also looking to match. We've known each other for a while and I instantly felt this could work. After some wonderful chats, we officially matched. We were all very excited but something about this time felt very different to me. For reasons I don't even know myself, we decided to keep it private. With surrogacy, I don't get that moment of finding out I'm pregnant and sharing that with my husband. We share it with another couple and although it is still special and intimate in its own way, it's different. I felt like I wanted it to be between us and no one else. So, that's what we did.
We began to cycle at the beginning of July. I had egg retrieval the beginning of August and we transferred our only two surviving embryos three days later. The next two weeks waiting for the blood test were pure torture. I was sick as a dog from retrieval and home pregnancy tests can be the devil. I can't even put in to words the emotional ups and downs we all went through those weeks. One thing I can say, I am forever grateful to Ivy for putting herself in a position of heartbreak for Brandon and me. It's amazing to me that anyone would willingly sign up for such pain for someone else. I mean, you sign up knowing bad things may happen, but really you sign up to get pregnant and deliver a baby, trying all on its own, you don't really expect to have your heart ripped out and trampled on or a crazy up and down ride through fire.
All that to say, it didn't work. I thought I had been through it all. I thought I knew what it was like to receive that news, but I didn't and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried more than I have cried in memory. In that time of gut wrenching heartache, I realized that I didn't feel like I could really vent those feelings because we had chosen to keep the experience private, for the most part. I'm one of those crazy people who want my experiences to have meaning. I want to feel like the things I go through have a purpose. Being quiet about this made it feel like that couldn't happen, like not sharing it was acting like it didn't happen at all. It did happen and I need to honor that.
So, here I am, coming out, so to speak. We long for more children, something a lot of people don't understand. We can't make that happen by ourselves and there is NO shame in that. We don't have to accept the hand that infertility dealt us. We're grieving what could have been in the form of two embryos that, for whatever reason, were not meant to become little humans we'd hold in our arms. And, ready or not, I'm taking you all along for the rest of this ride. We plan to try again in October. This time, we expect Ivy's in for a long, pregnant nine months carrying our precious cargo and we'll all be grateful for every minute!
With Abram, we made the decision to be open books about surrogacy and our struggle to become parents for a third time. I chronicled the whole thing here and for our facebook friends and family. There really was nothing hidden and I felt great about that. I wanted to be an avenue for information to anyone curious about surrogacy and a champion for "normal" couples everywhere that needed reproductive help. Our surrogate, Dawn, got pregnant the first try. We had no embryos left from that IVF cycle and felt that was our answer to whether we'd ever pursue a fourth child. But again, the thought of one more time was never far from our minds.
After getting the all clear on my health at the beginning of the year, we began to entertain the idea of another journey. Dawn is happily retired and the thought of not only having to do IVF again, but also finding another surrogate to help us was daunting. Could we be so fortunate again? Over the past few years, I have developed many relationships with surrogates and intended parents from across the nation. I quietly spread the word within the surrogacy community that we were contemplating a second journey. In May, I found out my friend, Ivy, was also looking to match. We've known each other for a while and I instantly felt this could work. After some wonderful chats, we officially matched. We were all very excited but something about this time felt very different to me. For reasons I don't even know myself, we decided to keep it private. With surrogacy, I don't get that moment of finding out I'm pregnant and sharing that with my husband. We share it with another couple and although it is still special and intimate in its own way, it's different. I felt like I wanted it to be between us and no one else. So, that's what we did.
We began to cycle at the beginning of July. I had egg retrieval the beginning of August and we transferred our only two surviving embryos three days later. The next two weeks waiting for the blood test were pure torture. I was sick as a dog from retrieval and home pregnancy tests can be the devil. I can't even put in to words the emotional ups and downs we all went through those weeks. One thing I can say, I am forever grateful to Ivy for putting herself in a position of heartbreak for Brandon and me. It's amazing to me that anyone would willingly sign up for such pain for someone else. I mean, you sign up knowing bad things may happen, but really you sign up to get pregnant and deliver a baby, trying all on its own, you don't really expect to have your heart ripped out and trampled on or a crazy up and down ride through fire.
All that to say, it didn't work. I thought I had been through it all. I thought I knew what it was like to receive that news, but I didn't and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried more than I have cried in memory. In that time of gut wrenching heartache, I realized that I didn't feel like I could really vent those feelings because we had chosen to keep the experience private, for the most part. I'm one of those crazy people who want my experiences to have meaning. I want to feel like the things I go through have a purpose. Being quiet about this made it feel like that couldn't happen, like not sharing it was acting like it didn't happen at all. It did happen and I need to honor that.
So, here I am, coming out, so to speak. We long for more children, something a lot of people don't understand. We can't make that happen by ourselves and there is NO shame in that. We don't have to accept the hand that infertility dealt us. We're grieving what could have been in the form of two embryos that, for whatever reason, were not meant to become little humans we'd hold in our arms. And, ready or not, I'm taking you all along for the rest of this ride. We plan to try again in October. This time, we expect Ivy's in for a long, pregnant nine months carrying our precious cargo and we'll all be grateful for every minute!
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Here we go again...
I'm baaaaaaaaaaccck... Let's see, what has happened since I last blogged? Well, our kids are growing like weeds. They are now 12, 11, and nearly 3! Unbelievable. We sold that dream home we built and bought into a new dream we didn't even know we had, giving up Brandon's 1.5 hour commute for an 8 minute one. We bought a big, old gem and although it has had all the issues you'd expect for a forty year old home plus some, I love it. The time we gained as a family was more than worth it. What else? Oh yeah! I'm 100% healthy! For the first time in probably 10 years, all my labs are normal! My body has learned how to function without a tumor in its chest and it is wonderful! Praise God!
Now, on to bigger and better things!
Now, on to bigger and better things!
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Emotional Part
We can all agree that a benign pathology report is a good thing...no, it's a great thing. And, defying the odds, when the odds are bad, is pretty remarkable too, but something happens to you when you come that close to death. I'm not sure it's something anyone can understand until they've experienced it. I know I didn't and it seems to be something that people don't talk about even when they do. When I started writing this story, I promised myself I would be 100% real...no matter the light it may paint me in to some people. The fact is I've wasted months suppressing my feelings... real, God given feelings, because of fear of being judged by that small group. I can't do it anymore. People, especially Christians, who experience these feelings need to be real.
In April 2004, I experienced aspiration pneumonia for the first time post-hysterectomy. At that time, I was given a 20% chance at survival. I had an almost 4 year old and almost 3 year old at home. I was so sick, and on top of that, reeling from having a hysterectomy at 24. I laid in my hospital bed, unable to speak, and prayed over and over for God to just take me. I couldn't do it. I was not strong enough and both the physical and emotional were just too much. Somehow, only God knows, I pulled through. I was left with deep emotional wounds. It took about a year for me to want to live again. I cried all the time. No one around me understood, and to be fair, I didn't really try to explain. I really didn't understand myself. At the time I told Brandon that I never wanted to survive something like that again. That if it ever came to it, let me go.
Every subsequent surgery, I was absolutely terrified of aspiration pneumonia. I always meet with the anesthesia team before and let them know that I have experienced this complication. Every time, they laugh and tell me there is no way it would happen again. After all, the odds of it happening the first time were so slim and we all know lightning doesn't strike the same place twice. But, to make me feel better, they'll take extra precautions, like antacids and anti-nausea medications to prevent me from throwing up post-op, having me not eat the day before surgery, and not removing the breathing tube until I am waking up. These things worked well for 5 surgeries since 2004. After all, they were only for peace of mind.
So, when the emergency doctors let me know that they were looking for either aspiration pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism that Friday morning, my thoughts were "Yeah right! It's not possible for me to have aspiration pneumonia and no way I have a pulmonary embolism!" Well, we all know now how that turned out. When the news was in, I was in shock. This just could not be happening to me. Not only was my chest open, but now this? It's redundant, but seriously, it just couldn't be happening.
This time the physical was worse, but physical pain is physical pain and I didn't wish to die like I did then. The emotional side of the ordeal has been completely different though. Now, I haven't gotten to the whole story yet and haven't even touched on what I'm dealing with today, but I said I'd be real, so here it is...I'm angry. I'm pretty sad too, but mostly, I'm just angry. It's not fair that I've had to deal with all of this. If God loves me, why does He allow me to shoulder it all? I have dealt with far more than my share and it's time I had a break! These are all thoughts I've had. Of course, the logical side of me knows those thoughts are junk. Who determines what fair is? If God's Son suffered so, why should I be immune? But logic doesn't have much to do with emotions in this case. I've had a hard time opening my devotional or my Bible. I can barely listen to Christian music (something I solely did before). I call out to God but it's difficult to pray. I can't drive by the hospital where this all went down. I've been to church one time (we never missed church) and I can't do it again. I'm only 4 months out and I know that these things are all part of the process and I will get there, but it's so hard. I don't want to feel this way. I know what the correct reaction is and I know this is not it. It's hard for me to hear people say that I'm strong or they admire me. I know me and I know that deep down, I'm ticked. It really is not admirable.
So, if you are one of the people cheering me on...THANK YOU! Know that I appreciate it and I need it, but also know that I do not have it all together. And, something you'll probably hear me say a lot, I am most definitely a work in progress.
In April 2004, I experienced aspiration pneumonia for the first time post-hysterectomy. At that time, I was given a 20% chance at survival. I had an almost 4 year old and almost 3 year old at home. I was so sick, and on top of that, reeling from having a hysterectomy at 24. I laid in my hospital bed, unable to speak, and prayed over and over for God to just take me. I couldn't do it. I was not strong enough and both the physical and emotional were just too much. Somehow, only God knows, I pulled through. I was left with deep emotional wounds. It took about a year for me to want to live again. I cried all the time. No one around me understood, and to be fair, I didn't really try to explain. I really didn't understand myself. At the time I told Brandon that I never wanted to survive something like that again. That if it ever came to it, let me go.
Every subsequent surgery, I was absolutely terrified of aspiration pneumonia. I always meet with the anesthesia team before and let them know that I have experienced this complication. Every time, they laugh and tell me there is no way it would happen again. After all, the odds of it happening the first time were so slim and we all know lightning doesn't strike the same place twice. But, to make me feel better, they'll take extra precautions, like antacids and anti-nausea medications to prevent me from throwing up post-op, having me not eat the day before surgery, and not removing the breathing tube until I am waking up. These things worked well for 5 surgeries since 2004. After all, they were only for peace of mind.
So, when the emergency doctors let me know that they were looking for either aspiration pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism that Friday morning, my thoughts were "Yeah right! It's not possible for me to have aspiration pneumonia and no way I have a pulmonary embolism!" Well, we all know now how that turned out. When the news was in, I was in shock. This just could not be happening to me. Not only was my chest open, but now this? It's redundant, but seriously, it just couldn't be happening.
This time the physical was worse, but physical pain is physical pain and I didn't wish to die like I did then. The emotional side of the ordeal has been completely different though. Now, I haven't gotten to the whole story yet and haven't even touched on what I'm dealing with today, but I said I'd be real, so here it is...I'm angry. I'm pretty sad too, but mostly, I'm just angry. It's not fair that I've had to deal with all of this. If God loves me, why does He allow me to shoulder it all? I have dealt with far more than my share and it's time I had a break! These are all thoughts I've had. Of course, the logical side of me knows those thoughts are junk. Who determines what fair is? If God's Son suffered so, why should I be immune? But logic doesn't have much to do with emotions in this case. I've had a hard time opening my devotional or my Bible. I can barely listen to Christian music (something I solely did before). I call out to God but it's difficult to pray. I can't drive by the hospital where this all went down. I've been to church one time (we never missed church) and I can't do it again. I'm only 4 months out and I know that these things are all part of the process and I will get there, but it's so hard. I don't want to feel this way. I know what the correct reaction is and I know this is not it. It's hard for me to hear people say that I'm strong or they admire me. I know me and I know that deep down, I'm ticked. It really is not admirable.
So, if you are one of the people cheering me on...THANK YOU! Know that I appreciate it and I need it, but also know that I do not have it all together. And, something you'll probably hear me say a lot, I am most definitely a work in progress.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Part 2
After writing part 1 and rereading the events up until that point, something unexpected happened for me. I so clearly began to see God's hand in each tiny, seemingly insignificant step. From the nurses being unable to start an IV causing me to need a central line to Kelly staying the night with me that Thursday to give Brandon and my mom a break...all of it was Him preparing and protecting me. Talk about therapeutic!
Friday morning, May 20, the news came in that I was suffering from aspiration pneumonia and a pulmonary embolism. I was taken directly from CT back to the ICU. My mom and Brandon, who Kelly had called and told to get up to the hospital, were there waiting for me. The doctor on staff came in to let us know the diagnosis. At this point, they were unsure if there were any other clots waiting to make their move. This rendered me to complete bed rest, unable to move at all, until we knew. It also left open the possibility of being taken back to the operating room to have a vena cava filter put in to catch clots. That meant no food or drink while we waited. To say I was miserable, would be a huge understatement.
On top of those conditions, my breathing had gone way south. I was struggling. There is no worse feeling that being unable to breathe, literally drowning slowly. Apparently, I also looked pretty bad. All the color had drained from my face and was replaced with an eerie gray tint. It was decided that the oxygen mask I was wearing was not going to be sufficient. So, I went on something called bi-pap. Bi-pap is a machine that does the breathing for you. It fits really tight onto your face, covering your mouth and nose. Air is forcefully pushed into your lungs and then drawn out, effectively inhaling and exhaling for you. As they were hooking me up, the nurse told me to try to relax and not fight it. She said most patients hate it and struggle against the machine the whole time. Once I was connected, it became clear that what I knew of the difficulty I was having and what they knew were miles apart. From the moment that machine was turned on, I was in heaven! Instantly, the relief was overwhelming and all those patients that don't like it, well, they must not have felt the way I did before. My dear friend, Lise, came to visit shortly after Brandon sent out the text saying I had made a turn for the worse. She stood next to my bedside and gently stroked my head while humming hymns. I couldn't speak on the machine and was just too weak to communicate anyway, but this moment still comforts me when I'm upset. It was amazing.
Eventually, a doppler study was done of my legs and revealed no other clots. I was allowed to move (to the bathroom and back) and eat and drink again. Antibiotics, via my central line, and injections of Heparin in my stomach were started to battle the pneumonia and make the embolism "sticky". I remained on bi-pap for about a day and then weaned back to an oxygen mask. At first, I wore oxygen even to the bathroom. It was impossible to breathe without it and I was not willing to try. There were breathing treatments every couple of hours, around the clock antibiotics, chest x-rays (done in my bed) twice a day, Heparin shots, blood draws (thankfully taken from my central line), and several doctors in and out of my little corner of ICU. Not much changed for the first four days or so, other than the addition of Coumadin to my meds and a very slow weaning of my oxygen intake. During this time, I was unable to see my children at all. They were not allowed in the ICU and that was so difficult on all of us. I also began having horrific panic attacks any time I was left alone. No one was allowed to stay the night with me and it seemed like as soon as visiting hours were over, my mind would rush to a place of fear...the horror of not being able to breathe and being alone. I literally passed out from panicking one night when I had gone to the restroom. I decided from that point on, whenever I felt scared of not being able to breathe, I would say, over and over, "Jesus is the breath of life." This worked :)
By the following Thursday night, one week after heading to ICU for the second time, I was ready to move back to a regular room. This was a huge milestone, not only for my prognosis, but I got to see my kids the next day! Sweet Abram was so scared of me in that condition and all Blaine could do was hug me and tell me how much he missed me. It broke my heart.
INR is the measurement used to indicate the rate of time it takes your blood to clot. They wanted mine to be between 2.0 and 3.0 in order for me to be considered stable and able to go home. Finally, on Sunday, May 29, I was within range and discharged. I left that day on Coumadin for what was to initially be six months. I left that day with a 7 inch incision straight down my chest. I left that day with a stomach covered in bruises from Heparin injections. I left that day with a hole beneath my right collarbone from where my central line had been. I left that day with stitches in my lower abdomen from a pulled chest drain. I left that day emotionally and physically drained from such a long, horrific ordeal. I left that day and returned to my husband, my children, and my home knowing God had once again saved me from what the world thought would do me in. I left that day with no tumor in my chest and a benign pathology report.
Friday morning, May 20, the news came in that I was suffering from aspiration pneumonia and a pulmonary embolism. I was taken directly from CT back to the ICU. My mom and Brandon, who Kelly had called and told to get up to the hospital, were there waiting for me. The doctor on staff came in to let us know the diagnosis. At this point, they were unsure if there were any other clots waiting to make their move. This rendered me to complete bed rest, unable to move at all, until we knew. It also left open the possibility of being taken back to the operating room to have a vena cava filter put in to catch clots. That meant no food or drink while we waited. To say I was miserable, would be a huge understatement.
On top of those conditions, my breathing had gone way south. I was struggling. There is no worse feeling that being unable to breathe, literally drowning slowly. Apparently, I also looked pretty bad. All the color had drained from my face and was replaced with an eerie gray tint. It was decided that the oxygen mask I was wearing was not going to be sufficient. So, I went on something called bi-pap. Bi-pap is a machine that does the breathing for you. It fits really tight onto your face, covering your mouth and nose. Air is forcefully pushed into your lungs and then drawn out, effectively inhaling and exhaling for you. As they were hooking me up, the nurse told me to try to relax and not fight it. She said most patients hate it and struggle against the machine the whole time. Once I was connected, it became clear that what I knew of the difficulty I was having and what they knew were miles apart. From the moment that machine was turned on, I was in heaven! Instantly, the relief was overwhelming and all those patients that don't like it, well, they must not have felt the way I did before. My dear friend, Lise, came to visit shortly after Brandon sent out the text saying I had made a turn for the worse. She stood next to my bedside and gently stroked my head while humming hymns. I couldn't speak on the machine and was just too weak to communicate anyway, but this moment still comforts me when I'm upset. It was amazing.
Eventually, a doppler study was done of my legs and revealed no other clots. I was allowed to move (to the bathroom and back) and eat and drink again. Antibiotics, via my central line, and injections of Heparin in my stomach were started to battle the pneumonia and make the embolism "sticky". I remained on bi-pap for about a day and then weaned back to an oxygen mask. At first, I wore oxygen even to the bathroom. It was impossible to breathe without it and I was not willing to try. There were breathing treatments every couple of hours, around the clock antibiotics, chest x-rays (done in my bed) twice a day, Heparin shots, blood draws (thankfully taken from my central line), and several doctors in and out of my little corner of ICU. Not much changed for the first four days or so, other than the addition of Coumadin to my meds and a very slow weaning of my oxygen intake. During this time, I was unable to see my children at all. They were not allowed in the ICU and that was so difficult on all of us. I also began having horrific panic attacks any time I was left alone. No one was allowed to stay the night with me and it seemed like as soon as visiting hours were over, my mind would rush to a place of fear...the horror of not being able to breathe and being alone. I literally passed out from panicking one night when I had gone to the restroom. I decided from that point on, whenever I felt scared of not being able to breathe, I would say, over and over, "Jesus is the breath of life." This worked :)
By the following Thursday night, one week after heading to ICU for the second time, I was ready to move back to a regular room. This was a huge milestone, not only for my prognosis, but I got to see my kids the next day! Sweet Abram was so scared of me in that condition and all Blaine could do was hug me and tell me how much he missed me. It broke my heart.
INR is the measurement used to indicate the rate of time it takes your blood to clot. They wanted mine to be between 2.0 and 3.0 in order for me to be considered stable and able to go home. Finally, on Sunday, May 29, I was within range and discharged. I left that day on Coumadin for what was to initially be six months. I left that day with a 7 inch incision straight down my chest. I left that day with a stomach covered in bruises from Heparin injections. I left that day with a hole beneath my right collarbone from where my central line had been. I left that day with stitches in my lower abdomen from a pulled chest drain. I left that day emotionally and physically drained from such a long, horrific ordeal. I left that day and returned to my husband, my children, and my home knowing God had once again saved me from what the world thought would do me in. I left that day with no tumor in my chest and a benign pathology report.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
From May 17 to Present...Part 1
I had every intention of coming back here and updating as my recovery progressed. It obviously didn't happen. Things didn't go at all as planned and I have honestly been too emotional to relive it all. It was just too hard to think of going back there. I am finally feeling like it's time: time to look back and find a way to rejoice in how far God has brought me. I know He can use it to help others and while my memory is still clear, I want it in black and white for me to look back on and for my children. So, from the beginning, the morning of May 17, 2011...
We arrived at the hospital on time and were immediately taken back for preparations. They let me know that I was not going to get the privilege of a traditional IV. Nope, the surgeon had requested a "crowbar", as the nurses called it, just in case there were complications. A nurse from the ER was asked to come in and start it because none of the pre-op nurses had ever started one so large. The ER nurse had only done it once, on a severe abdominal trauma. Now, I have been through more than my fair share of IV starts, but this was unreal. I began to sweat and feel faint. Apparently, all the color drained from my face. They flipped me upside down and hooked me up to some cold air. Nope, not going to get this IV started. They decided to put a normal one in and start a central line on me once I was asleep. A central line is a catheter that goes directly into a major blood vessel. It can serve as an IV for the receiving of medicines, blood, and fluids, or it can be used to draw blood from. Mine was inserted just below my collarbone on my right side. I'd only seen these on TV and was not thrilled with the thought, but given the events to come, it turned out to be a Godsend. I was taken into an area where an anesthesiologist implanted an arterial line after the initial IV was in. This was a line put into an artery in my wrist to measure my blood pressure internally. I was then given a moment to say goodbye to Brandon and my mom and then on to the operating room.
There were tons of medical professionals in the room. Thymectomy is a pretty rare surgery and they were all pretty excited to get to see one. Mercifully, I was put to sleep pretty quickly. Surgery lasted only a couple of hours. The doctor updated Brandon, Brandon's dad, and my mom in the family waiting area. He had guesstimated from the CT scan and PET scan that the tumor was about the size of two fingertips. He said he was really questioning doing the surgery out of concern that he'd even be able to find the tumor without much digging. Well, as soon as my sternum was open, it popped up. In a matter of 3 weeks, the tumor had grown to the size of my fist and putting pressure on major blood vessels. He said he was immediately sure he had made the right call.
I woke up in the ICU in an unbelievable amount of pain. I was so unprepared for just how badly this would hurt. I had a hard time speaking, but kept trying to tell them it hurt over and over. The first couple of days are a complete blur. I remember being in pain off and on and really not liking my ICU nurse. That's about it. Surgery was Tuesday morning and by Thursday morning they were moving me to a regular room...ahead of schedule. Not long after being in a room, I began to run a low grade temp. They were concerned, but not overly. They wanted me up and walking and I did, although it was so painful. Thursday afternoon the surgeon came in to remove my chest drain. To say this is the worst thing I have ever experienced is not an exaggeration. Nothing can prepare one for what that feels like. Even now, I get nauseous just thinking about it, but it was one less machine I was hooked to. He said I would likely be released the next afternoon...way ahead of schedule! I walked, I coughed, and did everything they told me to do, in spite of the pain.
That night my friend, Kelly, stayed with me. We had a pretty nice night. I slept better than I had in weeks. About 6am, my mom called to let us know she was on her way to the hospital and to get our breakfast order. I spoke to her and then got up to use the restroom. Once in the bathroom, I began to feel short of breath. I was not thinking clearly or I would have called the nurse from there. Instead, I used every bit of strength I could muster to get back to the bed and pick up the phone. I dialed the nurse and said "need help" before collapsing on the bed. Kelly sat up to see me and ran to my side. My nurse and her supervisor were in the room within seconds. They immediately saw me and called a code. The supervisor came over to me and said, "It is about to get really scary. There are going to be lots of people in here doing lots of things to you. I need you to stay calm. We are going to help you." In no time, my room was filled with nurses, doctors, radiology techs, lab techs, and respiratory therapists. I looked at Kelly and thought I asked her to get to my mom before she saw the hoopla and to call Brandon. I know now I only gave Kelly a look and she knew what to do.
In the meantime, one nurse stood and held my hand while they attempted to check my oxygen level. My hands and feet were blue indicating they weren't getting enough to even check via normal means. They did a chest x-ray right there in the bed, hooked me to oxygen, and took an arterial gas (blood draw from the artery to check blood oxygen. Ouch!). I could hear my mom in the hall asking what was happening and the panic in her voice broke my heart. Something was definitely wrong with my lungs but it was unclear whether I was suffering from an embolism or pneumonia. They decided to take me to CT. As I was being wheeled out of the room, I saw my mom and Kelly. I'll never forget the looks on their faces.
Heading to radiology was like something from a movie. I was being transported in the bed by 3 nurses. They were running and yelling at people to clear the way. Scary. By the time we got there, I was nearly unconscious from struggling to breathe, even with oxygen. They put me into the CT scanner and then came the results...I did indeed have a pulmonary embolism in my right middle lobe, but I also had aspiration pneumonia (pneumonia from inhaling my stomach contents at some point after surgery). Either one of these is life threatening. The two together, nearly unheard of and incredibly serious. Just when I thought we were in the clear, the fight for my life really began...
We arrived at the hospital on time and were immediately taken back for preparations. They let me know that I was not going to get the privilege of a traditional IV. Nope, the surgeon had requested a "crowbar", as the nurses called it, just in case there were complications. A nurse from the ER was asked to come in and start it because none of the pre-op nurses had ever started one so large. The ER nurse had only done it once, on a severe abdominal trauma. Now, I have been through more than my fair share of IV starts, but this was unreal. I began to sweat and feel faint. Apparently, all the color drained from my face. They flipped me upside down and hooked me up to some cold air. Nope, not going to get this IV started. They decided to put a normal one in and start a central line on me once I was asleep. A central line is a catheter that goes directly into a major blood vessel. It can serve as an IV for the receiving of medicines, blood, and fluids, or it can be used to draw blood from. Mine was inserted just below my collarbone on my right side. I'd only seen these on TV and was not thrilled with the thought, but given the events to come, it turned out to be a Godsend. I was taken into an area where an anesthesiologist implanted an arterial line after the initial IV was in. This was a line put into an artery in my wrist to measure my blood pressure internally. I was then given a moment to say goodbye to Brandon and my mom and then on to the operating room.
There were tons of medical professionals in the room. Thymectomy is a pretty rare surgery and they were all pretty excited to get to see one. Mercifully, I was put to sleep pretty quickly. Surgery lasted only a couple of hours. The doctor updated Brandon, Brandon's dad, and my mom in the family waiting area. He had guesstimated from the CT scan and PET scan that the tumor was about the size of two fingertips. He said he was really questioning doing the surgery out of concern that he'd even be able to find the tumor without much digging. Well, as soon as my sternum was open, it popped up. In a matter of 3 weeks, the tumor had grown to the size of my fist and putting pressure on major blood vessels. He said he was immediately sure he had made the right call.
I woke up in the ICU in an unbelievable amount of pain. I was so unprepared for just how badly this would hurt. I had a hard time speaking, but kept trying to tell them it hurt over and over. The first couple of days are a complete blur. I remember being in pain off and on and really not liking my ICU nurse. That's about it. Surgery was Tuesday morning and by Thursday morning they were moving me to a regular room...ahead of schedule. Not long after being in a room, I began to run a low grade temp. They were concerned, but not overly. They wanted me up and walking and I did, although it was so painful. Thursday afternoon the surgeon came in to remove my chest drain. To say this is the worst thing I have ever experienced is not an exaggeration. Nothing can prepare one for what that feels like. Even now, I get nauseous just thinking about it, but it was one less machine I was hooked to. He said I would likely be released the next afternoon...way ahead of schedule! I walked, I coughed, and did everything they told me to do, in spite of the pain.
That night my friend, Kelly, stayed with me. We had a pretty nice night. I slept better than I had in weeks. About 6am, my mom called to let us know she was on her way to the hospital and to get our breakfast order. I spoke to her and then got up to use the restroom. Once in the bathroom, I began to feel short of breath. I was not thinking clearly or I would have called the nurse from there. Instead, I used every bit of strength I could muster to get back to the bed and pick up the phone. I dialed the nurse and said "need help" before collapsing on the bed. Kelly sat up to see me and ran to my side. My nurse and her supervisor were in the room within seconds. They immediately saw me and called a code. The supervisor came over to me and said, "It is about to get really scary. There are going to be lots of people in here doing lots of things to you. I need you to stay calm. We are going to help you." In no time, my room was filled with nurses, doctors, radiology techs, lab techs, and respiratory therapists. I looked at Kelly and thought I asked her to get to my mom before she saw the hoopla and to call Brandon. I know now I only gave Kelly a look and she knew what to do.
In the meantime, one nurse stood and held my hand while they attempted to check my oxygen level. My hands and feet were blue indicating they weren't getting enough to even check via normal means. They did a chest x-ray right there in the bed, hooked me to oxygen, and took an arterial gas (blood draw from the artery to check blood oxygen. Ouch!). I could hear my mom in the hall asking what was happening and the panic in her voice broke my heart. Something was definitely wrong with my lungs but it was unclear whether I was suffering from an embolism or pneumonia. They decided to take me to CT. As I was being wheeled out of the room, I saw my mom and Kelly. I'll never forget the looks on their faces.
Heading to radiology was like something from a movie. I was being transported in the bed by 3 nurses. They were running and yelling at people to clear the way. Scary. By the time we got there, I was nearly unconscious from struggling to breathe, even with oxygen. They put me into the CT scanner and then came the results...I did indeed have a pulmonary embolism in my right middle lobe, but I also had aspiration pneumonia (pneumonia from inhaling my stomach contents at some point after surgery). Either one of these is life threatening. The two together, nearly unheard of and incredibly serious. Just when I thought we were in the clear, the fight for my life really began...
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Strength
The thing I've probably heard the most this week is "You are so strong!" I in no way, shape, or form feel the least bit strong. In fact, I feel like I'm a weak, sniffling mess. I was telling my friend, Lori, this and said "If I seem strong, it's only because I have no other choice." She replied with, "Maybe God made you strong because He knew you'd have to be." I had never thought of it like that. Somehow it gives me comfort.
My pre-op on Tuesday was so incredibly emotionally draining. I sat there thinking over and over again, "This is not real. This cannot be happening." Everyone I came into contact with was so caring and nice. They reassured me over and over again that I'm going to be okay. They require me to wear a big red bracelet from now until surgery that pairs me with the blood they have ordered for me. I hate it. It is an ever constant reminder that this is indeed happening. Brandon called it demoralizing. That pretty much sums it up.
In other news, my PET scan was moved to tomorrow morning. We had some issues with the first facility and decided to move it to the hospital where I will have surgery. This means I will likely not get my results until Dr. Bremer comes in to speak with us before surgery. I have mixed feelings about this. I am okay with waiting a few days more and not thinking about it over my last weekend for a while. However, I hate that we will potentially be getting some devastating news just before I go under. Me, having no time to take it all in, and Brandon, not getting to talk with me about it and hold me while we both cry-good or bad. So, I'm praying they get it done and we get the news Monday.
Thank you to everyone who is praying. I cannot tell you what it means to us.
My pre-op on Tuesday was so incredibly emotionally draining. I sat there thinking over and over again, "This is not real. This cannot be happening." Everyone I came into contact with was so caring and nice. They reassured me over and over again that I'm going to be okay. They require me to wear a big red bracelet from now until surgery that pairs me with the blood they have ordered for me. I hate it. It is an ever constant reminder that this is indeed happening. Brandon called it demoralizing. That pretty much sums it up.
In other news, my PET scan was moved to tomorrow morning. We had some issues with the first facility and decided to move it to the hospital where I will have surgery. This means I will likely not get my results until Dr. Bremer comes in to speak with us before surgery. I have mixed feelings about this. I am okay with waiting a few days more and not thinking about it over my last weekend for a while. However, I hate that we will potentially be getting some devastating news just before I go under. Me, having no time to take it all in, and Brandon, not getting to talk with me about it and hold me while we both cry-good or bad. So, I'm praying they get it done and we get the news Monday.
Thank you to everyone who is praying. I cannot tell you what it means to us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)