It's Good To Be Home

It's now been one week, and as I suspected, I'm not only thrilled, but life is a hell of a lot easier with a new baby in my own home.

Travel back in time 8 days to our flight home from Fort Lauderdale. The morning began very early with our friend Aaron, who graciously came by our "home" at 7am before his work day started to help us return his friend's borrowed cradle before taking us to the airport. We'd slept a cumulative, oh, I don't know, 6 hours over the past couple of nights, but that didn't matter when the alarm sounded at 5:30 that morning for me to pump one last time in that space.

After staring at the car seat cluelessly before getting some much needed assistance loading Dylan in, we were off to the races. We've never arrived so early for a flight in our lives, but there we were, almost 3 hours in advance - for a flight delayed 1-1/2 hours. God damned San Francisco weather.

Meanwhile, the pumping continued - in the airport. I got a portable one for milking on-the-go, like the cow that I've become - not like in a fat way - just in a fluids way. Anyway, the pump went out on me when I briefly lost one of the parts in Gate C23. I almost had a nervous breakdown in a bathroom stall where I tried to fix it, as I envisioned my engorged boobs exploding on the plane. It was only by the grace of God that I discovered the only thing standing between me and a pain-free bosom was a stupid little sticker Medela actually considers to be a real part. Thankfully, I had extras of these.

When it came time to board the plane, we encountered the usual dipshits who line up before their section is called. Tell me, if you are not traveling with small children, do not need a wheelchair, and are not part of the airline's elite travel club with a membership of 3 people, why the f*** are you in line? GET OUT OF MY WAY.

Thankfully, once on board, things became remarkably perfect. Dylan flew like a champ, not having a single meltdown. We fed him on takeoff, landing, and once in the middle - and changed him twice. We each watched a movie and napped very (very) briefly. It was oddly the shortest 6-hour flight I've ever experienced (even in spite of the flight attendant who forced me into conversation while waiting for the restroom about her broken acrylic nail and its relative comparison to our past 2 months in Florida - no, really).

My sister picked us up from SFO, and upon walking into our house, we were greeted by my niece, brother-in-law and the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. As we made our way back to the nursery, we saw that furniture had been delivered and headway was being made on setting everything up.

Over the next few days, my sister was nothing short of spectacular as she ran errands, cooked dinners, cleaned the house, and did absolutely anything we asked her to do. This allowed Brad and me to focus on taking care of Dylan and settling into the semblance of a routine with him - and Moby (who was a bit stand-offish when we first arrived, but now loves to hang out in Dylan's room on the rug he seems to think was purchased for him, and lick his "brother's" head)!

I find myself in a situation probably foreign to most new moms - stress-free and well-rested, certainly relative to the past few weeks. Brad and I have worked out a system whereby we switch off the middle of the night and early morning feedings. Dylan is happy with the milk, whatever the source. And I am happy to be pumping only once each day now! (Thank you, Day One lactation consultant.)

We've pounded the pavement pretty much every day - since here, pedestrians can actually walk without fear of being struck by a car. People marvel at the fact that I am already out and about with my little baby - and I tell them they just don't know how easy this really is. Meanwhile, it is true that there seemingly are never enough hours in the day to do all that we need to do. But I look forward to the next day, knowing that we can spend it however we'd like - namely, outside of a hospital.

Indeed, it's good to be home.

The First Night

Last night marked our first with Dylan - and it did not disappoint.

First, it was hilarious that I had to ride out of the hospital with Dylan in a wheelchair upon discharge. I couldn't have imagined I'd have to do this since I didn't deliver there, and the only patient was my son. But apparently, it's a liability issue - they can't risk you walking with your baby. Coincidentally, however, they can risk you being run over in your wheelchair while holding the baby.

Since we're staying across the street from the hospital in their NICU housing, rather than wheeling me to a car and ensuring Dylan's safe delivery into a car seat, they wheeled me to the doorstep of our "home." But unfortunately, there is no crosswalk connecting it to the NICU. Now sure, on my own, I've been jay-walking across, either in broad daylight or the still of the night. But in this instance, I expected to cross safely at the corner light - not to be run across the middle during rush hour like Usain Bolt. Oh well, I suppose that's consistent with Florida's general disregard for basic road safety, including a lack of motorcycle helmet laws and a seemingly "you may or you may not" attitude towards babies in car seats (we've seen an awful lot of babies and small children ridin' dirty Britney style).

Upon entering our room last night post-discharge, it occurred to me that we have a baby - like, for real. And no one else is taking care of him. In theory, this should scare the crap out of me - but I find myself strangely calm in this permanent scenario. Sort of.

It's too bad "calm" doesn't equate to "sleep." I'd always assumed that my lack of sleep would be the result of the baby screaming and crying all night. On the contrary. Dylan, as the nurses and doctors at the hospital pointed out, is (at least for now) a really calm, easy-going baby. He's chill under stress (of which he endured a lot), and his fussing amounts to some mild notes of irritation. The things that bother him are consistent annoyances - such as taking his temperature and changing his diaper (maybe that's why he tried to crap all over me last week). Otherwise, he's pretty good about waking up every 3 hours as the doctors say we should like him to, and it's really no big deal - even in this fourth of strange environments for him (Mount Sinai NICU, 2 different NICU areas at Joe DiMaggio, and now our temporary housing).

So why then, did I not sleep a lick until 7:00 this morning?

Paranoia.

With every sound he made during the night, I thought, "Oh my God, are you choking?" With every passing moment of silence, I feared, "You're not breathing!" I was up out of bed, right next to his borrowed, pink cradle, staring and listening for sounds of healthy life at least 10-15 times, like a deranged lunatic. Blurry eyed, I was struck by the illusion that he was rolling farther to one side of the cradle, soon to suffocate on its edge. Then I observed his head position obsessively, concerned that his chin was resting on his chest and cutting off his breath.

Damn those monitors at the hospital for sounding every cue of life - now the only monitor I have is my instinct, which has run wild with self-inflicted drama.

Hopefully, I'll fair a little bit better tonight, knowing that he made it safely under our watch. And this time tomorrow, the only monitor I'll be cognizant of is the one installed in his nursery - at home.

At long last.

We're Leaving...On a Jet Plane...

...We don't know when we'll be back again...

I'm not sure there's much to this post aside from...

WE'RE OUTTA HERE!

Assuming all stays the course, Dylan will be cleared for discharge tomorrow. Yes, we already have plane tickets in hand. We'll be returning to San Francisco on Friday, to give ourselves a couple of days to settle in with Dylan outside of a hospital. Meanwhile, my sister, brother-in-law and niece are driving up from LA tomorrow with Moby! Many thanks to them, the Presners and the Minniears, with whom Moby lived a true leisureman's lifestyle for 2 months. How we will replicate 2-hour day hikes, I have no idea, but we'll do our best to accommodate his needs.

So naturally, having been here at Joe DiMaggio for 3 weeks, we're doing everything necessary for discharge in this single day (despite having tried in vain to get some of this stuff done a week ago). And once he is discharged tomorrow, he's all ours until we leave on Friday. Please note that we will continue to stay across the street from the hospital, just in case - and it's not Dylan I'm worried about, by the way.

But really, we feel comfortable with him, and the real challenge is now behind us, of course! Sure, it won't be necessarily awesome living in a double occupancy hotel room, packing up all of the additional things we've had to procure on this trip and getting to the airport 3 hours early Friday morning - but it will get us home - and that's all that matters at this point. Will things be perfect when we get there? Not even close. We will just barely have nursery furniture, if we're lucky (mind you, we ordered this at the end of August). Boxes belonging to Dylan are strewn all over the house. The collection of mail will be scary. And our alarm system may or may not work, considering that it was apparently set off by "sunlight" or "a giant bug" the other day (but that's what Moby is for).

So wish us luck over the next few days as we gather our lives and begin to look (fondly?) upon this journey as a distant memory, never to be forgotten!

Ice Cream, Vodka and...Breast Milk

The following words were actually uttered to us today:

"If he keeps this up, you guys could be home by the end of the week."

Dylan, please keep this up.

And by "this," I mean eating 45 cc's. After 24 hours straight of 40 cc intakes, he was raised to the next (possibly final) threshold. The PICC line in his head (much less invasive than it looked) was removed early this morning, and he's only on a 2 mL/hr TPN drip (it started out at more than 12 mL/hr). Even this is likely to be dropped completely tomorrow.

I'm really beginning to think in terms of heading home, now. So in the saga that is my breast milk production, we've been researching how to get my product back to California. Currently, I produce significantly more milk than Dylan consumes - roughly 600 cc's pumped daily, only 360 of which he is now fed. Bear in mind that his consumption is up significantly over the past couple of weeks, and I am a supply side economist's dream. In the meantime, I've been storing my vast quantities of milk in the NICU freezer, and God only knows how much is there - but suffice it to say - A LOT. So it looks like I'll be Fed-Ex'ing the harvest home on dry ice in multiple coolers, since breast milk keeps for basically an eternity and can be used for future feedings when my boob is not available (not that he has quite taken to that yet - baby steps). Where we're going to store all of this when we get home, I don't know. The lactation consultant seems to think that a deep freezer will do the trick - because you know, San Francisco homes are so spacious as to accommodate such a thing. I mean, we'll just toss the giant meat container in our garage...or shed...or...oh, wait...we don't have any of these things. Oh well, looks like the milk will have to find a home next to the ice cream and vodka in our freezer drawer.

Keeping the promise we made to ourselves Friday night, we hit up Chili's tonight for dinner (last night we were at a friend's house for football, featuring lasagna and other assorted delights - thank you!). Tell me, when did the serving sizes at Chili's get bigger? I'm not sure when I was there last, but I immediately recognized the increased plate size - not to mention, Brad's dish featured what had to be an entire can of black beans (lucky me). The dessert - Chocolate Chip Paradise Pie - had also doubled in size, up from a square to a rectangle (and apparently packing more calories than a rack of the chain's baby back ribs). Even the 600 calories I'm burning each day from pumping can't save me from this gluttony. At least I'm moving about normally now so I can burn those extra 50 calories walking to and from the hospital each day.

Still on the agenda before this journey ends - a mani/pedi/eyebrow wax in Broward County. Recommendations welcome.

Projectile Friday

The time was approximately 5:10 pm this afternoon.

It all began innocently enough with "touch time," which is when we have the opportunity to take Dylan's temperature, clean him up a bit and change his diaper. We've been very careful on this last bit, having been warned by many about the spraying mantis. So as we've done every single time, I prepared his new diaper perfectly, ready and waiting to be slid under him as I wiped him clean and lubed him up with vaseline. Then suddenly, like a drive-by shooting...as I turned to toss the dirty diaper on the scale (they like to weigh the damage)...the front flap of his clean diaper fell down to unleash the rat-tat-tat-tat of his precision-like piss.

"AAAGGGGHHHH, NO, NO!!" I screamed, desperately but futilely attempting to stop the rain with my eyes.

Then came the final insult.

He projectile shat all over his crib.

"SHIT!!! OH MY GOD, SHIT!!! HELP! HELP ME!!"

Grainy mustard slid down the glass onto his blanket, leaking onto the nurse's stethoscope.

Stunned, Brad and I stood at the scene of the damage. Then, in walked the nurse.

"Oh good," I thought. "She's seen this a million times. It's no big deal."

Cut to nurse:

"OH MY GOD!!"
(Reeling back)
"OH CHRIST! Dana, the parents in 10 have an explosion, can you take Greene in Room 8 RIGHT NOW?!?!"

Oh well, I guess poo is gross, no matter who you are. But on a positive note, the day's outfit was totally unsoiled.

After that little scene, Dylan's schedule was completely thrown off base. Already exhausted by another round of tests today to prove his slow feeding is the result of age and a fickle palate, and not a congenital or surgical problem, he was now an hour behind for dinner - and thus, so were we. With this being the first night we had to fend totally for ourselves (my mom flew back to LA yesterday, when the NICU hosted a holiday dinner for all current and former patients and families), we found ourselves lost in the cuisine of Hollywood, FL.

So we went to T.G.I. Friday's.

I'd been to a T.G.I. Friday's more recently than I'd been to an IHOP, but not much. And like IHOP, I had some fond memories of T.G.I. Friday's - most notably, their always-on-point Roy Rogers and inexpensive yet satisfying baby back ribs.

When we sat down, my eyes watered as I began reading page 1 of the 10-page "menu." The dishes all sounded the same by the time I reached page 5. How many Cajun Jack Daniels delights can there possibly be?! Flipping forwards and backwards, I finally settled on a "Fan Favorite" (no, seriously) - the Cajun Chicken and Shrimp Pasta.

Unashamed, I was hoovering my way through the pasta (Brad foolishly ordered some sort of pecan-crusted salmon with rice and vegetables - WHATever) when we noticed a group of 4 big dudes walk in. One was clad in a tshirt that read, "The Rules Do Not Apply To Me." The rules of fashion? No, they do not.

Shortly behind them entered a group of 6 women draped in the Forever 21 clearance rack. One of them modeled a shirt proclaiming, "Never Say Never." Sure, I guess enough beers can create magic for anyone.

Groups of men and women like this flowed into the joint for the next 20 minutes. Apparently, they were all at Friday's for the same birthday party - perhaps for "Never Say Never," but we're not totally sure. What we are sure of is that they'd hired a "professional" photographer to capture the event. Read: someone's cousin Ray-Ray.

They flaunted their goods, including gold-plated man bracelets and donkey tail hair weaves, and posed for the camera in every way imaginable - solos, all the men, all the ladies, liquor shots - you name it. Ray-Ray got every precious moment - and so did we, as we devoured our Brownie Explosion.

Next door to Friday's sit the two other restaurants comprising the perfect date night trifecta - Chili's and Red Lobster. And if we're feeling a little saucy, there's a Hooter's down the road.

Guess where we'll be tomorrow.

Tell Me, What Is a Lingonberry?

I'd always wondered what a lingonberry was. And now I know, it's not just a mythical berry grown in the kitchens of IHOP. It's a real fruit!

On Sunday morning, I indulged in one of my favorite breakfasts of all time - IHOP Swedish Lingonberry Crepes. Apparently, they're authentic! It had been years since I'd stepped foot inside an IHOP, but upon seeing one on our first drive "home" from Joe DiMaggio Hospital, I knew it was time to put an end to the chain pancake drought. And it did not disappoint - from the food to the service to the other patrons.

Take note of the customer, dining with her extended family of 8, who sent her food back at least 5 times because it wasn't "dry enough." Excuse me, but if you don't want butter or oil anywhere near your food, IHOP is probably not a great choice. When asked by the staff upon leaving if everything wound up being okay, she responded, "No - but what can I do?" I'll tell you what you can do - not eat at IHOP!!

Then there was the man who made every meal on the IHOP menu a personal heart attack creation. I'm pretty sure by the time he was done ordering, he had added caramel sauce and whipped cream to bacon and hash browns, cooked in extra butter. To each his own.

In the past couple of days since that trip, we've been pretty singularly focused on coming home. We certainly do not want to push Dylan, but this past week was frustrating because the Neo-Natologist on call seemed to have some very...unusual...ideas for his course of treatment that seemed to hint at an inexplicable desire for our family to remain in Florida. The goal, of course, is to keep working up his bottle feeding while diminishing and ultimately eliminating his IVs. Well, she was very resistant to increasing his bottle feedings, and when she did, actually increased his IV intake. I'm no doctor, but it seems like common sense not to stuff the boy, else he's going to have a harder time eating. This is also the same doc who scared us after his feeding test by suggesting he'd need to wait 6 weeks before flying - then attempted to pick us up off the floor by saying, "You can always drive back - I've done it in 2-1/2 days - although he can't stay in a car seat for too long." Thanks.

Apparently, we weren't the only ones to question the Neo. The nurses subtly questioned her approach, and this week's on-call Neo dramatically changed course, dropping his IVs and increasing his feedings. He is now on trajectory to increase feedings every 12 hours by 5 cc's, which is fantastic. He's at 30 now, and the goal is to get him to 45-50 for 48 hours straight. Thus, the bull in me says let's get on a plane home next Monday. Of course, we'll have a better idea over the next couple of days. But we need to come home soon if for no reason other than the fact that my mom is heading back to LA on Thursday, and we can't survive that long without her.

Today, we enjoyed lunch with Brad's Uncle Jack - delayed after last week's bout with infection. It was definitely a treat to discover good Mexican food in Florida (I've always been skeptical) - even if the waitress did originally mistake a Roy Rogers for a Shirley Temple. All was forgiven by the time I took that first bite of fried ice cream. Thank you, Uncle Jack!

California, here we come...please...right? Right??

Eat, Pump, Feed

Today marked a very strong turning point for Dylan (and us). First, he was moved to a pretty, open crib and is now dressed daily in stylish outfits! But even more momentous, Brad and I were finally able to get Dylan to feed with us as well as he has fed with the nurses.

It was a little frustrating for the past few days to hear that Dylan had taken so many cc's in so (relatively) few minutes with each nurse...and then when we'd get there, he'd lazily hold the bottle in his mouth and go to sleep. I suppose I should be happy he's so relaxed with us, but we ain't gettin' outta Florida like that.

So today, we decided to stop listening to every single nurse's individual piece of advice, and start doing what feels right to us - easier said than done. When you have no idea what the hell you're doing with a baby - much less a newborn - and even much less a preemie...well, that's a scary notion.

But on that note, there's been no better place to learn what to do with your baby than a NICU, let me tell you! I already know so much more than I ever did - and you should see Brad work a diaper now - wow.

Meanwhile, in the adventures of pumping, I've discovered something frightening and seemingly impossible. I am hungrier now than ever before. The breast pump is challenging my metabolism to a wrestling match in my stomach, and it's wearing me out. This is why you have to keep taking vitamins after the delivery - otherwise, you'd die.

It goes something like this every day:

-Pump at 7am
-Go back to sleep
-Pump whenever I wake up next
-Eat breakfast
-Go to the hospital (realize I should have eaten breakfast again)
-Pump
-I'm starving
-Eat a man-sized meal
-Pump
-Leave the hospital
-I'm hungry, eat again
-It's dinner, time to eat like a man again
-Go back to the hospital
-Pump
-Bedtime snack
-Repeat

Wish Dylan, me and our household budget luck with all the feeding.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's been a busy past couple of days, which is why you haven't heard from me since Monday - and ultimately, all is excellent!

Dylan's feeding test was Tuesday morning at 9 am. Brad and I watched the live X-ray of his successful feeding, which featured nothing more than sucking and swallowing, the two actions we were looking for. These are things we take for granted, but for Dylan, they represent huge milestones. Regardless of his surgery, his gestational age (36 weeks tomorrow) still presents challenges in these areas. We also learned that boys tend to be slower feeders than girls, and Caucasians tend to be slower than other ethnicities (not sure how that plays out here). In any case, we are thrilled with his progress.

The goal for Dylan since then has been to consume 10-15 cc's in 20 minutes about every 3 hours (perhaps contributing to his new 5 lb. 10 oz. weight!). He's been gradually meeting this goal - seemingly preferring night feedings to day feedings, though I suppose 2 days of data is insufficient to draw any real conclusions. Perhaps his most impressive take was earlier this evening, when he had 12 cc's in 4 minutes! Exciting as this is, we are not pressuring him. Right now, he's still feeding from a bottle whose nipple most simulates the real thing (this is more challenging for him, which is by design). And we will work with him on breastfeeding simultaneously - the goal here being to acquaint him with the breast more than anything else. Please note, this is probably the only time in my son's life when I am okay with him becoming acquainted with anyone's breast.

Of course, this story simply would not be consistent without some wild drama. So don't worry, things haven't been perfectly comfortable all week. Shortly after delivering, I began experiencing night sweats. It's disgusting. I don't wake up hot, which is what I would have expected. Rather, I wake up a bit chilly because my PJs...even the sheets...are more than damp and less than drenched. Combine with this the fact that the A/C is usually on (because after all, it's the end of November in Florida), and the situation can become quite unhappy.

Yesterday morning, I woke up at 5 am, feeling particularly cold. I didn't think anything of it, and just tried to go back to sleep until 7, when I wake up to pump. Then when I got up at 7, I was nearly freezing, but again, figured the whole night sweat thing combined with the A/C and the mere sound of pouring rain (which I mistakenly equate with cold) was screwing with me. So I pumped.

After I got back in bed, things quickly plummeted downhill. We were supposed to meet Brad's Uncle Jack for lunch, but I couldn't even get out of bed. I was shivering and whimpering like a homeless kitten. Brad encouraged me to get up and take a hot shower, which seemed like a good idea - only it took me 1/2 hour to get there, and then did absolutely nothing to warm me up. After wrapping me in several layers of clothing, Brad put me back in bed and doubled up the covers on top of me. He called Dylan's nurse at my urging, in hopes of some advice - not surprisingly, none was given except, "You should call her doctor or send her to the emergency room." Strike One. He then called "my doctor's office (read: Mount Sinai)," who offered, "You should bring her in or take her to emergency." Strike Two. Then he called my mom. "She needs to go to emergency or back to Mount Sinai - I think Mount Sinai makes most sense." Strike Three. I was going back to Mount Sinai - again.

In the meantime, I'd taken 2 Aleve, and frankly, I don't remember a whole lot transpiring over the next hour or so. All I know is that when I did wake up, I'd stopped shivering - and eventually, I was able to shed most of the layers.

Around 1:00, my mom and I headed back to Miami Beach while Brad went to spend time with Dylan. Thankfully, I did not have to wait long before seeing the doctor, who confirmed something I wish I'd known, oh, I don't know...last week? Yeah, so as it turns out, a dull and persistent stomach ache is in fact not par for the course with a C-section. That's called a uterine infection, or endometritis, for which I met 5 of 7 noted risk factors - who knew? Not the Mount Sinai doctors, apparently. Awesome. So all this time, when I struggled so severely getting into or out of bed, it wasn't because I was "slow to recover." It's because I was "infected."

2 days into the 5-day course of antibiotics, I already feel amazing. And not that fake amazing I experienced that would last for a day here and a day there. I enjoyed Thanksgiving today with Brad's cousins nearby, which was fantastic. What a treat to enjoy the holidays with family, despite being so far from home. Frankly, I even look a lot better - but that may be the new boobs I'm sporting. Come on, I deserve that small victory.

Upon doing the laundry tonight, Brad discovered 2 pairs of disposable hospital underwear! They are now washed and ready to be worn, believe it or not. I have no idea how they made it into my bag back home from the hospital, but you know what? I'm going to go ahead and wear those puppies, at least overnight! As it turns out, they're really freakin' comfortable. And I deserve that.

It's Not Gas - I'm Smiling!

While Dylan's health improves, so does mine. I actually got into bed last night like a normal person instead of a disabled 90-year-old, and got up similarly comfortably. When I got ready this morning, I even blow dried and flat ironed my own hair - and lo and behold, I look like myself again (okay, minus the volleyball that's deflated from a basketball in my belly)!

Today, we met our friends Callista and Peter for lunch. The universe is a funny place. According to the original plan, their wedding was the one we were headed to more than a month ago after our few days in Miami. While we are so sad to have missed the big event, we can all agree we were best off in Miami vs. Grafton, IL given the circumstances (despite the number of OB-Gyns and Neo-Natologists in attendance). In any case, what are the chances that this pair, who got married more than a month ago in the midwest, have been living in Liberia, Africa for the past year, and are returning to Swaziland, would be spending time with family in Delray Beach, FL?

I actually enjoyed the brief feeling of being on vacation for the first time since waking up the morning of October 12th. We lunched at a cute little spot right on the water here in Hollywood where the portions of burgers, chili cheese fries and the like were HUGE - couldn't have been happier about that. I also couldn't have been happier about the key lime pie we ordered - twice. So yeah, while I never said, "I'm eating for two," now I can say, "I'm soon to be someone else's sole food supply, and from what I've heard, that burns 600 calories/day - so bite me."

The best news of the day came when we learned Dylan's feeding is going to be tested tomorrow at 9 am! The jury is still out on whether the feeding will come directly from me or one of the many bottles I've been storing at the hospital (I was actually congratulated by one of the nurses today on my ample supply). Regardless, it's very exciting, because the outcome of this feeding will largely determine what happens next for all of us - so please think good thoughts!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's update...

Happy One Week!

The past couple of days have been excellent for Dylan. When I met Brad at the hospital yesterday afternoon, the wonderful man we now refer to as "Uncle Richie" was there. Uncle Richie, or more formally, Richard Auerbach, is the reason we ended up at Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital in the first place. Our friend TP's uncle, Richie reached out to us the second day we found ourselves in this scary situation back in mid-October. He never let up, checking in on us and providing great advice and simply acting as a sounding board on at least a weekly basis. As an administrator here at the hospital, he assured us of its excellent neo-natal program, and in the end, there was no question this was where we should have Dylan transported for the surgery. Jackson Memorial, the alternative hospital suggested to us by Mount Sinai's Neo-Natologist, is a large county hospital in Miami renowned for its trauma center - but it just didn't seem the best fit for Dylan. We are so happy to be where we are - thank you, Uncle Richie!

Yesterday, not only did Dylan come off of the photo-therapy treatment for jaundice (so no more cool sunglasses), but he lost his nasal air flow tubes and was moved to a private room! The private room is absolutely beautiful and comfortable, allowing Brad and me (and my mom, who still remains with us) to relax with Dylan 24/7 as we wish. But the best thing about it is it's indicative of his significant health improvement. The private rooms are lower maintenance, still with assigned nurses and constant monitoring, but they are not in the primary area of the NICU. Frankly, this room is nicer than either my Labor & Delivery or Post-Partum rooms at Mount Sinai - the only thing it's missing is a TV (though Dylan provides us with ample entertainment)!

Dylan has continued to progress today. All of the tape that was once holding down his nasal tubes has been removed from his face, after proving he could make it 24 hours without the assisted air flow. In fact, relatively little remains on his body except for his diaper (which has been sized up). His weight is now up to almost 5 lbs. 2 oz., and let me tell you, this kid is ready to eat. He sucks on his pacifier with a vengeance!

Tomorrow, the doctor will examine Dylan to determine his final course of treatment. We're very hopeful that the prognosis will be positive and he'll be allowed to start feeding. Then, it's only a matter of time before we're on our way back home!

Hands-Free and Pants-Free

Recovering from a C-section is a rocky road. One day, you feel great and like your overall pain and movement is totally improving - the next, you feel like you've endured...well...major abdominal surgery. Go figure. So today is one of those days when I'm not feeling quite as up and about, and thus decided to get some more sleep, rest with my feet up, and meet Brad at the hospital later. It's tough, because despite the fact that I'm struggling with my own recovery, I feel very guilty not being by Dylan's bedside 24/7.

Meanwhile, as you all know, one thing that I continue to do for him seemingly all day, every day, is pump. It's not a particularly enjoyable experience, but as you may recall from my previous post, I've learned how to make it as productive as possible for myself (beyond the whole me being milked like a cow thing).

Yesterday, what I perhaps hadn't yet learned was just how conscious of my wardrobe I must be for this exercise. I pump both at our "home" and at the hospital. It's still very warm here in southern Florida, and dresses are all-around more comfortable than anything else (note the discharge day mistake of wearing yoga pants - not good). So I'd pulled on a long, knit sundress over a tank top for the day. This would also work well for my trip back to Mount Sinai (the last!) to have my sutures removed, and transition nicely to dinner, when we met up with Brad's cousins.

As I sat down at the hospital for my first opportunity to pump since getting dressed in this get-up, I set myself up as usual - diaper bag with my supplies beside me on the floor and feet elevated on an ottoman. I then went to pull my arm out of the dress sleeve hole - not budging. I tugged harder. Still, nothing. I ratcheted the dress up a bit and tried the other side. Zero movement. Now I'm writhing around in the chair like Houdini trying to escape a straight jacket.

Finally, after beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, I realized what I had to do. I had to take my dress off. Completely. No longer was I behind the curtain of a pumping room - I was behind the curtain of a full dressing room. And so I stood up sheepishly, and did what had to be done. Then, to avoid resting my ass directly on my chair, I wrapped the dress around me. Did I mention it's freezing in the room? Now shivering, I proceed to pump - hands-free and pants-free.

Mortifying? Yes. Liberating? No.

Horrifying? Yes. Exhilarating? No.

Humbling? Yes. Satisfying? No.

And so another day, another lesson learned.

Pumping - It's a Lifestyle

Wednesday, November 18th, I was discharged from Mount Sinai Hospital after having spent approximately 1 month + 1 week as its guest. It was a very emotional experience - simultaneously joyously freeing, surreal and even perhaps a bit scary. After all, I'd had a huge staff of people taking care of my every need for so long, it was almost frightening to think that I would no longer have a button on my bed to answer my calls. But believe you me - one gets over this - quickly.

The most exciting part of the day was not my discharge - which came and went pretty quickly after Brad's family cleaned out the hospital room and transported everything to our new home in Hollywood, FL. Rather, the most exciting moment came when I got into the car with my mother, en route to visit Dylan at Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital. We raced against all odds to make it in time to see him off before his afternoon surgery. It was a scary couple of hours once it began. No matter how much reassurance you get from the doctors, nurses and anesthesiologists, you can't help but think of this tiny, newborn body being operated on by a room full of strangers - barely yet cognizant of his new world. You feel guilty that he is no longer in your womb, yet you know he had to come out - but to this? It's a nightmare I wish upon no parent, ever.

When the doctor met us in the waiting room of the NICU with the exciting news of his successful surgery, we - myself, Brad, my mom, Brad's parents and brother - were overwhelmed with happiness. It was not long before we got to go back and visit him in his little incubator, and he looked amazing. No longer intubated, he had the tiniest scar from the surgical incision, and just a couple of tubes and bandages elsewhere so that we could really get a good look at him. He was so strong!

It is definitely true that the moment you become a parent, you stop thinking of yourself first. Here I was, only less than 72 hours post C-section, and I'm operating on 4 hours of sleep, pain meds, barely able to move without a wheelchair. I was in so much pain, but I kept going anyway because I wasn't about to leave my son at the hospital.

After finally leaving to briefly stop at home before heading to dinner around 8:30, the pain and exhaustion hit me - badly. I was like the walking dead simply trying to get from the car to the restaurant, much less trying to make it through the meal. I ate a few bites of the appetizers, and couldn't eat anything else though I had been so hungry. I was reclined in the booth because I couldn't find comfort, and what's worse, I needed to cough. You might imagine what it is like to cough after a C-section, with the adhesive residue still sticking your skin together no matter how many showers, and the sutures still fresh in the most unfortunate of bodily territory. Misery knew no better company.

Meanwhile, there was actually a funny moment. Our rental somehow lacked an adequate supply of toilet paper, but no one ever made it to the store to buy some. We realized this around 10:00 at night, and I couldn't bear to ride in a car headed anywhere but home. After Brad's brother Todd emerged from a trip to the restroom, we had an idea - steal a roll of toilet paper from them. As it turns out, Todd already had this idea, as he pulled a bunch of sad pieces of toilet paper out of his pocket that he apparently was hoarding for himself. Nice. So we sent my mom in next, with her giant bag with a button closure (critical, as not to expose the contraband), to get the goods. I may have been on the verge of death, but at least I would not have to suffer on the toilet as I grabbed for an empty roll.

When we finally made it home, it was midnight, and I still needed to pump (get clarification here). People, let me tell you - if I'm not pumping, I've just finished pumping or am thinking about pumping. As it turns out, the fact that Dylan cannot yet enjoy my milk does not mean I'm free from producing it. I must pump every 3 hours to make sure I'm ready for him when he is - and yes, that includes overnight hours. To give you an idea, after I finish this post and get ready for bed, I will pump. Then I will set my alarm to wake up to pump again. I pumped 4 times between going to bed last night and leaving the house this afternoon. And I could have squeezed in a fifth time if I'd been really aggressive.

At least now I've learned the reason for the double pump vs. single pump - hands-free! Consider the next time you receive an email or text from me, or read a blog post or Facebook update - was I pumping while it happened? Now you'll never know.

Dylan looked great today, and even had a couple of additional family members visit. His day nurse indicated that he would likely have his feeding test a day early due to his excellent progress - next Tuesday. And if he proves he can feed for 48 hours on his own, he will be discharged. We're not setting any timelines because we've learned not to get too attached to our calendars. But it's certainly exciting to continue to hear that he is doing so great. His breathing continues to be good, just getting a little extra help from some air flow through his nasal passages, and his jaundice is improving (though he looks way too cool under the tanning light with the sunglasses, doesn't he?). In fact, the only real sign of his surgery at this point is his chest tube. Once that is removed, he can be moved into a lower intensity section of the NICU.

As for me, I took care of myself by finally getting some sleep and enjoying the feeling of a real bed I can actually share with Brad, a real shower I can actually stand up in, and the semblance of a real...life. My pain level and body movement improved significantly today, and I expect when I head back to the doctor tomorrow to have my sutures removed, I'll feel like a new woman. After that, it's just a matter of time's healing (and doing something about the cinder blocks that are supposedly my feet - go figure - no swelling during pregnancy, just post-delivery).

One day at a time.

Free At Last!

I'm writing this on a cocktail of 800mg of Motrin and who knows how much Percocet. So we're going to make it very, very brief before I pass out and/or say something awkward - like, awkward, even for me.

I'm being discharged tomorrow - Halelujah! And Dylan's surgery is scheduled for late morning at Joe DiMaggio's Children Hospital about 1/2 hour away in Hollywood. He should be in excellent hands there.

Tomorrow, Brad and I, plus my mom and his brother Todd, will move into a condo a couple of miles from the hospital. The hospital is also providing us with free, on-campus housing that we will use simply for basic conveniences.

We expect Dylan to fully recover and be ready to head home in 2-3 weeks if there are no complications. So that Thanksgiving arrival date is no longer on the horizon. But hey, we've been here this long...what's a little while longer?

Stay tuned for more updates from this incredible saga. While my posts will no longer feature long diatribes about molesting nurses and general invasions of privacy (the USC chop-chop doctor walked in on me pumping today - behind the drawn curtain in my room - even after I'd hollered, "One moment please!"), I'm sure the residents of Hollywood, FL will offer plenty of food for thought...

Dylan Zachary Presner - 4lbs 15 oz. and 16 in.

Last time we talked, I was preparing for my second induction on Sunday. And then, you may have noticed I went MIA. So what a wild ride it's been...

On Saturday, you may recall I was 1 cm dilated. Well, on Sunday, I woke up and immediately went back on the Pitocin. The contractions felt stronger and were properly spaced. But two more exams that day revealed that I was still just 1 cm dilated, with no change in my cervix. In other words, there was no way I was going to deliver a baby vaginally. So after more than 24 hours preparing for and trying to induce labor, the game plan changed - which I was ready for.

After speaking to the anesthesiologist about my pain management options, it was determined that I'd have a spinal block. The advantage of this method over the epidural is that it supposedly more intensely manages the pain.

Around 4:30 pm, I was wheeled back to the operating room. I was very nervous, simply because no amount of preparation can really ready you for surgery. But the doctors and nurses made the experience as pleasant as possible, playing music and making conversation. Frankly, it was a real party in there, with about 8-10 medical team members in the room.

You receive a spinal block by sitting on the edge of the operating table in a c-curve position. This is actually more uncomfortable than the administration of the drug, because you have to remain like this for 10 minutes. They numb the lower area of your back, and then inject you - but only after a lot of other steps have been taken. I suppose it's a good thing they take their time stabbing you in the spine.

After the drug had been administered, they had me lie down, and shortly thereafter, I began to feel the sensation of the drug. My legs were getting numb and tingly. "Great!" I thought. "It's working." After a few minutes, they performed a series of prick tests to determine whether or not I was fully numb. Um, yeah, so I wasn't. "No big deal," they said. "You're tall - it'll take longer." Okay, fine. Another few minutes pass, and I feel more pricks. After a few rounds of this, one thing became clear - the spinal block failed me, and we'd have to move to Plan B.

Plan B sucks. It's general anesthesia, and was mentioned to me pre-surgey only as a "last resort" that carried with it a series of drawbacks - the main one, in my mind, being that I'd be out for the entire procedure, and Brad could not be in the room. As it turns out, it also sucks because it only lasts for as long as you are unconscious, which means that as soon as you wake up, you feel all of the pain - more on that later.

At 5:36 pm, Dylan was born. I woke up in a recovery room (which I initially thought was the operating room, simply remodeled), where it was expected I'd be for 2-3 hours. However, I was in such severe pain, and being treated with so many different pain medications, that I was there for 8 hours. I suffered like I have never suffered before. The worst pain came with the contractions I was being forced to have by the Pitocin they administered. The reason for this is that the uterus needs to keep contracting post-delivery, and decrease in size. Unfortunately, with every contraction, I experienced a horrible muscle spasm that made my entire body shake in agony. They tried at least 4 or 5 different pain meds to soothe me - including Morphine - and none of them worked.

At 2:00 am, after coming in and out of painful consciousness, they broke protocol and wheeled me back on my stretcher to see Dylan in the NICU. This truly wiped away the pain. Holding his little body in my arms was a transformative experience I cannot describe.

After the first sleepless night in my new postpartum room, I awoke to the same pain. Not until mid-afternoon did I finally get some relief, largely as a result of Percocet and the cessation of Pitocin. I finally got out of bed and on my feet around 5:00, with a great deal of nurse help. And then came the sweet reward - another visit with Dylan, this time with Brad.

On the second day, he already looks so different! His cone-shaped head and crooked nose, apparently the result of him having wedged himself face-up in my pelvis (and the reason my cervix never changed) are quickly correcting themselves. He also began receiving phototherapy for mild jaundice, a very common newborn condition.

Dylan is definitely a fighter. He received a perfect 9/9 Apgar score - pretty atypical for a preemie. In fact, the one problem he does have is unrelated to his young gestational age. This week, Dylan will undergo surgery for Esophageal Atresia and Tracheoesophageal Fistula. Essentially, his esophagus does not connect to his stomach, which means that he has to be fed intravenously. It is a serious but straightforward condition to treat, and the sooner it is taken care of, of course, the better.

It has been a very long road, but I'm confident that the past 5 weeks and the weeks ahead will only make me stronger and even more appreciative of so many things. We're excited to get back to San Francisco, but we're taking it one day at a time.

Thank you, once again, to all of you for your support!

Just Kidding

7:40 pm. Still no baby. Not even in "true labor."

It all began at 3:00 this morning. The nurse came to administer Cervidil (more on that truly unpleasant experience later), start my IV and draw my blood. I considered these to all be solid milestones in my general birthing experience. Hmph.

So let me tell you what I thought was going to happen. I thought that the Cervidil would be left in for about 8 hours and then I'd be started on Pitocin to induce labor. Because to be clear, Cervidil is not intended to start labor (though it can) - it's intended to "prepare" the cervix (read: ripen, open, shorten). Then I thought things would roll from there. As it turns out, I was right about the process - but wrong about the timing.

Remember the cervical exam I lamented? Yeah, so I've now had 4 of them, including the Cervidil administration. They likened Cervidil to a tampon: "It's just a little pouch with a long string attached." What they didn't consider in this little analogy of theirs is that Cervidil is inserted welllll beyond where a tampon is - without gel. And my doctor has short fingers. Ponder that.

Between the Cervidil episode and the Pitocin (which was started at 12:30 this afternoon), I enjoyed another milestone - an enema. I gotta tell ya, compared to everything else I've been through, this was a vacation. As it turns out, having warm, soapy water squirted up your bum and being asked to "hold it" for as long as you can before running to the bathroom is downright refreshing in the right context.

When the Pitocin was started at 12:30, I figured I was in for a wild ride. Perhaps if you define "wild ride" as sitting and standing in different positions for hours while not really feeling much of anything beyond mild-medium cramping...then yes. Otherwise, the day was anything but. The most wild few hours I experienced came while watching Stanford dismantle USC 55-21 (most points ever scored on USC in the program's history - and worst loss since 1966 - I'm just sayin'). You'd have thought some of my uproarious cheers during this game would have kicked me into strong labor - but no. I remain 1 cm dilated, which means nothing - a South Beach hooker is probably 1 cm dilated on any given day.

After having not really eaten or drunk anything for 24 hours aside from ice chips (save a tiny apple juice, small piece of chocolate, and orange shaved ice), and simultaneously not progressing in labor, it seemed reasonable to change the plan. So around 7:00 pm, they stopped the Pitocin so that I could eat and drink whatever I wanted. I have until midnight. So far, I've had 3 steak tacos, chips and guacamole, and am about to have a slice of key lime pie. Yes, I am going to need another enema. During this time, I was also allowed to shower, which felt fantastic.

Unfortunately, I now find myself on a labor and delivery bed, without much labor and no delivery. My feet hang off the end of the bed, and I lost the egg crate from my previous bed. What a perfect night to be uncomfortable. Sigh.

At midnight, they will restart the Pitocin, and assuming I don't go into sudden strong labor, revisit me around 7 am with another f***ing cervical exam to gauge my progress. If I don't go by tomorrow evening, we'll need to think about a C-section. Regardless, I need to have something happen by then, because otherwise, Dr. Snip-Snip from USC will come a callin' on Monday - and I'm going to guess he will not be in a good mood.

So...stay tuned for the continuing saga of my 2-day induction.

The Last Supper

Well, well, well...and so here we are.

Today has been a little scary and awesomely exciting, all at once. It began with my in-room hair appointment at 12:30. That was of course awesomely exciting. A couple hours later, my doctor came in with the nurse and a medical student to discuss my birthing plan. Great, I've been waiting for this! And then came the scary part...

So ladies. You know when you go in for your annual exam, you get in that fateful position on the table...and right after the audible "snap" of the medical glove around the doc's wrist as the death metal has you cranked wide open like a 6-lane highway, he or she says:

"You're going to feel a little bit of pressure."

And as we all know, that's a lie.

Well, I dream of that exam instead of what I experienced at approximately 3:30 this afternoon. Do you know where your cervix is? I mean, do you really know where your cervix is? And I don't mean theoretically. I mean literally. Yeah, so I didn't exactly either - until this afternoon. And let me tell you - it is quite far away from where it should be for any sort of medical exam - ever.

After putting my eyes back in their sockets and recommencing breathing, I learned that my cervix is "pretty soft" but still closed and posterior. It needs to be even softer and anterior - and of course, open. Thus, Cervidil will be employed to get things going. I'm looking forward to the insertion of this tampon-like drug at 3:00 this morning. It's been too long since something has visited my cervix.

At this time, my IV will be started, with a simultaneous blood draw. If the cramping that the Cervidil causes is too much for me to handle while I try to catch some sleep, I can opt for a sedative. On the plus side, this will help me drift off to sleep. On the minus side, it will prevent me from being able to get up and go to the bathroom - and with no catheter, that means a bed pan. And the fun begins - more on what comes next tomorrow.

After the cervical exam, the afternoon was a blur. But things really picked up around 6:30. That's when my mom wheeled me outside where, according to locals, it was "freezing." According to me, it was just shy of balmy. We spent a little more than 1/2 hour enjoying the scenery before returning to the room, where my mom presented me with some very stylish pajamas she instructed me to put on - complete with my bling bling sandals. I thought it was rather strange she demanded I put them on at that very moment, but I wasn't going to argue with anything that would get me out of a hospital gown for the first time in 5 weeks.

Once I had changed, Brad entered the room, and they escorted me to the labor and delivery room next door, which had been completely transformed into a beautiful little bistro. Flowers, candles (fake ones, as not to set off any alarms), a little table with two chairs, and a feast of all feasts awaited.

OH MY GOD.

I sat at a cloth-covered table, drank a glass of wine, and most important, did not have to eat while lying down (or drink my water out of a straw). The food was incredible. It came from Prime 112, a fantastic steakhouse on the beach. Our menu featured:

-Kobe beef meatballs
-A 22 oz. rib-eye with truffle butter (we split that)
-Creamed spinach with shallots
-Truffled french fries
-Fried oreos

This was one helluva last supper before they begin starving me at midnight.

If that wasn't enough, Brad further surprised me by asking if I'd like my push present before or after delivery (the timing is acceptable either way, by definition!). I think you know what I chose. After all, the baby is present enough for tomorrow, right?

After almost 3 hours out of bed (gasp!) and off the grid, I returned to my room next door, feeling about as calm and ready for this show to begin as possible. I thank you all for your many, many emails, phone calls, texts, blog comments and Facebook messages. While I may not always respond to them, that doesn't mean they aren't important to me - each and every one has helped me through this that much more.

The next time you hear from me, I'll be...a mom (of a human being - Moby, you will always be the first son)! Brad will do his best to send out an update, but fair warning: it's going to be more than a notion to remember all of the intended email addresses. That said, please come back to the blog for the most complete update (and at least one photo).

Wish me luck!

P.S. Thank you, Sherri. You done good.

The Final Countdown

Many of you have acknowledged that I seem to have reached the end of my rope. And I won't deny that. Everything annoys me now - including the nurse who introduced herself to me for the fourth time since I've been here. Really, Linda? Really, you didn't think I knew your name? How else would I have added it to the NURSES I HATE list?!?! And by the way, you know who else is getting added to that list? The genius who suggested I have another baby in a year.

Meanwhile, daytime TV is officially awful. All of the programming is designed to scare (primarily) stay-at-home-moms shitless about things like rare forms of bacteria dwelling on your kitchen countertops; diseases you can catch from your pets; and child abduction. When I seek to escape from that, I'm accosted by repeats of Valerie Bertinelli's E! True Hollywood Story.

And thus, it's become supremely important to infuse my days with special highlights from outside of my hospital room. For example, today was my second mani/pedi, to prepare for the big day. Tomorrow will be the second in-room hair appointment. Some have asked why I would dare primp before delivery, instead of waiting to reward myself afterwards. Well, gee, let me see. When do you think I'm going to have time for a leisurely mani/pedi and blow-out here after this kid is born? It would be pretty awkward to bounce out to a hair salon while my baby is in the NICU, no? And for those who have expressed concern that my hair will look terrible after delivery...puh-leeze. I pride myself on the fact that exercise becomes me, and I don't sweat. I expect to look better than I have for the past month.

Tomorrow afternoon should certainly be interesting. The doctor will administer an exam to determine the final induction plan, which may or may not include cervidil to "ripen" my cervix (sorry, that's gross, even if you have no idea what it means); and will definitely include pitocin. I look forward to bidding farewell to so many drugs in my system after Saturday (except for the epidural - that can stay as long as it wants).

When I post tomorrow's update, I'll fill you in on the plan, which is likely to commence very early Saturday morning. And yes, I will plan to post on Saturday, even if it's a one-liner like, "I'm still alive." But watch out - because I don't plan to spare a whole lot of details, people! You've hung in there with me for this long...don't bitch out at the end.

A Morning Narrative

2:00 am:
-"Doo-doo-doooo" sounds from the monitor to notify me there is no more paper.
-Nurse comes in to replace paper (at least I didn't have to call her).
-Nurse takes my blood pressure and temperature, while she's in here.

4:00 am
-My God, I have to pee so badly. But I hate getting out of bed. It takes me forever to reach my compression boots to unplug them, and rolling over and pulling myself up out of bed is agony, since the baby has decided to wedge himself on top of my birth canal.

4:10 am
-I'm out of bed.

6:30 am
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-"WHAT??"
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-Confused pause
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-"Come in, WTF?!"

6:31 am
-Enter night nurse and tag-along.
-All lights go on.
-Loud talking ensues between Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
-One says, "I need a blood pressure and temperature check."
-The other says, "And we're going to do a blood draw."
-I say, "Right now?? JESUS."

6:40 am
-Offenders exit the room.
-Brad and I talk shit about both of them and the annoyance of the situation.
-I notice that 2 of the lights are still on.

6:45 am
-Vampire re-enters the room - more loud talking, seemingly to herself.
-Brad rips into her with, "For future reference, we need to not have her blood drawn at 6:30 in the morning. She's delivering a baby on Saturday and needs her rest. Once it was midnight...another time, the middle of the afternoon..."
-Vampire retorts, "It's not me, it's your nurse. You need to talk to your nurse. It's not me!"
-Brad angrily responds, "Fine, we'll talk to the nurse."

9:30 am
-Awake, I realize no one has come back into the room.
-I also realize I have no breakfast tray.
-I've been punished.

10:30 am
-Whatever, I don't care that I have no breakfast - because I've just received a giant bagel delivery (thank you, Acumen Fund)!

11:30 am
-Brad's parents arrive - with bagels (and flowers). Clearly, we eat these first.

End morning - begin afternoon. T minus 3 days.

Really???

Today, I tasted the many flavors of incompetence that seem to be packaged so deliciously here at Mount Sinai Medical Center. And it all began at what was once my favorite Perinatology office.

Our appointment was at 2:00, but because we waited for 1/2 hour last week, the nurse called ahead to find out when we should really get there. We were advised to actually depart at 2:00, getting us there around 2:20 - too early for CP Time. And we still waited for 20-30 minutes - probably not the best thing for someone on bed rest.

When they called me back to the exam room, Brad wheeled me in. I got up on the table as usual, waiting for things to get started. And then the tech asked the most unusual question:

"What are you here for?"

Well, gee, I don't know, let's see. I'm pregnant. This is my third time here in three weeks. I'm in a room with an ultrasound machine. I'm going to hazard a guess that I'm here for a f***ing ultrasound.

But rather than answer as such, I provided her with a little bit of history:

"On vacation, yada yada, water broke at 29 weeks, stuck in the hospital on bed rest..."

That seemed to satisfy her enough to explain that I'd be getting a routine amniotic fluid check and a few other measurements to determine my biophysical profile score. Brad interjected, explaining that the doctor wanted us to make sure we also got a baby measurement and cervical length. Apparently, by saying this, he'd yelled expletives at her.

She snapped back that their office would perform neither of these measurements.

"Your last baby measurement was 2 weeks ago (actually it was 1 week ago at their office, and 2 days ago in my room, but Ms. Rules didn't need to know that), and we only perform this measurement once every three weeks due to inaccuracy. And we won't measure the cervix of a woman whose membranes have ruptured (that's a medical way of saying my water broke)."

We explain that this is what the doctor ordered, and that in fact my cervix has been measured before in a non-intrusive way. But this serves no purpose. She called the doctor she reports to, called my nurse back at the hospital, demanded a faxed prescription for the measurements (which she claimed she didn't have)...hell, she might have called President Obama about the matter.

After about 30 minutes lying down on a table with gel on my exposed belly, she was satisfied enough by her Spanish Inquisition to begin the exam. Things continued to go downhill from there, as she shook her head and mumbled under her breath that my fluid level was very low. (Only later did she note that the baby can hide the pockets of fluid, preventing her from being able to measure two of the four quadrants.) By this point, I was starting to quietly lose it. In the meantime, she stumbles around the room, getting ready to measure my cervix. Then came the following:

"Okay, we're just going to have you lower your legs. Hmmmm, I just need to figure out how this is going to work. It's been a really long time since I've done this."

In my head, I said, "Bitch, back the hell up off my cervix with your uneducated, non-knowing-how-to-perform-a-routine-exam ass!!"

In reality, I shot Brad one look as she stepped out of the room to get an education. And Brad knew to take that look and translate it back to her as, "We're outta here."

At that point, we still had to wait for our "report" to share with the doctor. It was supposed to take one minute. But we waited...and waited...and waited. And that's not the worst part. As we sat in that lobby, I started to get a whiff of something funky. Moments later, a staffer walked out spraying a can of Lysol, leading right up to a small, open trash can. Oh...no...she did-nt just fish a dirty diaper out of there. Whoooooo throws an unconcealed, shit-filled diaper into an office trash can in a public lobby?? This reminds me of the Google freaks, changing their baby on the floor of the cafe, then wielding the dirty diaper through the dessert trays like bio-terrorists before tossing the mess into a nearby compost bin. Really.

Let the countdown begin, because I am soooooo done.

You're Going to Force Feed My Baby?

So you know how in prison, the inmates trade goods with one another? Yeah, well so today, I traded my O Magazine to a nurse for some "Sweet Pea" body wash she stored in her locker. What has become of my life?

There were a couple of highlights today (aside from the nice soap). The first was my second trip out and about. Yes, we take the same route each time, because anything not along the water would simply take me through parking lots. But it's lovely! And the weather is really great now - it's in the low '80s and very breezy. Adding to the excitement was my doc's prescription for some (very limited) walking! So I actually walked the length of a hallway after we returned from our trip - and I didn't even fall over. That practice going back and forth between my bed and the bathroom has apparently been a great training regimen.

We also spoke to one of the Neonatologists today, who we've been trying to nail down for a couple of days, and he provided us with much more of a roadmap than we've had since getting here. As a 34-weeker, our little guy (or big guy, since he's now weighing in over 5 pounds - can you imagine him at 40 weeks??) thankfully escapes the biggest preemie concerns. The main issue he is likely to face is eating (hard to believe, coming from Brad and me). Essentially, his sucking and swallowing skills may not yet be fully up and running, which may require supplemented gavage feeding. I've always associated this practice with the production of foie gras - and it rather disturbs me to think of my baby as a duck or goose. But I digress. He is likely to figure things out within 3 to 10 days post-delivery, at which point he could be discharged and whisked straight to the airport. Pretty incredible! Bottom line - the likelihood of us being home for Thanksgiving is very strong.

Somehow, the big debate today seemed to be whether or not I am actually still leaking amniotic fluid. I'm not sure why this was debatable, considering that they performed a swab test yesterday that confirmed I am still leaking. It's also fairly apparent when fluid is coming out of you, but no one seems to want to listen to me. Everyone (especially today's doctor) seems to be trying to will me to seal over and go back home to San Francisco. Let me tell you something - sealed or not - I ain't coming home without a baby. I am not getting on a plane 34 weeks pregnant, just so that I can land at SFO and have to be rushed to the hospital for more bed rest. I have come to terms with my Miami baby and his November 14th birthday, and we're not changing the plan.

On the agenda for tomorrow - back to Perinatology - somebody call the cops, that'll be 3 days outside in a row!

Shut the Door and Get Me Out of Here!

The morning began at 5 am when my monitor ran out of paper. It has to be replaced every 8 hours, which means that more often than not, I get an unfortunate wake-up call at ass o'clock in the form of the most annoying "Doo doo dooo" alarm. Upon hearing this noise, I press the nurse call button (unless the nurse is really on top of it and manages to come in and change the paper right before or as the alarm is going off). These days, she just comes in and changes the paper without bothering me, which is nice - it used to be that I could also expect to have my vitals taken at this time.

For reasons completely unknown to me, the nurse left the door ajar when she left the room. What the hell? Seeing as it takes me a couple of minutes to actually get out of bed by the time I unhook my compression boots and disconnect myself from the monitor, I was none too excited to have the light from the hallway shining into my room. So I lay in bed for a few minutes, considering whether or not I could sleep with the door of my hospital room open. Futile.

Around 7:30, the door opened again. Now what?? It was too early for a visit from the doctor or breakfast. I swear to God, if someone had walked in to tell me I was "irritable," I would have punched them in the face.

So I didn't open my eyes and pretended to keep sleeping - this is a powerful hospital trick.

"Sleeping," someone whispers.
"Trying," I think to myself.

They exit, seemingly having done nothing, and leave the door ajar again. DAMNIT!!

This time I refuse to get up and close it.

9 am, someone is back. OMG, will this ever end? I pull my fake sleeping act again. I hear them put down my breakfast tray, and then they leave. Now the door is almost ALL THE WAY OPEN.

Okay, is this the world's most passive-aggressive attempt to force me to wake up? For what? So that I can make it to church on time?? GO AWAY!

This time, I get up and shut the door. As I do, I look around my room and start to feel my head pounding. And then it hits me - I've got to get the hell out of here. I need to leave the confines of this room and get some fresh air, even if I have to throw a brick through a window and stick my head out of it like a dog.

When Brad woke up (mysteriously, he slept through all of this), I told him I was losing it. I was certain that this bed rest prescription without outdoor privileges (minus the weekly Perinatology trip) was no longer good for my health. And so he did what the best husband in the world would do, of course. He marched to the nurse's station while I was in the bathroom, and politely demanded that he be given a wheelchair to take me outside. Apparently, the nurses were confused and asked Brad if the doctor had approved this. He answered in a roundabout manner that almost satisfied them.

10 minutes later, after he'd returned to the room, the doctor showed up.

Doc: "I understand you're getting a bit crazy in here."
Me: "Yes..."
Doc: "So we're going to let you go outside today. It's a beautiful day, you've been very good, and you should enjoy it."
Me: "Oh thank God!!"
Brad: "So I can take her out myself for 15 minutes, maybe 30?"
Doc: "Yes, 15-30."

After waiting an inordinate amount of time for a wheelchair to show up in a place where people, you know, need them, Brad lost his patience and found one on his own. Decked out in my "going out" robe and sandals, we hit the pavement. Hurricane Ida's wind blew through my hair (and thank God I'm still rocking this blow-out, else my hair would not have moved) - and it was awesome.

When we returned to the room after 40 minutes (shhhh), I felt so vindicated. And so I settled into the rest of my day - no pounding headache, no dog-like symptoms - and the hope that tomorrow's doctor has as much mercy on me.

It's Just Not That Interesting

Believe it or not, I actually have nothing to say. After watching Stanford outplay 8th ranked Oregon and beat them 51-42, I'm at a loss for words. No, this is not basketball - it's football.

Otherwise, today was very mellow. Because you know, I've spent all those other days just getting wild and crazy within the confines of my labor and delivery room. And speaking of my labor and delivery room, I'm a little creeped out by the notion that I will be having a baby in here. I feel like the room should be more "medical," but maybe that's just me. I might as well be giving birth at home in this set-up. But I digress. The big news here seems to be the anticipated arrival of Tropical Storm Ida. I am not amused. Brad, on the other hand, seems unbothered.

When not watching football, I've spent the day looking at the clock and wondering if, exactly a week from now, I'll have a baby. It's very surreal to think that in such a short matter of time, I will no longer be pregnant, and actually will be responsible for another human life. Here's when I really start hoping that dogs and babies aren't all that different. Shut up, let me have my fantasy.

And so with that, I'm going to sign off. Don't abandon the blog just because this post was short and not that interesting. I'll come back with a bang soon enough - trust me.