I don't even know where to begin. It's been so long since I've written anything meaningful. But writing has always been therapeutic for me, perhaps because it's a way of releasing creativity and emotion at the same time. So let me start with the musical.
Six weeks ago I was asked to play the piano for the school musical. The school musical is no small thing. I knew this because I had played for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers three years ago. The students, teachers and community volunteers put in from 80 to 100 hours, or even more in some cases, in a six week period to put on the production. At the time, I had a nursing baby and many other young children, and just the babysitting alone cost me over $500 over the course of the rehearsals and performances. Although it was incredibly rewarding, I had had no idea of the toil and time that would be involved and I told myself I would never do it again.
Fast forward three years. I was in my kitchen, peacefully going about my business when I received a frantic phone call that the pianist who can committed to play for the musical had suddenly bailed at the last minute, and was there any way I could come that afternoon and fill in until they could find someone else. I went to the school, and as I sat there at the piano, I knew I had to do this. Two of my kids were in the play, various women with no children in the school were helping, and so why couldn't I? My little boys were old enough to sit during the rehearsals and do their homework and play some games on our electronic devices, so yes, I would do it!
I went home and told John what had happened. I reminded him of the sacrifice our family would be making: floors unswept, dishes undone, frantic simple dinners prepared, little time for anything else but the musical for the next six weeks. The dear man readily agreed to support me.
Things were going well for the first week. I began to bond with the music director in a way we hadn't before, which was rewarding, and I was enjoying getting to know the students. The little boys behaved unbelievably well during the rehearsals and I just knew I was going to have the time of my life for the next six weeks, working with my two teenagers, getting to know people I hadn't before, and creating something amazing, that evokes emotion for hundreds of people, out of nothing.
At the beginning of the next week, however, something happened that would drastically change everything. I was cleaning up lunch and I suddenly realized I had not had my monthly telltale sign. I was a week late. I had been so busy at the school, I hadn't even noticed. Since I stock dozens of pregnancy tests I buy from the Dollar Store for the local women, I flippantly decided I'd just go take a test after I clean the kitchen. I probably had the date wrong. I hadn't gotten pregnant for three years. Why would I be so now? The minute after these thoughts went through my mind, my heart suddenly started pounding and I knew, I
, that I was pregnant. I gave Baby Hippo his device that he gets to play for a few minutes before naptime (By the way, he will no long go by Baby Hippo, as he is now five years old, and a normal weight. He will henceforth by known as the 5-year-old boy). and quickly went to the bathroom with test in hand. I laid it on the counter when I was finished, then went to put a log of wood on the fire, because I love to take a nap in the winter with a small fire going in the fireplace by my bed. When I went back to the counter, there were two lines on the test. My heart seemed to seize and leap at the same time, so various were the emotions I felt as I saw those two lines. Then I looked at the box again, because I momentarily couldn't remember what two lines meant, although I did know, I just couldn't believe it. I was pregnant. For the twelve time. Ironically, just the week before, I had had two friends over who wanted to learn to make bread. One of them had a baby, and as I watched her struggle with him, I told them both, "Every time I'm around someone with a baby, I feel soooo glad I don't have a baby." That being said, a rush of gratitude came into my heart and I immediately knelt down in front of the fire place where it was so warm, and thanked God for the blessing he had given me, the chance to have another child, to be the mother and guardian of eleven beautiful spirits. I was ecstatic.
I didn't know how or when I would tell John, though. We had lost two babies three and a half and three years ago, both at seven weeks, so I wasn't sure this one would stay. Should I wait to tell him or should I have him involved from the very beginning? The choice would be made for me the next day. John and I needed to do some shopping at the border town three hours away, so we loaded the kids up and began the journey. While we were driving, John began a conversation we had started a while ago and about what kind of vehicle we were going to purchase. Our fifteen passenger van was on its last leg and we had said that when the 18-year-old boy left for his mission, we would get an eight-passenger SUV, which, by the way, is so much cooler than a 15-passenger van. John asked if this was still the plan. It all of a sudden occurred to me that this could no longer be the plan. I said, "Um. Well. That's really not going to work for us now." His quick mind immediately grasped my meaning and asked, "Are you pregnant???" "Yes!" I said. He then went into John mode, saying, "Okay. at the auctions my uncle has been telling me about, you can get a 15-passenger van for about $11,000." He went on in this vein until I finally asked, "Well, are you happy?" He said, "Yes! Of course! And I hope it's twins!" I was so happy.
There is so much more I want to tell you. I want to tell you how I told my mom. I want to share more feelings with you. But there is just too much to write. But the next part I must tell you. I am not going to take the time to write it out like I would have had I known I would be posting it to this blog, but I'm going to copy the letter I wrote to the 18-year-old boy on his mission. It was figuratively scrawled out quickly between answering the door, taking phone calls, answering emails, and responding to countless Facebook messages and comments, all while trying to process all that had happened on our way home from the border town. Here is the letter and accompanying photos.....
Our van, after the flames had died down some....
John took this photo with his phone as we all sat in stunned silence, watching what we thought were all of our things burning...
Where the kids were sitting an hour before...
One of the many law enforcement officials we met that night...
The amazing ninth grade basketball team.....
But alas, my friends, my story doesn't end there. Allow me to continue.
As you can well imagine, dealing with the aftermath of this accident was an emotional challenge. And for John, it was a physical challenge as well, as his shins endured severe abrasions, bruising and swelling, as they took the brunt of the collapse of the front dash. We had trouble sleeping for many nights and we wondered if our new baby, the size of a sesame seed, had survived the ordeal. I knew that I would know in a matter of time, so I choose not to see the doctor at this time.
When I returned to play practice, I told the music director that I had discovered I was pregnant a few days before and her face showed immediate concern. She is a mother of seven grown boys, and knows how difficult early pregnancy can be. She became even more concerned when I told her of my previous miscarriages. She worried that I might go through a miscarriage during the six-week rehearsal period. She felt like maybe she should find someone else. I told her no, that I would be okay. I knew how to handle my morning sickness and if I did lose the baby, I would bounce back quickly. She agreed to have me continue to assist her.
This second week of practice, everything went fine, until Saturday night. Right before turning into bed, I saw pink blood. I audibly gasped and felt immediate devastation. I came out of the bathroom and told John. His face fell and he hugged me and said how sorry he was. I asked him for a priesthood blessing and after he gave me one, we were both comforted.
I waited for the heavy bleeding and the cramping to come, but it never did. Nothing else happened. No more blood. No cramping. Of course I pored over articles on the internet to try to find out what it all meant, I talked to other moms and I prayed. The advice I latched onto was that I needed rest. This is not something I'm good at, but I wanted so much to keep this baby, so I asked John to go to the house of the lady who sometimes helps us, Esther, and ask if she could come for a couple of hours every day to help with the cleaning until we could find out what was going on.
On Monday I called the doctor to make an appointment. He couldn't get me in until twelve days hence, which fact caused me much concern. It was torture waiting day after day, wondering if the baby was alive or not. The next Monday, I had another incident of the same type of spotting, so I decided to throw it all to the wind and I simply went into his office and I said I needed to be seen that day. He agreed to see me at 6:30 that night. When I went in that evening, he took my vitals, then I laid on the table. I twisted my head as far as I could, so I could catch a glimpse of my little one on the screen. He quietly measured and changed screens and measured some more, then finally he turned up the volume and we heard a heart beat! My baby was alive! There was a problem, though. He explained in Spanish (and remember that my Spanish is somewhat limited) that he could see that my placenta had a small tear and that my uterus was having a difficult time keeping it attached. He advised that we begin progesterone injections and capsules. He said I needed to rest more and not mop or do anything that strained my abdominal muscles. He said he would like to see me in two weeks.
I felt like I was on cloud nine. I had heard my baby's heartbeat. I had seen it's little body, the size of a blueberry, the shape of a kidney bean. I was going to do everything I could to keep her safe. I say her, because I believe she was a girl.
I came home and showed John and the kids the ultrasound photo. I showed them where the doctor had measured the heartbeat. Everyone was so happy. Over the course of the next two weeks, the little boys would say things like, "Mom, when the baby comes, don't buy it any blankets, because I'm going to put my Batman cape on him." and when I dropped off the kids at school and would say I love you, Twin B, who is seven now, would say, "I love you, too! And I love your baby!" The 8-year-old boy would address everything I did or ate and say, "Mom, is that good for the baby? Is that food healthy for it? Are electronic devices bad for it? Is it okay if I lean on your stomach?" They were completely enthralled with the idea of a new baby.
The first day I took my progesterone capsule, I experienced one of the side effects that was previously unknown to me. As I was driving the 5-year-old boy home, I began to feel dizzy and confused. My eyes couldn't focus and I felt like I was drunk. I carefully pulled up the car to the house and staggered inside. I realized that this must be an effect of the medication, so I looked it up, and sure enough, apparently progesterone can cause dizziness or a spinning sensation. In my body, this also translated as extreme tiredness. I went down for a nap as soon as I could, and I realized that I would need to be very careful of when I took this medication and what activities I participated in while I was on it.
Thus, my routine became the following. Wake up at 6:30, get the kids off to school, take my medication, go to sleep for two hours while Esther cleaned, wake up, pick up the 5-year-old boy from preschool, make lunch for the other kids, who all return home at lunch hour every day, get them back off to school, take another two-hour nap with the 5-year-old boy, head off to play practice for two hours, come home and make dinner, do the homework and bedtime routine and fall into bed. This went on for two weeks. I did very little around the house, occasionally some laundry, prepared simple meals, and other than that, I sat at the piano at the high school. But there was one problem: I felt too good. My nausea was present, but so minuscule that is hardly bothered me. And I wasn't tired and fatigued, as usual. I thought this was simply because I slept four hours each day, then slept well at night. I talked to friends about this concern. Some said that God was blessing me and taking away my nausea. Others said I had reason to be concerned. And so I waited. And waited. And finally the two weeks passed and it was time to see the doctor again.
It took him only twelve minutes to beckon me into his office. He again took my vitals. I hadn't gained any weight, and I was thrilled about that. My blood pressure was perfect. I laid on the table. I twisted my head to see the screen. Finally the screen presented my baby. I could see her, still kidney-shaped, but now the size of a grape, as I would tell all of the teenage girls in the musical who would ask about my baby day by day. And I waited. I waited to see that fluttering, grainy, black and white imagine in her chest, her strong heart beat, the heart we had just seen two weeks before, but all was still. I thought maybe I didn't understand what I was seeing. Then the doctor said it. "Jeni. El bebe no vive." I let out a sound that was like I got kicked in the stomach. I felt everything deflate in my body. There was the baby. Lying so still, cradled in the bottom of my uterus. I asked the doctor if he knew why it had died. He said that the placenta was attached and that the progesterone had worked, but that all the bed rest and progesterone in the world wouldn't have saved the baby because 80% of all babies who die at this stage die because of some sort of defect. This was a great comfort to me, knowing that we had done all we could.
I knew immediately what I must do. My normal inclination would have been to leave the doctor's office and let the baby come when it would. I knew my doctor wouldn't like that idea, but it is what I would have done. I would have scheduled the D&C, then called back later to cancel it and let my baby come in its own due time. But the musical was in three days. What if she started to come during one of the performances? I could make preparations for the blood, but could I deal with the pain? No, I could not. Not during three-hour performances where I would need every once of concentration.
So I went to John's office. I called him from the parking lot and asked him if this was a good time for me to come up. He sounded so happy to know that I was there, and said of course it was. I picked up the ultrasound picture that said "Bebe aborto" and the list of doctor's instructions in Spanish, and went up the stairs. He immediately saw the ultrasound picture in my hand and concern spread across his face. This was the first time I had ever been to visit him randomly in his office. I told him that the baby didn't make it. His face fell. He came over to the side of his desk where I was and hugged me. He didn't say anything for a while, and then he said he was sorry. I said I was sorry to.
So I made the appointment for the D&C for that night. And I didn't call later to cancel it. I had left play practice for my appointment, and when I came back, and began playing the piano, the music director looked at me with concern, and asked if everything went okay. I was playing the piano, and there were many students in the vicinity, so I just smiled and nodded. After my song was over, I sat down next to her and didn't say anything. She then turned to me again, and said, "So everything is okay? Everything went okay?" Then I told her the truth. I had to repeat myself because she had a hard time processing it. I told her that I would go get the D&C that evening and that I would be back for rehearsal the next day. By this time we were having six hour rehearsals every day. She looked at me aghast and said that under no circumstances was I to come back the next day, that if I really wanted to do what was right and be there for the kids, that I would make sure I was healthy for the actual performances. She said that missing practices was not a big deal, but being too sick to perform because I hadn't recovered correctly would be much worse. I finally agreed.
I then walked across campus to where the 14-year-old boy was playing a football game. Everyone in town was there, or so it seemed, people who I hadn't seen for a week or two, and everyone asked, with a cheerful smile, how my pregnancy was going. If they asked in front of many people, I lied and said everything was fine. And this is not me. I loathe lying. I try never to do it, but I didn't know what else to do. Finally someone asked me privately, and I told her the truth. I then went to find one of my best friends, who was selling concessions for the booster club, and pulled her aside and told her. Other people came up to me randomly, and asked how my pregnancy was going, and if there were many people around, I lied again, and if we were in private, I told them the truth. It was excruciating. My baby was lying dead inside me and I was having to look into the eyes of so many people I love and who love me and feel their sadness and try to be strong and brave and tell them that I was okay, that I thought something might be wrong, so that made it a little easier. I could tell that they didn't believe that little lie either. I couldn't really concentrate on my son's game, but fortunately, one rambunctious father behind me kept announcing what play my son had made. "Jen!" he would yell. "Did you see what your boy did? He just sacked the quarterback!" and "Jen! That was your boy! He just recovered a fumble!" Thus, after the game, I was able to go onto the field to congratulate my son and say, "Son! You sacked the quarterback! That was amazing!" I didn't tell him that I hadn't actually seen his plays, though.
And finally the time came to go home and make preparations to go to the hospital. I called my mom. She said, "Jen, I just feel so sad right now." I told her I did, too. We talked for a long while, then I said goodbye to the kids and headed to the hospital in the big town, where John would be waiting for me.
I was very nervous as I drove alone. I prayed a lot. I had had a D&C before and I remembered that it wasn't pleasant. The last time I had had to stay in the hospital for twelve hours, which was longer than my stay when I delivered Baby Hippo. And the epidural. I hate the epidural. The burning of the needles as they are being placed in your back and for some reason the anesthesiologist has to grunt and shove for many minutes until they are in the right place. It's a very disturbing sensation. And although you can't feel the pain of the procedure, you can still feel the uncomfortable scraping sensation, the sensation that seems to go on and on and on, even though it's only 25 minutes or so. Then the recovery, when you can't move your legs for two hours, and when the feeling finally comes back, it's the prickly sensation that your legs have been asleep for hours, which they have been. I didn't want to do this again. But I had to.
When I arrived at the hospital, John was already there with a calming smile on his face. I was assigned a bed and the tech came in and began prepping me for the procedure. He attempted to put a needle in my vein to get blood for lab work, then to attach the IV, but he didn't succeed the first time. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. And he did. John was sitting on the sofa bed beside mine watching. After he attached the vile that was to go to the lab to the needle, filled it up, then removed it, apparently he had made no plan to stop my blood from continuing to flow once the vile was removed. So my blood began forcefully pumping out of the back of my hand onto the floor. It was pumping in spurts. I watched in fascination, thinking, "There is all my blood, going down onto the floor." He became flustered when he realized what was happening and quickly asked John to come and help him. John got up, took the offered vile, and the tech finally was able to stop my blood from being spilled all over the floor. After he left, John and I laughed, saying that that was the sloppiest job we'd ever seen and that he was lucky that John was there to help!
Then we waited and waited some more. I thought I would message a few people to let them know what had happened. One friend I messaged works with her husband in the big town, and said they would be right over. These were the same friends who came to visit me in the hospital when this same procedure was done three years ago. I felt so comforted that I would see them again before going into the delivery room. They arrived only minutes before I was wheeled out, though, but it was still a blessing to have been able to feel of their love before I went in.
I said goodbye to John and suggested that this would probably be a good time for him to go home and get the kids, as I knew I wouldn't be out for at least another 45 minutes. Earlier in the day John has suggested that we bring the kids to visit me in the hospital. I knew it would be an uncomfortable and perhaps difficult experience for them, but he suggested that it might be good closure, since they would probably have a difficult time understanding and processing what had happened. I felt like this was a wonderful idea.
So he kissed me goodbye and I was wheeled to the delivery room. I don't like that they do this procedure in the delivery room, because I was there before, giving birth to a big, beautiful baby boy five years earlier, and it brought up so many of the amazing memories a mother feels when she gives birth. I looked at the incubator my baby boy had been in. I remembered when my doula had told me while he was crowning that she could see his hair, and that it was black. I remembered that "gloriously empty" feeling of just having a baby, when all the pain is over and there is nothing but joy and elation. None of that would happen for me now.
The anesthesiologist entered the room. He is a wonderful, caring man, as most anesthesiologists are. He has a tender smile and comforting eyes and constantly reassured me. When he was finished with the insertion of the epidural, I looked at my heart rate and noticed that it was faster than usual at 88 beats for minute. He said it was probably because I was nervous. So as we waited for the doctor to enter, I laid very still and focused on the most calming relaxing thought I could think of. That thought was of me and the 5-year-old boy taking a nap together, with his little arm around my waist. As I lay there, I could hear the beeps of my heartbeat slowing. It eventually got down to 75 beats per minute. I told the anesthesiologist that I was meditating and that it had slowed my heart rate. He complimented me on succeeding to do that.
Finally, after what seemed like eternity, the doctor came in and began preparation for the procedure. The prep seemed to take forever, and as the nurse and the two doctors spoke Spanish to each other, I continued to think of my lovely calming thought and to focus on keeping my heartbeat slow. The procedure finally began and I realized it wasn't as bad as I remembered it to be. The doctors started joking with each other and brought me in on the conversation at times, too. Sometimes the doctor would pop his head up and ask things like, "Jeni. Como se dice toz en Ingles?", which, being translated, means "How do you say cough in English?" I answered him and then both doctors tried to say the word in English. Then they both began making coughing sounds using the word "cough" to try to makes sense of it. They asked me about other English words and tried to say them, and then began trying to talk to me in their limited English. I told the anesthesiologist that it was okay if he spoke in Spanish, that I understood enough, and he laughed and said in Spanish, "Oh! So you think that it's easier to understand my Spanish than it is my English and I shouldn't even try!" Then they began talking about the musical that was to take place at the Academy. They asked if I knew anything about it. I laughed to myself and said yes, that that was why I opted for the epidural instead of the general anesthesia because I was the pianist and needed to recover quickly! They confirmed with me that we would be performing Fiddler on the Roof, then they began to hum and whistle "If I Were a Rich Man." This made me laugh along with all of their other antics and before I knew it, it was over and I was being covered with a thick blanket and being wheeled back to my room. It was then, as I was being wheeled down the hall, that I saw John and the kids waiting for me. It was wonderful to see their faces.
When I was settled into my room, they took turns coming in to see me. The twins seemed somewhat nervous, but I smiled and laughed with them and they opened up soon after. I got hugs from everyone and we said a family prayer together, John having sneaked all of the kids in at one time. It was such a calming, warming feeling to do this. John asked if I wanted him to stay the night with me, but I said I would be fine. I was looking forward to some time to read and rest.
Mexican hospitals are amazing. The staff never bothered me for the rest of the night but one time to give me an antibiotic. I didn't sleep well, because the mattress was only a four-inch plastic pad, but I felt peaceful and relaxed. The next morning John came to visit me before work, then a good friend who lives in the big town brought me breakfast. I was so relieved because my hospital breakfast consisted of dry toast, orange drink and papaya, which I think smells like throw-up. John ate my papaya for me and I ate my friends delicious ham, egg and spinach mini quiches and a half sliced avocado. John went to work, but she was able to stay with me until I was discharged. We talked about many things, but mostly I was able to process what I had gone through over the previous twenty-four hours. I needed to do that.
I drove myself home, although the doctor was not happy about that, and I rested in bed most of the rest of the day. I wrote an email to the main director and the music director and let them know the procedure has been successful and that I would be at rehearsal the next morning. They both insisted that that was not necessary and that they would see me on Thursday, the day of the first performance. But I felt good and I knew I also needed to practice a bit more with the kids, so I showed up on Wednesday morning. The music director said, "You're not very obedient, are you. You need a spanking and I know you don't even believe in spankings." We both laughed and got to work. By this time, the word of what had happened had filtered down to many of the students and I don't remember getting so many hugs in one day. Some of the students just came and hugged me, not saying a word. Others came and hugged me and said they were sorry. My nephew, a 6 foot 6 blond and blue-eyed senior, who spends most of our time together trying to make my life as miserable as possible, mocking my food choices, my mothering skills and even my dogs, came up from behind me and leaned down and planted a huge kiss on my cheek. He said nothing, but just smiled and kept walking up to the stage. The kid behind him, who I had never met, seemed very confused and turned to me and said he wasn't going to do that. I told him that's okay.
I spent the next three days at school, and in bed and when all of the performances were over and were a huge success, I felt like I could finally let go physically and emotionally. I stayed in bed most of the day on Saturday. I cried most of the night. And on Sunday, I felt better. I attended church, hosted a large family dinner, then slept some more. As I write this, I feel nearly fully recovered, six days later, but I know I need to ease into things carefully. I've been on partial bed rest for four weeks now and I know it's going to take a while to get up to my normal and preferred speed. The kids have spring break this week, so I won't have to worry about schedules. The house will fall to pieces, I know this, but it will be wonderful to do what we want, when we want and just be together as a family.
I keep wondering why this all happened during this six-week period of time I had decided to dedicate to the musical, a time that I had known would be taxing in just a normal situation. The discovery of the pregnancy, the explosion of the van, the three weeks of partial bed rest and finally the saddening and disappointing news of the loss of our sweet baby and the subsequent procedure. I have wondered if it was to teach my kids and the kids who knew of my situation in the musical perseverance. I have wondered if we were to learn to place our lives in God's hand and to accept his will in all things. I have wondered if the kids were supposed to experience loss to prepare them for the bigger losses they will inevitably experience at some point later in life. All I know is that I hope I can learn all that God wants me to learn during this journey. In a church meeting I attended this weekend, we were taught that God's plan for us is perfect. I have thought about that a lot. Our lives our difficult, sometimes even full of many burdens to be born, but this is His plan for us. He designs each of our lives as a perfect fit to our individual spirits to help us grow and be refined into the people He wants us to become. It is up to us to choose to become "better or bitter". I hope I am choosing that better path.
As always, thanks for listening. :) I miss you and I hope to write more in the near future. Have a wonderful week.
By the way, here are some photos of the musical, followed by a photo of what I look like now, since it's been so long since I've showed my face to you. The clean-shaven boy on the right in the first photo is my 14-year-old boy, and even the twins (in bottom photo) got to participate... :)
