To all my lovely blog "followers" - just a quick post to let you know that I will no longer be publishing blog posts on this blogger site. Instead, I will be moving my blog to Word Press. The new link for the blog will be:
http://motherhoodataleofsurvival.wordpress.com
If you like what you've been reading, please follow me on my new site and continue to follow along with my parenting adventures!
Thursday, 22 August 2013
Monday, 19 August 2013
A moment of weakness
The ear-splitting sound of my baby's screams resonate through the house, each one sending a knife through my heart. I've been trying to console her for the past 45 minutes with no success, and my husband comes to take over as he senses my growing frustration and overwhelming feelings starting to take their hold on me. I feel an emotional pain that is unexplainable to anyone who is not a parent.
I am a horrible mother.
I blame myself for my babies distress. It has to be something I ate - was that tea that I'd had early decaffeinated? No amount of bouncing, rocking, soothing words or back rubbing seems to work. However, within 5 minutes with her Father, her cries settle, and soon she is peacefully sleeping on his chest. I feel a surge of mixed emotions; relief that we are free from her pained cries for a peaceful minute, and resentful that my husband can so easily accomplish what I was unable to.
I don't understand - surely my 5 week old daughter is far too young to hate her mother. I was confident that I would have until she was at least thirteen years old before we entered that phase of her life. Am I simply an incompetent parent? Do I simply lack the "maternal" instinct that everyone speaks of?
All I want is to rid my daughter of her pain and distress. I would happily take whatever burden she may be dealing with and make it my own, if it meant she could be comfortable for even a minute.
You think the restrictions are crippling when you are pregnant? Well, they don't go away when you give birth and make the decision to breastfeed your baby. You must consider how everything you eat might affect your baby once they ingest it through your milk. Caffeine must still be enjoyed in limited amounts, if at all, and don't even get me started on the issues surrounding dairy products.
In a moment of weakness I curse the whole notion of breastfeeding and think of how much easier my life would be if I exchanged it for a bottle and formula; that way the burden could be removed from my shoulders and split equally between my husband and myself. But almost as soon as that thought has left my mind I am flooded with guilt, making me feel increasingly worse about myself and my questionable capabilities as a mother.
Could Brooklyn simply be stubborn, wanting to sleep in our arms rather than her bed? Is my sweet, innocent baby capable of manipulation? Surely she can't be.
As she awakens and begins another round of torment, I begin to sob. I do not know what her cries mean, nor do I know what thoughts are running through her perfectly shaped head. I do not know how much longer I can listen to her agonizing cries.
I lay motionless on our bed, completely shattered with emotions as my husband paces the hallways attempting to calm our daughter.
This is just a phase, and we will get past it. Right........?
"You are human and mortal; we are the sum of our weak moments and our strong"
Mercedes Lackey
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Ready for Take-off
Chris and I do a lot of travelling. We like to try and go on one big vacation per year, like Hawaii, or Vegas, and throughout the year we try to visit our families in the lower mainland. Because we live so far away, and have for the past 5 years, that means we do a lot of flying. I have no issues with flying - my fear of heights and motion sickness don't seem to apply when it comes to planes, thankfully.
When my Mom called and asked if I would like to fly down to Vancouver for my older sister's baby shower in August, I thought nothing of it. I figured as I was off of work on maternity leave and had nothing on my agenda, why not go? I agreed and asked my Mom to book me a flight.
I guess what I didn't really think a lot about was the fact that I now have a little human-being attached to my hip (or more accurately, my boob).
My flight to Vancouver was on a Wednesday, and due to Chris's busy summer work schedule, he was not able to fly down until the Friday evening. When I finally realized what this meant (yes, I would be taking my newborn baby on her first flight, by myself) my anxiety kicked in.
In the grand scheme of things I am a pretty laid back individual. I like to think I'm easy going, but also am well aware of the fact that I can become quite stressed out, and have struggled to deal with that stress in the past.
As I considered what this trip meant, I began to fear the worst; my baby would scream non-stop the entire flight, the person next to me would be insensitive about my breastfeeding in public and make a scene, Brooklyn would have a diaper blowout all over my lap, or better yet, she'd vomit all over my neighbour.
My level of stress grew exponentially the days leading up to the flight, until the day of, where I was the definition of a loose cannon. Funnily enough, my baby had ALSO become a loose cannon that week, spending 1-2 hours in the evening crying and even demonstrating her intense screaming power, before we would be able to calm her down enough to get her to sleep.
Racking our brains, we attributed these new 'meltdowns' to gas and colic. I cut dairy out of my diet and ensured that I was not ingesting any caffeinated beverages to try and help the problem.
The morning of my flight I finished my last minute packing (how does a 4 week old baby take up half of a large suitcase for a 5 day trip?) and tried to calm my nerves. I even got Chris to pick up Rescue Remedy, a natural product that is supposed to ease stress and calm you down. I don't really think it helped me much - but if it did I would be terrified to see myself without it.
Chris took us to the airport and I could hardly say a word, in fear that I would burst into tears. My throat felt swollen and I couldn't stop chewing my fingernails. When he left us at the security check gate, Brooklyn sleeping soundly in the baby Bjorn carrier, I couldn't stop the tears. Getting on this plane was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to run away, back to the safety of my home where I could nurse, and deal with my baby's meltdowns in privacy.
We loaded onto the plane at the pre-boarding call (one nice perk of flying with an infant) and I got settled into my seat. The person sitting next to me was a young woman, and she really didn't acknowledge us much at all - a good sign I figured. I unloaded Brooklyn from her carrier and set her up on the nursing pillow on my lap, prepared to nurse her during take-off to help alleviate the pressure buildup in her ears.
As the plane started down the runway Brooklyn remained dead to the world in slumber, and would not stir. I figured I would let her rest, and simply 'pop her on the boob' when she woke up and got cranky. Take off came and went and Brooklyn slept on.
I was able to relax slightly - 50% of the battle had been won, now we just needed to survive the landing and the rest would be manageable. Halfway through the flight Brooklyn woke up (barely) and had a little snack, before passing out again. Landing neared, and again I positioned Brooklyn in the nursing position, ready to go. But yet again, she amazed me, and slept soundly through the entire landing. She didn't wake when I buckled her back into her carrier and unloaded from the plane, nor did she wake when we met Nana (my Mom) at the luggage carousel. I finally woke her up to change her wet diaper and feed her before we started the drive home.
So, you could chalk the flight up to 100% success right? Well, not quite.....part way through the flight I was getting pretty warm where Brooklyn was laying against me, and felt damp with her sweat. When I repositioned her, I discovered that I had been leaking some milk. I guess 'some' would be an understatement; the milk from my right breast had soaked through the nursing pad, through my bra and all the way down my shirt. I think that's what you would call bad luck. Fortunately enough, my tank top was black and disguised the dampness quite well. I just had to walk around smelling sickly sweet and knowing I was soaked in my own breast milk. Honestly, I was hardly phased. How do you know you're a Mother? You can walk around covered in milk and decide that it's not really that important to change, because nobody can see it.
I was feeling pretty smug by the time we got to the car; thinking of how all of that stress and worry had been for nothing. As I climbed into the car with Brooklyn in my arms, I managed to clunk her head against the back of the driver's seat. As she wailed (out of shock more than pain, as she really only bumped the seat), all of my pent up emotions and lack of sleep came to the surface, and I broke down, crying twice as hard and three times as long as my baby girl.
Would I still consider the day a success? Sure. We managed to make it through our first solo flight with minimal speed bumps, and my child doesn't have brain damage. I still feel like the worst human being in the world thinking about it today.
Oddly enough, the day after our feared travel date, Brooklyn went to sleep without a peep at 11pm and slept for 6 hours straight. Go figure. Monster Mom = monster baby. Dually noted Brooklyn.
So what did I learn from this experience? Again, I really do not have control over anything. I was prepared as I could be, and really, just had to roll with whatever punches Brooklyn threw at me. As long as I did not forget my boobs (pretty much impossible I figure) I would be OK.
The return flight (which Chris and I took together), mimicked the initial flight, with Brooklyn sleeping through take-off and landing and waking briefly to eat halfway through - and I was prepared with extra nursing pads this time!
To say I was proud of my baby would be an understatement! Will I fly with her again? Yes of course, it's unavoidable where we live. Will I stress myself out leading up to the event? No. It helps no one (if anything, it made it worse for Brooklyn) and accomplishes nothing.
Take two deep breaths, and just enjoy the ride.
When my Mom called and asked if I would like to fly down to Vancouver for my older sister's baby shower in August, I thought nothing of it. I figured as I was off of work on maternity leave and had nothing on my agenda, why not go? I agreed and asked my Mom to book me a flight.
I guess what I didn't really think a lot about was the fact that I now have a little human-being attached to my hip (or more accurately, my boob).
My flight to Vancouver was on a Wednesday, and due to Chris's busy summer work schedule, he was not able to fly down until the Friday evening. When I finally realized what this meant (yes, I would be taking my newborn baby on her first flight, by myself) my anxiety kicked in.
In the grand scheme of things I am a pretty laid back individual. I like to think I'm easy going, but also am well aware of the fact that I can become quite stressed out, and have struggled to deal with that stress in the past.
As I considered what this trip meant, I began to fear the worst; my baby would scream non-stop the entire flight, the person next to me would be insensitive about my breastfeeding in public and make a scene, Brooklyn would have a diaper blowout all over my lap, or better yet, she'd vomit all over my neighbour.
My level of stress grew exponentially the days leading up to the flight, until the day of, where I was the definition of a loose cannon. Funnily enough, my baby had ALSO become a loose cannon that week, spending 1-2 hours in the evening crying and even demonstrating her intense screaming power, before we would be able to calm her down enough to get her to sleep.
Racking our brains, we attributed these new 'meltdowns' to gas and colic. I cut dairy out of my diet and ensured that I was not ingesting any caffeinated beverages to try and help the problem.
The morning of my flight I finished my last minute packing (how does a 4 week old baby take up half of a large suitcase for a 5 day trip?) and tried to calm my nerves. I even got Chris to pick up Rescue Remedy, a natural product that is supposed to ease stress and calm you down. I don't really think it helped me much - but if it did I would be terrified to see myself without it.
Chris took us to the airport and I could hardly say a word, in fear that I would burst into tears. My throat felt swollen and I couldn't stop chewing my fingernails. When he left us at the security check gate, Brooklyn sleeping soundly in the baby Bjorn carrier, I couldn't stop the tears. Getting on this plane was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to run away, back to the safety of my home where I could nurse, and deal with my baby's meltdowns in privacy.
We loaded onto the plane at the pre-boarding call (one nice perk of flying with an infant) and I got settled into my seat. The person sitting next to me was a young woman, and she really didn't acknowledge us much at all - a good sign I figured. I unloaded Brooklyn from her carrier and set her up on the nursing pillow on my lap, prepared to nurse her during take-off to help alleviate the pressure buildup in her ears.
As the plane started down the runway Brooklyn remained dead to the world in slumber, and would not stir. I figured I would let her rest, and simply 'pop her on the boob' when she woke up and got cranky. Take off came and went and Brooklyn slept on.
I was able to relax slightly - 50% of the battle had been won, now we just needed to survive the landing and the rest would be manageable. Halfway through the flight Brooklyn woke up (barely) and had a little snack, before passing out again. Landing neared, and again I positioned Brooklyn in the nursing position, ready to go. But yet again, she amazed me, and slept soundly through the entire landing. She didn't wake when I buckled her back into her carrier and unloaded from the plane, nor did she wake when we met Nana (my Mom) at the luggage carousel. I finally woke her up to change her wet diaper and feed her before we started the drive home.
So, you could chalk the flight up to 100% success right? Well, not quite.....part way through the flight I was getting pretty warm where Brooklyn was laying against me, and felt damp with her sweat. When I repositioned her, I discovered that I had been leaking some milk. I guess 'some' would be an understatement; the milk from my right breast had soaked through the nursing pad, through my bra and all the way down my shirt. I think that's what you would call bad luck. Fortunately enough, my tank top was black and disguised the dampness quite well. I just had to walk around smelling sickly sweet and knowing I was soaked in my own breast milk. Honestly, I was hardly phased. How do you know you're a Mother? You can walk around covered in milk and decide that it's not really that important to change, because nobody can see it.
I was feeling pretty smug by the time we got to the car; thinking of how all of that stress and worry had been for nothing. As I climbed into the car with Brooklyn in my arms, I managed to clunk her head against the back of the driver's seat. As she wailed (out of shock more than pain, as she really only bumped the seat), all of my pent up emotions and lack of sleep came to the surface, and I broke down, crying twice as hard and three times as long as my baby girl.
Would I still consider the day a success? Sure. We managed to make it through our first solo flight with minimal speed bumps, and my child doesn't have brain damage. I still feel like the worst human being in the world thinking about it today.
Oddly enough, the day after our feared travel date, Brooklyn went to sleep without a peep at 11pm and slept for 6 hours straight. Go figure. Monster Mom = monster baby. Dually noted Brooklyn.
So what did I learn from this experience? Again, I really do not have control over anything. I was prepared as I could be, and really, just had to roll with whatever punches Brooklyn threw at me. As long as I did not forget my boobs (pretty much impossible I figure) I would be OK.
The return flight (which Chris and I took together), mimicked the initial flight, with Brooklyn sleeping through take-off and landing and waking briefly to eat halfway through - and I was prepared with extra nursing pads this time!
To say I was proud of my baby would be an understatement! Will I fly with her again? Yes of course, it's unavoidable where we live. Will I stress myself out leading up to the event? No. It helps no one (if anything, it made it worse for Brooklyn) and accomplishes nothing.
Take two deep breaths, and just enjoy the ride.
Brooklyn napping on her Dad.
" To him who is in fear, everything rustles" - Sophocles
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
The measure of a man
As a young girl I grew up as most young girls do, idolizing their fathers. To me, my Dad was the strongest, tallest, bravest man alive. I would argue this point to my death if anyone tried to tell me differently. In reality, my Dad is on the shorter side of average, and although he is quite physically fit (being a police officer, this is pretty much mandatory), he is no Chuck Liddell (sorry Dad). I am still convinced he is the bravest man alive, as not only does he protect me, and my family loyally, he also protects the city of Vancouver and it's citizens from the crime and scum that roam the streets.
As I grew and matured into a teenager (although my parents would probably argue that my maturity and 'street smarts' significantly declined during my teens), I fell in love with the typical Hollywood "man." Toned and tanned; tall, and handsome. Husky, dark eyes that you could get lost in; better known as Paul Walker (who I STILL have a massive celebrity crush on). I had finally developed an interest in the opposite sex - before high school I was convinced I would never marry, and simply adopt children if I felt the need to be a mother - and began to date.
At 16, my checklist of requirements for a boyfriend was really quite short, and quite superficial. Boys were graded based on their outward appearance, and really their insides (aka personality, morals, goals and dreams) came second, as a sort of bonus.
I dated a handful of boys throughout my high school years; some of them were absolute trash, while others I thought I did quite well with.
When I moved away from home to attend University, I began to wonder what I was accomplishing with these relationships. Where were they going? How would they fit into my future dreams and plans?
It was then that I began to realize that looks and muscles could only get you so far. A tanned, chiseled 6-pack looks great (and feel amazing too), but wouldn't provide me with the love and dedication my parents made sure I knew I was worthy of.
I was 18 when I decided that 'boys' were a waste of my time. The only person worth spending my time and effort on building a relationship was a real man; although the only man I knew was my father. What defines a man? I was lost for an answer...
Instead, I turned all my efforts to my studies and my social life (6-pack abs were replaced my 6-packs of Lucky Lager - hey, I was a girl on a budget) and left the opposite sex out of the picture.
Naturally, when I wanted it the least, a man walked into my life. One that made me question what the hell I had been doing wasting my time in my past relationships. One that made me question myself, who I was, and if I liked what I was becoming.
A man that was not afraid of my flaws, rather, he embraced them with open arms and shared his own. Who had such strong family ties, that the unfamiliarity of it frightened me. A man who put his heart on the line for me, expecting nothing in return.
Needless to say, I fell madly in love with this man; and for once, what first stole my heart away was his mind and soul (although ladies, let me tell you, I got a pretty sweet package deal - tall, dark, and handsome with a body to boot. Jackpot).
I knew that this time it was different. Everything came so naturally with him; he brought out the best in me, qualities I didn't even know I possessed. When I was near him I wanted to be a better person. I embraced his deep devotion to his family and wanted this for myself. I was motivated to repair damaged relationships in my life, and to right my past wrongs.
Although life threw many hurdles in our way, I knew there was nothing I would not do for him.
As I sit back and think about this man, who I now lovingly call my husband, I count my many blessings. Now that we have brought a child into this world, this man's qualities and strengths run even deeper than I even thought possible. Not only does he change his fair share of diapers, he also happily chats to our daughter as he does so. He only missed one prenatal appointment, and openly asked his own questions of the Doctor, showing how much he cared about the health of me and the baby. He still looks at me with love in his eyes, even after witnessing me at my weakest, most vulnerable moments during labour; not to mention after watching the birth of our child - and let's be honest, as 'beautiful' as the birth of a child is, it can be emotionally damaging to all witnesses. He eagerly takes over 'baby duty' when Brooklyn is gassy and just needs to be walked up and down the hallways. I believe I can now say I know how to define a man:
A man is someone who takes you for who you are, and does not want to change you. He loves you on your good days, but more importantly, on your bad ones. He is there for you through any and all emotional setbacks in life, despite how relevant they are in the 'big picture.'
A man is able to bring out the best in you, and shine light on your strengths as opposed to your weaknesses. A man is someone you can bear your heart and soul to, without having to worry about him abusing that intimacy. A man is someone you can trust, always and forever.
Not a day goes by that I don't thank God for blessing me with this amazing person in my life, my soul mate. He is my rock, the foundation for which I am able to build myself from. He is the father of my baby and I couldn't think of a person more worthy of that title.
So ladies, it is with my deepest regrets that I extend my apologies. I have found the perfect man and sunk my hooks deep into him. I really don't think there is anyone out there like him, so you'll have to settle for a little less than perfect. Perfection has been achieved, and he is mine, all mine.
I love you Chris; more than yesterday and less than tomorrow.
Friday, 2 August 2013
Sink your teeth into this
I was one of the lucky ones; pregnancy was very kind to me, all things considered. Until the very end, and in one department only....dental.
I've had moderately good teeth my entire life; experiencing a few cavities due to my own poor oral hygiene practices. I HATE teeth and everything involved with them. Hate brushing them, flossing them, and despise trips to the dentist. Fluoride? Yuck!
As a child, I had a lot of crowding issues with my teeth, which placed me in an expander in elementary school to do exactly what it suggests, expand the spaces between my teeth. Every night my mother would have to take a little key and turn it to expand my teeth just a little bit more. Yes, it was as uncomfortable as it sounded, and you can imagine how I became increasingly bitter about anything related to my teeth. After a couple years of the expander, it was removed and replaced with a full set of braces, which I rocked for three years (as hard as you can rock braces).
I now have retainers that I am supposed to be wearing nightly to ensure my nicely straight teeth stay in their required positions (honestly, I don't even know where the thing is).
In the past year I started to grind my teeth at night (I've always clenched my teeth, especially when I'm stressed, so this progression didn't really shock me), and I now have to wear a night guard when I sleep to prevent me from grinding my teeth down to nubs. Looking to 'get some' before bed? These things are "shuper shexy!" Not to mention they've taken my drooling problem to a WHOLE new level of grossness.
When I found out I was pregnant I went in for my 6 month check-up and clean, and the hygienist cautioned me that I would probably notice an increase in gingivitis with pregnancy (which is very normal) and just to continue flossing etc.
So I did just that; I carried on as normal. I guess the problem with that was, normal for me is brushing my teeth once a day (gag away), and I rarely floss (perhaps after a piece corn on the cob or a tough steak, I could be bothered).
My next cleaning fell just a month before Brooklyn arrived. As the hygienist scaled my teeth and examined them she came across a dreaded cavity...between my two front teeth! The dentist mentioned that cavities are more common during pregnancy, but my hygienist tactfully remarked that daily flossing probably most likely would've prevented this problem. Because of the pregnancy I was unable to get radiographs done to check my other teeth for cavities, and to determine the depth of this cavity. We scheduled my filling appointment for 2 weeks after my due date, and I left the office, quite sullen.
So I begrudgingly dragged my shameful ass to the dentist this past Monday to get my cavities filled. Besides the fact that I hate the dentist, and their annoying little drills and bibs, this would also be the first time I was away from Brooklyn for more than 15 minutes since her birth. Rest assured, she was left in the capable hands of her Daddy, with a belly full of milk and a clean diaper.
By the time I arrived at the dentist (it's about 10 minutes from our home) I was headed for emotional derailment and just wanted to return home to my daughter. Halfway through the procedure I thought I might burst into tears I missed her so much, which was only made worse when the dentist announced that I had FOUR other teeth (pairs side by side) that were displaying some decay on my radiographs, and due to the deceptive depth of this cavity, he wanted to fix all those teeth rather than monitor them. This means that I get to go back into my favorite place in the world in 3 weeks to get several more fillings done. By the time I got home I was bitchy, emotionally unstable and upon Brooklyn's first 'coo' my milk letdown and proceeded to soak through my shirt in a matter of seconds. Icing on the cake of awesomeness that was my day....
Looking back I wish I had been warned more thoroughly about the possible effects of pregnancy on my teeth, but truly that's just me passing the blame. I am well aware of what constitutes good oral health, and I have just chosen not to do everything in my power to keep my teeth healthy and cavity free. You can bet your ass that I started flossing nightly after the discovery of the first cavity, and will continue to until the day I die. It is especially important to me now that I have a daughter who will be watching everything I do and following my lead. Do I want my little girl's mouth riddled with cavities like mine? Not a chance.
Learn from my mistakes and laziness. Floss your damn teeth! 2 minutes a night could save you a lot of time, pain and money!
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
The Creation of Brooklyn: Phase II - Labour & Delivery
Maternity photo shoot at 36.5 weeks pregnant
I never really experienced any anxiety about my impending labour and delivery during my pregnancy. I figured that the process was inevitable and completely necessary in order to get myself out of my swollen and irritable pregnant state. Any uncertainty I did feel was centered around the unknown - what do contractions feel like? How painful would it really be? How will I know when I am in labour?
"Oh you'll know," was the typical response I would receive when I expressed my worries.
July 11th was just another ordinary day of maternity leave. I slept in that morning, and after a leisurely walk with the dogs I got ready for my 39 week Doctor's appointment. My doctor checked all my vitals, listened to our babies heartbeat and then performed my third membrane sweep in hopes of stimulating some action in the labour department. I was sitting at 2-3cm dilated, and my cervix was about 1cm thick. All good signs, however, I had been 2cm dilated for the past week and a half and I was not getting my hopes up.
At this point I had finally given in to the reality that my baby was totally calling the shots as to when she would grace us with her presence, and there was nothing that I could say, do, or eat, that would change that fact (trust me, I tried it all).
Chris and I headed to bed as usual that night around 10:30pm, but I was unable to settle down to sleep. As I always did after a membrane sweeps I was experiencing quite a bit of mild cramping, and my lower back had a constant dull aching sensation. After tossing and turning for about 45 minutes, I decided it was a lost cause and headed into the living room to catch up on some PVR'd episodes of Criminal Minds. At around 12:30, after a midnight snack of milk and cookies (hey, the baby needs her calcium), I got up to pee (for the 18th time since dinner I'm sure). On my way back to the couch I felt a warm, damp sensation in my pants. All my pregnant ladies can relate when I say that urinary incontinence is no laughing matter (in fact, laugh to hard and that's most likely when you'll experience it). Assuming that's all it was (at this stage it hardly phased me when I had to change my underwear 3-4 times during the course of a day), I headed to the bathroom to clean-up. As I scuttled down the hallway, I felt another little surge of fluid.
I began to get suspicious. Inspection of my underwear really gave me no answers, so I headed to the computer and typed into Yahoo, "pregnancy + water breaking."
After reading multiple different statements, I decided that perhaps my membranes had partially ruptured and that was what I was experiencing. I decided to pace the halls a bit more to see what came of it, and after several more little surges of fluid, I woke Chris up to take me to the hospital to get checked (as per my Doctor's orders).
As I was not experiencing any contractions at that time, we figured that we would be sent home after I was checked out by the nurses, but we packed the labour bag in the truck just in case. Chris was eyeing me quite suspiciously (and I assume that there was some concern regarding my current pant wetting and his leather sets, but he never said as much), so I wedged a Maxi-pad that resembled an adult diaper into my pants to pacify him, and prevent any embarrassing leakage.
Once we arrived at the Fort St John birthing center, my vitals were checked, and they took a swab of the fluid that was continuing to soak my pad. The nurse informed me that the fluid tested negative for amniotic fluid, so perhaps it was just a partial rupture of the membranes. They told us to head home with instructions to return if
a) I felt a large "gush" of fluid
b) I began having contractions and they were about 2 minutes apart
We were headed on our way out past the nurses desk when I experienced the large "gush" that the nurse had described.
"Oh. Yup, my water broke."
"Seriously?"
"Yup, pretty sure."
The nurse shuffled me back into the washroom and we took another swab; positive for amniotic fluid. Regardless of the fact that my water had now officially broken, we were still sent home and told to return once I was in active labour.
The minute we returned home I experience my first, without a doubt, contraction. It lasted about 30 seconds, and I smugly practiced by 'deep breathing,' commenting on how "that wasn't so bad."
My contractions started about 5 minutes apart and felt like extremely strong period cramps. Within the next 80 minutes the contractions were coming every 2 minutes and I had to stop and hold onto a piece of furniture during them. 10 minutes after that Chris, after strategically timing in-between contractions, half lead me, half carried me into the truck, where I proceeded to have yet another contraction and yell at him "I want the epidural. I want the epidural!"
Fort St John is a relatively small city, and we live within a 5 minute walking distance of the year old hospital/birthing center. The nurses even joked about the fact that we could easily walk to the hospital when I needed to return. At the time I had laughed with them; had they mentioned it to me in that moment I probably would have 'smacked a bitch.'
We arrived at the hospital, and after panting through a contraction at the entrance door, we were ushered back to our original admission room.
I wasn't one of those organized pregnant women with a detailed, typed out labour plan. All I knew was I wanted to try and walk as much as I could through labour (they say this helps things progress quicker), and I was not opposed to receiving drugs - laughing gas, Fentanyl, epidural, whatever.
I was now 3.5cm dilated, and the nurses stood and debated whether or not they could admit me (4cm is generally the cut-off), as I moaned and swore through each contraction. Finally, they decided that I needed some pain management (Really? You just picked up on that now?) and admitted me.
After what seemed like an eternity, they wheeled in the nitrous oxide (laughing gas) and explained how to use it. I took a nice deeeeeeeeppp breath, and felt slightly more relaxed, mentally, but that feeling quickly evaporated when the next contraction hit. I was unable to relax enough to take anymore of my 'deep, cleansing breaths' so was incapable of inhaling enough of the laughing gas to make a difference.
I suppose I was creating enough of a disturbance that they opted to try me with an intramuscular injection of Fentanyl to take the edge off of my pain. Well, a lot of good that did. Now, after suffering through my contraction, I would melt into the useless state of my opiod induced high; unable to formulate an intelligent response, no matter what question was asked.
My Doctor was currently at the birthing center, delivering a baby for one of her other patients. Until she gave the nurses the thumbs up, the nurses were unable to contact the anesthesiologist about giving me an epidural.
5:00am I remember briefly seeing my Doctor and muttering an exasperated groan in response to her question "How's it going?" She quickly OK'd the epidural, and told me she would be back later on when I was ready for her to help deliver my baby. I could've cared less when I would see her again at that point, as I was quite convinced that I was going to die and would never actually get to meet my daughter.
I was hooked up to an IV and started on fluids, and moved into my own delivery room (see, I walked through labour...). The anesthesiologist arrived shortly thereafter and I was prepped for my epidural. Everything I had heard about epidural's indicated that they were quite a painful procedure; I mean, after all, you are getting a large needle inserted between two of your vertebrae. Would I describe my first epidural experience is being painful? Honestly, before that day, I don't think I've ever experience true 'pain.' If I had, nothing that would even hold a candle to the intensity of pain I felt during my labour contractions. So, what I remember from the epidural is a slight burn from the freezing, which quickly subsided as I was overcome with another horrific contraction. I do remember feeling terrified as the Doctor had just begun to insert the needle into my spine when yet another contraction raked my body and I was very sternly told that I COULD NOT MOVE! How I managed to keep still during the multiple contractions I underwent as the epidural catheter was secured in place, I do not know, but I consider it to be a small miracle.
The anesthesiologist gave me a bolus of Fentanyl into my epidural catheter and started me on a Fentanyl/Bupivacaine drip. After a bit of adjusting (the epidural was only freezing my left side, so they had me roll onto my right side to encourage the freezing to encompass my whole body) I was finally able to work through my contractions. I was numb from the navel down, but was still able to move my legs (although walking would've been a total failure, had I been allowed). I could still feel the contractions, and wouldn't describe them as comfortable, but I was now able to breathe steadily through them and rest easily in between. The epidural had to be increased as my contractions got stronger and closer together (and by closer together I mean they would peak and then subside, but never truly stop; how fun is that?)
By 10:00am I was fully dilated and was instructed that as each wave of contractions came, I was allowed to bear down and push. They had me on my back for this and I was to grasp behind my knees as I pushed. The actually delivery part I could do again. My epidural was turned off once I started to make progress with moving the baby down, but I had my 'game face' on and was completely determined to get this baby out.
At 11:27am, July 12th, 2013, our beautiful daughter was born at 7lbs8oz. Brooklyn Eva Charbonneau entered this world quite calmly (we had to flick her adorable little feet and pinch her cheeks to get a true cry out of her) with a full head of brown hair and typical newborn baby blue eyes.
Within the hour following delivery, Brooklyn's learning to nurse
Was labour what I expected it to be? Well, I never really had expectations for labour, besides the fact that I figured it wouldn't be the most enjoyable process in the world (this much held very true). Would I do it again? With drugs, absolutely; but if the world were to lose the precious gift we call an epidural, I'm not so sure. Was it worth it? 1,000,000 times, yes. The moment I laid my eyes on my flawless daughter, I knew that my life would never be the same; I would die to protect this tiny human being, without any question. Seeing my husband's eyes full of tears and the ear splitting smile on his face when he first held Brooklyn was a phenomenal moment in time. I never knew how much I loved him, until I saw how much he loved her.
My little family feels so complete now. A void I did not even know existed has been filled, and I now have a real purpose. I am a mother. My life will never be the same, and I am so grateful for that fact. We have been blessed with the most amazing gift of all, and I embrace each challenge with open arms.
First family picture following delivery (hence why I look like I belong in the Zombie Apocalypse)
Brooklyn working her magic on Daddy, only a few hours old
Friday, 26 July 2013
The Creation of Brooklyn: Phase I - Conception
Now, before you panic and opt not to read this post, I am not going to include the dirty details of the actual 'act' of conceiving our baby. Rest assured, I do have some dignity.
Rather, I will take you on a walk down the windy, and emotional road we travelled in order to earn our titles as Mom and Dad.
Chris and I were married April 29th of 2011 (for the record, we picked that date well before Kate Middleton and Prince William...)
I was officially bitten by the "baby bug" the fall/winter of 2012. A very close friend of ours announced her pregnancy in October and it confirmed any feelings I had towards the notion - I wanted to have a baby. Chris and I had discussed the idea of children many times during our relationship and were on the same page; we both wanted kids (probably 2, although Chris really wants one of each). When I announced that I was ready to start a family, Chris was thrilled, and we agreed that I would discontinue my birth control my next cycle.
During this period in our lives we were living in Creston, BC, and I (a Registered Animal Health Technician) had resigned from my full time position at a veterinary clinic in town that summer. I was doing some locum work around the province (essentially "substituting" at clinics) and was about to head down to the lower mainland to work at an Emergency/Specialty center in Langley, BC. We figured this worked well, as it would take some time for my body to completely rid itself of the hormones from my birth control pills.
Well, let me tell you a little bit about the 'baby bug,' if you've never experienced it before. When it truly bites you, it bites hard! Everywhere I went, I saw pregnant bellies and newborn babies. "Baby on board" stickers on the car in front of me in the Tim Horton's drive-through, strollers on the sidewalks. It was all I could see, as if I was blind to the rest of the world around me.
My locum lasted until the end of December that year, and I was beyond ready to get home to my husband, my dog, our home, and the prospect of commencing the "baby making stage."
Since I can remember, my parents had lectured and cautioned me about sex and the consequences of it; STD's and unplanned pregnancies. If not from Mom and Dad, then from teachers at school during sexual education talks. It was made out as though looking at a man, God forbid thinking about 'what lies beneath,' could cause me to become pregnant.
With this knowledge tucked safely in the back of my mind, I was quite confident that it would not be long before Chris and I were able to announce our pregnancy to family and friends. I ordered pregnancy books online: "What to Expect Before your Expecting", "What to expect when you're expecting", and even a "Dummies Guide to Pregnancy" for Chris. We were both very excited and dove into the literature with hunger.
On birth control, my cycle was very regular, with mother nature granting me my special little gift that we call our periods every 28 days. Expecting this trend to continue, as I neared the end of my cycle that January, I was excited. Day 28 came and went with still nothing. I looked into every little twitch or twinge from my body, eagerly searching the internet to see if perhaps it was an early sign of pregnancy. This continued on for another 10 days, and a few negative pregnancy tests later, Aunt Flo finally came.
After 2 months of an irregular cycle and disappointment every time Aunt Flo showed up, I finally approached my pregnant friend and asked her for her advice. Having had trouble conceiving herself, she introduced me to the concept of basal temperature charting.
Here's a quick summary of how it works: I purchased a special thermometer that can sense the slightest change in your temperature, making it more accurate than regular thermometers. . Each morning, at the same time (I set my alarm for this) I was to take my temperature and record it. It is very important that taking my temperature was the first thing I did in the morning; before getting out of bed, drinking, peeing, etc. I would record my temperature on a chart every morning to monitor the trend of my temperature. Prior to ovulation, your basal temperature will drop slightly, before jumping up a tenth to half degree once you have ovulated. Your temperature would then remain high, until Aunt Flo arrived, which would result in it dropping back down again. The beauty of monitoring your basal temperature is that:
a) you can better pinpoint when you ovulate
b) it can be the first indicator of pregnancy (if your temperature remains 'high' after ovulation for over 18 days, you are most likely pregnant).
So I charted my temperature for about 2 months. The second month day 18 of high temperatures came and went, with no action. Holding my breath I purchased a home pregnancy test and brought it home. I followed the instructions and waited until the morning to pee on this little stick that could change my life forever. After waiting the allotted amount of time (while pacing the hallways and refusing to look at the stick, thinking I might jinx it) I peered down to see a faint + sign on the stick. Although I was already well aware what that meant, I read through the instruction manual to ensure that indeed + meant positive, which meant I was pregnant!
I texted Chris at work telling him that I was pretty sure I was pregnant. He rushed home instantly to check for himself and confirmed that yes, that was a +, and yes, we were pregnant! I was in shock at that point, and really didn't want to believe that our hard work had finally paid off. I purchased a digital pregnancy test later that day and took it that afternoon, and it gave me a big "yes" quite quickly. That was all the confirmation I needed. I called my doctor's office to make an appointment to have my pregnancy confirmed there, and to get started on the prenatal blood work.
A week later Chris and I were sitting in my doctor's office waiting to talk to my doctor. I had already provided the nurse with a urine sample that they would use to confirm my pregnancy and I was anxiously waiting the results (Chris looked pretty calm and collected to me.)
The doctor came in and asked how she could help me today. I was confused, and answered "Well, I am pretty sure I'm pregnant." She hummed and looked down at my urinalysis results.
"Well, according to this it's a negative for the pregnancy hormone. What makes you think you are pregnant?"
My heart was in the heels of my feet within a second, and I felt fuzzy, like I had entered into some sort of sick dream. I explained to her that I had taken 2 home pregnancy tests and both had come back positive.
"Well, those tests are pretty accurate. Perhaps your urine just wasn't concentrated enough. I am going to send you to get your blood HCG levels checked to confirm for sure."
With that, she whisked a stunned me and a still relatively nonchalant Chris out the door with a lab requisition.
I went to the lab immediately to get my blood work done. The phlebotomist first said she would unable to do the prenatal screening as it was sent out to Calgary and because it was a Friday this would not work. My face must have portrayed utter devastation as she quickly retracted and said she could run the HCG levels in house and we would just have to get the screen done at a later time; this I could handle. I was due to head up to Fort St John to start another 3 weeks locum that Saturday, and the thought of making that journey and not knowing if I was or was not pregnant, was unbearable.
The nurse called me later that afternoon to tell me that my HCG test came back as a positive and yes I was pregnant. I felt incredibly relieved and pretty silly, as on my way home from the hospital I had stopped at the grocery store to pick up every brand of pregnancy test I could find and a tub of ice cream. I proceeded to use every pregnancy test (they all came back positive) and polished off the majority of the ice cream before my horrific gut ache kicked in.
I headed up to Fort St John that Saturday as planned, arriving Sunday afternoon. I was staying with my college roommate and her husband, as I did my previous few locums up there. I started work bright and early on Monday, and had informed my boss of my pregnancy before leaving home. In my line of work, where I am surrounded by anesthetic drugs and gases, and am required to perform radiographs, pregnancy is not something you can safely keep a secret, due to its limitations.
I informed the rest of the staff of my current 'situation' that morning so that everyone was in 'the know' and after many cheers and hugs, carried on with an extremely busy first day back.
That evening I noticed that I was having some light spotting. I looked into it, and apparently this was quite normal in early pregnancy, and not to be worried unless it was bright red or heavy bleeding. By Tuesday morning the bleeding was quite red, and I thought I would go to the walk-in just to be sure. The doctor came in and took my history and then took my vital signs and palpated my abdomen, asking if I felt any pain or discomfort, to which I replied no. He then told me that he was concerned that I was threatening a miscarriage. He told me that we needed to check my HCG blood levels today and again in 2 days to see if they were increasing or dropping, and told me I was to be on strict bed rest until we knew what was going on.
The next couple of days were an absolute blur. I called my boss to inform her of what was going on and she sent her wishes and told me to take the time I needed. It really hit me when I called Chris to tell him what the doctor had said. The panic started to set in, and I just knew that I was losing this baby. Chris encouraged me to remain positive, that this could be normal, and not to jump to conclusions until we got the blood work back. I headed back to my girlfriend's house and burst into tears as I told her what was going on. She was incredibly supportive, and tucked me onto the couch with a full season of "The O.C." re-runs and snacks to keep me comfortable. As the hours dragged on my heart sank lower and lower and the tears flowed more freely. I had lost all hope and was struggling to maintain my composure. I developed a severe headache that forced me towards the Tylenol that evening, and Chris decided he needed to fly up to be with me. He arrived the morning before my doctors appointment and we went hand and hand to receive the verdict. I started to cry the second we sat down in the room. Our doctor entered the room, lead by her hugely pregnant belly, and I bitterly cursed whoever was punishing me further by rubbing it in my face. She gave me the news that I knew was coming, my levels were dropping and were not high enough for a healthy pregnancy. I had lost the baby.
I can't even begin to describe the fear and devastation I felt during those few days. Something that I so badly wanted had been ripped from my very grasp in the matter of hours, and I didn't understand why. What had I done to deserve such a tragedy? I was a good person, and think I would have been a really good mother. Thinking of the little life that had been inside of me for such a brief period of time was enough to bring me to my knees with grief.
We decided it was best for me to go home and not continue my locum. I spent the entire ride home thinking of what could have been, wondering why, and crying myself dry of any more tears.
The next few weeks were trying at best, as I struggled through each day trying to find answers and purpose.
We had been trying for a baby for about 6 months when I decided to try acupuncture. In Kimberley, BC, about two hours from Creston, there was an acupuncturist with a previous background in fertility medicine. I was definitely skeptical of the alternative medicine, and wasn't sure what to think of acupuncture. At this point, however, I would do anything.
After my initial assessment (which included thorough examination of my posture and my tongue - quite odd, I know) the acupuncturist informed me that he suspected I had inadequate or 'impure' blood flow to my uterus. He explained how he came to this conclusion, but it was all over my head. He also said that, essentially, I had become my own worst enemy. I was constantly triggering my parasympathetic nervous system (fight or flight response) due to my hunched posture (the minute I would straighten up my body would immediately think "stranger danger" and go into panic mode) and my inability to sleep properly (I would have vivid dreams and remember most details upon waking, which indicated that I would leave part of my 'ying/yang' in my dream state, leaving me 'incomplete' during my waking hours) and inability to shut off my brain (a.k.a I'm a basket case).
Thus I began my monthly treks to receive my acupuncture treatments. I instantly noticed improvement in my overall demeanour. I was calmer, and was able to sleep more soundly at night, noticing a reduction in my dreams and finding that I was unable to recollect any details from them upon waking. As per my acupuncturists recommendation, I started daily yoga practice, to help with my posture and to help me relax and breathe. At my second appointment, he noticed a huge improvement already, and urged me to carry on.
After 9 months of trying to conceive, my Doctor ordered some more blood work, to check my thyroid function and clotting factors. After 11 months she referred me to a fertility specialist in Cranbrook, BC. When we finally got in for an appointment with the OBGYN, we were on month 12 of our baby making journey. Discouraged? You bet.
The Doctor gave us the typical lecture, that 12 months was a pretty standard amount of time to try for a baby with no results. He was not concerned about the previous miscarriage, as this was also relatively common. He did, however, understand that I was losing hope and needed to do something to try and make this work, so he sent a request for an abdominal ultrasound, to check my reproductive system, and wrote a prescription for a drug that induces ovulation. I was to get blood work on day 3 of my next cycle to check my hormone levels, and would then start taking the medication for 7 days. He also told me that I was not to take a pregnancy test until I was 10 days late, if I were to find myself in that situation. With renewed hope, I was almost willing Aunt Flo to arrive so that we could get started on this new treatment.
We headed down to Vancouver Island shortly after this appointment to spend some time at my Grandparents condo and celebrate Chris's 29th birthday. Day 18 of high temperatures came and went, and at 5 days late, I could wait no longer. The morning of day 6 past my 'due date' I took a pregnancy test. And lone behold, it was positive. Half groggy from sleep, I walked out of the bathroom and shoved the stick in Chris's face.
"I knew it!" He exclaimed, and after a brief celebratory huge, we crawled back into bed for a few more hours of blissful sleep.
This time, it was different. For one, my boobs were massive. I finally was able to experience cleavage, and I loved it! Every shirt looks better when you have round, perky breasts to fill them out! To say Chris was overjoyed with this new development is an understatement, but (as previously mentioned) the 'twins' were in no way coming out to play; they were wayyyyy too sore.
Within two days of the positive pregnancy test, I developed morning sickness. Not chronic vomiting morning sickness, nor even just 'morning' sickness, rather a mild to moderate nausea that plagued me all day long. I was also zapped of all of my energy stores. Walking my dogs in the morning was a chore, and I would generally have to stop 5 minutes in to pant and catch my breath. I was starving, but unable to eat much of anything. As miserable as I was during this stage of pregnancy, I was also thrilled; these symptoms could only mean that the pregnancy was going well and that the embryo was healthy.
Blood work and urine confirmed my pregnancy, and at 8 weeks we went in for our first ultrasound, to date the pregnancy. Seeing my little baby on that TV screen was life changing. A little blip on the monitor, it squirmed and wiggled the entire time. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched this little miracle on the screen; the nurse assuring me that the baby looked healthy.
So, as you can guess, the pregnancy proceeded as it should, and we now have this beautiful gift that we call Brooklyn.
So, what worked in the end? What convinced my body that it was ready to carry a child? Acupuncture? Yoga? Temperature charting? Who's to say.
My advice to those of you out there trying: as challenging as it is (and as obvious as it sounds), try to take the stress out of the process. Stress only weakens the body, and during a time where you are encouraging your body to take on the task of it's lifetime, it's not warranted. Be healthy, exercise, eat well, and be patient.
Good things come to those who wait, and I can testify that it is so worth the wait.
Happy Baby Making :)
Rather, I will take you on a walk down the windy, and emotional road we travelled in order to earn our titles as Mom and Dad.
Chris and I were married April 29th of 2011 (for the record, we picked that date well before Kate Middleton and Prince William...)
I was officially bitten by the "baby bug" the fall/winter of 2012. A very close friend of ours announced her pregnancy in October and it confirmed any feelings I had towards the notion - I wanted to have a baby. Chris and I had discussed the idea of children many times during our relationship and were on the same page; we both wanted kids (probably 2, although Chris really wants one of each). When I announced that I was ready to start a family, Chris was thrilled, and we agreed that I would discontinue my birth control my next cycle.
During this period in our lives we were living in Creston, BC, and I (a Registered Animal Health Technician) had resigned from my full time position at a veterinary clinic in town that summer. I was doing some locum work around the province (essentially "substituting" at clinics) and was about to head down to the lower mainland to work at an Emergency/Specialty center in Langley, BC. We figured this worked well, as it would take some time for my body to completely rid itself of the hormones from my birth control pills.
Well, let me tell you a little bit about the 'baby bug,' if you've never experienced it before. When it truly bites you, it bites hard! Everywhere I went, I saw pregnant bellies and newborn babies. "Baby on board" stickers on the car in front of me in the Tim Horton's drive-through, strollers on the sidewalks. It was all I could see, as if I was blind to the rest of the world around me.
My locum lasted until the end of December that year, and I was beyond ready to get home to my husband, my dog, our home, and the prospect of commencing the "baby making stage."
Since I can remember, my parents had lectured and cautioned me about sex and the consequences of it; STD's and unplanned pregnancies. If not from Mom and Dad, then from teachers at school during sexual education talks. It was made out as though looking at a man, God forbid thinking about 'what lies beneath,' could cause me to become pregnant.
With this knowledge tucked safely in the back of my mind, I was quite confident that it would not be long before Chris and I were able to announce our pregnancy to family and friends. I ordered pregnancy books online: "What to Expect Before your Expecting", "What to expect when you're expecting", and even a "Dummies Guide to Pregnancy" for Chris. We were both very excited and dove into the literature with hunger.
On birth control, my cycle was very regular, with mother nature granting me my special little gift that we call our periods every 28 days. Expecting this trend to continue, as I neared the end of my cycle that January, I was excited. Day 28 came and went with still nothing. I looked into every little twitch or twinge from my body, eagerly searching the internet to see if perhaps it was an early sign of pregnancy. This continued on for another 10 days, and a few negative pregnancy tests later, Aunt Flo finally came.
After 2 months of an irregular cycle and disappointment every time Aunt Flo showed up, I finally approached my pregnant friend and asked her for her advice. Having had trouble conceiving herself, she introduced me to the concept of basal temperature charting.
Here's a quick summary of how it works: I purchased a special thermometer that can sense the slightest change in your temperature, making it more accurate than regular thermometers. . Each morning, at the same time (I set my alarm for this) I was to take my temperature and record it. It is very important that taking my temperature was the first thing I did in the morning; before getting out of bed, drinking, peeing, etc. I would record my temperature on a chart every morning to monitor the trend of my temperature. Prior to ovulation, your basal temperature will drop slightly, before jumping up a tenth to half degree once you have ovulated. Your temperature would then remain high, until Aunt Flo arrived, which would result in it dropping back down again. The beauty of monitoring your basal temperature is that:
a) you can better pinpoint when you ovulate
b) it can be the first indicator of pregnancy (if your temperature remains 'high' after ovulation for over 18 days, you are most likely pregnant).
So I charted my temperature for about 2 months. The second month day 18 of high temperatures came and went, with no action. Holding my breath I purchased a home pregnancy test and brought it home. I followed the instructions and waited until the morning to pee on this little stick that could change my life forever. After waiting the allotted amount of time (while pacing the hallways and refusing to look at the stick, thinking I might jinx it) I peered down to see a faint + sign on the stick. Although I was already well aware what that meant, I read through the instruction manual to ensure that indeed + meant positive, which meant I was pregnant!
I texted Chris at work telling him that I was pretty sure I was pregnant. He rushed home instantly to check for himself and confirmed that yes, that was a +, and yes, we were pregnant! I was in shock at that point, and really didn't want to believe that our hard work had finally paid off. I purchased a digital pregnancy test later that day and took it that afternoon, and it gave me a big "yes" quite quickly. That was all the confirmation I needed. I called my doctor's office to make an appointment to have my pregnancy confirmed there, and to get started on the prenatal blood work.
A week later Chris and I were sitting in my doctor's office waiting to talk to my doctor. I had already provided the nurse with a urine sample that they would use to confirm my pregnancy and I was anxiously waiting the results (Chris looked pretty calm and collected to me.)
The doctor came in and asked how she could help me today. I was confused, and answered "Well, I am pretty sure I'm pregnant." She hummed and looked down at my urinalysis results.
"Well, according to this it's a negative for the pregnancy hormone. What makes you think you are pregnant?"
My heart was in the heels of my feet within a second, and I felt fuzzy, like I had entered into some sort of sick dream. I explained to her that I had taken 2 home pregnancy tests and both had come back positive.
"Well, those tests are pretty accurate. Perhaps your urine just wasn't concentrated enough. I am going to send you to get your blood HCG levels checked to confirm for sure."
With that, she whisked a stunned me and a still relatively nonchalant Chris out the door with a lab requisition.
I went to the lab immediately to get my blood work done. The phlebotomist first said she would unable to do the prenatal screening as it was sent out to Calgary and because it was a Friday this would not work. My face must have portrayed utter devastation as she quickly retracted and said she could run the HCG levels in house and we would just have to get the screen done at a later time; this I could handle. I was due to head up to Fort St John to start another 3 weeks locum that Saturday, and the thought of making that journey and not knowing if I was or was not pregnant, was unbearable.
The nurse called me later that afternoon to tell me that my HCG test came back as a positive and yes I was pregnant. I felt incredibly relieved and pretty silly, as on my way home from the hospital I had stopped at the grocery store to pick up every brand of pregnancy test I could find and a tub of ice cream. I proceeded to use every pregnancy test (they all came back positive) and polished off the majority of the ice cream before my horrific gut ache kicked in.
I headed up to Fort St John that Saturday as planned, arriving Sunday afternoon. I was staying with my college roommate and her husband, as I did my previous few locums up there. I started work bright and early on Monday, and had informed my boss of my pregnancy before leaving home. In my line of work, where I am surrounded by anesthetic drugs and gases, and am required to perform radiographs, pregnancy is not something you can safely keep a secret, due to its limitations.
I informed the rest of the staff of my current 'situation' that morning so that everyone was in 'the know' and after many cheers and hugs, carried on with an extremely busy first day back.
That evening I noticed that I was having some light spotting. I looked into it, and apparently this was quite normal in early pregnancy, and not to be worried unless it was bright red or heavy bleeding. By Tuesday morning the bleeding was quite red, and I thought I would go to the walk-in just to be sure. The doctor came in and took my history and then took my vital signs and palpated my abdomen, asking if I felt any pain or discomfort, to which I replied no. He then told me that he was concerned that I was threatening a miscarriage. He told me that we needed to check my HCG blood levels today and again in 2 days to see if they were increasing or dropping, and told me I was to be on strict bed rest until we knew what was going on.
The next couple of days were an absolute blur. I called my boss to inform her of what was going on and she sent her wishes and told me to take the time I needed. It really hit me when I called Chris to tell him what the doctor had said. The panic started to set in, and I just knew that I was losing this baby. Chris encouraged me to remain positive, that this could be normal, and not to jump to conclusions until we got the blood work back. I headed back to my girlfriend's house and burst into tears as I told her what was going on. She was incredibly supportive, and tucked me onto the couch with a full season of "The O.C." re-runs and snacks to keep me comfortable. As the hours dragged on my heart sank lower and lower and the tears flowed more freely. I had lost all hope and was struggling to maintain my composure. I developed a severe headache that forced me towards the Tylenol that evening, and Chris decided he needed to fly up to be with me. He arrived the morning before my doctors appointment and we went hand and hand to receive the verdict. I started to cry the second we sat down in the room. Our doctor entered the room, lead by her hugely pregnant belly, and I bitterly cursed whoever was punishing me further by rubbing it in my face. She gave me the news that I knew was coming, my levels were dropping and were not high enough for a healthy pregnancy. I had lost the baby.
I can't even begin to describe the fear and devastation I felt during those few days. Something that I so badly wanted had been ripped from my very grasp in the matter of hours, and I didn't understand why. What had I done to deserve such a tragedy? I was a good person, and think I would have been a really good mother. Thinking of the little life that had been inside of me for such a brief period of time was enough to bring me to my knees with grief.
We decided it was best for me to go home and not continue my locum. I spent the entire ride home thinking of what could have been, wondering why, and crying myself dry of any more tears.
The next few weeks were trying at best, as I struggled through each day trying to find answers and purpose.
We had been trying for a baby for about 6 months when I decided to try acupuncture. In Kimberley, BC, about two hours from Creston, there was an acupuncturist with a previous background in fertility medicine. I was definitely skeptical of the alternative medicine, and wasn't sure what to think of acupuncture. At this point, however, I would do anything.
After my initial assessment (which included thorough examination of my posture and my tongue - quite odd, I know) the acupuncturist informed me that he suspected I had inadequate or 'impure' blood flow to my uterus. He explained how he came to this conclusion, but it was all over my head. He also said that, essentially, I had become my own worst enemy. I was constantly triggering my parasympathetic nervous system (fight or flight response) due to my hunched posture (the minute I would straighten up my body would immediately think "stranger danger" and go into panic mode) and my inability to sleep properly (I would have vivid dreams and remember most details upon waking, which indicated that I would leave part of my 'ying/yang' in my dream state, leaving me 'incomplete' during my waking hours) and inability to shut off my brain (a.k.a I'm a basket case).
Thus I began my monthly treks to receive my acupuncture treatments. I instantly noticed improvement in my overall demeanour. I was calmer, and was able to sleep more soundly at night, noticing a reduction in my dreams and finding that I was unable to recollect any details from them upon waking. As per my acupuncturists recommendation, I started daily yoga practice, to help with my posture and to help me relax and breathe. At my second appointment, he noticed a huge improvement already, and urged me to carry on.
After 9 months of trying to conceive, my Doctor ordered some more blood work, to check my thyroid function and clotting factors. After 11 months she referred me to a fertility specialist in Cranbrook, BC. When we finally got in for an appointment with the OBGYN, we were on month 12 of our baby making journey. Discouraged? You bet.
The Doctor gave us the typical lecture, that 12 months was a pretty standard amount of time to try for a baby with no results. He was not concerned about the previous miscarriage, as this was also relatively common. He did, however, understand that I was losing hope and needed to do something to try and make this work, so he sent a request for an abdominal ultrasound, to check my reproductive system, and wrote a prescription for a drug that induces ovulation. I was to get blood work on day 3 of my next cycle to check my hormone levels, and would then start taking the medication for 7 days. He also told me that I was not to take a pregnancy test until I was 10 days late, if I were to find myself in that situation. With renewed hope, I was almost willing Aunt Flo to arrive so that we could get started on this new treatment.
We headed down to Vancouver Island shortly after this appointment to spend some time at my Grandparents condo and celebrate Chris's 29th birthday. Day 18 of high temperatures came and went, and at 5 days late, I could wait no longer. The morning of day 6 past my 'due date' I took a pregnancy test. And lone behold, it was positive. Half groggy from sleep, I walked out of the bathroom and shoved the stick in Chris's face.
"I knew it!" He exclaimed, and after a brief celebratory huge, we crawled back into bed for a few more hours of blissful sleep.
This time, it was different. For one, my boobs were massive. I finally was able to experience cleavage, and I loved it! Every shirt looks better when you have round, perky breasts to fill them out! To say Chris was overjoyed with this new development is an understatement, but (as previously mentioned) the 'twins' were in no way coming out to play; they were wayyyyy too sore.
Within two days of the positive pregnancy test, I developed morning sickness. Not chronic vomiting morning sickness, nor even just 'morning' sickness, rather a mild to moderate nausea that plagued me all day long. I was also zapped of all of my energy stores. Walking my dogs in the morning was a chore, and I would generally have to stop 5 minutes in to pant and catch my breath. I was starving, but unable to eat much of anything. As miserable as I was during this stage of pregnancy, I was also thrilled; these symptoms could only mean that the pregnancy was going well and that the embryo was healthy.
Blood work and urine confirmed my pregnancy, and at 8 weeks we went in for our first ultrasound, to date the pregnancy. Seeing my little baby on that TV screen was life changing. A little blip on the monitor, it squirmed and wiggled the entire time. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched this little miracle on the screen; the nurse assuring me that the baby looked healthy.
So, as you can guess, the pregnancy proceeded as it should, and we now have this beautiful gift that we call Brooklyn.
So, what worked in the end? What convinced my body that it was ready to carry a child? Acupuncture? Yoga? Temperature charting? Who's to say.
My advice to those of you out there trying: as challenging as it is (and as obvious as it sounds), try to take the stress out of the process. Stress only weakens the body, and during a time where you are encouraging your body to take on the task of it's lifetime, it's not warranted. Be healthy, exercise, eat well, and be patient.
Good things come to those who wait, and I can testify that it is so worth the wait.
Happy Baby Making :)
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Got Milk?
Friday,
July 12th, 2013 my life changed forever; my precious daughter,
Brooklyn Eva Charbonneau, entered into the world at 11:27am, weighing 7lbs 8oz.
The classic phrase “love at first sight” doesn’t even being to describe the
emotions I felt the first time my baby girl was placed on my chest. I find
myself questioning if I have ever witnessed such perfection before in my life,
because surely nothing comes as close to it as she does.
So I sit
here with a brand new title, the title of mother, and find myself completely in
shock and awe that:
a) I (with some help from my husband) grew a human-being,
and
b) Holy
shit, she is completely dependent on me to care for her….
The first
24 hours of Brooklyn’s life flew by pretty quick. The nursing staff at the
hospital (who I cannot thank enough for their time and patience) helped us
learn how to properly change diapers (more for me than Chris, I lost my diaper
changing virginity that day), how to bathe her properly (she is not a fan),
swaddle her, and last but not least, breastfeed her.
Let’s stop there
and reflect for a moment; breastfeeding.
Sounds
simple right, God gave me two breasts which (primarily) are to feed a child. Definitely
lacking in the ‘cleavage’ department for most of my life, I was pleasantly surprised
with the development of my breasts when I became pregnant…as was my husband.
Unfortunately, we were unable to enjoy their new shape for the first while; as
if he had so much as exhaled too closely to them I would have nailed him with a
sharp right hook.
So the
hospital nurse described to me how to hold little Brooklyn and get my
anatomical bits and pieces in the right position so that she could successfully
latch onto the boob to eat. The first try went very well and Brooklyn was
suckling away like a baby pig in no time. “Pfff, this will be easy,” I thought.
Wrong.
My milk officially
came in day two post-partum. How do I know? My perky, voluptuous pregnancy
breasts were quite rapidly replaced by a pair of boulders that protruded from
every corner of my nursing bra, and came almost to my chin (I swear!) These
cannons were way too big for my small frame and were so hard that you could
bounce a quarter off of them easily.
Day three
post-partum and I felt a warm, wet sensation running down the side of my belly,
so I glanced down to see this; pouring from my left breast like a leaky faucet
was milk. Streaming from my nipple, down my rib cage and pooling nicely into my
pajama bottoms. The right breast was doing the same; creating a beautiful
design through my shirt.
Needless to
say, I now sleep in a nursing bra, with a nursing pad securely tucked into each
cup. When I go to feed my baby, I have to quickly tuck a burp cloth into my bra
to prevent the impending stream of milk from soaking me, and God forbid the
child where to cry without some sort of splash guard in place.
My breasts
have become so engorged that my baby cannot actually latch onto one of them in
order to feed. I spend the majority of my time in the shower massaging what I
previously referred to as the ‘fun bags’ in order to express some milk and
relieve a little bit of the pressure I experience 24/7. I am going to the
grocery store today with the sole purpose of picking up cabbage, so I can tuck the
leaves into my bra for the next 24 hours in order to slow down my milk
production (apparently this works quite well, I will let you know).
My boobs,
once mysterious and sexual, have simply become vital body parts in keeping my
baby girl alive; something I will whip out multiple times a day (without causing
any sexual excitement for neither myself nor my husband) and bring up in casual
conversation, explaining to my husband how my nipples are starting to ‘toughen-up’
over dinner.
By the end
of this breast feeding experience I am quite certain I will have minimal to no
feeling left in my nipples, and am positive that my husband will never look at
my breasts with quite the awe that he did prior to having our baby.
Just
another example of how ‘my body’ is no longer ‘my body,’ but more like another
one of God’s childbearing vessels. My naughty bits are not quite so naughty,
and any room there was for imagination surely left when my husband witnessed a
human-being being born from my body.
You win
this round Mother Nature…
Thursday, 11 July 2013
Honey, you cannot win.
It was my husband's idea to go out for supper. Two of our very close friends were getting ready to move a fair distance away and we wanted to spend as much time with them as we could before the embarked on their newest journey, leaving us in the dust that always seems to coat the city of Fort St John, BC.
The thought was great; not only did it let me off the hook for cooking dinner, but where I am at one and half weeks into my maternity leave, I will take ANY excuse to get out of the house and stop starring at my belly willing something to happen (besides the inevitable flatulence).
I am currently 39 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I am overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a Mom, especially to the little girl that they are 95% sure is occupying the majority of my abdomen right now. Have I enjoyed pregnancy? Let's see.... the first 12 weeks I was plagued with a mild 24/7 nausea which left me moribund on the couch most of the day, unable to consume much nutrition of any sort. The second trimester improved greatly, bringing with it a surplus of energy and as close to flawless of a complexion that I've ever experienced in my 24 years. As I started to pack on the inevitable pregnancy pounds while working full time at my demanding, on your feet job, I began to experience a constant dull lower back ache, sore feet, and finally learnt where my sciatic was located. Third trimester brought little to no change, although my energy stores definitely did not seem to last quite as long as I needed them too, and try as I might I was no longer able to "squeeze past" anybody or anything.
Convinced that I could will this little girl to come out a bit early, I agreed to let my Doctor start to perform weekly membrane "sweeps" at 37 weeks gestation, to try to encourage dilation, effacement and ideally labour to get started.
Today we go in for membrane sweep number three, and all my hopes of having an "early" baby, plus the stupid notation that I have ANY control over this process whatsoever are rapidly draining away.
The truth is, I despise being pregnant. That may sound a bit harsh, but I'm being honest.
I hate the restrictions; don't do this, don't do that, let me get that for you - all day long. I feel like I am crippled constantly. On top of that to be reminded every hour that I need to eat, because I am eating for two, is enough to drive me mad. Trust me honey, I have been eating enough for two my entire life. My stomach essentially rules my mood and therefore my day, and I have grown to respect it and it's wishes. Me and pregnancy, although physically we seem to jive quite well, are just not that match made in heaven. So the sooner this phase of my life can be over, the happier I shall be.
So as my husband gets home from his day at work, I began to get myself ready to head out for dinner. An excuse to put on some makeup and get out of the yoga pants I have been living in the past few weeks seemed excellent to me and I was cheerful. Until I had to get dressed.
I decided on a maxi dress for a few key reasons:
1. My legs were in desperate need of an exfoliation and a shave, and I just didn't have the desire nor the time to spend hunched over awkwardly in the shower in order to accomplish these tasks.
2. As much as I love the heat (and normally I really do), I just do not have the thermal control that I did pre-pregnancy; meaning sweat is a daily issue. The thought of cramming my two bulging thighs into their own tunnel of a jean just to bake for the next 2 hours was NOT appealing in the slightest.
3. The only shirts that will actually cover my entire belly are Old Navy tank tops, which I would consider to be 'casual' dress at best. That, plus the fact that I'd already cycled through two of them during the day (cue the sweat issue again), and am I almost positive that third has a large chocolate ice cream stain over the left breast.
As I struggled into the dress in a haste to get out of the door on time (seems to be a common issue, am I right ladies?), I took one last glance in the mirror and this is what I saw. A gigantic hippo dawned in a bright shade of Caribbean blue, with breasts that threaten to bulge right out of the dress and an ass so flat you could use it as a skipping stone. My beautiful 'baby bump' forced the front hem of the dress to sit at least 2 inches higher than the back, and the fabric hung in a very awkward fashion over my 'frame'. In my last minute of desperation I added a slender white belt just below my bust, but all that did was accentuate the bulge of my front and the sheet of plywood that is my rump.
There was no fixing this now.
As I shuffled out the door to head for the dinner (because let's be honest, I don't WALK anymore) and my husband, being the gentleman he is, said "You look great babe."
As nice as the intention of his comment was, I felt extremely irritated with him for saying it. Let's be honest here, you and I both know I do not look great, not even good. Heck, even the neighbours know I look like a cow, and they've only ever known me as the 'pregnant lady.' I look like a human-sized cheese puff in a Mumu, and there is nothing flattering about that image in the least (unless you're a big fan of cheese puffs, I suppose.)
As we drove to the restaurant, I contemplated my husband's remark in my silent rage.
What would I have preferred him to have said? "Gee Hun, water weight's really starting to be an issue hey?" Of course not. That would have resulted in me biting his head off, and then spending the remainder of the evening crying my eyes out in bed (thank you hormones for that).
So I chalk it up to this really; you just cannot win. You're going to be damned if you do, and damned if you don't with me. When I'm in my right state of mind (let's be generous and say that's about 60% of the time currently) even I know that I am a miserable person who is full of complaints. So to my darling, patience of a God, husband, try not to take anything I say personally, and just know that one day (and hopefully soon) I will return to being the relatively stable, beautiful woman that you feel in love with and married years ago. Let's just hope I haven't completely broken your spirit before that day comes...
The thought was great; not only did it let me off the hook for cooking dinner, but where I am at one and half weeks into my maternity leave, I will take ANY excuse to get out of the house and stop starring at my belly willing something to happen (besides the inevitable flatulence).
I am currently 39 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I am overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a Mom, especially to the little girl that they are 95% sure is occupying the majority of my abdomen right now. Have I enjoyed pregnancy? Let's see.... the first 12 weeks I was plagued with a mild 24/7 nausea which left me moribund on the couch most of the day, unable to consume much nutrition of any sort. The second trimester improved greatly, bringing with it a surplus of energy and as close to flawless of a complexion that I've ever experienced in my 24 years. As I started to pack on the inevitable pregnancy pounds while working full time at my demanding, on your feet job, I began to experience a constant dull lower back ache, sore feet, and finally learnt where my sciatic was located. Third trimester brought little to no change, although my energy stores definitely did not seem to last quite as long as I needed them too, and try as I might I was no longer able to "squeeze past" anybody or anything.
Convinced that I could will this little girl to come out a bit early, I agreed to let my Doctor start to perform weekly membrane "sweeps" at 37 weeks gestation, to try to encourage dilation, effacement and ideally labour to get started.
Today we go in for membrane sweep number three, and all my hopes of having an "early" baby, plus the stupid notation that I have ANY control over this process whatsoever are rapidly draining away.
The truth is, I despise being pregnant. That may sound a bit harsh, but I'm being honest.
I hate the restrictions; don't do this, don't do that, let me get that for you - all day long. I feel like I am crippled constantly. On top of that to be reminded every hour that I need to eat, because I am eating for two, is enough to drive me mad. Trust me honey, I have been eating enough for two my entire life. My stomach essentially rules my mood and therefore my day, and I have grown to respect it and it's wishes. Me and pregnancy, although physically we seem to jive quite well, are just not that match made in heaven. So the sooner this phase of my life can be over, the happier I shall be.
So as my husband gets home from his day at work, I began to get myself ready to head out for dinner. An excuse to put on some makeup and get out of the yoga pants I have been living in the past few weeks seemed excellent to me and I was cheerful. Until I had to get dressed.
I decided on a maxi dress for a few key reasons:
1. My legs were in desperate need of an exfoliation and a shave, and I just didn't have the desire nor the time to spend hunched over awkwardly in the shower in order to accomplish these tasks.
2. As much as I love the heat (and normally I really do), I just do not have the thermal control that I did pre-pregnancy; meaning sweat is a daily issue. The thought of cramming my two bulging thighs into their own tunnel of a jean just to bake for the next 2 hours was NOT appealing in the slightest.
3. The only shirts that will actually cover my entire belly are Old Navy tank tops, which I would consider to be 'casual' dress at best. That, plus the fact that I'd already cycled through two of them during the day (cue the sweat issue again), and am I almost positive that third has a large chocolate ice cream stain over the left breast.
As I struggled into the dress in a haste to get out of the door on time (seems to be a common issue, am I right ladies?), I took one last glance in the mirror and this is what I saw. A gigantic hippo dawned in a bright shade of Caribbean blue, with breasts that threaten to bulge right out of the dress and an ass so flat you could use it as a skipping stone. My beautiful 'baby bump' forced the front hem of the dress to sit at least 2 inches higher than the back, and the fabric hung in a very awkward fashion over my 'frame'. In my last minute of desperation I added a slender white belt just below my bust, but all that did was accentuate the bulge of my front and the sheet of plywood that is my rump.
There was no fixing this now.
As I shuffled out the door to head for the dinner (because let's be honest, I don't WALK anymore) and my husband, being the gentleman he is, said "You look great babe."
As nice as the intention of his comment was, I felt extremely irritated with him for saying it. Let's be honest here, you and I both know I do not look great, not even good. Heck, even the neighbours know I look like a cow, and they've only ever known me as the 'pregnant lady.' I look like a human-sized cheese puff in a Mumu, and there is nothing flattering about that image in the least (unless you're a big fan of cheese puffs, I suppose.)
As we drove to the restaurant, I contemplated my husband's remark in my silent rage.
What would I have preferred him to have said? "Gee Hun, water weight's really starting to be an issue hey?" Of course not. That would have resulted in me biting his head off, and then spending the remainder of the evening crying my eyes out in bed (thank you hormones for that).
So I chalk it up to this really; you just cannot win. You're going to be damned if you do, and damned if you don't with me. When I'm in my right state of mind (let's be generous and say that's about 60% of the time currently) even I know that I am a miserable person who is full of complaints. So to my darling, patience of a God, husband, try not to take anything I say personally, and just know that one day (and hopefully soon) I will return to being the relatively stable, beautiful woman that you feel in love with and married years ago. Let's just hope I haven't completely broken your spirit before that day comes...
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