Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Ducks
Not sure if I should laugh hysterically or if this is a sign that I am slowly losing my mind, but right now Casey is reading "Elmo's Ducky Day" to Riley. I keep hearing Casey shouting, "MAKE WAY FOR ELMO AND HIS DUCKIES!!!" In the background, is the very loud "quack quack quack" of Winston's pet duck. It's the small things...
Hmmmmm....
As I sit down to write this post, I have had the benefit of a full week to process the news I received from my doctor at what I thought was a routine follow-up visit. I am writing this particular post with no intention of ever actually "posting" it to the blog for everyone to see. It is extremely personal, but I know writing will help me to wrap my hands around the significance of the news in a way that will allow me to more productively process what it means.
My first response after receiving the news was... well, nothing, really. I guess this is what they call shock. All I could do was sit perfectly still, stare blankly at the doctor as his mouth continued to move with what undoubtedly was important information that I needed to understand, and just breathe.
After some amount of time, I was able to focus slightly on what the doctor was saying and caught snippets like "triploidy", "molar pregnancy", "partial", "genetic defect", "malignancy", "cancer".
I left the doctor's office with an understanding of five things: (1) I had had a miscarriage (mercifully) because the fetus had a rare genetic defect called "triploidy", (2) this led to a partial molar pregnancy, (3) one possible outcome of a molar pregnancy is continued growth of the abnormal cells leading to a form of uterine cancer, (4) under no set of circumstances could we even think about (let alone attempt) to get pregnant again for about a year, and (5) I had to somehow find a way explain all of this to Casey.
After a considerable amount of research over the past week, I at least have a basic understanding of what these unknown terms mean.
"Triploidy" is an extremely rare and lethal chromosome abnormality caused by the presence of an entire extra set of chromosomes. A fetus with triploidy has 69 chromosomes, rather than 46 (23 from each parent). Very few infants with triploidy survive to term. Of those that do, most are stillborn and those that are born alive have severe defects and die shortly after birth (the longest life span of record is 10 months). By its very nature, triploidy is incompatible with life. This is why I say that mercifully my pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage. If it hadn't, the chromosomal abnormalities would have been found in the early screening tests that Casey and I would have opted to do, and then we would have been faced with the decision of whether the pregnancy should be terminated or if I should continue to carry the baby knowing full well that the baby had been given a death sentence before it even had a chance at life.
The good news is that triploidy is a sporadic and accidental (random) event, does not signify that there is anything wrong with the genetic make-up of the parents, and there is no increased recurrence risk in future pregnancies.
The bad news is that in my case, the triploidy resulted in a molar pregnancy. Molar pregnancy (also called a hydatidiform mole), a form of gestational trophoblastic disease (GTD), is caused by an abnormally fertilized egg. The fertilized egg does not grow as it should and a genetic error causes abnormal cells to grow and form a mass of abnormal placental tissue in the uterus. There are two types of hydatidiform moles: complete and partial. In my case, it was a partial hydatidiform mole, meaning that a fetus (albeit an abnormal one with fatal defects) existed but the placenta developed into an abnormal mass of cysts.
In reading up about molar pregnancies, I have found that some common symptoms include extreme exhaustion (I had been very tired), severe nausea (which explains why I thought I was experiencing morning sickness this time around unlike when I was pregnant with Riley), cysts (one had been discovered in my 8-week ultrasound, but at the time was thought to be a common ovarian cyst since the fetus had a very strong heartbeat), vaginal bleeding (had this but was minimal and again, since the fetus had a heartbeat, was thought to be no big deal), and a growth-restricted fetus (which explains why my due date was moved back by 8 days after the ultrasound indicated the fetus was smaller than expected based on the first day of my last period, which is the normal indicator of due date).
The thing that makes all of this particularly confusing to me is that most of the "symptoms" also occur in normal pregnancies. So if I ever DO get pregnant again, I believe I will live in a constant state of paranoia. But let's not get ahead of ourselves...
The suggested form of "treatment" for a molar pregnancy (either complete or partial) is a D&C (outpatient surgery, the details of which are too sad to even delve into). This is also the "treatment" for an incomplete miscarriage, also called a missed abortion (where fetal and/or placental tissue remains in the uterus - as has been the case in both of my miscarriages). The good news, again, is that I/we did not find out about the triploidy or molar pregnancy until AFTER the D&C had already been performed (this was all medically discovered in the pathology examination of the tissue taken during the D&C), so we did not have to make any decisions about what to do. This may very well be the one time in its attempts at pregnancy that my body did me a service, and that it really did all "happen for a reason" and "was for the best" as many well-meaning people have told me. But truthfully that doesn't make the news any easier to swallow or any less painful.
As if the miscarriage, the resultant diagnosis, and the insane medical bill we received for a surgery that I never even wanted weren't bad enough, the truly horrifying thing is that all of this could have very serious future implications. And that's where we get to the "C" word that I referenced hearing the doctor speak of above.
You see, hydatidiform moles are not cancerous. They can, however, develop into cancerous GTDs. Typically, the D&C removes the molar tissue. However, it is possible for some of the abnormal cells to remain. This is called persistent gestational trophoblastic disease (persistent GTD), and it occurs in as many of 10% of women after a molar pregnancy. There seem to be 3 types of persistent GTD: (1) invasive moles (a hydatidiform mole that grows into the muscle layer of the uterus and can metastasize to other parts of the body, typically the lungs), (2) choriocarcinoma (a malignant form of GTD that grows quickly and spreads to organs away from the uterus) and (3) placental site trophoblastic tumor (PSTT, a very rare form of GTD that develops where the placenta attaches to the uterus, but that typically does not spread to other sites of the body).
The relatively good news about all of this is that the cure rate for this type of cancer is very high (virtually 100% if the cancer hasn't spread beyond the uterus and 80-90% when it has spread to other organs). Those are odds I can live with, although to save my life I may have to undergo chemotherapy (typical course of treatment) or a hysterectomy (much more rare), neither of which excite me much. I am 33 years old, living the kind of life that most people dream about with a husband I love, a son that I adore and dogs that can always bring a smile to my face. I have always been healthy, I have faced very little adversity, I grew up in a home with amazing parents and a sister who has turned into my best friend. I have traveled a lot. I have had a lot of fun. I am surrounded by good friends.
Under no circumstances am I prepared to die young.
And yet, even though the odds of survival are very good, I can't help but let my mind drift to ugly places where I start thinking about Riley being left without a mother, Casey remarrying (which I have already come to terms with and absolutely know I would want him to do), Winston sleeping on my empty pillow. I know these thoughts are unproductive, and fortunately they are fleeting, but they are still there and I'd be lying if I said they weren't.
The best indicator of persistent GTD is an hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) level that remains high after the mole has been removed. The hCG hormone is produced by the placenta during pregnancy, and if the level remains high or does not decline, it is a sign that molar tissue remains and continues to grow (persistent GTD).
The way hCG levels are monitored is through a routine blood test. The levels are monitored once a week to make sure they are declining, as this is an indication that no molar tissue remains. Once the levels go down to zero for three weeks in a row, they are then monitored monthly for anywhere from 3 months to a year. Once the levels have consistently remained at zero for that amount of time, you are given a clean bill of health and can move on with life.
Because hCG levels are also present with a normal pregnancy, you are very firmly instructed to not get pregnant until you've had the requisite number of tests with negative hCG levels so that persistent GTD cannot be missed. hCG levels would naturally increase with a normal pregnancy, and as such, persistent GTD would go undiagnosed. Since long-term survival rates with persistent GTD are completely dependent upon early diagnosis and treatment, it is imperative that nothing get in the way of strictly monitoring the presence of molar tissue.
So, not only did we have the sadness and stress of a miscarriage, but then we get to face the reality that we created a genetically mutant baby, and then we get to live with the threat of cancer and unpleasant treatments, but now you are telling me that we can't even try to conceive another child for at least a year if we can at all (which would only happen, I think, if I had to have a hysterectomy; otherwise, from what I've read, it seems that you can get pregnant again and that your chances of a future molar pregnancy are no greater than that of the general population: 1 out of every 1,000 pregnancies)? In addition to being sad and scared, you can now add angry to the list of emotions that dance across my mind each day.
Thankfully, these negative emotions are short-lived. All it takes to get me out of my funk is time spent with Casey, a smile or a dance or a giggle or a new development from Riley, Winston sitting on my lap, throwing a ball for Wrigley, surrounding myself with good friends, or making good memories with those that I love and treasure. All things I love anyway, but that I should take the time to do with new-found enjoyment and purpose every day... just in case.
Hopefully in future, brighter days, this blog will include tales and pictures of our second child living life to the fullest right along side Riley and the dogs (and me). I want that just as much for them as I do for Casey and myself, and perhaps that's what makes the present time and uncertainty that much more difficult.
This is my honest take on the current events our family is facing. I have not tried to sugarcoat it, but have tried to talk about much of it medically because it is easier to stay emotionally detached that way. If I ever do decide to make this post available to others, I hope that you will not view this as a pessimistic account of things or that we are living each second in fear and sadness. Quite to the contrary, life is good and happy and full. Sometimes a little (or a lot) of adversity makes you appreciate the blessings you do have, and I'd like to think that for the most part, that's exactly what we are doing.
In the meantime, we will hope for good numbers each week. The starting point as of last week's test was an hGC level of 161. In two hours, I will have my second test, the results of which will indicate the course of our future.
[NOTE: I wrote this post originally on February 22, 2011. It has taken me until April 29, 2014 to work up the courage to post it. As you will see from all of the entries between those two dates, this blog does include tales and pictures of our second child, Chase, living life to the fullest right along side Riley and the dogs and me. That said, my pregnancy with Chase was the most stressful nine months of my life, and the six to twelve months that followed his birth were agonizing as well, as I kept waiting for something to be wrong, either with him or with me. He is a healthy, thriving almost two-year-old with boundless energy and charm like you wouldn't believe. I wouldn't trade him for anything and so although the sadness and anger and fear expressed in this post was very difficult, it turns out it was worth it. Thank you, Chase, for being who you are and for all the joy and amusement you bring to all of our lives each day.]
My first response after receiving the news was... well, nothing, really. I guess this is what they call shock. All I could do was sit perfectly still, stare blankly at the doctor as his mouth continued to move with what undoubtedly was important information that I needed to understand, and just breathe.
After some amount of time, I was able to focus slightly on what the doctor was saying and caught snippets like "triploidy", "molar pregnancy", "partial", "genetic defect", "malignancy", "cancer".
I left the doctor's office with an understanding of five things: (1) I had had a miscarriage (mercifully) because the fetus had a rare genetic defect called "triploidy", (2) this led to a partial molar pregnancy, (3) one possible outcome of a molar pregnancy is continued growth of the abnormal cells leading to a form of uterine cancer, (4) under no set of circumstances could we even think about (let alone attempt) to get pregnant again for about a year, and (5) I had to somehow find a way explain all of this to Casey.
After a considerable amount of research over the past week, I at least have a basic understanding of what these unknown terms mean.
"Triploidy" is an extremely rare and lethal chromosome abnormality caused by the presence of an entire extra set of chromosomes. A fetus with triploidy has 69 chromosomes, rather than 46 (23 from each parent). Very few infants with triploidy survive to term. Of those that do, most are stillborn and those that are born alive have severe defects and die shortly after birth (the longest life span of record is 10 months). By its very nature, triploidy is incompatible with life. This is why I say that mercifully my pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage. If it hadn't, the chromosomal abnormalities would have been found in the early screening tests that Casey and I would have opted to do, and then we would have been faced with the decision of whether the pregnancy should be terminated or if I should continue to carry the baby knowing full well that the baby had been given a death sentence before it even had a chance at life.
The good news is that triploidy is a sporadic and accidental (random) event, does not signify that there is anything wrong with the genetic make-up of the parents, and there is no increased recurrence risk in future pregnancies.
The bad news is that in my case, the triploidy resulted in a molar pregnancy. Molar pregnancy (also called a hydatidiform mole), a form of gestational trophoblastic disease (GTD), is caused by an abnormally fertilized egg. The fertilized egg does not grow as it should and a genetic error causes abnormal cells to grow and form a mass of abnormal placental tissue in the uterus. There are two types of hydatidiform moles: complete and partial. In my case, it was a partial hydatidiform mole, meaning that a fetus (albeit an abnormal one with fatal defects) existed but the placenta developed into an abnormal mass of cysts.
In reading up about molar pregnancies, I have found that some common symptoms include extreme exhaustion (I had been very tired), severe nausea (which explains why I thought I was experiencing morning sickness this time around unlike when I was pregnant with Riley), cysts (one had been discovered in my 8-week ultrasound, but at the time was thought to be a common ovarian cyst since the fetus had a very strong heartbeat), vaginal bleeding (had this but was minimal and again, since the fetus had a heartbeat, was thought to be no big deal), and a growth-restricted fetus (which explains why my due date was moved back by 8 days after the ultrasound indicated the fetus was smaller than expected based on the first day of my last period, which is the normal indicator of due date).
The thing that makes all of this particularly confusing to me is that most of the "symptoms" also occur in normal pregnancies. So if I ever DO get pregnant again, I believe I will live in a constant state of paranoia. But let's not get ahead of ourselves...
The suggested form of "treatment" for a molar pregnancy (either complete or partial) is a D&C (outpatient surgery, the details of which are too sad to even delve into). This is also the "treatment" for an incomplete miscarriage, also called a missed abortion (where fetal and/or placental tissue remains in the uterus - as has been the case in both of my miscarriages). The good news, again, is that I/we did not find out about the triploidy or molar pregnancy until AFTER the D&C had already been performed (this was all medically discovered in the pathology examination of the tissue taken during the D&C), so we did not have to make any decisions about what to do. This may very well be the one time in its attempts at pregnancy that my body did me a service, and that it really did all "happen for a reason" and "was for the best" as many well-meaning people have told me. But truthfully that doesn't make the news any easier to swallow or any less painful.
As if the miscarriage, the resultant diagnosis, and the insane medical bill we received for a surgery that I never even wanted weren't bad enough, the truly horrifying thing is that all of this could have very serious future implications. And that's where we get to the "C" word that I referenced hearing the doctor speak of above.
You see, hydatidiform moles are not cancerous. They can, however, develop into cancerous GTDs. Typically, the D&C removes the molar tissue. However, it is possible for some of the abnormal cells to remain. This is called persistent gestational trophoblastic disease (persistent GTD), and it occurs in as many of 10% of women after a molar pregnancy. There seem to be 3 types of persistent GTD: (1) invasive moles (a hydatidiform mole that grows into the muscle layer of the uterus and can metastasize to other parts of the body, typically the lungs), (2) choriocarcinoma (a malignant form of GTD that grows quickly and spreads to organs away from the uterus) and (3) placental site trophoblastic tumor (PSTT, a very rare form of GTD that develops where the placenta attaches to the uterus, but that typically does not spread to other sites of the body).
The relatively good news about all of this is that the cure rate for this type of cancer is very high (virtually 100% if the cancer hasn't spread beyond the uterus and 80-90% when it has spread to other organs). Those are odds I can live with, although to save my life I may have to undergo chemotherapy (typical course of treatment) or a hysterectomy (much more rare), neither of which excite me much. I am 33 years old, living the kind of life that most people dream about with a husband I love, a son that I adore and dogs that can always bring a smile to my face. I have always been healthy, I have faced very little adversity, I grew up in a home with amazing parents and a sister who has turned into my best friend. I have traveled a lot. I have had a lot of fun. I am surrounded by good friends.
Under no circumstances am I prepared to die young.
And yet, even though the odds of survival are very good, I can't help but let my mind drift to ugly places where I start thinking about Riley being left without a mother, Casey remarrying (which I have already come to terms with and absolutely know I would want him to do), Winston sleeping on my empty pillow. I know these thoughts are unproductive, and fortunately they are fleeting, but they are still there and I'd be lying if I said they weren't.
The best indicator of persistent GTD is an hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) level that remains high after the mole has been removed. The hCG hormone is produced by the placenta during pregnancy, and if the level remains high or does not decline, it is a sign that molar tissue remains and continues to grow (persistent GTD).
The way hCG levels are monitored is through a routine blood test. The levels are monitored once a week to make sure they are declining, as this is an indication that no molar tissue remains. Once the levels go down to zero for three weeks in a row, they are then monitored monthly for anywhere from 3 months to a year. Once the levels have consistently remained at zero for that amount of time, you are given a clean bill of health and can move on with life.
Because hCG levels are also present with a normal pregnancy, you are very firmly instructed to not get pregnant until you've had the requisite number of tests with negative hCG levels so that persistent GTD cannot be missed. hCG levels would naturally increase with a normal pregnancy, and as such, persistent GTD would go undiagnosed. Since long-term survival rates with persistent GTD are completely dependent upon early diagnosis and treatment, it is imperative that nothing get in the way of strictly monitoring the presence of molar tissue.
So, not only did we have the sadness and stress of a miscarriage, but then we get to face the reality that we created a genetically mutant baby, and then we get to live with the threat of cancer and unpleasant treatments, but now you are telling me that we can't even try to conceive another child for at least a year if we can at all (which would only happen, I think, if I had to have a hysterectomy; otherwise, from what I've read, it seems that you can get pregnant again and that your chances of a future molar pregnancy are no greater than that of the general population: 1 out of every 1,000 pregnancies)? In addition to being sad and scared, you can now add angry to the list of emotions that dance across my mind each day.
Thankfully, these negative emotions are short-lived. All it takes to get me out of my funk is time spent with Casey, a smile or a dance or a giggle or a new development from Riley, Winston sitting on my lap, throwing a ball for Wrigley, surrounding myself with good friends, or making good memories with those that I love and treasure. All things I love anyway, but that I should take the time to do with new-found enjoyment and purpose every day... just in case.
Hopefully in future, brighter days, this blog will include tales and pictures of our second child living life to the fullest right along side Riley and the dogs (and me). I want that just as much for them as I do for Casey and myself, and perhaps that's what makes the present time and uncertainty that much more difficult.
This is my honest take on the current events our family is facing. I have not tried to sugarcoat it, but have tried to talk about much of it medically because it is easier to stay emotionally detached that way. If I ever do decide to make this post available to others, I hope that you will not view this as a pessimistic account of things or that we are living each second in fear and sadness. Quite to the contrary, life is good and happy and full. Sometimes a little (or a lot) of adversity makes you appreciate the blessings you do have, and I'd like to think that for the most part, that's exactly what we are doing.
In the meantime, we will hope for good numbers each week. The starting point as of last week's test was an hGC level of 161. In two hours, I will have my second test, the results of which will indicate the course of our future.
[NOTE: I wrote this post originally on February 22, 2011. It has taken me until April 29, 2014 to work up the courage to post it. As you will see from all of the entries between those two dates, this blog does include tales and pictures of our second child, Chase, living life to the fullest right along side Riley and the dogs and me. That said, my pregnancy with Chase was the most stressful nine months of my life, and the six to twelve months that followed his birth were agonizing as well, as I kept waiting for something to be wrong, either with him or with me. He is a healthy, thriving almost two-year-old with boundless energy and charm like you wouldn't believe. I wouldn't trade him for anything and so although the sadness and anger and fear expressed in this post was very difficult, it turns out it was worth it. Thank you, Chase, for being who you are and for all the joy and amusement you bring to all of our lives each day.]
Results of Week 2 hGC test
This week's hGC level: 57. Number has decreased from initial level of 161. Still needs to go down to 0 in order to formally indicate that the molar tissue is gone, but this is definitely a start and is definitely a trend in the right direction.
Need three consecutive weeks of a negative level (0) before the tests will switch to monthly.
Need three to six months of monthly tests showing a negative level before we can even consider trying to get pregnant again.
Am eager for the clock to start ticking those months away.
Need three consecutive weeks of a negative level (0) before the tests will switch to monthly.
Need three to six months of monthly tests showing a negative level before we can even consider trying to get pregnant again.
Am eager for the clock to start ticking those months away.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Savoring the Sound of Silence
We have hit the age, I think, where our days of silence are numbered. Not that Riley has really been "silent" ever - he has babbled incoherently, used various sounds for words before he knew how to call things the right thing, used shortened versions of the words that he knew, and then finally progressed into pronouncing things he knew well (mommy, daddy, doggie, moon, Wrigley, Winston, ball, Krispies (the little guy loves him some Rice Krispies)...). But just in the past few days I have noticed a change in his speech. When he is using words, I am fairly confident that even a stranger would be able to understand the word he is saying (where as before he would say something that Casey and I could recognize but which we would have to translate to other people). When he isn't saying words, instead of being silent, he just babbles non-stop in a way that makes me think he thinks he is talking (in other words, I think he thinks we're having a conversation, but I just can't make out what he's trying to say). The most significant change, however, is that since last Friday (so just shy of 21 months) our little guy has started to string together two words to form "sentences". "Mommy jacket" was the first thing I remember him saying as I left the room to go put on my jacket which was on a chair in the dining room.
Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the sound of his little voice. And I love that he is really learning how to talk and communicate with us and with others. But part of me knows that soon two things are going to happen: (1) he is going to ask me questions to which I do not know the answer and (2) he is going to learn to talk back. I already catch glimpses of the latter - his favorite response to any question right now is "no" ("Riley, do you want to help feed the doggies?" "No." (Incidentally, he LOVES to feed the dogs and insists on taking the top off their food container, scooping out the dog food with the cup, pouring the food into the bowl, and placing the lid back on each food container for each meal for each dog - a process that is so insanely cute, but that also requires quite a bit of time and a fair amount of spilling.) Our favorite question, "Riley, do you want a million dollars?" Response: "No.")
More disturbing to me than the talking back is the matter of him asking questions to which I do not know the answer. It is bad enough that I do not know most of the answers to the questions on that dreadful show "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader", but truly it'll be more than I can take when I'm not even smarter than a two-year-old. Big sigh.
Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the sound of his little voice. And I love that he is really learning how to talk and communicate with us and with others. But part of me knows that soon two things are going to happen: (1) he is going to ask me questions to which I do not know the answer and (2) he is going to learn to talk back. I already catch glimpses of the latter - his favorite response to any question right now is "no" ("Riley, do you want to help feed the doggies?" "No." (Incidentally, he LOVES to feed the dogs and insists on taking the top off their food container, scooping out the dog food with the cup, pouring the food into the bowl, and placing the lid back on each food container for each meal for each dog - a process that is so insanely cute, but that also requires quite a bit of time and a fair amount of spilling.) Our favorite question, "Riley, do you want a million dollars?" Response: "No.")
More disturbing to me than the talking back is the matter of him asking questions to which I do not know the answer. It is bad enough that I do not know most of the answers to the questions on that dreadful show "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader", but truly it'll be more than I can take when I'm not even smarter than a two-year-old. Big sigh.
So You Think You Can Dance?
As you can imagine from the last post, the past few weeks have been... interesting. Thankfully, with the exception of the first day or two, Riley didn't really seem to notice that anything had changed or that Casey and I were quieter than usual. The kid rarely slows down, which during emotionally difficult times, turns out to be a good thing.
One of my favorite things about Riley right now is his propensity to dance under pretty much any set of circumstances. He will dance in the kitchen if we play some tunes on the iPod while cooking dinner, he will dance next to his train set if someone (usually himself) makes the bouncy zebra located right next to it play its crazy music (this is almost always accompanied by hilariously wild shaking of the tambourine we got him at the Dollar Store for Christmas - who said you have to buy expensive toys for a 20-month-old?), he will dance in the car, he will dance in his high chair. If standing, his dancing includes funny leg movements and wild bouncing (although he still hasn't figured out how to bounce in a way that involves his feet leaving the ground). If seated, he sways back and forth. Either way, his arms are flapping every which way (unfortunately, I believe this is a product of him copying the way Casey and I dance - neither of us being terribly coordinated in this department).
On a somewhat related topic, Riley just seems to love music in general. He loves listening to our music, he loves listening to children's music, he (which I will never understand because it is horribly off tune) loves to listen to us sing, he loves to play the keyboard that Casey has kept for like a million years which weighs about a million pounds and is so large that the only place we can store it is underneath Riley's crib, he loved playing the drums at a friend's house the other day(uh oh), and he seemed to think that playing the maracas at his school's Valentine's Day dance was a great idea.
I wonder if all that singing Casey did to Riley when he was a itty bitty baby has rubbed off and we now have the future Bruce Springsteen on our hands...
One of my favorite things about Riley right now is his propensity to dance under pretty much any set of circumstances. He will dance in the kitchen if we play some tunes on the iPod while cooking dinner, he will dance next to his train set if someone (usually himself) makes the bouncy zebra located right next to it play its crazy music (this is almost always accompanied by hilariously wild shaking of the tambourine we got him at the Dollar Store for Christmas - who said you have to buy expensive toys for a 20-month-old?), he will dance in the car, he will dance in his high chair. If standing, his dancing includes funny leg movements and wild bouncing (although he still hasn't figured out how to bounce in a way that involves his feet leaving the ground). If seated, he sways back and forth. Either way, his arms are flapping every which way (unfortunately, I believe this is a product of him copying the way Casey and I dance - neither of us being terribly coordinated in this department).
On a somewhat related topic, Riley just seems to love music in general. He loves listening to our music, he loves listening to children's music, he (which I will never understand because it is horribly off tune) loves to listen to us sing, he loves to play the keyboard that Casey has kept for like a million years which weighs about a million pounds and is so large that the only place we can store it is underneath Riley's crib, he loved playing the drums at a friend's house the other day(uh oh), and he seemed to think that playing the maracas at his school's Valentine's Day dance was a great idea.
I wonder if all that singing Casey did to Riley when he was a itty bitty baby has rubbed off and we now have the future Bruce Springsteen on our hands...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Counting Blessings Not Sorrows
I have been noticeably absent from this blog for awhile, mostly because I know myself well enough to know that I might slip and prematurely announce that Casey and I received the news the week after Thanksgiving that we were expecting our second child in early August, on our 5 year anniversary, no less.
I must admit that at first I was not entirely pleased with this news (Casey was excited from Day 1). We have always known that we wanted two children, but I had always thought that I wanted them to be 3 years apart (they would be just over two years apart) and that I wanted the timing of it to all work out so that I was on maternity leave during the summer again like I was with Riley. Daylight was long, late-night feedings didn't seem so bad because the sun was already creeping out, walks were plentiful, and trips to the pool were amazingly relaxing (especially with the occasional poolside beer). I craved extra time with just Riley so that he'd know for a certainty that he was our world before we threw someone new into the mix. I thought the dogs, particularly Winston, would be upset about the new addition and the further division of our time. I was afraid that there just would not be enough love (or enough time) to go around.
As the days, weeks and months passed by, however, my excitement grew and grew, and the ridiculous initial thoughts I had dwindled to non-existence. The kids would be close in age and become the best of friends, Riley has become obsessed with babies, it is obvious that the dogs love Riley (and vice versa), and the "timing" I was so concerned about seemed just plain silly and I am almost embarrassed to admit that I ever even cared. We have started the search for a larger house (and found one that we love!!!) and have looked at larger cars to accomodate two kids (and accompanying large car seats), two large dogs and a whole lot of gear.
Fast forward to yesterday - the 13-week prenatal check-up. For those of you who are parents, you will understand the significance of this check-up. It is the first one of the second trimester, the one that signals you are "in the clear" and that chances of a miscarriage are virtually non-existent from this point forward. I have been queasy for much of this pregnancy, have been terribly tired, have experienced no complications, had no signs that anything is wrong. It is the phase where you are actually excited to go to the doctor - your stomach has grown to the point where you feel like it's obvious to everyone that you're pregnant, you are excited to hear the sweet sound of the baby's heartbeat so you can finally rest assured that everything's OK, and you can leave the office knowing that you can share the news of your pregnancy with anyone and everyone without the fear of having to later tell them that you miscarried.
I woke up early, rubbed my ever-expanding belly to say hello to the baby like I do every morning, ate breakfast, forced down the prenatal vitamin that makes me feel horrible every day but that I will gladly take to give the baby a better chance at good health, got Riley out of bed and ready for school, handed him off to Casey who had been tasked with dropping him off at school so I could make it to my early doctor's appointment and headed out the door. Riley said good-bye about a hundred times and blew me so many kisses that I thought my heart would burst. All in all, a very good morning.
30 minutes later the doctor couldn't find the baby's heartbeat and an ultrasound confirmed that I had had another miscarriage. After that, a very difficult phone call to Casey to share the news and figure out what to do next. Four hours later, outpatient surgery to remove the baby from my body and our lives. Two hours after that, picking up Riley from school and putting back together the pieces of our lives. Now, a sleepless night, which I will allow myself only so that when day breaks, we can all resume life as normal.
But in these few sleepless hours of solitude, I will allow myself to grieve. Grieve about the guilt and the uncertainty. Guilt over whether this is somehow my fault. Did I do something wrong? Was it what I ate? That I didn't drink enough water? Was it the stresses I internalized? Was it the long hours at work during the riskiest phase of my pregnancy? Probably not, and the guilt is probably irrational, but I think it's the natural response to a miscarriage - when you are the one and only personal responsible for the health of the baby. Casey and I, unlike many couples, have been blessed with the easy ability to get pregnant. It seems that the problem is getting the baby to survive the first trimester.
And therein lies the uncertainty. We are now one for three in successful pregnancies. Not great odds. I now find myself wondering if these miscarriages were not a fluke, but signify that my body just isn't cut out for carrying babies successfully. Perhaps, without knowing it at the time, Riley was the miracle baby that we were never supposed to have but lucky enough to receive. The optimist in me would like to think that instead this was just my body's way of knowing that there was something wrong with the baby and doing something about it before the baby had to suffer. It also occurred to us today while Casey and I were talking through this with pictures of Riley that litter Casey's office in the background that but for the last miscarriage, we wouldn't even know Riley.
So although my heart hurts with our loss, I choose instead to focus on the fact that I have an incredible husband who I love with all my heart and every fiber of my being, an amazing and adorable son who is the highlight of my life, and two kind and devoted dogs that have taught me everything there is to know about unconditional love. And that's enough...
I must admit that at first I was not entirely pleased with this news (Casey was excited from Day 1). We have always known that we wanted two children, but I had always thought that I wanted them to be 3 years apart (they would be just over two years apart) and that I wanted the timing of it to all work out so that I was on maternity leave during the summer again like I was with Riley. Daylight was long, late-night feedings didn't seem so bad because the sun was already creeping out, walks were plentiful, and trips to the pool were amazingly relaxing (especially with the occasional poolside beer). I craved extra time with just Riley so that he'd know for a certainty that he was our world before we threw someone new into the mix. I thought the dogs, particularly Winston, would be upset about the new addition and the further division of our time. I was afraid that there just would not be enough love (or enough time) to go around.
As the days, weeks and months passed by, however, my excitement grew and grew, and the ridiculous initial thoughts I had dwindled to non-existence. The kids would be close in age and become the best of friends, Riley has become obsessed with babies, it is obvious that the dogs love Riley (and vice versa), and the "timing" I was so concerned about seemed just plain silly and I am almost embarrassed to admit that I ever even cared. We have started the search for a larger house (and found one that we love!!!) and have looked at larger cars to accomodate two kids (and accompanying large car seats), two large dogs and a whole lot of gear.
Fast forward to yesterday - the 13-week prenatal check-up. For those of you who are parents, you will understand the significance of this check-up. It is the first one of the second trimester, the one that signals you are "in the clear" and that chances of a miscarriage are virtually non-existent from this point forward. I have been queasy for much of this pregnancy, have been terribly tired, have experienced no complications, had no signs that anything is wrong. It is the phase where you are actually excited to go to the doctor - your stomach has grown to the point where you feel like it's obvious to everyone that you're pregnant, you are excited to hear the sweet sound of the baby's heartbeat so you can finally rest assured that everything's OK, and you can leave the office knowing that you can share the news of your pregnancy with anyone and everyone without the fear of having to later tell them that you miscarried.
I woke up early, rubbed my ever-expanding belly to say hello to the baby like I do every morning, ate breakfast, forced down the prenatal vitamin that makes me feel horrible every day but that I will gladly take to give the baby a better chance at good health, got Riley out of bed and ready for school, handed him off to Casey who had been tasked with dropping him off at school so I could make it to my early doctor's appointment and headed out the door. Riley said good-bye about a hundred times and blew me so many kisses that I thought my heart would burst. All in all, a very good morning.
30 minutes later the doctor couldn't find the baby's heartbeat and an ultrasound confirmed that I had had another miscarriage. After that, a very difficult phone call to Casey to share the news and figure out what to do next. Four hours later, outpatient surgery to remove the baby from my body and our lives. Two hours after that, picking up Riley from school and putting back together the pieces of our lives. Now, a sleepless night, which I will allow myself only so that when day breaks, we can all resume life as normal.
But in these few sleepless hours of solitude, I will allow myself to grieve. Grieve about the guilt and the uncertainty. Guilt over whether this is somehow my fault. Did I do something wrong? Was it what I ate? That I didn't drink enough water? Was it the stresses I internalized? Was it the long hours at work during the riskiest phase of my pregnancy? Probably not, and the guilt is probably irrational, but I think it's the natural response to a miscarriage - when you are the one and only personal responsible for the health of the baby. Casey and I, unlike many couples, have been blessed with the easy ability to get pregnant. It seems that the problem is getting the baby to survive the first trimester.
And therein lies the uncertainty. We are now one for three in successful pregnancies. Not great odds. I now find myself wondering if these miscarriages were not a fluke, but signify that my body just isn't cut out for carrying babies successfully. Perhaps, without knowing it at the time, Riley was the miracle baby that we were never supposed to have but lucky enough to receive. The optimist in me would like to think that instead this was just my body's way of knowing that there was something wrong with the baby and doing something about it before the baby had to suffer. It also occurred to us today while Casey and I were talking through this with pictures of Riley that litter Casey's office in the background that but for the last miscarriage, we wouldn't even know Riley.
So although my heart hurts with our loss, I choose instead to focus on the fact that I have an incredible husband who I love with all my heart and every fiber of my being, an amazing and adorable son who is the highlight of my life, and two kind and devoted dogs that have taught me everything there is to know about unconditional love. And that's enough...
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