Worst. Day. Ever.

About three weeks ago, my infant son wound up in the ER.

It was easily among the worst days of my life.

I'd been walking down the stairs, carrying the baby, intent on feeding him on the couch and watching some TV.  I tripped, fell backwards, and he flew out of my arms, knocking his head against the wooden banister before tumbling down seven steps.

The sounds that came out of my when I saw my precious baby lying facedown on the carpet - unreal.  Every cell in my body screamed at the same time, and I couldn't believe the neighbors weren't at my door in seconds, demanding to know what had happened.

Ronen was dazed for only a second, then began to scream mightily.  I later learned that his immediate tantrum was a good sign - he was in pain, not unconscious.  Of course, at the time, my heart was bleeding and breaking and I made the mistake of picking him up, rather than letting him lie where he fell.

Naturally, motherly instinct trumped medical savvy.  What self-respecting mom was going to let her shrieking, injured, terrified baby just lay on the floor?  (Thankfully, I didn't cause him any further damage.)

I called 9-1-1 within seconds and was so hysterical that it took the dispatcher nearly a full minute to get my address correct.  The pained cries of the baby I was holding surely made it harder for him, so whoever you are, thank you for your patience, sir.  In under two minutes, two ambulances, four EMTs, a social worker and a police officer were in my living room.  

It helps to live three streets away from a fire station.

En route to Children's Hospital, the female EMT chatted with me about her son (who, interestingly, shared my husband's birthday), and helped keep me calm.  It didn't take long for the baby to cry himself into an exhausted sleep while firmly grabbing our thumbs in his tiny hands.  After several hours, a battery of tests, and the exchange of many weary glances between my husband and me, we learned that the baby had a fractured skull.

The look on my face said it all as the attending pediatrician immediately moved towards me, sat down, and said that, in spite of the horrifying nature of head injuries, our son's accident was having the "best possible outcome".  The fracture was long, but simple and clean.  No bone had splintered in his soft, growing skull.  There was no bleeding, no apparent brain damage.  In fact, he had no other bruises, bleeding, or cuts whatsoever, despite the fall.

My poor hungry baby was denied food for an additional eight hours as he was poked, prodded, tested, and generally made to feel miserable.  Of course the procedures were necessary, but I felt awful every time they had to take him out of my arms to draw blood or take his temperature.  He was so worn out that the only energy he had, he used to keep his pacifier locked firmly in his mouth.  He slept most of the day and quite little that night, waking up several times to feed, once he was allowed.  I felt terrible for the little boy whose semi-private room we were sharing, as he must have been woken up every time the baby whimpered.

Still, never had Ronen's creepy goat noises made me so happy!  He'd been nearly silent for almost 12 hours, but once he was wrapped up and put to bed, he soon began to make his customary "bleating" sounds, signifying contentment.  What a comforting sign!

After nearly 24 more hours of observation and visits from social workers, trauma team members, a neurosurgeon, and patient advocates, we were released with little more than a prescription for Tylenol.  He only needed a few doses, in the end, and was back to his normal self in about two or three days.

It didn't matter, though.  The damage had been done to me already.  I, who at the time of this writing, have never broken a bone, sent my beloved and long-awaited baby boy to the hospital with a busted head.  I felt guilty, but probably not as guilty as people thought I would.  I knew the accident wasn't my fault.  But I do, now, narrate my actions to the baby and they include, "Let's be extra careful on the steps, Ronen!  Let's see if anything is sitting on them that shouldn't be!" 

And every time I make the descent successfully, I announce, "WE DID IT!" and you would think I'd just won Olympic gold.

Look at his little face, though.  Better than gold.

Special Delivery: Early Edition

People who know me know that the first step I take in facing my emotions is usually writing about them, and about the experience that led to them.  I wrote about my mother's death almost immediately, and about my three miscarriages the weeks they occurred.  But sometimes, life gets in the way and I'm left with little ability to write but lots of time to process.

Like that time I had an emergency c-section a month before my due date.

Yes - if you're a family or friend, you probably already know that little Ronen has already arrived, throwing our whole life into a tizzy quite some time before we were ready to be thrown into said tizzy.  I don't think it's necessary for me to rehash every graphic detail about the arrival of my child, but lots of folks seem to want a bit more of a backstory as to what happened, so, here goes...

Despite all of my best efforts, I'd struggled with high blood pressure for years.  Pregnancy didn't make it better, although, until about a month ago, it was fairly well-controlled with medication.  My OB was carefully monitoring me for pre-eclampsia.  There was a bit of a concern when my third trimester ultrasound showed a healthy but rather small baby.  Granted, both my husband and I are short, but restricted growth could also indicate problems.  I was told I'd be getting a non-stress test twice weekly to monitor the baby's development.  At a subsequent appointment, I asked about bed rest (per my concerned husband's urging).  The doctor's reply was that it would not be necessary, and he left the room to review some test results.  Moments later, he returned and said that I would not be going back to work, but to the hospital instead.  Protein was found in my urine, and that, coupled with my alarmingly high blood pressure, was an indication of pre-eclampsia, the condition that struck my friend Alayna during the birth of her son Isaiah. 

Doctors - good ones - do not mess around with pre-e.  It can be unpredictable and lead to sudden seizures.  Long story short: I drove myself to Mercy Hospital and checked in for further testing.  Ross arrived fairly soon after and the diagnosis of pre-eclampsia was confirmed.  I was surrounded by efficient, caring nurses and doctors and that was a good thing, because we were told that the baby was coming within the next 48 hours.  We were given the option of inducing labor or a c-section.  It was a tough decision, as I had really wanted to avoid surgery, but the idea of putting the baby and myself through up to two additional days of stress and trauma on top of the already scarily high blood pressure I was having...well, that didn't seem right.  We opted for the c-section, and at 4:03 PM on June 11, 2014, Ronen Curtis Godlove entered the world.

My husband was the first to hold him, as the anesthesiologists continued to give my updates in their calm, reassuring voices, but a sudden wave of terror hit me when I heard his birth weight.  He was only four pounds and three ounces.  I panicked.  So tiny!  The best guess of our sonographer was nearly five pounds!  Still, he seemed healthy, and tears rolled down my face when I heard, rather than saw, his first cry.

Family stopped in as I was still hopelessly high on Lord knows what wonderful drugs I was given.  My grandmother held her first great-grandchild, tears in her eyes.  No one really had the words to say on the occasion - after three miscarriages, we were holding a gorgeous little boy in our arms.  So no one said much.  And that was okay.

But things went south quickly.  Ronen's blood sugar levels were dangerously low, and his body temperature wasn't very reassuring.  He was placed into an isolette to warm him up inside our room, but then transferred to the NICU almost immediately.  I don't even recall what my reaction was, other than to soberly nod as the nurse was explaining why they took him away.

In the hospital room that night, while my husband slept fitfully, I scratched myself nearly raw from the morphine - not realizing that I was even doing it.  I slept for minutes at a time, as my vitals, pain level, and incision were checked constantly.  The next day, my husband made his second trip into the NICU to see our son, who was still in the isolette, wires attached to his chest and an IV strapped into his incredibly tiny hand.  

The next nine days were, to be trite, a roller-coaster of emotions.  One hour, his blood sugar was perfect, but the next, it dropped by twenty points.  Although his body temperature regulated fairly quickly, there were other concerns.  He was, after all, technically a month early.  We were told that he may be out as early as the weekend after his birth, but each day brought new challenges.  He was a sleepy baby, and very hard to rouse for his feedings.  He wasn't taking enough formula.  His blood sugar was unpredictable.  All of these things, we were told, were normal for preemies, and we just had to wait things out.  He wasn't losing weight, though, which was encouraging.

Finally, after lots of prayers and what seemed like an eternity, our little man was given the all-clear to come home with us.  Though I'd visited him frequently in the NICU, trying to breastfeed and just get to know him, I could not believe I was taking home this tiny and helpless stranger.  His every need was my responsibility.  I was more overwhelmed, I think than I was nine days earlier, when we learned he was coming out, one way or the other!

So, I now have a thirteen-day-old baby in my house.  He's my baby, though I'm still having a very hard time wrapping my head around that fact.  My husband is utterly enamoured of him and keeps exclaiming that he looks like me (he does).  I'm going through the ups and downs that virtually every new mom experiences: the constant trickle (or flood) of self-doubt...the challenges of feeding a newborn...the sleep deprivation...forgetting to eat (trust me; it's the first time in my life that I've ever actually, truly and genuinely forgotten to eat)...struggling to accept help from friends (it's that awful pride thing that tries to convince new moms to handle everything by themselves)...and trying to have patience with myself as I deal with a new role, a new body, and new fears.

All in all, though, I have to brag - my husband has been pretty much my hero these past few days.  It only seemed fitting that this past Father's Day was his first as a father, even to a son stuck in the hospital!  He has risen with me for most nighttime feedings, has brought me little treats, has encouraged me to drink lots of water to stay hydrated, has tried to keep the house clean, has been as supportive to me as he knows how.  I'm dreading the day he has to return to work!

And what about the cats?  Well, Loki seems terrified of the baby and will only eye him from a very safe distance.  Thor is curious, but not curious enough to really bother him, as long as he still gets his cuddles and pets from his beloved Mommy Cat (he does, though not as frequently).  Freyja still hasn't acknowledged the baby at all yet, but Ross and I did notice a change in her behavior.  Although Thor and Loki had both been left alone for a few days before, when we went on vacation or on weekend trips, Freyja had not.  We think she was terrified of being abandoned, because since we've been home, she has been even clingier than usual.  She jumps into visitors' laps and simply has to be in the room with one of us (usually me).  She is following me into the bedroom and bathroom now, which she only did rarely before.  We're convinced that she was abandoned before, which is why she showed up on our porch to begin with, and she's afraid it will happen again.

Only cure for that is to shower her with kisses and cuddles so she knows she is loved and we're not going anywere!

I've decided that I won't be blogging too much about my baby.  And, on social media, I'm limiting who can see pictures and details about him.  Things are just too unpredictable nowadays, plus I'm worried for his own privacy someday!  I don't know what the internet will be like in ten years, but if Facebook is still around, does he really need to see that I posted pictures of his diaper blowouts or bathtime exploits?  Boy, I'm grateful that my mom never had Myspace...

In Memory of Tia

Tia liked pretzels, cookies, and colorful socks.  She liked to be the center of attention.  She liked to dance and she loved to laugh.  She loved my family with a fierce loyalty and she liked to make new friends.

Tia was a fiery and funny 27-year-old with severe mental retardation.  She died earlier this month.

My stepmum's mum, Charlene ("Grammy Char"), had a passion for taking care of foster children.  My stepmum, Deana, smiles as she tells stories of helping to raise dozens of kids not even related to her.  She mentions that she never had her own bedroom.  Not once in her life!   Not as a child, not in college, not after being married.  Of course, she adds, she never really minded.  That's Deana for you!  She must have gained a great deal of patience and integrity from helping her mother and sisters all those years.

And, speaking of patience, that is precisely what helping Tia required.  Char took Tia in when she was about 14.  Tia was quite a big girl - nearly 200 pounds - and, like a young Rottweiler or a German Shepherd, she had absolutely no idea how strong she was.  She was loyal, loving - and unpredictable.  Somewhere along the line, Tia learned that certain words made people pay attention to you when you said them.  These words are commonly called "expletives".  Since Tia liked attention, she became a frequent employer of these words - particularly at inappropriate times.  

Like, in a candlelit service right before the choir sang "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve.

It was hard for me to get to know Tia because I never spent a lot of time with her.  Charlene wasn't always able to bring her to family dinners or gatherings because sometimes she was just too agitated or confused.  When she did come, she often fussed until she was fed, and then she simply wanted more food and attention.  My sister Julia and my cousin Zane, in particular, had a way with her.  She positively adored them.  Zane liked to get her riled up, while Julia had a gift to help calm her down.  Either way, you could clearly see love shining out of Tia's often blank eyes when those two were around.  

It was easy to buy gifts for Tia.  She didn't care for clothes, having an almost endless standard of sweatpants and embroidered sweatshirts, but that girl loved fancy socks.  Striped socks, glittery socks, Disney Princess socks, G.I. Joe socks.  Didn't matter.  She loved socks, and that is what she got, birthday after birthday, Christmas after Christmas.  Best part was, she never sulked, "I got this last year!"  She simply held them up like a glorious trophy and made that delighted crowing cry that always made us laugh.

Tia stopped coming to family events altogether some time ago.  Char had begun to worry; several months prior to her death, Tia had begun to become unreasonable, almost violent, sometimes accidentally putting herself in danger.  It was a hard choice for her, but Char had Tia put under the care of a local mental institution.  

Five weeks later, she was dead.

The autopsy revealed that the cause of death was heart failure, brought about by pneumonia (her lungs were not getting enough oxygen to the rest of her body), and the pneumonia had been brought on by some type of serious injury to her chest.  

The hospital never informed Char that Tia was sick.  When Char and her daughter Nikki went to visit Tia, they were shocked to see multiple bruises on her face.  The staff told Char that Tia fell and hurt herself. 

Tia's death is currently still under investigation.  

I unfortunately heard of Tia's passing via a text message from my father.  I was sad, but I didn't realize until the funeral how truly loved that she was.  Former aides, teachers, and friends - both with and without mental challenges - came to pay their respects.  Members of my church who love our family came to support us during a difficult time.   The funeral home was far from empty.  During the short service, Zane - suddenly shedding the skin and smirk of a mischievous little boy - stood bravely and, between tears, announced how much Tia had meant to him.  After all, he spent a great many hours playing and visiting with her when he was young.  He'd practically grown up with her.

And now he had to say good-bye.

Before friends had shown up, Char spent several minutes carefully arranging a bow in Tia's tight curly hair, and slipping a bracelet onto her rigid hands.  It was strange to see Tia - and Char - so eerily quiet.  Then I realized in my head what my heart already knew.  Tia was now dancing with Jesus - whole, for the first time ever!  She was not struggling with the constraints of her clumsy physical body, nor were there strict limitations on her understanding and her mind.  She was free, completely clear-minded!  What joy she must have had when she looked into her Lord's eyes for the first time!  She may never have fully understood her need for a Savior, but she loved coming to church, singing for the Lord, and lunching with the beautiful elder ladies after their small group.  I believe she did accept Jesus into her heart.

As I reflected on Tia's life and legacy, I became strangely envious.  Unlike "normal" people, Tia never struggled through life with grudges or vengeance in her heart.  She was devoid of the capacity for worry.  Her joys were simple, and the things that upset her were forgotten in an instant.  She was, in many ways, and example to the Christian community on how to approach life.

And we think that, in being born with mental retardation, she was robbed of a "quality life"?

No, Tia may not have ever played with a PlayStation or an iPod.  She never picked out her own couture clothes or ate at trendy restaurants.  But Tia was happy.  She had friends who loved her, teachers who cared for her, and she was given every ounce of compassion that they had to share.  The simple, innocent delight in her laugh was enough to make you fall a little bit in love with her.

Good-bye for now, Tia.  Save a dance for me.