Sunday, December 29, 2013

Halfway There

Pregnancy milestones are major events that occur during the 40 long weeks of gestation and help expectant parents get through the agony of time that seems to drag on and on until they actually get to meet their little bundle of love. I've found that "my" pregnancy this time seems much longer than when I was carrying Dylan and Justin so many years ago. Maybe it's because Baby A is not actually growing inside of me or maybe it's because we found out Lyndsay was pregnant within days of the embryo transfer instead of the normal 6 or 8 weeks after conception but, whatever the reason for time standing still, I'm grateful for each milestone we've hit.

After losing the twins, Baby B and Baby C, so early on in this journey, my anxiety level has been understandably high. I'd had two normal pregnancies in 2000 and 2003, so the thought of a miscarriage with the triplets hadn't really crossed my mind. The range of emotions I felt during the 8-week ultrasound, which revealed three babies but only one beating heart, was almost indescribable. The only thing that kept me from having a total meltdown was the fact that Baby A's heart was still pumping away and she needed my strength. She needed me to be her mommy.

When Lyndsay reached her twelfth week of pregnancy I thought I'd relax a bit. Getting through the first trimester is a huge milestone because the risk of miscarriage drops tremendously. But my brain was still on overdrive after finding out that the second trimester doesn't officially start until week 14. And then we hit that mark! The second trimester began and I forced myself to chill out a bit, not only for my own sanity, but for Jimmi's as well. Everything seemed to be moving along as planned and there wasn't much to do but wait for our next pre-natal visit at almost 19 weeks. 

But I had to do something!

As I've mentioned before, it's very hard to be pregnant when you're not actually pregnant. I needed it to feel real. What could I do to get excited about this baby who, for now, is only in my head and heart but not actually in my body? 

We could register!

So, for the last few months, Jimmi and I have been back and forth to Babies R Us, adding items, little by little, with the magical scanner. Find, want, scan, beep, done! But it's not an entirely painless process. When we go there I purposely dress in baggy sweatshirts and keep my jacket zipped to avoid questions or looks of confusion as to why an obviously not pregnant woman needs a baby registry. I know I'm not the only one who's been in this position and I'm sure the employees are used to working with adoptive parents and possibly others who are using a gestational carrier, but I just want to feel like a "normal" expectant mom for the hour or so we'll spend in the store each week. And, yes, I'm still parking in the Expectant Mother parking spots because, well, I think I qualify! 

So now what?

The registry is basically finished. We're in the process of getting her room in order. I've gone through and hung up all of the beautiful baby clothes that have been given to us by friends and family members, not to mention the ones I've bought myself! Lyndsay tells me that Baby A is kicking up a storm every day and, while it makes my heart melt to hear it, I can't actually feel those signs of life. What else will make me feel like I'm actually having a baby?

"20 week bump" was the caption on the photo Lyndsay sent to me this morning. And there, in plain view, was a gloriously protruding belly, full of MY baby! She must've been reading my mind because I was just reading about our newest milestone on Baby Center. 

"Congratulations!" read the headline, "You're Halfway There!"

We've made it to the midway mark! Twenty weeks down and 20 weeks to go! Well, if this is anything like Lyndsay's last two pregnancies, we might actually have 21 weeks to go, but we'll cross that bridge in May. I guess now is the time to start really preparing. We can sign up for infant CPR and infant care classes. We can really start getting her room decorated. We can almost see the light at the end of this long and winding tunnel.

We will accomplish our next major milestone in a month and it's probably the biggest one yet. At 24 weeks Baby A will be viable outside the womb. Believe me, I'm hoping she stays in there where she belongs until May but, if for some reason, she decides to push her way out of there at 24 weeks, her chances of survival with a TON of medical intervention and a very long stay in the NICU are good. But an even better milestone happens at 28 weeks. At that point, if Baby A is impatient like her mommy and needs to come out and greet her awaiting public, her chances of survival with minimal lasting health issues are even greater. When we were pregnant with triplets the doctor kept telling us that, once the pregnancy reaches 28 weeks, everyone breathes a little sigh of relief. That number has stuck in my mind. But, obviously, having a baby that early is not ideal. 

Here's to hoping Baby A makes it safely to each major milestone over the next 20 weeks and stays put until she's a pudgie, pink, perfect princess ready to make her red carpet debut in May of 2014.

Happy New Year!

Thursday, December 26, 2013

I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up If I Tried

On the last day of our trip to Minnesota last week, the pain I was having from the UTI, which never actually tested positive for a UTI, was finally starting to disappear. I still had some soreness when I'd pee, but nothing I couldn't handle. We flew home on Saturday and I was ready to relax and have a Merry Christmas after my clear scan and awesome Baby A check-up.

But the peace of mind only lasted one day.

On Sunday I was experiencing numbness all over my left butt cheek, left thigh, lower back and both hips. On top of that, I was also having a lot of pain in my left thigh, which was odd since I hadn't been to the gym in over a week. I shrugged it off as long-term side effects from radiation, which are known to appear years after completing treatment. Before I went to sleep on Sunday night I told Jimmi, based on the way I was feeling, I'd be surprised if I could even walk when I woke up on Monday morning.

But I was wrong.

Walking wasn't a problem, it was going down the stairs that was difficult. The numbness was still radiating all around but now, what was once a horrible pain in my thigh, only bothered me when I'd descend each step. And it was still only the left thigh.

Oh well. I didn't have time to stop and feel sorry for myself that day. I had to get the boys ready to head to the Make-a-Wish Foundation of New Jersey's Wishing Place so Dylan could donate his birthday money to help a little boy with cancer take a trip to Disney World. Watching my 13 year-old hand over that check made sitting in two hours of traffic worth every minute. But driving back was another story. The pain in my thigh was becoming increasingly awful and I finally called my mom and asked her to call the GP and try to get me an appointment with his wife, a radiologist, to check my leg for a blood clot. Blood clots are common in people who've had a hysterectomy and lymph node removal, though they usually happen fairly soon after the surgery, not two and a half years later. But I was in so much pain that my paranoia kicked in and the hypochondria was on overdrive. Instead of driving home I made a b-line for my mom's house in case I needed to drop the boys and head to the hospital. But when I was just about there, she texted me that she could only get me an MRI for the next morning.

I could be dead by then!

I pulled up to my parents' house, still sporting a happy face for the boys, and pulled my mom aside while they barged into the family room with their iPads. "It hurts, Mommy!" I whined. "I can't wait until tomorrow and I don't want an MRI. If any doctor other than the ones at the cancer center give me an MRI, they'll see the radiation damage and assume it's more cancer and scare the shit out of me again! They can just do a quick ultrasound of my legs to check for clots. I know because they did it after my hysterectomy!" I knew there was nothing more that my mom could do for me, other than what she'd already done, so I decided to just call my favorite nurse at the cancer center. Of course, being the day before Christmas Eve, she wasn't in the office. The nurse on call returned my frantic message, "Hi Suzanne, what's going on?" I explained in the best way I could, "I've been having pain in my left leg. My thigh, really. It's also numb all around my left thigh and butt and both hips. Is it possible I have a blood clot?" I know I sounded like a crazy person and I'm sure the nurses were so sick of my calls, but what else could I do? I was legitimately in pain. I knew something was definitely wrong. I needed someone to help me! She replied, "It doesn't sound like a blood clot. That would be more like a pinpoint pain, not all over your thigh. And it would probably be more in your calf, though anything is possible. Is your leg swollen?" I knew where she was going with that question. "No, not really," I replied, wondering if my pants had been feeling tighter because of all the Christmas cookies or actually from something more serious. "I'm wondering if you're starting to show signs of lymphedema," she suggested. The dreaded word cut through me like a sword as I imagined my left leg swelling up to twice the size of my right one; a common side effect of surgical lymph node removal, which I'd managed to dodge for the last two and a half years. The conversation ended with the nurse promising to send me a prescription for a lymphedema evaluation and me agreeing to call back if I noticed any swelling.

But I still didn't have a real answer as to what was causing my pain or how to stop it.

I gave my mom a rundown of my conversation with the nurse and started to chill out a little bit because she didn't suspect a blood clot at all. When I finally calmed down enough I realized I had to pee pretty badly. I hurried to the bathroom, dropped my pants, sat down and immediately noticed a small bump on my left outer snoochie lip. I realize "snoochie lip" is not the medical term for the area I'm describing; just go with it! Anyway, my first thought was an ingrown hair. My second thought was that it must be a tumor under the skin and the cancer is back and I'm gonna die. I attempted to squeeze it, ever so gently, hoping to remove the hair that was stuck, but nothing came out at all. It just felt like a hard bump.

Yup. I'm gonna die.

I didn't mention the bump to my mom because I didn't want to scare her, but I did borrow some Neosporin and a Band-Aid to stop whatever it was from getting infected.

The next day was Christmas Eve. I woke up and immediately noticed that my leg was definitely not as sore as it had been and the numbness had subsided considerably. I went into the bathroom to check on my newest concern, which was still present, but hadn't gotten any worse. I undressed to get into the shower and caught a glimpse of my butt in the mirror. "What the HELL is THAT!?" I screeched out loud, referring to the small, round cluster of red bumps. I turned my head around as much as I could to look down at my backside but it wasn't working. I grabbed my makeup mirror from my vanity and shoved it right in front of my backside. Ok, clearly I'm now dealing with some kind of rash and not cancer. I wonder if I caught something from the dirty hotel in Minnesota? Maybe something bit me! Maybe I'm having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic I was taking for the UTI? I couldn't guess anymore. I just finished getting dressed and went downstairs to bake an apple pie with Justin.

A few hours went by and it was finally time to get ready for my parents' Christmas Eve party. Back upstairs I went to change my clothes and freshen my makeup. The bathroom was calling again so I made my way to the porcelain seat. And that's when I saw the bumps next to the original left snoochie lip intruder and another new cluster of bumps that had moved in right next door.

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

I ran my finger over the bumps and noticed that my skin felt thick and strange all around them. I got up and went to the mirror to check out the ass rash again. It hadn't changed. I touched that one as well and the feeling was very similar to the others. Ok, at least I think I'm only dealing with one issue that's spreading and not two different things.

But what is it?

I slathered the areas with cortisone cream and finished getting ready. When we arrived at my parents' house I was glad to catch my mom alone in the kitchen. "I have a weird rash on my ass and snoochie area," I said bluntly. My mom stared at me with her hands full of the potato pancakes she was frying up for the 45 people who would be bursting through her door at any minute. "Maybe you have a spider bite? They're nasty and they just keep biting. That could also be the reason for your leg pain." It made perfect sense! A stupid spider must've bitten me while I was sleeping! Ok, good. I'll keep putting cortisone on those puppies and they'll be gone in a few days.

The familiar sound of excited kids wasn't the first thing to wake me up on Christmas Morning. Instead, it was a nagging itch coming from my left cheek. No, not the one on my face. I got up to look in the mirror and check on the butt rash and was really annoyed to see another cluster moving into the neighborhood, about three inches north of the first one. That made four clusters in all, with two in the front and two in the back. Well, at least it's a nice, equal opportunity rash. Though, it was all on the left side of my body. I heard the kids waking up so Jimmi and I went downstairs to do the present thing with them then I headed back up to get showered and dressed and move on to visit my parents and then Jimmi's.

The shower didn't bother the rash but I was careful not to scrub it. I dried off and put on my jeans, which were a bit uncomfortable on top of the raw skin. Oh well, I had to deal with it unless I wanted to wear sweats to Christmas Dinner. I stuck out the early part of the day without too much of an issue, but as it got later and later the pain was becoming worse and worse. Every time I'd move or bend my jeans would rub against my skin and I'd see stars. I was having trouble sitting because of the pain and walking wasn't too much fun either, which I attributed to the brand new bumps that appeared in the crease of my butt cheek and my leg at some point during the day. I didn't want to be rude, but I finally couldn't stand it any longer and I quietly said to Jimmi, "I need to go home. Now." All I wanted to do was take off my pants and feel some relief. The two-hour drive back was like a slow torture and I had to hold back the tears each time we hit a bump. I e-mailed my mom for the phone number of her new dermatologist so I would be ready to call first thing in the morning.

When we pulled into the garage I couldn't get out of the car quickly enough. I apologized to Jimmi for not helping him take the bags of gifts into the house but I just couldn't. I needed to get my clothes off immediately. I flew up the stairs, stripping along the way. My first stop was the bathroom mirror and what greeted my eyes horrified me. The rash was spreading all over the left side of my butt and down my left thigh. I wasn't sure if I should just head to the hospital, but the thought of seeing the Christmas Day skeleton crew in a germ-infested hospital was much worse than a few billion red bumps all over my ass.

My alarm clock woke me at 8:00 AM, which is the time the dermatologist's website listed as opening time on Thursdays. I immediately dialed the number without even attempting to clear the morning voice away. A recording answered my call, "Hello, we are closed for the Christmas Holiday and will return on Monday, December thirtieth."

SHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!!!!

I hung up the phone, panicked for a minute and called back. Maybe there's an emergency number. I'm pretty sure my booty now qualified. The recording continued, "…If you are having a true dermatology emergency and you are already a patient of this office, please call the doctor at…" Hmmm…Should I call? I'm not a patient yet. Should I have my mom call? There's gotta be another doctor. As if on cue, my friend, Jacquie, texted me. Her cousin is a dermatologist! I quickly asked for the number and dialed it on the other line. "Sorry, she's not in today and she's all booked up tomorrow."

No!

I called my mom again, "I need to go to a doctor TODAY and I don't know where to go!" I would've called my GP but he's off on Thursdays. Then there's the dermatologist who gave me Botox a few months ago, but I really didn't like her. I tried the doctor who treated my teenage breakouts 100 years ago, but the number was disconnected. Finally, I just turned to Google. On my first try I was able to get an appointment with a physician's assistant in a dermatology office. That was the best I could do and it was better than nothing.

12:45 PM couldn't come quickly enough!

I gently pulled up my soft, cotton underwear and loose-fitting sweats before feeding the boys and getting myself ready to go. I called my mom to update her on the situation and she voiced a thought that had crossed my mind the day before but didn't stick because I'm not over 60 years old. "I think you might have shingles," she said. "I was thinking the same thing," I agreed and then it hit me, "I just remembered one of the side effects of chemo is shingles. A few of the women on my support page have had it." My mom replied, "It fits all your symptoms. The leg pain, the numbness, the headaches…" I nodded, "I've been having chills too." The voila moment continued, "I'm thinking you really didn't have a UTI last week and it was all a part of the same thing." Then she threw a curveball, "Unless it's herpes." I can't say that diagnosis wasn't on my mind as well. "If it's herpes I'm gonna have to kill Jimmi."

As I was leaving the house I mentioned the latest possibility to my husband, "If I have herpes you're in SO much trouble!" He looked right back at me and said, "Oh yeah? Well, if you have herpes YOU'RE in so much trouble!" The fact that each of us knew the other hadn't touched another person in years made us both giggle at our fake threats and I gave him a quick kiss goodbye and headed out to learn my fate.

I sat uncomfortably in the chair as I filled out the paperwork for the doctor's office. I actually got angry when I was reading the narrow-minded surgical history options:

Circle One
Ovaries removed: Endometriosis
Ovaries removed: Ovarian cancer
I circled "Ovaries removed" then crossed out "Ovarian cancer" and wrote in, "Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix."

Circle One
Hysterectomy: Uterine cancer
Hysterectomy: Fibroids
I circled "Hysterectomy" then crossed out "Uterine cancer" and wrote in, "Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix."

"Suzanne?" called the nurse and I painfully stood up and handed her my paperwork. "So you have a rash on your backside?" she asked. "Yes, and a little on the front." She took a few notes and left the room. A young, attractive Indian woman appeared a few minutes later and introduced herself as the physician's assistant. I explained my symptoms to her and then dropped my drawers so she could have a look. She examined both sides of me and pushed on the bumps a bit, which felt oh, so good. "Looks like shingles," she announced to confirm what my mom and I already knew. "But it's very rare to see this on someone so young," she added. "I think it's from the chemo," I suggested. She looked at my chart and asked how long ago I finished treatments. "Two and a half years," I told her. "Hmmm," she was a little bit confused, "Usually people get shingles while they're on chemo because it kills their immune system and they're much more susceptible to illness." I just shrugged because I know from my blood tests that my white cell count has never fully returned to what it once was. "Can you just wait here?" The PA asked. "I want to show the other PA how you look right now in case you come back and I'm not here. I need her to be able to gage if it's gotten better or worse." I nodded and thought maybe she should just bring the janitor in to check out my goods, too.

The second PA arrived and she poked and prodded the bumps as well. "Ooohh, that's a REALLY sensitive area to have shingles," she told me as if I didn't already know how much it sucked. "Ok, got it," she said and left the original PA with me again. "I just want to take a culture, if I can. That's a really dirty area so I need to make sure you don't also have a bacterial infection growing in there."

Hey, lady! Who are you calling dirty? My girly parts are as fresh as daisies!

"Ok," I submitted. She took a stick out of a sterile bag and popped a couple of my lovely blisters, which felt like someone was stabbing me with needles right in the vag, then bagged it back up to ship to the lab. "I don't expect the test to show anything, but I just want to make sure. As I said, it's a really dirty area." Ok, I get it. Snatches are dirty. Enough. Then she gave me my instructions, "You'll take an antiviral pill three times a day for seven days. I'm also gonna give you an oral steroid to help with inflammation. Part of what happens with shingles is once the rash goes away in about a week, you might have lasting, severe pain. The steroid should help that. It might not take it away completely, but it should help. The last thing I'm giving you is a topical antibiotic to try to keep the area from getting infected. I know I've mentioned that area is very dirty." I started to wonder about the condition of her lady bits, at that point, because I've really never had any complaints about mine.

"I want to see you again on Monday, but if this gets any worse, come back tomorrow." I nodded. "Oh, and no sex." I had to laugh out loud, "Yeah, my husband wouldn't come near me looking like this. I'm just glad it's not herpes!" She didn't say anything. My tone changed, "You're sure it's not herpes, right?" She smiled, "It's one-hundred percent shingles and one-hundred percent not herpes." My smile came back, "Ok, then I won't have to get divorced."

And there you have it! I keep trying to write a simple blog about having a baby through the miracle of gestational surrogacy, but my damn body wants to keep things interesting with micro fractures and random pains and diseases of the elderly! Enough already! For a week I've been planning that my after Christmas post would be the one to spill the beans on Baby A's name.

I guess you'll have to wait for the next one!








Monday, December 23, 2013

Checking Up on Baby A

"I guess your daughter likes Oreos," Lyndsay joked in her text to me on Tuesday, after finally feeling Baby A's first flutters inside her. A smile of relief crept over my face, followed by a pang of jealousy stemming from the realization that I can't feel the first signs of my child's life myself. I quickly brushed the negative feelings aside and focused on the fact that, while I can't actually grow my own baby, in a few short months, I'll be the one to raise her forever.

But let me back up for a minute. 

After the news of my clear scan and normal pelvic exam last Friday, I expected to feel a bit more calm and relaxed for our upcoming trip to Minnesota for our mid-pregnancy ultrasound. I guess half of me chilled out a bit, but the other half was too distracted by the aching and throbbing pain I was still feeling in my girly parts. Miraculously, the coughing had stopped completely by Sunday morning, but the lower area discomfort was getting worse. 

"Call Dr. M and have your lungs checked," my mom insisted late Sunday night. "But I'm not coughing anymore," I said. "I don't care," my mom was firm. "You don't want to get sick when you're in Minnesota. I would have everything checked out anyway." While I thought it was ridiculous to make an appointment for my GP to listen to my lungs, which I knew were fine, I figured I would do it anyway to appease my mom and maybe ask him to check me for a urinary tract infection. After all, there had to be something causing the pain that kept moving from my ass to my vag to the empty location where my left ovary used to be. 

First thing Monday morning I was sitting in Dr. M's exam room waiting for a once-over. The doctor appeared and I explained my disappearing respiratory symptoms. A cold stethoscope and a few deep breaths later confirmed what I'd told my mom earlier. My lungs were perfectly fine. I was a bit embarrassed as I explained my next set of complaints, "I'm also having some pain in the vaginal area," I said sheepishly. "It's not actually in the vagina anymore, though. It was in my rectum at one point, too, but now it feels like it's in the urethra, but more to the left." That was an awesome description. I continued, "I'd say it might be a UTI but it doesn't burn and I'm not peeing a hundred times a day," Dr. M wasn't phased by my list of woes but, instead, said, "Let's see if we can figure this out. I'll just need a urine sample." I headed to the bathroom to produce the necessary materials, which I was told to leave in the sterile cup by the sink. When I came out I chatted with the receptionist long enough for the nurse to dip the strip of mult-colored squares into my liquid waste and come back with a preliminary answer. "So where does the mom live?" the receptionist asked, referring to Lyndsay. I tried to suppress my distaste for her choice of words. "I'm the mom," I answered with a forced smile. She was a bit taken off guard, but tried to make it better, "I know. I mean where is the BIOLOGICAL mom?"

Hold it together, Suzanne!

"I AM the biological mom," I said firmly, through gritted teeth. The nurse interrupted our awkward exchange, "There are trace amounts of blood and leukosites in your urine." I stared at her blankly and waited for further information but none was offered. "So what does that mean?" I pressed. "It's just a quick screen so it could mean there's an infection or it might mean nothing." Helpful. Thanks. "So, now what?" I asked as Dr. M emerged from his office with an answer, "I'll prescribe a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but wait until we get the urinalysis back so we know exactly what bacteria we're treating." A pain shot through my love canal which ignited a sense of urgency in my treatment. "How long will that take?" I questioned impatiently. "We'll have the results of the urinalysis tomorrow. If that doesn't show anything we'll have to wait three days for the culture to grow." What?! I didn't allow my voice to reflect the stress in my head, "I'll be in Minnesota in three days. I'd really like to take care of this before I leave." Dr. M nodded and said, "We'll know more tomorrow."

Now back to Tuesday.

"Hi Suzanne, it's Dr. M." I greeted him politely than waited for the results and the next step in treating the annoying aggravation that was growing in my lower half. "Your urinalysis came back normal. No infection."

What?!

I composed myself so I wouldn't yell into his ear, "But I'm in pain! My scan was clear but something really hurts. I need it to stop!" He was understanding, "We're still waiting for the three-day culture. In the meantime, start on the medicine I prescribed to see if it'll help." I agreed, thanked him and hung up the phone with more questions than answers. But I didn't have time to consult any other physicians at that point. I had more important things to do. I had to get packed and ready for our trip the next day. We were going to see our sweet, Baby A!

Our flight on Wednesday brought us into Minneapolis at about 2:00 PM. We didn't have any appointments or plans to see Lyndsay and her family until Thursday, so Jimmi and I decided to waste a few hours at Mall of America. Born and raised a Jersey Girl, I have an inborn appreciation for malls of all kinds, especially one that is considered a tourist attraction and not just a shopping center.

My brain sent waves of shopaholic excitement through my body as soon as it processed the huge "Nordstom" sign looming ahead of us as we turned into the parking lot. I just knew it would be a dangerously expensive day. Jimmi parked the car and we entered the Mother Ship through the shoe department door, immediately stopping to browse the sea of Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo and Burberry. "The thing about shoes and bags," I explained to Jimmi, "is that they'll always fit." I'm not sure if I was trying to convince my husband or myself of that point, but I offered more support for my claims, "You couldn't pay me to try on jeans right now because I know I've put on a few pounds, but these boots will fit no matter what!" I exclaimed as I grabbed the studded, Frye cowboy boots with an embossed leather skull. "Try them on," Jimmi suggested as the typical enabler he is. The sales vultures swooped in for the kill and it was only after one of them flew off to find my size that I noticed the price tag on the bottom of my awesome find. Jimmi watched as I turned the boots over, gasped and went pale. "How much?" He asked with a devilish smirk. I shook my head, not even wanting to say the number out loud. "Do you want the good news or the bad news," squawked our vulture as he returned from his size search. He didn't wait for more than a shrug before offering, "We don't have your size in the store," Oh, thank GOD! "but," he continued with a relentless need to bankrupt me during the first five minutes of our shopping experience, "I can totally order them for you!" Be strong, Suzanne! You do NOT need those boots! "Yeah, but I really need to try them on." His answer proved that this man was well-trained in dealing with the weak. "No problem! We have this pair in your size and the fit is exactly the same!" I stared at the plain black boot in his hand and quickly concocted another excuse, "We literally just got here from New Jersey. Will you be here in a few hours? We have to pass through again when we leave and I can try them on at that point." He knew he was defeated and I forced myself to be strong and avoid looking back at the beautiful studded works of art I so desperately wanted on my feet. "Ok," he submitted. "Here's my card. I'm here until eight tonight." I grabbed the information and turned quickly before my will power weakened and my credit card popped out of my wallet. Whew! That was close.

Ring! Ring!

It was Dr. M's office. "Hello?" I answered, expecting to finally find out what was causing the pain that was now pulsating in the lower left side of my back and radiating tingling and numbness down my leg. "Hi, Suzanne. The results of your urine culture were clear. There's no bacteria." That can't be. "But I'm in pain!" I whined, practically begging the nurse to give me a diagnosis that could actually be treated. "Can I finish up the medicine anyway, just in case?" I knew I was grasping at straws but I needed to try something, anything, to make this agony stop. She put me on hold to ask the doctor his opinion and came back with, "Dr. M said to try it. Can't hurt." That was good enough for me.

As our walk through the mall continued, I realized quickly that I was not impressed by the selection of stores in what I'd hoped would be the epitome of shopping Heaven. Jimmi and I breezed by most of the shops without entering and only stopped to marvel at the roller coasters and thrill rides in the amusement park that was built right into the center of it all. We completed our round of Level One with only a Mr. Hanky, The Christmas Poo t-shirt for each of the kids to show for it. Up the escalator we went, hoping for better luck. "Have you seen a bathroom at all?" Jimmi asked as we neared the top. Come to think of it, I hadn't, and I actually had to go too. "I'm sure we'll pass one at some point," I assured him as we started our loop of the second level. Store after store, hallway after hallway, candy shop after candy shop we searched. But no bathroom was found. And then I spotted the place I was sure we'd find relief. "American Girl will have a bathroom," I announced. Jimmi looked mortified, "I'm not going to the bathroom in there!" I giggled, "You don't have to carry a doll to use it. I'm sure they have a men's room. Let's go look!" I opened the door the the three-level store and visions of my future flooded my mind. But then I remembered our purpose for the visit and I quickly found the sign that would lead us in the right direction. We approached the American Girl Cafe, with the girliest set-up I've ever seen. Tables with flowers and hearts and frills were just begging for little girls and their matching dolls to grab a seat and order from the dainty little menu. And, in the back of the restaurant, were the bathrooms. "Want me to hold your stuff?" Jimmi asked. I was confused, "Don't you have to go too?" The look of "Hell, no!" came over his face and I had to laugh out loud at his horror. "Oh, stop! There's a men's room! Look! Believe it or not, you're not the first man to come into this store. There are lots of daddies here!" I had to smile at the fact that I'd just lumped Jimmi into the "Daddy" category. "Oh, fine!" he huffed as he stomped away and pushed open the pretty, pink door.

Our second floor perusing had come full-circle and we were still only carrying our small purchase from Level One. "I'm hungry," I said, which was perfectly timed with our ascent to Level Three, where we could choose from a variety of restaurants or a large food court. An hour later our bellies were full and we realized we'd completed the entire Mall of America in under two hours. That must've been some kind of speed-shopping record. Now we just needed to avoid the Nordstrom shoe vulture and find our rental car so we could drive an hour and a half to the hotel.

It was a fairly uneventful drive and we pulled into the hotel parking garage around 8:00 PM. There weren't any available spaces so Jimmi waited in the car while I went to check in and ask about other parking options. I gave our name to the man at the front desk who checked his computer and said, "Oh, ok. It looks like your reservation is for our sister hotel down the street. Pull out of the lot and go down about two blocks. You'll see it on the right." Confused, I nodded my head and walked out. I got into the car and said, "I guess I made a reservation at the wrong place. I thought I chose this one, since we stayed here last time, but I guess I didn't. This is the Inn & Suites and I reserved The Grand Hotel. Oh well. It sounds nicer, anyway."

We found the hotel without much trouble, parked and walked into the lobby, which was noticeably more upscale than the last one. I was immediately proud of myself for accidentally booking this place. On our way to the front desk a store caught my eye that nearly caused a full-blown panic attack. It was a wig shop. What's the big deal, right? It's just some fake hair on some fake heads in the window. No, that's not all. To me it was a reminder of the months of Hell I'd been through in 2011. It was trip back to the agony of losing my reproductive organs and my hair. A painful visual of all that cancer takes from so many of us. I averted my eyes and made it to the counter without looking back. A few signatures and a swipe of the credit card later and we were on our way to the 9th floor to rest for the night. I slid my key into the slot, turned the handle, opened the door and froze at the first site of our room. Old, dingy and dark were the first three words that came to mind. But I know I'm extremely spoiled, so I kept my mouth shut and walked inside to get settled. Jimmi dropped his stuff and headed to the bathroom (the man has a bladder the size of a pea). I sat down on the bed, which was way too small and bounced back as if the mattress was made of rubber. It's only for three nights, I told myself. You can handle it for three nights. Jimmi appeared a minute later with a look of disgust on his face, "The bathroom is gross. The sink is so dirty it looks like they've never cleaned it." Ok, if Jimmi's complaining, it must be bad. This is a man who's slept in more cheap motels while touring than most people could ever imagine. I got up to check it out. The first thing I noticed was the 1960's, brown and tan, patterend-tile floor staring up at me. The sink, toilet and shower looked as if they'd never been cleaned and the light was so dim I wasn't sure I'd be able to see if I needed to use the facilities in the middle of the night. I couldn't say anything. I just had to suck it up. As I walked back to the bed where Jimmi was sitting, we exchanged glances and each of us knew what the other was thinking. "I don't want to stay here," I said. "I don't either!" he agreed, to my surprise. "Maybe they can switch us to the hotel we went to first. We stayed there last time and it was fine. They're owned by the same place." Jimmi picked up the phone and called the front desk. "Hey, man," he said to the receptionist, "I really hate to be a pain, but is there any way we can switch to the Inn and Suites?" I assume the man asked the reason for our need to leave because Jimmi replied, "I don't want to be a dick," nice one, Jimmi. "but it's just…well…the room is kind of disgusting." I guess the guy appreciated Jimmi's candor because he thanked him for his opinion and put him on hold to see what he could do. A few minutes later we were booked into the Inn and Suites for the remainder of our stay. All we had to do was stick it out in the land of dirt and grime for the rest of the night.

Morning couldn't have come soon enough after a sleepless night of too hot, too cold, flat pillow, hard mattress, weird smell. I checked my phone and saw a text from Lyndsay, "Kid number one is puking." Oh, no! Her daughter had been sick a few days earlier and the bug had now made it to her son. We decided to cancel our plans together for later in the day and let Hunter rest and get better, which left the day free after our hospital tour. I got up and hobbled into the bathroom, not quite sure how to pinpoint the growing list of pain, numbness and tingling that was moving around the lower half of my body. I glanced at the shower and contemplated stepping inside for less than a minute before deciding against trying to clean myself in a dirty cell. "I'll take a shower once we check into the other hotel, after our Maternity Ward tour," I said out loud to no one in particular. We packed the few items we'd removed from our shared suitcase and headed to the garage to load the bag into our rental car. From there, we walked back into the hotel and took the elevator down to the Subway level. No, there weren't any underground trains. The hotel had underground walking tunnels connecting it to the hospital where our baby will be born in about five months.

"Ok, let me see," I said as I read the signs pointing straight ahead, left and right. "I think it's that way." Luckily, we managed to find the Maternity Ward where Nurse G met us for our private tour. "Hello!" she chirped cheerily as she welcomed us with a genuine smile. She didn't waste any time in her explanations, "So, this is where you'll report when Lyndsay goes into labor, then we'll bring you right down to her room to…" I cut her off, "We won't be in the room with her until she's ready to push." I explained. "Oh, ok. It's great that you already know this stuff so I can put it in your file," she wrote some notes and pointed to the rooms on either side of her. "You'll wait in here until she's ready." We peeked through the windows of the rooms which contained TVs, couches, snack machines and drinks, then continued on through the large double doors marked, "Special Care Nursery." Nurse G spoke, "If your baby is a few weeks early or needs just a little bit of extra help, she might have to be in here for a day or two. This isn't a NICU; that would be in the other building. This is just for mild issues." I immediately noticed the letters that were cut out and taped onto the windows of each door. "Mary," "Christina," "Jackson." It was so cute the way they personalized the rooms to give them less of a hospital feel. The loud cry of a newborn penetrated the silence and I looked up at Jimmi who seemed to smile in anticipation of hearing those cries. Ha! We'll see how he feels after a few hundred sleepless nights.

The tour continued into the main area of Labor and Delivery and Nurse G explained where "the mom" would go and where "the mom" would have the baby if everything was normal and where "the mom" would be if she needed a c-section. I bit my tongue, though each time she said those words it felt like a knife was cutting away a piece of my heart.

I'M THE MOM!

We ended the tour in an actual room where a woman would give birth, then stay for the rest of her hospital time. Nurse G showed us how the bed breaks down when it's time to push and we saw the little bassinet for the baby. "The babies used to stay in the nursery unless it was time to eat, but we've changed that now. The baby will stay with you the whole time." Then she remembered she needed to go into further detail about the sleeping arrangements, "We'll try to find two rooms next to each other, or at least in the same vicinity, one for the two of you and one for Lyndsay. The baby will stay with you in your room, but Lyndsay will be nearby. The mom and dad will get a bracelet that is connected to the baby but visitors, including the dad, will have to wear a name tag." I had to ask, "So, I'll get a bracelet?" The nurse was quick to answer, " No, Lyndsay gets the bracelet because…" but her words fell off and she looked very confused by my inquiry. "Hmmm," she started. "I'm not exactly sure how that will work. I'll find out for you." She went on to talk about the legalities of our situation, "You should have all of your documentation in place very soon so we can put it in your file that you two are the biological and intended parents of the child, that way there are no mistakes. When she's born, we'll have you sign the papers for the birth certificate so we can register everything right away." I broke in, "What if we don't make it here for the birth?" It's a possibility I've been worrying about for months. I realize it's only a 3-hour flight to Minnesota from New Jersey, but there's much more to it than that. If Lyndsay calls and says she's in labor, I'll first have to call and find a flight, get to the airport two hours in advance, fly, rent a car and drive an hour and a half. The whole process will take at least eight hours. Her labor might not last that long. And what if she goes into labor right after the last flight of the day leaves the airport? Then there's no chance at all. And, no, I can't really go out to Minnesota a few weeks before her expected due date because I have kids who need me here. Also, Lyndsay was a week late or more with her last two pregnancies, so who knows how long I'd be waiting? "I'm not sure what would happen if you aren't here. I'll ask about that, too," Nurse G said. My eyes started to tear up a bit, "If we don't make it, who will hold the baby? Will someone cuddle her so she doesn't feel like she's all alone?" Nurse G tilted her head to the side, "We have PLENTY of baby-cuddlers here. Don't you worry about that!" The thought of someone else being the first person to hold my daughter made me feel a bit sick to my stomach so I chose to push away the thought for the moment.

When the tour concluded, Jimmi and I headed back to the Subway of the clinic and started walking toward the parking garage. We passed a few shops along the way, but one seemed to call to me as I walked near it. "Can we go in?" I begged Jimmi with batting eyelashes. He looked behind me to see the small, frilly, pink clothing donning the windows and he knew I really wasn't giving him a choice in the matter. Less than 60 seconds later I'd already pulled a tiny pink, ruffled pair of leggings with a matching pink kitty-cat shirt and coordinating crib shoes, hat and blanket from the rack. "This will be her going home outfit!" I squealed as I tossed the bundle into Jimmi's arms and continued my search. One more pink and white ruffled outfit, a pink jacket with bows, a pink and black hat with matching shoes and another pair of shoes in a lighter shade of pink and I was on my way to the register, dreading the total cost of my 10 minute browse through only one section of Baby Baby. "Oh, and these!" I said at the last minute as I grabbed the little white, lacy socks from the rack next the the cashier. I don't want to tell you the number that rang up before I handed over my credit card, but I promise the stash of Pepto-Bismol colored clothing was so worth it! The "No Returns! Exchanges Only!" sign I noticed as we left the store forced me to turn to Jimmi and ask, "What if she's a boy?" His eyes grew wide and I laughed it off, "I'm kidding!" But I really wasn't.

Is it possible that Baby A is actually a boy?

We trudged through the parking lot to the car, ready to leave for the next hotel, when I saw the sign on the other side of the parking lot. "Maybe we don't have to leave," I suggested. "The Marriott shares this parking lot and is also connected to the subway to the hospital. It would be much more convenient to just go there. Plus, it's a Marriott. How bad could it be?" Jimmi agreed with my logic so we crossed the lot and entered the large-chain hotel's lobby. "How may I help you?" said to midwest-friendly receptionist. "Hi. We stayed next door last night and we were a bit disappointed in the condition of the room," I explained as nicely as I could. She was already nodding with understanding, "Yes, I've heard that before." Ok, this was a good sign, "We're supposed to go to the Inn and Suites, but we were wondering if maybe we can just stay here?" She picked up the phone and started to dial, "You're in luck! We're all sister hotels and our reservation specialist handles reservations for all of us." She quickly explained our dilemma to the man on the other end of the line then handed me the receiver, "Hello, this is Lenny. How may I help you?" I repeated our situation and Lenny said, "Yes, I always tell people to stay away from that hotel. Honestly, it was built in the twenties and I don't think they've EVER renovated the rooms! You'll be much happier at the Marriott." So it wasn't only us! Whew!

A few minutes later we were settling into our very comfortable room on the 5th floor of the Marriott. Now to figure out what to do with the rest of our day. Hunter was still sick so visiting with Lyndsay was out of the question. I Googled some options but came up empty. "Maybe I'll check Pollstar," I said as I typed in the web address for the concert listing site. "No way!" I screeched. "Bret Michaels is playing in Minneapolis!" I couldn't believe the singer of Poison, whom I'd had a crush on since the seventh grade, was playing 80 miles from where were were staying. What luck! But my excitement came to a halt when I realized, "Oh. That's tomorrow night. Oh well. It's no fun seeing my lover when I'm with my husband anyway," I joked with a wink.

I decided to call my mom while we had a few minutes to chat. As we spoke I noticed the lights in the room started flickering. The smell of smoke caught my attention even more and I turned around to see the white cloud billowing from the wall-lamp. "Oh my GOD!" I shouted, "Jimmi! The lamp is on fire!" Jimmi appeared from the bathroom in his underwear, ran to the wall and started blowing out the lamp like it was a candle on a birthday cake. The smoke was really coming out now and Jimmi was trying to reach in and grab the flaming bulb. My brain finally focused and I decided to turn off the lamp to avoid having my husband fried to a crisp in the middle of a hotel room in Minnesota. The fire died quickly and Jimmi and I looked at each other in shock. Then I remembered my mom was still on the phone, which I'd thrown on the floor. "Hi, sorry. We're ok but I'm gonna have to call you back." Jimmi picked up the hotel phone and dialed the front desk, "Hi, ummm, our lamp just caught on fire. Can you like bring up another bulb?" He hung up and I asked what the guy said. Jimmi laughed and shook his head, "He said he'd have someone bring up two bulbs, just in case. Oh, and a fan to get rid of the smell."

Finally, the next morning arrived. It was Baby A Appointment Day! We would start with our big anatomy ultrasound, followed by an appointment with the nurse, then Dr. C, then, finally, the social worker, who would be in charge of making sure everyone at the hospital understands that we are Baby A's parents.

We met Lyndsay and Josh by the elevators leading to the OB/GYN floor and it was great to finally see them. An adorable baby bump was protruding under Lyndsay's coat and it made me feel warm all over. Hugs were exchanged and then we were off to the waiting room. Not long after, the ultrasound tech came to get us. She looked at the four of us before allowing us to follow her and said, "You can't have all of these people in the room." Josh was about to gracefully bow out when the tech realized what was happening, "Oh! Is this a surrogacy situation?" We nodded. "Ok, it's fine. You can all follow me."

The room was small but there was ample space for all of us. Lyndsay positioned herself on the table and lifted her shirt. Jimmi averted his eyes and asked if he should step out of the room. I was confused until I realized that the last time he'd been there for an ultrasound it was an internal one since it was so early in the pregnancy. "No, it's ok!" I explained. "This one goes over her belly." He quickly turned back, "Oh, ok!" I forgot that Jimmi was the only one in the room who had really never experienced an ultrasound before. Well, not one where the baby actually looks like a baby. I couldn't wait to see his face.

The tech got to work rolling back and forth over Lyndsay's abdomen. I quickly picked out Baby A's beating heart and my pulse slowed to a normal rhythm. That was a great start. "I'm gonna begin at the head and work my way down," explained the tech about her method for measuring every part of the baby to make sure she's growing normally. "Do we know the gender?" she asked as she started scanning. "She's supposed to be a girl, but I'm hoping you'll confirm that today." She didn't say much as she started measurements on our little one's head then moved on to check her brain. "Yes! She has a brain!" I quipped. As if he was reading my mind, Jimmi added, "Then she's definitely not mine!" I giggled and the tech said, "Head and brain look normal. Let's move on to the heart." I watched as the tech revealed a beautiful, four-chamber heart that was pulsating at 141 beats per minute. "Heart looks normal," confirmed the tech. A scan of the baby's abdomen showed two kidneys, a liver and a stomach. "Organs look normal," we were told. Quickly but thoroughly, the technician measured two normal arms with two perfect hands and ten little fingers, followed by two amazing legs, two adorable feet and ten tiny toes. "Arms and legs look normal." Our squirmy little monkey was hard to chase but we got a glimpse of a beautiful spine with a nice, smooth bottom, ruling out spina bifida. "Spine and back look normal." I couldn't help noticing the noises of amazement coming from Jimmi's mouth as he watched his baby on the screen. But I was getting antsy now, "You're making us wait until the end to confirm she's a girl, aren't you?" I asked. Without hesitation, the tech responded, "She's a girl. I was just looking at that." And she pointed to three white lines on the monitor, "Those are the labia." Honestly, I had to take her word for it because it certainly didn't look like any female genitalia I'd ever seen! But she's the expert. If she says we're having a girl, I guess we're having a girl.

Oh my GOD!

We're having a GIRL?

We're having a GIRL!!

Do you have any idea how long I've wanted a little girl? Don't get me wrong. I love my boys with all my heart, but after growing up with four brothers then having two sons, I could really use a little estrogen in my life! Plus, my mom is my best friend. I've always wanted to have the same relationship with my own daughter but I'd never been blessed with one.

Until now!

"Well, she looks great!" the tech said as she finished up. "Congratulations to all of you."

Our next appointment with the nurse followed immediately and the four of us jammed ourselves into an exam room to wait. She entered with a handful of pamphlets and I could tell she wasn't sure if she should be handing them to Lyndsay or to me. After thinking about it, she made the logical decision to give Lyndsay the information about signs of pre-term labor and when to call the doctor and she gave Jimmi the "Tips for Dads" booklet. She started a conversation about postpartum depression with Lyndsay, then turned to Jimmi and said, "This condition affects one in ten dads as well." I had no idea.

Finally, Dr. C appeared and Jimmi was able to meet him for the first time. "I'm sure you've heard that everything looks normal," Dr. C said happily as he turned his computer screen in our direction so we could read the report along with him as he went through it. "Brain is normal, heart is normal, organs are normal. No remnants of the second gestational sac present." That part was new. "What?" I asked, even though I totally understood what he had said the first time. He confirmed, "The sac with the twins is completely gone now." I don't know why it hurt to hear him say it. Baby B and Baby C had passed almost 12 weeks earlier. I'm used to the idea that we are having one healthy baby and not three. I guess the memories came flooding back and I wasn't prepared. "Oh. Ok," was all I could say.

Dr. C went over the birth procedure again as the nurse before him and the tour nurse had the day before. I asked questions about vaccinations and the necessity of the hepatitis B vaccine when the baby wasn't going to be using IV drugs or having promiscuous sex any time in the near future. All he could tell me was that was the recommendation of the CDC, so I made a note to discuss it with our pediatrician. Then I asked the burning question, "When do you think I should come out here to wait for the birth?" It was an impossible question. Dr. C had no way of knowing the correct answer, but he tried, "Based on Lyndsay's history, we have no reason to think she'll go before forty weeks. Honestly, I think this might be a perfect situation for induction at forty or forty-one weeks so you can plan." That was the first time he's mentioned inducing labor for anything other than a medical reason. "That would be ideal," I answered, even though I know in my heart it's much better for the baby to come when she's ready and not when it's best for our schedules. "I guess we can figure it all out further down the road," I said and Dr. C agreed. "Ok, I'll see Lyndsay again in four to five weeks," instructed the doctor before wishing us all happy holidays and heading out of the room.

One more meeting and our appointments were done for the day.

The social worker appeared and her sticky sweet voice made my teeth hurt. She was nice enough, but I just couldn't take anyone who sounded like a cartoon character seriously. I sucked it up and listened as she talked about getting the legal documents in order so Jimmi's and my name would appear on Baby A's birth certificate. After printing out a paper with all the necessary information for our attorney, Nurse G, from our tour the day before, came by to answer any remaining questions. "Ok," she started, "I found out some answers for you from yesterday. If you don't make it on time for the birth the baby will still be registered to you on the birth certificate as long as you're here when she's discharged." Well, I sure hope we'll be there by then! "Yes, that shouldn't be a problem," I assured her. "Also, about the bracelets. I found out that Lyndsay and Suzanne will have the bracelets that are connected to the baby. Jimmi will have to wear a visitor's name tag, but he will not have a bracelet." That sounded a little odd to me since Jimmi is the baby's dad but, hey, I was just happy that I'd actually have something to show that I'm the mom. I remembered a question, "Will Jimmi be able to cut the chord?" Nurse G smiled, "Of course, he will!" Good news. "And when she's born they'll put her in my arms?" I needed confirmation. "Yes," she said, followed by the most incredible three words I've heard in a long time:

"You're her mother."














Friday, December 13, 2013

Tears

A few nights ago I wasn't feeling well. On top of the lung issues and the aching vajayjay, I had what seemed to be a random attack of vertigo that sent me to the bedroom floor calling for Jimmi to help me up to the bed. One more worry to add to the list before today's scan. But, for me, the worst part about that episode was that the boys were still awake. Of course, Jimmi and I protected them from the truth that I literally couldn't stand up on my own, but I couldn't hide the obvious fact that something was wrong. It was bedtime and I needed to get them moving so they'd be rested for school the next day. "Just tell them to get ready for bed and come in here to say goodnight to me," I told Jimmi. "Say I have a headache and I'm just not feeling well." My husband followed my lead and the boys did, too. Easy enough, right? I mean, they're 13 and almost 11. They're old enough to understand that everyone has moments when they aren't feeling their best. Both boys came in to hug and kiss me before heading to their rooms for the night, but Dylan's hug was a little tighter and lingered a little longer than it usually did. I could tell he was concerned. The kids padded off down the hall and Jimmi followed to make sure they were tucked in and settled then he came back to check on me. The room had stopped spinning enough for me to open my eyes at that point, but I still wasn't comfortable enough to stand up. As I sat in bed I could hear the restlessness from down the hall. Dylan, my worry wart, was tossing and turning and rustling around in his bed. I waited a few minutes to see if he would stop. Two minutes turned to five minutes turned to ten minutes and the kid wasn't settling himself to sleep. "I need to go see Dylan," I said to Jimmi. "You need to stay in bed. He's fine!" Jimmi replied. But I know my kid better than anyone. "He's worried about me and he thinks something is really wrong. I need to show him I'm ok," I insisted as I forced myself out of bed and onto my feet. I stood there for a few seconds to make sure my balance would hold then I slowly walked down the hall to Dylan's room. Quietly, I opened the door, just in case he'd actually fallen asleep. "Mom?" he whispered. "It's me, bud," I responded as a walked over to his bed. "I know you're scared and won't be able to sleep until you know I'm ok. I just wanted to show you I'm fine," I lied. A small smile crept over my teenager's face but his voice came out like a little boy's, "How did you know?" he asked with wide eyes. "I'm your mother," I belted out, "I know everything about you." Dylan's arms flew up from his sides and wrapped tightly around my neck. I steadied myself to make sure I wouldn't fall over. "I was so scared!" he whimpered. I spoke calmly, "Dylan, I'm fine! Everyone gets sick sometimes. You were sick last week for two days and then you got better, right?" He nodded. "I just have a little virus or something. I'll be fine." If only I believed what I was saying.  I headed back to my room after calming Dylan and Jimmi was waiting for me. "Is he ok?" He asked. I shrugged, "He's terrified." Jimmi stared at me with confusion in his eyes. "If you watched your mother go through cancer treatments when you were ten years old, I'm sure it would screw with your head, too." I explained. "Whether I have a headache, a cold or something more, he'll probably always think the cancer is back and I'm gonna die." 

Hell, I'm thinking that myself!

Which brings me to today's scan…I barely slept last night as I thought about the barrage of symptoms that have presented themselves over the last few days: lung tightness, coughing, vaginal aches, rectal pains, vertigo. When I got out of bed this morning I was annoyed as I realized most of them hadn't magically disappeared like they sometimes do. I got the kids ready and off to school then I took a quick shower and got dressed. I mulled over my wardrobe, knowing I'd need to remove anything containing metal before the CT scan, including an underwire bra. I chose sweatpants without a metal ring around the drawstring and a hoodie without a zipper. Unfortunately the metal rings were on the hoodie but I thought they might be high enough not to interfere with the picture. Just in case, I threw on a tank top underneath it with the words, "I'm sleeping with the drummer" written across the chest. And, of course, I left the bra off. They'd make me remove it anyway.

Jimmi drove me to the cancer center and my mom arrived a few minutes later. The familiar trek up the stairs to the radiology department never gets any easier as all the old memories hit me instantaneously. I checked in, got my nasty "fruit punch" contrast drink and sat down to start sipping it. My mom and Jimmi talked and tried to keep the mood light but I wasn't interested. Too many things were going through my head. What if the cancer is back? Can I wait until after Christmas to start treatments again? Will we still go to Minnesota to see Lyndsay and Baby A's ultrasound next week? Will Baby A have a mommy in six months? Will my boys have a mommy in six months? Talk of the weather shook me back into the present. "We're supposed to get about five inches of snow tomorrow, " said my mom. "More like nine by us," I told her. "It was negative twenty-five with the windchill by Lyndsay's house a few days ago," I said. And then talk shifted to Baby A and my other set of worries. "What if the scan is ok and then we get bad news with the baby next week?" I asked. My mom just stared at me. "She hasn't felt the baby move yet," I explained. "She's almost eighteen weeks and nothing yet." My mom was stern with her questions, "Does she feel ok?" I nodded. "Does she think anything is wrong?" I shook my head. "Then stop worrying! She could be too small or in the wrong position to feel movement. I'm sure she's fine!"

The ringing phone distracted me and I watched as the man a few seats away answered his cell. I could immediately tell from the one-sided conversation that he was speaking to what appeared to be his wife's pain management doctor. His wife, however, was nowhere to be found. Probably in the middle of an MRI or something. "Yes, she's been taking the Ativan and the Dilaudid but the pain is still a nine out of ten," he explained. "Apparently, there's a tumor invading her scapula which caused a fracture and that's why she's in so much pain. Then there are the knees, which are a totally separate issue. They're about a five or six out of ten." I tried not to eavesdrop but he was so close to us and speaking so loudly. "No," he continued, "radiation isn't an option for that tumor so we're just gonna have to try and treat the pain." I could feel the saltwater behind my eyes start to sting. "No, she's having trouble focusing and she just falls asleep. I guess that's better than being in pain," the man was saying. My lower lip was quivering uncontrollably and I turned my head to try and shut the world out. "Yes, I understand. Ativan at bedtime, but continue with the Methadone and Dilauded for pain. Thank you, Doctor," and he hung up. My mom caught a glimpse of the tears falling to my lap and tried to soothe me with her words but it was no use. I could already see my future in that poor man's wife.

"Mrs. Kane?" the nurse's voice called from across the waiting room. I forced myself to my feet, waved goodbye to my family and followed the familiar nurse into the same freezing little room with the big chair and sink. I instantly started shivering from the cold or my nerves or some combination of both. I spelled my last name, confirmed my date of birth and asked about the metal on the neck of my hoodie, which was unfortunately denied. I removed my top layer and quickly became uncomfortable with the statement on my tank top. What seemed funny to those in the know now seemed inappropriately slutty to the rest of the population. I was glad when the nurse handed me a robe and a blanket before she had a chance to read it. "Which arm has the best veins?" she questioned and I knew she wouldn't be thrilled by my response. "They both suck," I said as I held them out for inspection. The look on her face told me I was correct in my assessment and she slapped a hot pack on each forearm to try and bring something to the surface, "Can I use your hand?" she asked. No, no, no! There will be none of that! "They've never had to do that before," I challenged, which brought out the competitor in her. "I can use this one," she said confidently as she pressed on my right arm, wiped it with alcohol and stuck the tiny catheter into the vein to start the saline drip. "They'll be in to get you shortly," said the nurse then she left the room.

I was disappointed when my old friend, Grumpy McGrumperson, appeared a few minutes later. Did this man ever smile? He took my IV bag from the holder and looked at me as if to demand, "Let's go!" I stood up obediently, then he asked, "Are you wearing an underwire bra?" I took my opportunity when it presented itself, batted my eyelashes and grinned, "No, actually, I'm going braless just for you!" The look on his face started out with shock then eased into a blushing smile. Yes! He smiled! He stumbled over his words before he laughed and barely got out, "Well, I don't think it was actually for me, but…" Not so Grumpy McGrumperson led me to the big, white CT scan machine and gave me instructions on positioning myself, which I knew by heart, then he covered me up and left the room. 

"Breathe in!" said the automated voice in the machine and the table moved me through the giant hole. "Hold your breath!" I did what I was told. "Breathe." One more time through that set and the table came out of the abyss long enough for the nurse to inject some contrast dye into my IV then step out of the room. Then I was moving back in for three more rounds of "Breathe in, Hold your breath, and Breathe." And then it was all over. My IV was removed, my arm was wrapped and I was sent on my way.

I collected Jimmi and my mom and we all made the reverse trip down to Dr. L's office. The waiting room was crowded and I was happy they'd actually been able to squeeze me in. The coughing picked up a bit and it made my heart race when I thought about the results I was about to hear. About 20 minutes later I was following my second favorite nurse down the corridor to the exam room closest to Dr. L's office. "Is Nurse L here today?" I asked, bummed to find out she was off Christmas shopping. "You'll have to let her know what we find out," I said. She nodded, "You're gonna be fine!" The nurse wrapped a cuff around my arm and waited for the reading, which was ridiculously high by my standards. "You REALLY hate coming here, don't you?" she asked as she unhooked me from the machine and pointed to a sheet on the counter. "You know the drill, right?" I nodded, "Yup. Get naked." 

Jimmi and my mom went to the other side of the curtain until my girly bits were safely hidden under the  almost see-through sheet, then they resumed their positions in the chairs on either side of me. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would run out of batteries. Why is he taking so long? Is he talking to another doctor about my next course of action? 

Hurry up!

Here come the footsteps. Dr. L burst into the room with a nurse I've only seen once or twice, "How are you?" he asked in a voice that was barely there. He knows not to ask me that question because I always reply with, "You tell me," so he didn't wait for my answer. "Your scan was normal," he said. "Everything looks good right now. You have a spot in your lung that's been there forever and hasn't changed, but we all have spots in our lungs. It's nothing." My mom sighed with relief and I asked, "Then why am I coughing?" He laughed, "Maybe you have a cold? I have a cold. People get colds." I went on, "But I know this could come back in my lungs." He nodded as he looked at my chart, "Wow. It's been two and a half years since your surgery? I don't think it's coming back." I heard his words but I tried not to put too much faith in them. I've seen what this disease can do. But, still, it was really nice to hear them! "Let me examine you," he said as he stood up and hit a button to lower the table. Jimmi and my mom went back behind the curtain and the nurse handed Dr. L the scary looking speculum, "Did you really lube it up?" I asked her, knowing the damage the radiation had done to my love canal. She took it back and added some more goo to the tip then Dr. L went to work inserting it, "Ouch, ow!" I whined. "If that hurts you should really use your dilator more often," he said, referring to the medically prescribed dildo I'm supposed to use regularly to keep things, um, loose in there. "I've told you I hate that thing!" I complained and he made another suggestion, "Then go to an adult toy store and get something you'll like better, but you have to use something. The radiation damage will just continue to get worse and worse." I nodded, though I had no intention of following orders. It's not that I don't want my vag to be in perfect working condition, it's the mental aspect of the whole thing. I just can't get myself to do it without tensing up and freaking out about cancer and all the havoc it's wreaked on my body. After replacing the speculum with a gloved finger, which was definitely much more comfortable, Dr. L announced, "Everything feels normal. Merry Christmas and I'll see you in three months."

As we were walking out of the center, much more relaxed than when we'd arrived, I had another paranoid fear, "What if we got good news today because we're gonna have bad news with the baby next week?" My mom's face changed and I could tell she wanted to strangle me, "Will you STOP? Can't I just enjoy the good for a few days before you start worrying me again? The baby is fine!" I guess someone out there wanted to prove that my mom is always right because, a few minutes later, this e-mail from Lyndsay appeared in my inbox:

Hey!! Wanted to let you know that I had an appointment with Dr. C just a bit ago. He sent me a message on Weds wanting to know if I would meet with him yesterday or today before next week just to make sure all is good.
Everything is great! Baby is moving like crazy and heartbeat is 143! He didn't measure since that will all be done next week. I didn't want to bother you or worry you about it with your scans today. Hopefully you're not upset! I was there for less than 10 minutes just to get a peek at the baby. Thought you would want to know she is moving great! He said she is very active.

For the millionth time today, the tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. But this time was different. This time was about hope, not despair. This time was about life, not death. This time made everything ok again.






Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Friday the 13th

Most people consider the number 13 to be unlucky; especially if it lands on a Friday. Personally, I've never been very superstitious about the number. If anything, it's a lucky one for me. Justin was born on the 13th of March and it was a pretty amazing day! Since then I've played the number 13 in Roulette and any of the large jackpot lotteries because I don't normally fear the negative power of the 13.

This week has become an exception.

I know my last post had a pretty morbid tone, and I really try not to be such a downer twice in a row, but I can't change the realities of my life just to make a happier story. As I'd mentioned last time, I was having some lower-region pain that was seemingly disappearing. While the aching has all but stopped, a nagging fatigue like I've never felt has come over my body. It's not a typical, "gee, I really need to get more sleep," feeling. It's almost as if my head and chest are being weighed down by rocks and I just need to rest. It's not all the time, but it happens enough that I'm forced to take notice. A few weeks of that went on before the cough started. Most normal people consider a cough in the winter to be pretty benign. Not a "surviver" of Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix. Nope, we consider a cough to be the first sign of lung metastases. 

So what do I do?

My last CT scan was at the beginning of September. I would normally be seen every three months for a checkup, which would bring us to December, right? Technically, yes, but my doctor agreed to push it to the first week of January to allow me to enjoy the holidays. Enjoy the holidays. Ha! Hard to enjoy anything with a scan looming around the corner. But, anyway, it may not seem like three months after a clear scan is long enough for cancer to take over your entire body, but from someone who has seen it happen to my friends over and over again, trust me, it is. And now we're pushing it back another month, which makes it all even more scary. Add my new symptoms and a growing list of support group friends who've gotten recurrences, spreading or the evil doctor death sentence lately, and you might understand a fraction of my anxiety.

I decided (actually, my mom lovingly urged me) to call my favorite oncology nurse, Nurse L, and explain my symptoms, which I did. She tried to put my mind at ease, "It's the holiday season, you're running around, you're cooking, you're having a baby! Your mind is in a million places right now. Of COURSE you're tired!" I wasn't convinced, "What about the cough?" She had a logical explanation, "It's winter. Everyone is coughing." That definitely would make sense for normal people, but I just couldn't accept it. "Why don't I talk to Dr. L and see what he thinks," Nurse L said, "I'll call you back." 

While I waited I tried to talk myself off the ledge. She's right. I'm not getting enough sleep, so that could explain the lethargy. Also, it's winter and I have asthma. I always cough when the seasons change or when it gets colder. But this is a weird cough. It only happens when I laugh too much. 

Ring!

"Hi, it's Nurse L," she said when I picked up the phone. "Dr. L said he'll move the scan if you think it'll make you feel better." I laughed dryly, "It'll only make me feel better if I'll get good news." In the end, I decided it would be best for my metal state to know what's going on, rather than wait another four weeks to find out. "Can we do it this week?" I asked a bit desperately. "Jimmi and I are going to Minnesota for the big anatomy ultrasound next week and then it's Christmas. I know he's only in the New Jersey office on Fridays, so I'm sure that makes it more difficult." She replied, "You don't have to see him. We can call you with results." I knew that was true, but I wanted him to examine me, "I know. I just figured I could have my internal at the same time and get it all out of the way in one shot." She was very understanding, "I'll start working on it now and call you back as soon as I can." 

I hung up the phone, not knowing if I felt better or worse. Of course, if the news is good, I'll be able to completely focus on our trip to see Lyndsay and her Baby A bump next week then totally enjoy Christmas the following week. But, if the news is bad, everything will be ruined. Everything will change. I don't even want to think about the disaster my life would become and what it would do to everyone around me. The scheduling nurse called me back rather quickly, "Hi Suzanne, we were able to fit you in for your CT scan on Friday at ten-twenty. You'll see Dr. L immediately following for your exam and results."

And that's where it stands. This Friday - Friday, the 13th - will either save my sanity for another three months or completely slash it apart like a psycho serial killer in a hockey mask. 


Sunday, December 1, 2013

In Memory

A cancer patient always feels like a cancer patient, whether they've been "cured" or not. I've mentioned this before, but I need to reiterate that point and remind you all of the meaning of the title of my blog.

Waking Up on Death Row.

That's how we feel every day of our lives. Like we're waking up on Judgement Day. Those in the midst of the battle will wake up wondering if today will be their last. Those who have seemingly won the war, at least for now, will wake up wondering if today is the day the bitch will return to finish the job she started upon initial diagnosis. Every ache and every pain, no matter how small, will push a panic button in the mind of these apparently happy and super secure people that no one, except other cancer patients or "survivors," will ever understand. And let me assure you that telling us to "think positive" and insisting we've "beat it" and should "move on" doesn't help us at all. We may nod and smile to your face, but inside we're screaming at you, "You just don't understand!"

So, let me try to help you understand why I can't just forget about cancer and move on. Put aside the torment that goes on in my mind EVERY day. We'll come back to that in a minute. Let's just go over the physical changes I've had to endure since cancer stepped into my life in 2011. First, there's the scarred up abdomen. Honestly, not the biggest deal in the world, but definitely puts a damper on bikini season. But, truthfully, the scars aren't my biggest outwardly noticeable problem anymore. Having a hysterectomy with ovary removal, followed by chemotherapy and radiation will send a young, sexy mama into menopause so fast she won't even have time to get used to the gradual changes that would normally accompany her Change of Life. In just two years I've aged about 20. My face looks so tired. So old. My eyelids are droopy, the wrinkles are plentiful and the bags under my eyes could take me around Europe for two weeks. I've also recently noticed the skin on my arms is starting to sag, which is super pretty. And then there's the shift in weight. Not weight gain, mind you. Weight SHIFT. What was once evenly distributed around my body has taken a one-way trip down South and is resting comfortably on my hips, ass and thighs. I do as much as I can at the gym, but with my radiation-damaged and fracture-prone pelvic bone, I've been instructed not to put any pressure on my back. That eliminates sit-ups, crunches, leg-presses and anything else that requires me to be flat on my back. Get your minds out of the gutter! So, barring those restrictions, I can do whatever I want, but my post-menopausal body will not snap back. My muscle tone has been replaced by jiggly, saggy gelatin that I've only seen on 60 year-old women. I feel defeated and depressed so I eat chocolate and french fries to fill the void. Obviously that only adds to my issues and the cycle starts all over again. Other physical issues that I deal with every day that make it impossible to forget about cancer are even less attractive. Without going into too much detail, suffice it to say that I should buy stock in panty liners and KY jelly because they've both become very important in my life. Oh, and before you say it, "Hey, at least you're alive!" doesn't help, either!

And then there's the mental anguish.

I'll admit it. I've allowed myself to try and stop obssessing over cancer since my last scan in September. I wanted to enjoy the feeling of being pregnant - well, the feeling of Lyndsay being pregnant with our baby. I wanted to focus on becoming a mom again. I was doing pretty well with that for the last two months, but then bad things started happening and I could no longer push the bitch out of my mind. 

I need to rewind a bit to fully explain.

After diagnosis I found a support group for women with my type of cancer, which was not an easy task. Cervical cancer groups are plentiful, but Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix groups all almost non-existent. Almost. Luckily, Facebook linked me to our "Rare but There" page, where I was immediately accepted by a very small group of women who were in various stages of my disease. For the first few months of reading posts and making acquaintences, not too much happened other than the typical chemo side effects or radiation vs. non-radiation discussions. But then, between Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2011, everything turned upside-down. In that one month, six of my cancer sisters, the youngest of whom was about 22, succumbed to the same cancer I had just finished fighting. SIX women in ONE month. Our little group was shrinking so fast and the women who remained were terrified. Some left the group to try and save their sanity, but others stayed to keep up on everyone else's progress. The tone of the posts changed from positive and hopeful to scared and defeated. No one knew what to say. It was the first time since diagnosis that I realized how deadly my disease actually is. It was the first time I learned that, remission or not, my five-year post-diagnosis survival rate is less than 20%. Yes, you've read that correctly.

I had surgery in June of 2011, so my chances of being alive in 2.5 years from today are less than 20%.

Does my anxiety make a little bit more sense? Just because I've kicked it for now, doesn't mean I've kicked it for good.

Back to the holiday season of 2011. It was a hard time for all of us and, while I was very sad for the ladies who were added to the "In Memory" album of our support group page, I hadn't actually met any of them. I also hadn't really spoken to them, other than a comment on a post here or there. They were real people but they hadn't become real friends yet. But then, over the next few months, I did actually allow myself to talk to some of my "sisters" outside of our Facebook page, either in private messages or via text. I was enjoying my new friends and had even managed to meet a few of them. Then, in April of 2012, Jimmi and I took the boys on a trip to the West Coast. We were driving to DisneyLand when I read on Facebook that one of my new friends was at the Park, too! I quickly messaged her and we made a plan to get together. I was pretty excited to meet another member of our rare group, especially since this woman was from Washington (state, not DC), so it wasn't like we could get together for coffee on a regular basis. Though we'd never seen each other in person before, our first hug was as if we'd known each other forever. Our shared experiences through our fights bonded us in ways I can't explain, but our situations were not totally the same. While I was in California celebrating a victory, she was there with her kids to make memories. You see, her cancer had come back three months after what was supposed to be her final chemo treatment. The doctors tried other chemo drugs, but the horrid bitch kept fighting back and growing when it should've been shrinking. While we spoke, she was so positive and as she talked about the next drug she'd try, her well-pronounced dimples showed each time she smiled. Never in a million years did I think that would be the only time I'd ever see those dimples. My new friend passed away a few months later.

That's when it became real.

Every headache, every cough, every stomachache, every backache sends my mind into overdrive and, because I know the reality of my disease, I instantly assume the cancer is back and spreading quickly throughout my body. My Facebook group understands these crazy thoughts and, since losing my friend in 2012, I've gained many more on that website. At first I tried to avoid opening myself up to any of them because I didn't think I could handle the losses. But it's hard to shut out the only people who truly know what you're going through. One more friend turned to two and three and four, and soon I had a plethora of extracurricular Facebook activity going on that turned acquaintances into sisters. These women shared my joy when we became pregnant with triplets and they cyber-hugged my tears away when we lost the twins. They've been rooting Baby A on through the entire 16 weeks she's been growing and I look forward to seeing their posts every day. 

But then it all started going wrong again.

MP joined our group about a year ago and she and I became fast friends when we realized we had a shared love for 80s rockers. The longer the hair, the tighter the pants, the hotter the guy! We spoke a lot over Facebook messenger while she was going through chemo and radiation and I was so excited to hear of her post-treatment clear scan. But the joy only lasted two short months. That's when MP announced her cancer had come back and it had spread. I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I believe another chemo was attempted but didn't work so she was put on a clinical trial. The trial drugs made her sicker than the cancer and the chemo so she was forced to stop them. During that time, MP started radiation for new tumors in her brain. Finally, a new chemo was introduced and I believe she was only able to have one cycle before she was rushed to the hospital with numbness in the right side of her body. We found out later that MP had a stroke. I think it's been about a month since then and I miss MP so much. I know her family reads her Facebook messages to her, but she has trouble communicating and limited use of her right side so she's unable to reply. Her chemo has been put on hold while she's in therapy trying to regain what she lost during the stroke. 

And then there's MS. MS is a 26 year-old member of the US Air Force and mother of two young children. She has such a good heart and such strong faith. When the doctors told MS that chemo was no longer an option, she went to a Holistic Center in Florida (I think), that promised to heal her. After 8 weeks of natural treatments and cleansing her body of the harsh chemicals given to her by medical doctors, MS was told, based on her blood work, she was cancer free! We were all so excited for her, but still a little concerned that the center hadn't done any scans to confirm what the blood tests showed. A few weeks after returning home, MS went to her doctor and had a CT scan done. The news wasn't good. Not only was the cancer not gone, but it had spread. A few more weeks went by and MS was in horrible pain. More scans showed more cancer so she was put on another chemo cocktail. Then, last week, MS was admitted to the hospital for severe pain. They found that the cancer had spread, yet again, and a tumor in her spine had caused a fracture which makes walking impossible. MS has been referred to hospice care and has been told to get her affairs in order and start "preparing."

I can't go into all the stories, but add three or four more tales of recurrence or spreading in the last few weeks and you might understand a fraction of where my mind went last Saturday when I started having some new pains in my nether region. Sure, they might be caused by scar tissue or radiation damage. But I can't ever rule out the possibility that my cancer could come back at any time, without warning. The logical thing to do would be to call the doctor. But I don't want to. My other friend, MC, has a two-week rule that I plan on following. If the pain persists for two weeks, call the doctor. That means I have a week to go, right? And, honestly, I think it's gotten better in the last few days. Maybe that's just wishful thinking, but I'm choosing to believe it right now. And while I'm on the subject of wishing and believing, I think I'll wish for a life without cancer. Do you think Santa can wrap that up and stick it under my tree this year?