Stick em with the pointy end...

Update on Coraline's baby brother Archer, and momma.

At my specialist's recommendation, about 2 weeks ago I had eighteen (YES EIGHTEEN) vials of blood drawn for a Thrombophilia panel of tests.  These tests are basically to determine if I'm at a higher risk of clots/thrombosis and if I need to be on preventative medication.

To make a painfully long story short - yes, I am, and yes, I do.

My tests came back with something called lupus anticoagulant, which is deceiving in name.  It's not lupus, but more specifically antiphospholipid syndrome.  Basically, an autoimmune hypercoaguable state caused by antibodies in my blood.  Also referred to as "sticky blood", this syndrome means I'm at a higher risk for potentially harmful blood clots, deep vein thrombosis, and the conditions that branch off from those anomalies including pulmonary embolism and stroke.

This hit me like a blow to my already engorged stomach.  First, I'm a relatively healthy 32-year-old non-smoking, non-drinking female who, until Coraline's stillbirth, had never experienced a major medical complication or procedure.  Who would have thought I'd have to be on blood thinners before I hit 40, and while pregnant to boot?

Second, and what I explained to the nurse as I'm nearly in tears again in her office - it took me a year to come to terms with what happened to Coraline.  A full year to accept that she died due to a cord accident and nothing I carried or did.  Almost a year including hospitalization for a psychic break, and all the stress I put my poor husband through, just to overcome the guilt and be willing to try again for another baby.  And now this - this gives a new reason.  This means that Coraline may have died because something was wrong with my body, something went undetected and caused a clot and she perished because of it. 

To say I feel betrayed by my body is an understatement, yet nothing seems to appropriately fit the moment.  I had my ugly cry in the lobby, wiped my blue eyeliner on my sleeve (which now needs to be washed) and walked to half a block to the docs office to be tested.  After just hearing the words "lupus" on the phone, I was a wreck - once I was able to go over the results and what they meant with the doc, a few things became more clear:

1. No, there was no way of telling I had this condition without testing, and there was no reason to test until I had a major event that dictated it may be a factor (such as a stroke or stillbirth).

2. The only thing that changes for me from here on out is having to give myself daily injections of heparin, a blood thinner.  Yes, daily.  Yes, like, with a needle.  Yes it sucks, but having a blood clot cause a stroke would suck more.

3. There is no risk to Archer as long as I take the necessary preventative measures - the medication doesn't cross the placenta and there are no side effects to him.

Is it a change?  Yes, but I've adapted before - I'll adapt again.  Already I've joined an online support forum for Lovenox-takers, ordered a med id bracelet indicating I'm on a blood thinner, and my fabulous husband filled my scrip, got me alcohol swabs and a sharps container, and even scrubbed out the tub so I could take a nice relaxing bath when I get home from work.  Because he's the best.  He didn't bat an eye when I called him this morning, just drove up to meet me and was able to see our baby on the ultrasound again, an added bonus.

And Archer is perfect - right on track as far as growth, healthy and active and flourishing.  Honestly if they told me I had to come in daily to have my appendages gnawed on by the hideous bugblatter beast of Traal while listening to Kenny G's greatest Michael Bay soundtrack covers, my only question would be "what time?"  Because it's all worth it to make sure Archer gets here safely, and that I'm able to be healthy and around to take care of him, and Parker, and Matt.

Realism isn't pessimism

Allow me to clarify...

I refuse to be fake, and plaster on a smile when I'm not happy, or when I'm deep in thought, or simply very tired.  I tend to not speak unless I have something of value to contribute to the conversation, which many take as me being "snobbish" or anti-social.

I've been told before to "look on the bright side."  To focus on the good and the happy.  To not think about the possible negative outcomes, because "no one wants someone who is always looking to be miserable." I've been told if I complain, I'm being a pessimist.  If I speak up, I'm ungrateful.  God forbid I actually get angry and express emotions - I'm "unstable" and irrational because feelings.  Any negative words are a slight against my character and others, and I "don't really mean" anything bad I may say.  (Spoiler alert - I totally do).


I am not a glass-half-full type of person, as much as society may try to push me to be.  I am also not a doom and gloom, tragedy abounds at every turn kind of person.  I simply prepare for the worst and strive for the best possible outcome.  I am not a pessimist - I am a realist.  I am a planner, a long-term thinker - you see a sapling, I see the forest and the approaching dry season that may bring a fire.  The downside of this is a lack of being able to appreciate little things.  The upside is I'm usually prepped for any possible contingency, or at least able to think on my feet enough to bounce back quickly.

I have experienced the proverbial "worst possible scenario."  I have been dumped.  I have been robbed.  I have been institutionalized, rejected, and failed at many endeavors over the years.  I have lost a child on the brink of giving her life.  And I am still here.  None of these things has killed me, though the last one very nearly could have.

I will continue to prepare for the worst case scenario, but instead of praying or "hoping" for the best, I will work my ass off for it like I always have.  I will go to all my appointments and take my vitamins, because my intention is to take every precaution and care for Archer just as I did with Coraline.  Am I terrified that a repeat stillbirth may occur?  Of course, every day.  I am only reassured every time I feel him move, or I whip out the doppler and hear his rapid little heartbeat.  Does that mean I will not celebrate this pregnancy and his birth with as much fervor as I did Coraline's?  No - his life has begun already, and I will honor it and him, regardless of the outcome.

Realistically, I knew what the chances were for a repeat stillbirth when I became pregnant with Archer.  I understood the risks, and made a calculated decision to proceed with having this baby.  I examine things on a very detailed and technical scale, weighing all the options and odds before proceeding.  It may seem cold and calculated, but it's simply how I internalize decisions, including important and often emotionally charged ones.  My desire to have Archer, to bring him into the world for his father and brother and sister, outweighed the possible negative outcomes, and there was my decision.

I have had nightmares - I have had dreams where I'm whisked away to the ER following an appointment where they couldn't hear his heartbeat, and everyone is stunned because of the repeat anomaly.  Then I wake up and feel him wiggling inside, and reassure myself with all the on-target health scores and ultrasounds and projections. 

I can't live my life in fear, but that doesn't mean it isn't there and I won't make every attempt to protect myself from harm. 

Codename:Duchess

We're having a BOY! Our rainbow, Archer Thomas, will arrive sometime after June 13th.

We had an ultrasound at the end of January that confirmed he is ALL BOY. Everything else is going swimmingly. I've had minimal symptoms and all my levels (proteins, glucose, iron, etc) are within normal range. I start going to the high-risk specialist in 2 weeks, just to make sure everything continues going perfectly.

We're also in the process of trying to purchase our first home. I found one I am absolutely in love with, and we're trying to finalize within the next 2 months so we are all moved in well before our arrival is here. :)

I've been doing much better at focusing on the positive things and pushing forward. I don't get nearly as bogged down in my depression as I used to. I still have a few moments of stressed-out crying, but hell, I'm pregnant and I'm allowed to, right? Can't control all of the hormones all of the time. Learning to cut myself a break is a constant struggle.

I did have a strange pang of guilt today - I heard a song (I Will Follow You Into The Dark) that made me feel... guilty for not following Coraline. I'm her mother, I should protect her and walk beside her and yes, that means into the beyond, if for nothing other than to hold her hand and make sure she is unafraid. But then I remembered the life I'm growing now, and Coraline's older brother who just had a birthday, and try to focus on them. I hope she knows I'm still here for her, and I would have followed her into the dark and beyond I could have saved her. All I can do now is keep her memory alive, and focus on her daddy and brothers and give them the best life possible.

A Thankful Heart and an Amazing Announcement

After every storm there comes a rainbow.  This year, Matt and I are thankful for the opportunity to bring Coraline’s brother or sister, our rainbow baby, into the world sometime next summer. :)

Yep - I got my super-duper positive test while we were on our cruise.  So that cut short my boozing and increased my water intake (and subsequent retention).  For those of you who care, yes we planned this and yes we are thrilled/terrified/exhausted/excited and every other emotion in between.

A few preemptive answers to anticipated questions - not that most of my friends and family would ask these, but I’ve been caught off guard before by the unsuspecting stranger (like the jackhole on the cruise).  I felt the need to sort some of these out and come up with snarktastic replies, just in case.

Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant!?  Wow - was this planned?

Are you asking whether we used protection while having consensual sex as married adults in our own home?  Because that’s a pretty invasive question, IMHO.

Is this your first?

No, I have two others - a 10-year-old son and a daughter who was stillborn.

Isn’t it too soon/so long after Coraline?

The timing is right for us, and that’s all that matters.

What are you hoping for?

A healthy baby.  We’ll take a velociraptor, but a healthy baby is ideal.

Aren’t you worried about a repeat of (in hushed tones) last time?

You should be more concerned about my fist repeatedly hitting your face this time.

Are you going to have a baby shower?

No.  We are blessed to have mostly everything we need for a new arrival, with some adjustments after finding out the gender.

Have you picked out any names?

Yes, Archer for a boy and Ingrid for a girl.

Well what about ­________?

No.

Are you sure?  Don’t you like ­­­_________?

No.

You should go with __________.

You should stop talking now.

Are you getting rid of your cats/dogs?

No. They will adjust, and they are part of our family, too.

You should really do (insert old wives pregnancy wisdom).

Thanks, I’ll look into that.  (has no intention of strapping grape leaves to my hands every other Tuesday to relieve RLP)

Are you going to do a water birth/C-section/natural?

Depends on what happens, but I will do whatever it takes to bring a healthy, screaming baby into the world. 

When are you due?

July 4^th.

Oh, born on the Fourth of July!!! How adorable!

Yes, I’m vomiting red, white and blue as a show of patriotism.

I saw an episode of (insert crappy reality medical show here) and that makes me an expert on (insert phase of pregnancy/prenatal care).  Let me give you some advice…

Thanks - I’ve done this twice already.  I’m good.

Oh, you shouldn’t eat that!

Right now, it’s the only thing my body is tolerating.  So piss off unless you want to wear it.

I guess this means you can’t go out drinking…

Yep, also, no more happiness.  Because 9 months is FOREVER and I live for booze. (rolls eyes)


Maybe I just anticipate people will say horrible things because I've experienced it, but I like to be prepared. :)

Invisible handicaps

This past week was amazing - we took our cruise to Mexico, Belize and Isla Roatan.  I got a massage and we sat on the beach drinking rum (well, Matt was) and enjoying the ocean breeze.  It was a great escape from work and responsibility, since we had a couple watching our home and pets and leaving us mostly carefree for a solid week.  Bliss.

Then there was the blind guy.  We chose to dine on “our time”, which meant a different seating arrangement every evening, but no restrictions on time to show up.  One night we end up with an older (50-60s) legally blind gentleman and his wife.  This guy took every opportunity to tell everyone at the table that he was legally blind.  Multiple times.  Even though no one asked.  So he can see shapes and colors but not much beyond that.  

A few days later, we’re in the pool in the adults-only Serenity deck, enjoying the cool water after a long, hot day traipsing around Belize, when Ray Charles shows up.  And begins talking, at great length, about all the places he’s been and things that no one knows but him and his travels and collections and friends and associates because me me me me me I I I I I LOOK AT ME I’M SPECIAL.  Matt and I are comfy and don’t want to get out, so we chat with Me-Monster a bit.

Then he asks the “so ya’ll have kids” question, to which I reply “Yep.  A 10-year-old.  And one on the way.”  And Dickbag goes into a tirade about how we “should have had them at like 3 and 1” or closer together, and “why would you want to have another one now, that’s like starting all over.”  And I’m biting my lip til it bleeds and letting the saltwater from the pool bring even more physical pain to dull the emotional anguish and keep me from punching his detached-retina lights out.  

I explain that Parker is mine, and Matt and I just married 3 years ago.  I explain that our daughter was stillborn last November, to which this incredible asshole, who should know something about the hardships people have to go through, the strange looks and snide comments you get when you have a visible handicap, says to my face “Well, Mother Nature doesn’t make mistakes.”

Excuse the fuck out of me you pretentious prick, but I disrespectfully disagree.

I kindly informed our misinformed co-passenger that my daughter was full-term and perfect.  That it was an accident, and there was nothing wrong with her.  There wasn’t a mistake that “mother nature” felt a need to “correct.”  Matt stepped up and defended her as well.  I wasn’t about to let this guy off the hook without knowing he got his “facts” wrong.  

He then tries to backpedal and makes a comment about “those babies born at like 24 weeks that are like a pound and it’s not right and those kids are never right.”  I’m fuming at this point, looking at my 6-foot, 200+ lb husband who was born prematurely.  According to this guy’s logic, my husband also “wasn’t right” and shouldn’t be here.  I couldn’t even spit out any words without hissing at the guy like a Dilophosaur, so I just said “I’m going to go lay out, now” and removed myself from the pool.

I couldn’t believe this guy was blind in more ways than one.  And yet, underneath my boiling surface, I was actually glad that he was that stupid - because it meant he never had to go through anything like it himself.  He couldn’t possibly understand, and although his words were incredibly insensitive and painful to endure, I’ve endured much, much worse.  I would gladly trade places and be physically blind if it meant I didn’t have the insight I do now, on the other side of loss.

Chapter 8: Peace Out, Bitch

The weekend saw the introduction of a young guy with a crazy laugh who claimed to be a minister with "three funerals to do this weekend."  He insisted he would be leaving the next day by "5:15", a fact he repeated, loudly, until well after the hour had passed.

Sunday didn't shape up to be any better.  Another newcomer, this one a toothless "ex-Marine" with MS/ADD/TBI you-name-it who insisted everyone call her Remy, evidently never learned the shut the f*** up rule.  And blamed her outbursts on her MS/ADD/TBI whatever she thought of at the moment, so we were all just supposed to excuse them and let her dominate every group discussion we had.  So group therapy continually turned into Remy's private platform, and even the craziest among us began to roll eyes and resent her.

To top things off, loudmouth Remy and funky Mattie were roommates.  You can imagine the fun had there - one who can't shut up, the other who may as well be mute, and both claiming to be ex-soldiers who fought in Iraq/Afghanistan.  I call bullshit on Remy cause as far as I know the USMC doesn't take candidates with MS, which she claimed to have since high school.  Mattie, probably true - she looked like she'd seen some shit.

So group session begins, and this young ex-Navy kid I became friends with is about to blow a gasket over Remy's incessant rambling.  He's one of those rare 21-year-olds with an abundance of manners and etiquette, and I appreciated that - we got along great.  So I can see that he's getting frustrated and we're both rolling our eyes over Remy's interruptions when all of a sudden....

Remy:  And how'm I supposed to take caaaaaare of myself? I ain't never had to do that before, I don't know what to do.... (this was a common theme, repeated incessantly)
Mattie:   Join the military and get a job.

Twelve heads snapped to stare at the girl who refused to speak up until now.  Apparently even Crazy Eyes was sick of her roommate.  Remy continued...

Remy:  I was in the military!  I haaaaad a job!  It's not myyyy fault I have MS/ADD/TBI, etc....
Mattie:  (holds up 2 fingers in a 'V') Peace out, BITCH.

The air was sucked out of the room as we all held our breath waiting for the claws and hair to start flying.  Somehow the therapist regained control of the room and we proceeded with the "lesson". 

The following day I was able to conduct my very own "Peace Out, Bitch" as my shrink was releasing me.  Before I left, however, one of the friends I made pulled me aside and showed me a scribbled note he received from Tanya, the 50+ year old handicapped woman with severely dysfunctional attention-seeking habits (like forceful vomiting and fake sneezing so people would say "bless you" 674 times in a row).  I have a sympathetic leaning towards the mentally/physically challenged, but it became apparent that a majority of the things she did, much like Remy, were not due to her handicap, but her constant need for attention.  That shit is irritating.

She gave him a note, scribbled in what looked like a kindergartener's handwriting, inquiring as to the gentleman's proclivity for horizontal relations in the immediate future.  I read that and just stared at him like "uh buh whuuuuu?"  I had no words.  He thought that was the end of it, but she was waiting for him when he finished reading it, like "well?"  He tried to be nice and told her he was dating someone else, and she got embarrassed.  Because you're supposed to be embarrassed soliciting sex from a fellow patient.  Maybe we should have steered her towards Bobcat...

And then he said the words that will stick with me for a long time.  Although he was referring to Tanya specifically, they pretty much sum up my entire experience in the looney bin: 

"If that's the alternative... I need to start making some lifestyle changes."

Amen, brother.  A-freakin-men.

Chapter 7: Love gloves and the Lingering Funk

"Tyrone's back," Arnold said, expecting me to know who he was referring to.  I leaned back in my chair and saw Tyrone Biggums being wheeled in on a stretcher.  He lasted a full day on the outside before ending up back in here.  Amazing.

Turns out Tyrone's return was not the most shocking thing to happen that weekend, or even later that afternoon.

"Daaaaang, mayan!" screamed Duke, stomping into the day room in his size 13 Reeboks. "Ol' girl lay up in da bed wit' dude's kicks on!"

I'll translate:  Duke, a heroin addicted, 6'5" former "escort service coordinator" with a Southern drawl and a love of Affliction t-shirts, came bounding into the day room.  His remark, when clarified, meant that Mattie, the runner, had just been discovered in his roommate, Tyrone's, clothes, asleep in his bed.

Tyrone came into the room sucking his teeth as usual, but with the furrowed brow of a black man who just witnessed two white people doing something unnatural.  Apparently, Mattie was going at it with Bobcat Bravo (Shout) on Tyrone's bed when he barged in on them.  She then put on Tyrone's clothes and crawled in his bed for a little post-nookie nap time.

Duke asked Bobcat how he could do that without protection - he replied that he "used a glove".  Not like a "love glove", an actual latex glove.  Riiiiight.

Despite the fact that all rooms are supposed to be checked every 15 minutes, no nurses or orderlies seemed to be aware/concerned as to the witnessed events.  We were all certain they'd be moved to ESU, but nope - both stayed, making the rest of the women very uncomfortable as we felt Bobcat had taken advantage of someone in a severely disturbed mental state.  Bobcat swaggered around like an un-neutered peacock the rest of the weekend, but because no one who worked there witnessed it, it didn't happen.  Lovely. 

Apparently a shower was not in the cards after the lovebirds freak session, because Mattie was asked (by other mental patients) to leave the day room until she had bathed.  It was as though she absorbed Bobcat's funk along with her own funk, and rolled around in their joint funk on a bed of funk. 

My roommate and I later discovered this for ourselves, when Mattie again wandered into our room seeking....? A bed? Clothes? A humping partner?  I have no idea.  Natalia had been taken to the hospital for an ear infection, so Mattie walked in, investigated the things on her nightstand, sat down on her bed, picked up her cup and began drinking (we later tossed it for fear of whatever contagious funk she had picked up from Bobcat - not even alcoholic Russians need to catch the crab clap from a water bottle...)

Roomie:    Hey, I think you're in the room down the hall.
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)
Roomie:    Want me to help you find it?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

Roomie:    Do you need something?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

I didn't want to leave my other roommate alone, but I also wanted crazy out of our room asap.  I left and found a nurse in the hallway, who rolled her eyes and said "oh, lord" when I told her Mattie was - again - in our room.  Lacking any febreeze or perfume, my roommate and I had to vacate the room until Mattie-funk dissipated - she was there for less than two minutes but her presence lingered for nearly an hour.

She was escorted to her own room, where I hear the fun continued as she railed against her roommate and showered/pissed in the dark because "maintenance doesn't come out on the weekend".  I'm surprised more people don't come out worse than when they went in.