Red Pen Mama

I was driving into work yesterday morning feeling sad.

It was Good Friday, and Good Friday is a solemn day. Plus, I’ve been listening to coverage of the war — remember we’re at war? — and it was haunting. I can’t believe it’s been going on for five years. On top of both of those things, I was remembering that when the war started, I was pregnant with Gabriel.

So: sad.

As I was pulling in, I then thought about Easter, and what a special holiday it is for Catholics and Christians — really, the reason we are Catholics and Christians is because of the death and resurrection of Christ more than 2000 years ago. And I wondered what kept Easter holy and solemn, instead of a Chocolate Bunny/Egg Fest! In other words, how had it dodged the commercialism of Christmas?

I stumbled onto this article in Slate, which basically says, Christmas can be converted into something warm and cuddly — baby in manger, angels singing, shepards and wise men bearing gifts. But Easter is pretty dramatic, what with the cruxifiction and all. I mean, the Last Supper kicks off the weekend; that’s pretty heavy. It does, however, end well.

I also came across an article in the Washington Post, which talks about an author who argues for “reasoned religious belief”, which I can get all the way behind. I will have to check out that book.

If you celebrate Easter, I hope it’s happy. Otherwise, have a great weekend. I am going to dye eggs with Monkey on Saturday — it’ll be our first year doing that together. Wish me luck. I’ll let you know how it goes.

“There were shepherds in that locality, living in the fields and keeping watch by turns over their flocks. The angel of the Lord appeared to them…, and they were very much afraid. The angel said to them, ‘You have nothing to fear! I come to proclaim good news to you — tidings of great joy to be shared by the whole people. The day in David’s city a savior has been born to you, the Messiah and Lord. Let this be a sign to you: in a manager you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes.’ Suddenly there appeared with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth to those on whom his favor rests.’”
Luke 2: 8-14

Below is a version of my favorite Christmas hymn, “O Holy Night.” Those nice boys of Il Divo do a lovely job.

On June 4, 2003, I had a pre-natal visit. I was pregnant with our first child. Everything seemed to be going fine.

Twenty-four hours later we were a long way from “fine”.

I first noticed that the baby was quieter than usual that evening, June 4. I didn’t think too much of it because I had literally just been at the midwives and had heard his heartbeat (at the time, we didn’t know he was a boy, and we didn’t have the name Gabriel picked out). But even after a vanilla milkshake from Bruster’s with a banana added that night (can’t drink those anymore; frankly it’s a wonder I can visit a Bruster’s at all), he wasn’t kicking around.

The next day, I went to work. At the time I was working part-time as a receptionist at a hair salon, and as a freelance writer. I had decaf coffee, a Pop Tart, and then some grapes. Nothing from the baby. I called the midwives, and told them my concern, that I hadn’t felt the baby moving.

It had been less than 24 hours since my appointment. They were mystified. The midwife I spoke with suggested I have a high-carbohydrate snack and see what happened. I explained I had already done that. She asked if I would like to go to the hospital so they could find the heartbeat or do a sonogram.

We really thought everything was fine at this point. I could say something dramatic like, “I already knew my baby was dead” because in retrospect I know that now. But I didn’t think he was dead. I just thought he was quiet.

(Look, I don’t want to go into a blow-by-blow of this experience. I am going to pick the strongest images and emotions from the next few days and give them to you. We’ll go from there.)

The worst words in the world that a pregnant woman can hear: “We can’t find the heartbeat.”

The worst words a pregnant woman has to say: “I lost the baby.”

The worst moment after the worst words: When DearDR rushed into the hospital room with “that look” on his face. “That look” was so lost and scared and vulnerable. It was the look, that when you see it on someone’s face after they’ve lost someone, that you want to say, “I’m so sorry” or — worse — “It’s going to be okay.” And I couldn’t say either of those things to him. I was sorry, sorry for all of us. But it certainly wasn’t going to be okay.

The worst pain: After the epidural wears off, and they won’t bolus it anymore because the next time they turn up the pain meds, it’s because you’re getting a C-section.

The worst memory: Not having much of a memory of the hours after they hook you up to a morphine drip.

The worst denial: Denial is a powerful thing, my friends. Denial says, “They are all wrong, and this baby is fine, and when I finally get this labor started, I’m going to push out a fine, strong, healthy baby. Won’t everyone be surprised? It’s going to be great!”

The worst of everything (aside from the obvious): The look on everyone else’s face. The expression of sorrow and pain on most, and the resolute expression that your father has because he’s here to comfort you, and the pity on other faces, and the fear that everyone is hiding because why is this taking so long and why don’t they just do a C-section already, and if I have to be here one more day I’m going to lose it. The force of good cheer some of your visitors bring with them mistakingly thinking this helps you be strong.

The second worse: The waiting. The pain. The drugs.

I delivered Gabriel on Sunday June 8 at 2 a.m. in the morning (that time is not exact). It was Pentecost Sunday.

To paraphrase (a lot): “The Lord said, ‘I will send my Holy Spirit to you in your hour of greatest need. And he will make you strong.’”

And the Spirit did. I would be lying if I didn’t add, I wish I hadn’t needed the Spirit quite as much. God could have kept the Spirit if I could have had my son. It was, indeed, the darkest hour in my life. I am pretty sure DearDR would second that.

Gabriel was 5 pounds 4 ounces and 21 inches long. He was a beautiful baby — he truly had the most gorgeous hands, with long, long fingers.

I wish I knew what color his eyes were. I wish I had heard him cry. I could fill pages and pages of all that I wish in relation to Gabriel. You get the idea, I’m sure. If you are a parent; if you have lost a child. You know.

Gabriel was the name that DearDR and I picked before the morphine hook-up, when the epidural was still working. We picked a girl’s name, too, but I don’t remember what it was. Gabriel means, “gift of God”. And if that sounds weird, well, I’ll explain it another day. I’m pretty wiped out right now.

You can imagine why.

I have never gone in for Halloween as an adult. I’m not sure why. I didn’t relish dressing up and going to costume parties. I don’t think of Halloween as a holiday for adults.

I think of Halloween as a time for children.

A time to run around in the dark, usually with Dad, with a flashlight and get FREE CANDY!

Or if not candy, then at least a matching binky.

The pumpkin carving is for adults, if they are going to do stuff like this.

But, ultimately, a time to be a child. I think of Halloween as a holiday of innocence, not bacchanalia, which is what adults make of it. The revelery should be for candy and ghost stories, not dressing like sluts and getting stoned. I think.

This year, I really enjoyed Halloween. I had fun designing Monkey’s costume. Monkey and Bun were cute as puppies; they got a lot of rave reviews around the neighborhood. DearDR came home early from work to take them trick or treating (the only picture I got of Monkey and DearDR is too dark to see). We chatted with the neighbors; and after a half hour, we came home and gave out candy.

It was nice. It was low-key. The weather was perfect, which is rare. It’s usually freezing cold, and/or raining.

And now it’s November. It’s All Saints Day, and I think of and pray for my dead, dear and departed. It was a mad scramble to get to Mass, but we made it, and I’m glad. Halloween marks the end of “easy” holidays, and the beginning of the slide into the madness of Thanksgiving and Christmas. The eating, buying, decorating and traveling madness.

Monkey’s birthday is in there too, and Bun’s right after. So it was nice to go to Mass, a moment of peace for me before we get on with it, this business of living. I vow to take it as easy as I can on myself this time of year. Keep my expectations realistic, if not exactly low.

Anyway, I just wanted to say, I really enjoyed our Halloween, and I hope to enjoy the rest of the year as much. As much as this:

DearDR passed his test.

Thank God in his infinite mercy and wisdom.

And, once we’ve settled on a date and a babysitter, we’ll be celebrating at a fine local establishment where we can enjoy this!

(Sorry the images aren’t too sharp.)

For now, the girls and I are heading north to escape the paint fumes. More later!

If Gabriel had lived, he would be four years old today.

We all went to the cemetery to put flowers on his grave marker. DearDR explained to Monkey why we were there. “This is your brother,” he said. “We come here to remember our angel. We bring the flowers and we look at the marker so we remember him.” This is what we have to remember him: a grave marker, flowers. The baby-shaped hole in our hearts, that will not go away or diminish.

I know Monkey didn’t understand what her daddy was talking about, and that’s okay. Some day she will.

Always white flowers. His casket was white. And so little. No casket should be so small.

If he had lived, my tiny, perfect, stillborn son — if he had lived, would we have Monkey? I always ask myself this question. She was conceived a mere nine months after Gabriel died. I’m not sure that would have been the case if he had survived. And then, if not Monkey, what of Bun? How does that work?

To this day, we do not know for certain why he died. I don’t mean the greater mystery of it; those “whys” I have to give up to God. Each child is a gift. I don’t understand the gift of Gabriel. Losing him brought DearDR and I closer than we were, made us realize our love for each other and how strong it was — possibly even made it stronger.

My experience of two other pregnancies, pregnancies that were fraught in the last trimester (Bun’s a bit earlier than that) may hold some answers. DearDR and I make beautiful babies — Gabriel, even, was a devastatingly beautiful creature, long in the toes and fingers, beautiful lips, but so so still — but our placentas are not too good. They tend to want to quit before their expiration date. But because of Gabriel, my subsequent pregnancies were closely watched, and problems dealt with.

I wanted to do this better. I’ve been thinking about this post for at least a month. But I am stumbling over this, writing clumsily. I’m not sure why. Maybe because the emotions are so big; maybe there are too many things I want to say. What words emcompass the pain, not just the fresh, excruciating pain of his loss four years ago, but the smaller pain that still afflicts me, us? If you’ve lost a child, you know; if you haven’t, I hope you never know.

Maybe it’s that even losing Gabriel, I feel incredibly blessed with my children, my two girls — and my son. As DearDR put it on more than one occasion: Gabriel made us parents, but Monkey (and then Bun) made us a mommy and a daddy.

And, finally, maybe it’s that I am in some small way beginning to understand the gift of Gabriel. When Monkey was conceived, I turned my pregnancy over to God; I put my faith in Him (or Her, whatever you wish). When Bun was diagnosed with a CCAM, I turned to Gabriel in my heart. Please, I said. Just that, please. And we got a miracle. Maybe we — my family specifically, not “we” in general — need an angel looking out for us, and that’s why we were given Gabriel.

I miss you, Gabe. I don’t know why I never got to see the color of your eyes or your smile. Look out for us, okay? Your dad and me, and your sisters, and for that matter, any other siblings who come along. And anyone else who turns to you, okay? Make a special place for them with God. Thanks.

When you get a CT or CAT scan, you have to intake a contrast element so things show up clearly on the scan. In big people, this is usually an oral solution, somewhat chalky in taste.

In babies, it’s an IV solution.

IVs mean needles.

To say that the experience Friday was a screaming horror would be overstating it a bit. But it sure wasn’t fun.

We arrived 10 minutes before our appointment time, which is great for DearDR and me. We are punctually challenged, to say the least. So I’m thinking this is a good start. Bun had been nursed at 7 a.m., and had taken about 4 ounces of pedialyte and water at 9 a.m. (I thought she wouldn’t take the pedialyte, but she went at that bottle like a deer goes at a salt lick — or so I imagine.) At the time of our arrival at the hospital, she was sleeping.

So far so good.

Because we didn’t have a prescription for the procedure in hand, the hospital had to contact the office of the specialist who had referred Bun for the scan. This took a while, about half an hour. Bun was still sleeping. About 15 minutes after they received the script, we were called into the room where Bun was going to get her IV.

As you can imagine, Bun’s veins are very small. So, relatively speaking, the needle to start the IV was small too. But it was sharp, and the nurse had to do some uncomfortable holding and prodding to find veins. Bun, obviously, woke up as we undressed her. I changed her diaper.

Then things got, well, not so great.

The nurse looked at a vein on Bun’s hand, and then at her feet. She decided to go in through one of Bun’s feet. I held one of Bun’s hands, and her other leg. I hummed in her ear, murmured non-sensical phrases like, “It’s okay” and “I know, I know”. Bun squirmed and cried. DearDR was in the background at this point, neither wanting to see what was happening nor wanting to make the nurse nervous. I was trying not to look either; I just wanted to know when it was over.

But I glanced up. There was a needle sticking out of my baby’s ankle. Bun was screaming, now. There was blood. And then the nurse said, “It’s not going in.”

It looked in to me. But the nurse removed it. She tried to explain the problem, that the needle wasn’t advancing, that apparently a valve in the vein wasn’t giving way. “But I was in the vein. I got good blood return.” Oh, that’s great, thank you for that information. If this weren’t my child and if I had more than high school biology, I may have been able to appreciate the information better.

The nurse left to get another nurse to help her hold Bun down. I had picked Bun up and was rocking her, knowing she hurt and that she had no idea what was going on, and she was probably hungry, too. I wanted to feed her; I was wishing I had pumped before we left home because my boobs hurt. Bun had her pacifier, and I think that gave her some comfort, but I know that I could give her more if they would let me.

The nurses came in for Round Two, in Bun’s other foot. They were discussing something relevant to the problem, but I couldn’t suss it out. The same thing happened with Bun’s other vein. The second nurse suggested contacting Rob in MRI to put in the IV needle. He had a light, or something. The Nurse #1 thought this was a great idea. She left again.

When she came back, I asked if I could feed Bun. She suggested I wait because if Bun was going to get comforted and fall asleep, she would just have to be rudely awakened again. The nurse told us she had paged Rob and the IV team, and someone would be in shortly.

And then she picked up her equipment tray and took off like her ass was on fire.

DearDR and I waited. Bun eventually fell back to sleep, her little chest hitching as she continued to calm down. She was pitiful, and DearDR and I already felt spent. Little did we know. As we waited, we discussed how long we would wait. DearDR kept going out in the hall to find out when someone was coming. We decided that if no one showed up by 2 p.m. (it was about 1:15 by now), we were leaving. Although, as I pointed out, that just meant we had to come back.

The IV nurse came in. She and Nurse #1 talked about the difficulty with Bun and her little veins. “They look good,” Nurse #1 said. IV Nurse agreed. “Maybe they’re just not long enough for the needle.” They decided to try the vein on Bun’s hand.

It didn’t work. So much for three being a charm.

IV Nurse decided to try a vein on Bun’s scalp. Yeah, on her head. If DearDR and I thought she was crying before, it was nothing to the scream that issued from her little body as she her head was bound with a rubber band (your office variety rubber band; you probably have one at your desk right now — it makes the veins stick out more) and a sharp needle was once more inserted into her body. DearDR and I were crying now, too.

On the bright side, this time the IV needle advanced, and they were able to start the solution. They had to use a bunch of tape to secure the needle, and then secure the IV apparatus, and then they covered it with a plastic shield to protect the assembly. It looked grotesque. I thought the needle sticking out of her little foot was bad, but this truly sucked. Step one was finished though; now we just had to get her in the scanner.

At CT/CAT scanner is like a huge doughnut, with a sliding bed that goes into the hole. It can get pretty loud, too, when they start taking the image. And since Bun is a baby, and can’t be told to stay still, she has to be strapped into the bed. Tightly. And I get the job of holding her arms straight up beside her head, so they don’t get in the way as they image her chest. Babies don’t like this position. As they were strapping her in, Nurse #1 asked if I wanted to feed her. “Now?” I wanted to say. “Aren’t we almost through here? Can we just get this over with? Why couldn’t I feed her half an hour ago?”

I simply declined.

Of course Bun cried the whole time. I forgot to be soothing at one point and I was just holding my breath. DearDR nudged me and reminded me to talk to her.

I think it only took about 10 minutes to get the image. It seemed a lot longer. Toward the end, Bun managed to get her hand entangled in the IV and seemed to be pulling on it. I almost panicked then; it was just too much to see the IV line suddenly go red with blood. Nurse #1 calmly disentangled her, flushed the IV line, and then began removing the whole thing. In order to pull off the tape without pulling out Bun’s hair (of which she has little), she had to use some kind of wipe with essesnce of orange or something on it. It was like Goo Gone. I think it took longer to take off the tape than it had to take the image.

As we were removing the tape, Nurse #1 gave DearDR a little container of sugar water in which to dip Bun’s pacifier. She explained it’s been proven a pain reliever for babies. I was thinking, “Where was this during the stabbing part of the afternoon?”

I was finally allowed to feed Bun, to our mutal relief. She calmed instantly, and I felt much better too. DearDR was suddenly all hustle and anxiety — we had left Monkey with some friends at our house (our friends, not Monkey’s friends, her godparents as a matter of fact) and he wanted to get home because he was sure we were inconveniencing them. We thought we would only be three hours, tops, and it was going on four. I just wanted to be left in peace to soothe my traumatized infant.

He went to get the car, and Bun and I finished up her long overdue lunch. When we got home, it was beers all around, soothing frazzled parents. And I had my overdue lunch.

The doctor called that evening to give us the results.

Bun’s lungs are clear. She will not need surgery. The CCAM disappeared — “resolved itself”.

Perspectives

There are a few things I kept thinking as we went through our mini-ordeal:

1. It is one thing to witness/participate in the necessary medical torture of one’s child. Imagine being Nurse #1 or IV Nurse. Your job, all day long, is to stick sharp things in tiny defenseless children, making them scream and cry. DearDR and I just had to hear one child scream and cry — granted that it was our child, and to be party to that kind of extreme distress is an awful experience. But then we were done. IV Nurse had been doing it all day, and was going to go on doing it until her shift was over. And then she has to come back the next day and do it again.

2. Not only are these people causing children pain, but they are earning the emnity of their parents. It’s all fine and good to tell yourself, “It’s just her/his job” about a Nurse #1 or IV Nurse, but let’s face it: as a parent, there is the urge to hurt someone hurting your child.

3. My child, my dear, sweet, cuddly Bun is not sick. She had to have this test to determine whether or not she needed to have surgery. What about children who, from the time they are born or are very young, have to have stuff like this done to them on a weekly or daily basis? Kids with cancer? Kids with other serious, chronic conditions? I have a godson with a cleft palate; he had two or three surgeries before he was one year old. How do parents do it?

A Bit More God Talk

Our prayers were answered. Bun is free and clear of CCAM. At this point, and we are hoping for years to come, she doesn’t need surgery.

Maybe the CCAM served a purpose. Without those frequent sonograms, we would not have known about the placental difficulty toward the end of my pregnancy. God works in mysterious ways. Believe it.

I really could have done without all those needles though. God, if we ever have to do anything like this again, with Bun or Monkey, could they get it on the first try? Thanks.

Addendum

I am adding this a day later: Reading through the above post, I realize I don’t say much about DearDR. It sounds as if he were just kind of hanging around waiting for things to be done. But he took turns with me holding Bun when she wasn’t getting pierced, and he did a lot of dealing with people. Because I am not good at dealing with people (for instance, going to ask how long things are going to take, or thanking people for their help and/or care). DearDR is a pro at that, and I rely on him for it. So I just wanted to clarify his part, and not make it sound like he left everything to me to handle. He was very present.

Yesterday, the Bun was two months old. We had her check up, and she is doing fantastic. She has gone from 5 pounds 4 ounces at her first pediatrician visit at three days to 10 pounds 13 ounces at two months. She is round — almost chubby! For as much anxiety as she gave us in utereo, the Bun is spectacularly normal on this side of the womb.

“What’s That?”

When I am 20 weeks pregnant, we head to the hospital for the 20-week sonogram, a routine part of pregnancy. DearDR, if he decides to ditch the whole licensed psychologist thing, could be a sonogram tech, he’s that good at reading them. (It helps that with Monkey I had quite a few of sonograms; I’ll tell that story another time.) So as we’re looking at the miracle that is a baby on the sonogram, DearDR innocently inquires, “What is that bright spot around her chest?”

The sonogram tech, Nicole, hems and haws a bit. “Oh, I think that’s just part of the lung. Or maybe something is up with the equipment. It’s unusual to see such a bright spot there.”

This does not set off alarm bells. She plays it off very smoothly. Basically, on an ultrasound, bones and hard structures are supposed to be bright white; everything else is gray, with spaces (like a full bladder for instance) showing up black.

Aside from this spot, everything else appears normal on the sonogram: fingers and toes; a strongly beating heart with four chambers; bladder and kidneys; brain and face and head; umbilical cord, etc. Nicole finishes up and says she is going to send in the doctor.

Now, Dr. RT is the most awesome perinatologist I have ever met. He is the perfect complement to my midwives: he doesn’t condesend, he is patient, and he answers all the questions he can. We know Dr. RT pretty well because of the events of my other two pregnancies. Since this is not those stories, I will sum up by saying: we lost a son, Gabriel, at 37 weeks of an uneventful pregnancy, and we delivered Monkey a bit early because of low amniotic fluid.

Dr. RT comes in, greeting us with real warmth. He sits down and takes a look at my baby. Then he gets a little serious. He returns to the “bright spot” — not so much of a bright spot after all.

This, he explains, is a CCAM, a congenital cystic adenomatoid malformation. In layperson’s terms, it is cystic tissue where lung tissue is supposed to be. Instead of one of the lobes of her lung, my baby has this cyst.

He goes on to tell us that although at this point the CCAM poses no danger to the baby, that may change. If the cyst continues to grow, it could compromise the operation of other organs, most specifically the heart. If that happens, if the baby develops what they call hydrops — the term for fetal heart failure — drastic measures would need to be taken. For example, fetal surgery to remove the CCAM or (after 28 weeks) early delivery.

On the other hand, the cyst could resolve itself, i.e. disappear, and my pregnancy could procede normally.

To review: my baby could die, could need fetal surgery, or could be just fine. I am not crying yet.

DearDR and I start asking as many questions as we can think of in our shock. Why did this happen? They don’t know what causes CCAM. Is there anything we can do? Nothing will prevent the CCAM from growing if it’s going to grow or help it disappear if it’s going to disappear. What do we do next?

Next is a repeat sonogram in three weeks. And then another two weeks after that. And two weeks after that. And so on until… well, until what is going to happen, happens.

Dr. RT sits with us as long as we continue to have questions. He is sympathic, matter-of-fact and comforting. He says, with real sadness, “Nothing’s ever easy for you, is it?” Uh, no.

I don’t know how long we were with the doctor. He tells us to make the follow-up appointment. He tells us to call if we have other questions. He tells us to try — try — not to worry. In the meantime, he will find out as much as he can. CCAMs are rare, so he needs to learn more, too. He leaves, and I start to cry. I also call in sick to work.

Giving It Up

The hardest part of the CCAM (well, okay, the second hardest part) is having to tell everyone about it. And we do tell people about it. The main reason we tell everyone is so that they will pray. Pray for the Bun. Pray for DearDR and me. Just pray, or if you don’t roll that way, think good thoughts.

I roll that way; I believe in God and in the power of prayer. Although my initial reaction to news of The Spot, which is how I think of the CCAM, is fear and guilt, I turn immediately to God (I’m Catholic) and say, “Here you go. You take this, and I’ll trust you with it.”

I was having a lot of guilt because when I finally admitted to myself that I was probably pregnant, I was dismayed. I didn’t want to be pregnant. We weren’t ready to have another one, not emotionally or physically. I had just started a great job! DearDR was ready to start his studies for his license. We were planning to try for another baby the following year. Everything in me was crying, “Not now!”

And now, after 20 weeks and getting used to the thought of having another baby shortly after Monkey turned two, and starting to look forward to having her, we are in danger of losing her. And we can’t do anything except get sonograms and wait. And wait.

All I have is prayer and faith. I can’t do anything else. I could be angry; I could be anxious; I could say, “Why us? Do we deserve this?” But I don’t think it works like that.

They say that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. I had to — still have to — believe that I could handle this, too. And that DearDR could, too. And so for His faith in me, I have to have faith in God.

The best came from my mother. She called after hearing the news from my dad. “The baby’s going to be fine,” she told me. “I talked to God, and she’s going to be fine. I’m just praying for you and DearDR. You need it.”

I was unaware of my mother’s direct line to God, but her comments do not surprise me. My faith is based on my parents’ faith. What I believe about faith is that it sustains you. My belief in God gives me the strength to face what I have to face, and to do what S/He wants me to do, and the patience to wait to know what that is.

Another Scare

The CCAM was nothing compared to the scare we had at 34 weeks when Dr. RT thought the placenta was breaking down. Bun had less-than-optimal bloodflow through the umbilical cord; her amniotic fluid was on the low side of normal; and there were signs on the ultrasound that the placenta was aging prematurely. I was to go on bed rest (modified, not total) and get non-stress tests and weekly sonograms.

Looking back, the CCAM may have saved Bun’s life. Without all the sonograms we were having, we may not have seen these danger signs. Incidentally, after growing a little bit, the CCAM remained stable for the rest of my pregnancy, not growing and not going away.

We “left” Bun in the oven (I’m sorry!) for another three weeks. We induced at 37 weeks, and after almost three days (!), Bun finally joined us in the world.

The Payoff

And now Bun is two months old. And healthy. And we love her, that way that you love your children. Whether or not you’ve been told you can lose them. That love, that indescribable language of the heart, that joy and hope and ache and faith; that hit-by-a-truck feeling. We wouldn’t trade for anything this love for our children.

In three days we are going to have a CT scan to see if the CCAM is still hanging around. A chest X-ray about three weeks ago was clear. The CT scan will be definitive, and depending on the result, could lead to surgery.

But we are praying not.