Our New "Normal"

So the most apt quote I've heard about the NICU comes from one of Rigby's NMP's and it went something like this:

"Being in the NICU is like being on a roller coaster with a blindfold on.  You never know when you're on your way up or down, or when you're nearing the end, and it's terrifying the entire time."

To say our life has been a roller coaster for the last two weeks is really an understatement.  Rigby has had three "go home" dates scheduled for him... and just in time for each, he's managed to do something that earns him more quality NICU time.

Rigby's got some pretty substantial reflux problems.  He refluxes so badly, that he needs to hold his breath to protect his airway.  Sometimes when he does this, he holds his breath so long that he turns blue.  It is utterly terrifying.  Definitely the worst part of the roller coaster ride.

When he had his first "spell," I was reduced to hysterical tears.  Now, three spells later, I still get pretty freaked out.  But I deal.

The bottom line is they will not let him come home until he can go a week without having another apneic episode.  I am glad for this.  If he was home when these spells happened, there's a chance he wouldn't come out of it. Where he's at, he's constantly monitored and has excellent nurses to help him out when he can't bring himself around.  He's exactly where I want him to be when and if he has another spell.

The problem is, each spell means another week in the NICU.  Another week where I feel like a celebrity mom with highly-paid nannies who doesn't REALLY get to raise her baby, and not like a REAL mom.

Every one told us to enjoy life before the baby, because we'd never go out to dinner/movies/anything ever again.  Well, we're still going out to dinner (thanks to my VERY generous mom).  We'll be sitting in a restaurant, and all I can think about is that my life seems pretty much the same (minus the massive sleep deprivation) as it was before Rigby... and I want it to be totally different.

I want to be home with him, changing his diapers, and being stuck at home for long evenings with the baby.  I WANT to not be able to go out to dinner.  I just want him home, safe and sound, like any other normal baby.

But if he was, maybe he wouldn't look this cute:

He's so beautiful, it makes my heart hurt.

And it this is the only way I get him, I'll take him this way.  I can make it a few more weeks with this new "normal." He's worth every second.

Rigby James Norman: 6lbs 8 oz. on April 12, 2011 at 7:26 pm

Our beautiful baby boy is here. 

And he is perfect.

Seriously, I look at him, and I know rationally that it isn't really possible that he is the most beautiful baby on the planet.  But that's what I see. 

Every time we go down to see him in the NICU, he gets more and more handsome.  All the pictures I have on this computer right now are from his first 12 hours, and I promise he just gets cuter as time passes. I will eventually get more pics up.

James nailed it on the head this morning when he said this to our NICU nurse:
"I never understood why my siblings took hundreds and hundreds of pictures of their babies before.  Now I understand."

It's awesome to watch James be enamored of his baby.

We have to bargain with each other for who gets how much kangaroo-care (skin-to-skin) time with him.  Although, with James, he says it's more like Grizzly Bear (skin to hairy chest) care :)

So, here's the story:
Around 6 p.m. on Monday night, they took us down to Labor and Delivery to start administering the drug that would soften my cervix.  Neither James nor I could really sleep a wink. James was excited and sleeping on a bench.  I was nervous out of my MIND.  Needless to say, by the time morning arrived, we were both basically miserable, running on NO sleep and nerves.

At 9 a.m., they started administering pitocen to start my labor.  I was at 1 c.m. at 90% effaced...

FOUR HOURS LATER, I was still at 1 c.m. and 90% effaced.  Every half hour, they would up the pitocen to no effect.  It was infuriating.  I was horribly crampy, but the monitor showed no real contractions, it just stayed at a higher than normal level.  Gradually, this got more and more painful.  Finally, my doctor came in and broke my water (whereas before it had only been leaking) and put an internal monitor to see if I really wasn't contracting at all.  The new monitor revealed that basically, I never stopped contracting.  Wave upon wave upon wave of contractions were hitting me with no respite in between.  Within the hour, I was begging for the epidural.  If you know me and needles, this is somewhat ironic. 

I have to say, the anesthesiologist was an all-star.  I really didn't feel much at all, and never had to see what was going on.  James, on the other hand, had a front row seat to the epidural needle show, and nearly passed out! Fortunately, I was too distracted by contractions to notice ALL the blood drain from his face.  Otherwise, I might have gotten worried.

About an hour after my epidural, the nurse checked me again.  I was sure there could not have been all that much progress.  I was wrong.  I was 5 c.m.

An hour later, I was 9 c.m.

Twenty minutes later, it was time to push.

I will say this: in my humble opinion, epidurals are one of the greatest inventions of our time.  Labor was hard work, but doable.  I can't imagine what it would have been like trying to do that work while dealing with the pre-epidural pain.  I have INCREDIBLE respect for my female ancestors that managed to do so; I just don't really envision myself ever doing so after this experience.

After a few "practice" pushes, they quickly wheeled me into the Operating Room where I would deliver Rigby.  It had a pass-through window to the NICU where his teams of nurses awaited his arrival, as well.

About 20 minutes later, Rigby made his grand entrance.  It was completely surreal.  My doctor laid him on my stomach where James and I gazed at him in disbelief for about a minute.  Then, swiftly they whisked him away to NICU. 

I could hardly believe I had a baby.  The epidural was still going strong, so I didn't FEEL like I'd just delivered a baby, plus there was no baby to be seen.  This was incredibly weird.  I didn't feel like I'd had the chance to absorb the fact that he was really real. 

James did, though.  Pretty quickly afterward, James got to go to NICU and see our baby boy.
His head was a little lop-sided from my pushing, as was his nose.  Rigby had tricked our doctor into thinking he was turned the correct way - towards my spine.  Turns out he was pointed upwards, and as a result, had a bit of a jostle with my pubic bone.  James took tons of pictures, and hurried back to the room to show me.

It was like looking at a stranger. I still wasn't absorbing who this little person was.  He definitely had the same mouth as all my baby pictures.  And dark hair like us.  And a high forehead like us.  But I didn't know him. 

I finally got to hold my baby a few hours later, after multiple examinations and prodding.  By now, I was loopy from exhaustion and pain killers.  But I finally felt  something; a underlying connection between me and this little pink-faced baby who looked at James and I with an expression of consternation and confusion. 

Every time I've gone to the NICU since, that feeling has swelled to greater proportions.  There is nothing more heavenly than having my sweet Rigby fall asleep on my chest.  The fact that my heartbeat, smell and voice calm him, and raise his oxygen saturation higher is one of the most contented, fulfilling feelings I've ever had in my life. And I get a lifetime of this. 

Well... maybe not a lifetime of kangaroo-care.  But a lifetime of him. 
And I couldn't be happier.

The Countdown Begins in Earnest!

Well, just a little bit ago, our doctor came to give us the rundown on the next 48 hours or so.  Tomorrow at 5 p.m., I will be taken down to Labor and Delivery where they will start the medication to soften my cervix (sorry if that's too much info for anyone!).  Sometime early Tuesday morning, they will start pitocin, and likely sometime before 5 or 6, Rigby will be here. 

That is insane to me.

It is the most overwhelming mix of emotions:  Relief that I made it this long without delivering him.  Disbelief that he will actually be here that soon.  Fear for the labor part.  Excitement to see what he looks like.  Nervousness about really not knowing what comes next. And many more emotions that I can't even really put a finger on.

The resultant mix of emotions is like mystery meat.  You think you can guess at some of the ingredients, but the product as a whole is largely unidentifiable, and you don't know how to feel about it.  I have dealt with this world of uncertainty be eating a bag of Milano cookies almost entirely by myself in less than 24 hours.  (Thanks, Kristin, they were fabulous!) Perhaps not the healthiest way to process my feelings.  But then I tell myself the window of time I can legitimately claim to be eating for two is quickly closing, and I might as well take advantage of it while I can.

It's weird to think that from now on, I'll be a mom.  In a lot of ways, I feel like I still rely on and need my own mom so much.  How do people do this when they are 19 and 20? I feel like a very responsible human being, and I hardly know what to do with myself.  I can't imagine what this would have been like when I was 21-24 and still figuring out who I was.  James is so cool and confident about it.  It's one of the things I love most about him.  He just confronts things.  He doesn't let his mind frazzle him with worry.  He just takes the next step.  He's like the living embodiment of the Elder Wirthlin quote - Come what may and love it.  Of course, he's not the one having to squeeze a person out of him in the next 48 hours, so perhaps it's not really fair to compare my nerves with his. 

 At any rate, the good news is, the amount of time I have to worry about these things is finite.  The hours will pass, and then Rigby will be here, and I won't be able to sit and obsess and worry; I'll be able to DO.  That's something to look forward to.  That, and finally meeting the little stranger that's been growing inside of me for the last 34 weeks... that will be pretty darn cool.

The Breaking Point

Ok, it's official.  Rigby and I are on the same page on this one, we are DONE with this place!

MOST of the staff (with one notable exception who shall be FULLY discussed in a moment) have been completely lovely, supportive and calming.  It's not their fault.  It's just that a week away from your own bed when you're NOT on vacation is just awful.  Also - it is IMPOSSIBLE to cuddle with your husband in a hospital bed.  The best you can hope for is to awkwardly hold his hand as he tries to get comfortable in the Naugahyde rocking chair clearly much to small for him. 

Last night, just before James left to spend the night with our increasingly neurotic and frantic dogs, I reached my end point.  I just wanted to go home with him.  Nothing sounded more heavenly than cuddling on our couch with our dogs just being US instead of being "patients."  I was done with this hospital stay, for sure.

This morning, it quickly became apparent that Rigby shares my sentiments.  He gets monitored on two different types of machines each day - a fetal heart tone Doppler where they just listen to his heart rate for a minute or so, and then a more lengthy non-stress test where they hook me up to monitors that keep track of his heart rate for 20 minutes and see if I'm having any contractions (which I never am.)  Both machines use sound waves, and as the days have gone on, I've felt him get increasingly more agitated when he's monitored.  This morning, however, he took it to a whole new level. 

First, he wouldn't sit still for the short fetal heart tone monitoring.  The nurse had to satisfy herself with listening to the heart rate in the placenta, since he wouldn't stay put.  Then we went downstairs for the non-stress test...

Basically, for half an hour, it looked like earthquake tremors were shaking my stomach.  He was clearly PISSED at the barrage of sound.  My little monster kicked, punched, rolled and squirmed.  The nurse irritatingly told me that I'd have to stay on until she could establish his "baseline."  We tried rolling me in different positions, and nothing seemed like it was going to work.  Rigby was tired of playing by their rules; willful disobedience took over. 

I have a feeling this personality trait will blossom into something much less easy to contain once Rigby's actually here.  I should try to squelch it early I guess.  The problem is, it's already my favorite part of him.  Maybe I interpret too much out of the actions of my semi-conscious fetus, but to me, it's like he's sticking it to The Man in utero.  Strident stubbornness and an inborn unassailable belief that your way is the only right way is a trait both mommy and daddy have in spades.  I like to think we've passed that on to our little rebel.

Anyway, back to the monitoring.  When laying on different sides didn't seem to work well, I tried talking to him.  This was slightly awkward, since all that separated me from the other moms being monitored was a series of curtains.  The nurse probably thought I was nuts, too.  Don't worry, I didn't try to rationalize with a fetus.  I just started talking outloud, thinking maybe something about my voice would calm him down a little bit.  Honestly, either the kid got tired from all his antics and fell asleep, or maybe me talking to him did calm him down a little bit, because finally he stayed relatively still enough to get a baseline.  I didn't tell him he's still got to make it through at least 3 more days of monitoring... That just seemed cruel :)

As for the WORST STAFF EVER, I can now officially say I've met the employee at this hospital with the worst bedside manner imaginable.

Every day, I'm supposed to spend the majority of the time wearing some plug-in compression stockings that help make sure I don't develop any blood clots.  I realize that this is important.  It's just that these stupid things are constrictive, non-breathable, and make me get really warm ON TOP of the inflated warmness I already experience as a result of being pregnant.  They suck.  Bottom line. 

Apparently, SOMEONE (and I will find out who) told on me, that I wasn't being a model patient and wearing them as much as I should.  They sicked this old lady on me, who is apparently in charge of "education" on the maternity floors.  Here's our exchange, in as exact detail as I can render it:

Old Lady: So, it doesn't look like you're wearing your stockings much.
Me: Yeah, I know I should, I'm sorry.
Old Lady: Do you want me to put them on right now?
Me: (already not liking her tone) No... my husband will put them on as soon as you leave, I promise.
Old Lady: (eyes narrowing) You know this is really serious.  Do you know why you're supposed to wear them?
Me:(perhaps annoyance is already flittering across my face) Yes.  They are to prevent blood clots.  I promise I will wear them.
Old Lady: (adopting a more intimidating, I'll-show-you kind of manner) Well, just so YOU take this seriously, blood clots are the leading cause of maternal death in this country.  And it happens more often than you think.  So you really need to put them on.
Me: (probably not keeping the pissed-off-ness out of my voice very much) I understand.  As soon as you LEAVE I will put them on.
James: (several audible snorts of laughter spontaneously emit from him during this last part of our exchange)

What I WISH I'd said: Listen, you horrible old woman.  Clearly, your favorite part of your job is the fake authority you get to wield over people as you wander through the halls telling them what to do.  You're probably under the delusion that your scare tactics are effective.  They are NOT.  Do you know what is? The thought that if I wear these stupid things, you will never come into my room again.  That is why they are on right now.  That is the ONLY REASON why. And if you come into my room again, I will remove them and never put them back on again to teach YOU a lesson.  I don't know if you noticed, but I've got enough things on my plate to worry about right now.  Perhaps you didn't care to read (or have too bad of eye sight to see) the part on the chart that says I'm here because my baby is coming several weeks too early, and he might suffer complications from his preterm birth.  Maybe you missed the note on there as well that I'm dealing with preeclampsia, another threat to both of our health.  TRUST ME.  I have enough things to freak out about without you not-so-subtly suggesting that I'm going to die unless I wear your damn socks.  So, bite me old lady.  Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure something is going to take you out sooner than me.  And at least I will have the decency not to lecture you about something you were probably already aware of, just to make you feel bad about yourself.

...Ok, maybe I don't wish I'd said ALL of that. But at least part of it.  Like I said before, Rigby and I are ready to be OUT of here!

T- minus 6 Days and Counting...

So, we made it through Wednesday, which means we are now six days closer to Rigby making his advanced-screening appearance.  It's amazing how much lying around all day will take out of you.  Seriously. It's the cat-napping part that's the worst.  It's not the nurses' faults.  They're just doing their job.  It's just that their job involves strapping a highly uncomfortable blood pressure cuff around my arm that inflates till my hand is tingly and painful, all the while emitting a painful, bleating sort of sound that suggests the machine is as pissed at being asked to do something at 3 a.m. as I am.  Then there's the thermometer-in-ear thing, which is not too invasive, and really, seems like it should be no big deal.  But then you must recall that I am a worrier of Olympic proportions, and I know exactly the tenth degree at which my temperature will be deemed too high and require the immediate delivery of a baby.  As such, what normally could go almost entirely ignored in these late night nurse visits for me, turns instead into a groggy awakening followed by a jolt of surefire adrenaline and panic, followed by grasping at the nurse, asking her what the result was.  The poor lady.  It's not like she's telling me if my husband made it off the Titanic, or if a recent life-saving surgery had been completed safely... I'm just asking what my temperature is.  And this fiasco plays out three times throughout my normal REM cycle sleep time. Needless to say, the result is me spending the rest of my day in a drugged stupor, where simple questions annoy and confuse. Like today, when we were down visiting the NICU (more on that later) and meeting some other parents with babies currently in there.  One lady asked my "gestational age" a couple of different times.  I kept hearing "adjusted age" and all I could think of were adjusted scores for grading curves and things like that.  I kept loudly pronouncing that I didn't understand what adjusted age meant, and that I was new here.  Finally, thinking I might be retarded, a nice mom said "It's how old they are in weeks in utero.  You know, their gestation."
Aaaaaand, then I felt stupid and didn't talk for the rest of the evening.

I also got told I have an "irritable uterus" today when I went for my non-stress test.  What did my much-abused uterus do to deserve this rather harsh moniker, you ask?  Well, as many of you ladies know, on a monitor, contractions look like little hills with valleys in between.  My read out today looked like the little scalloped edge of a party napkin- way too close and tiny to each other to be real contractions.  This lead the nurse to proclaim (louder than I felt was entirely necessary) that I had an "irritable uterus."
The going on 3 hours of Ambien-induced sleep part of me immediately wanted to punch her in the ovaries and ask who had an irritable uterus now? Fortunately, saner heads prevailed, and I consented to be wheeled back to my room in silence, where I promptly passed back into the interrupted Ambien stupor and proceeded to drool all over my pillow.  It was a decent afternoon.

However, the important thing I keep trying to remind myself of at every irritating moment, is that Rigby is doing well.  His heart rates always look great, he's moving around, and every day, he gets stronger and bigger.  I never thought I'd need to wish for a bigger baby, but now, I welcome it!

Highlights/Lowlights of Hospital Stay So Far...

Well, the good news is, it appears that for the moment, Rigby has reconsidered his exit strategy.  Personally, I believe this is because now he is under more intense scrutiny, and is constantly being bombarded by ultra-sound check ups.  I can tell he resents these, as he squirms and tries to move away from the waves of sound bombarding him, likely making it difficult for him to plan future break-out plans with any regularity. This is a good thing, and it makes me glad.  It does, however, come with some baggage that is NOT as exciting.  Which brings us to the Highlights and Lowlights of this hospital stay so far:

Highlight: Rigby seems to be staying put for now.  Though I could still go into labor any time in the next 9 days, each day I don't makes it a little more likely he will make it to the 12th. This is great, because every day he stays where he is, he will spend two less days in NICU when he does show up. 

Lowlight: Since Rigby's staying put, I am too.  Don't get me wrong; I INFINITELY prefer him cooking for as long as possible.  But no one in their right mind would voluntarily spend nine days in the hospital, for the food alone.  It's not that it's BAD.  It's that it's all the same.  It reminds me of school lunches as a kid, where you recognize that the rolls/salad/sides that didn't get used the day before make a return appearance the next day.  Breakfast is particularly mournful.  How many times can one re-hydrate potatoes before they CEASE to be potatoes?

Highlight: The call button makes me feel like God.  It glows at me on the side of my bed, and any time I have the slightest whim, I get to push it and make the nurses/CNA's come running at my beck and call.  For the first 24 hours, I felt like I was directing my minions, and I think the power definitely went to my head.  I did not, however, anticipate the subtle uprising my minions would engage in.

Lowlight: The call button works both ways.  Yes, it brings the staff scurrying.  But when they come, now they come with EXTRA things.  Wearing a smiling face, they'll hand me an extra pill and say "you looked like you could use a stool softener."  Um... gross.  YOU look like you could use a stool softener.  Also, some bossy person at the front desk can page ME in my bed and tell me to clear off my bedside table because another lovely hospital meal is evident.  Firstly, I don't think I WANT to know when a load more of hospital food is heading my way.  It actually makes me less hungry, not more. Secondly, I never liked being told by my mother to clean my room as a child.  Displaying the stubbornness apparently passed down to my little one, I would deliberately NOT clean my room for longer to make my point.  This is less effective with disembodied-voice lady, because SHE never sees if I blatantly disobey her.  The poor cafeteria staff have to deal with my civil disobedience.  And you can tell they already probably feel bad enough about bringing the food. It is a conundrum, indeed.

Highlight: (or what I thought would be a highlight) Bedrest.  While I was still working over 40 hours a week, I really believed bedrest sounded tempting.  And the first day, when I got to cat nap several times without feeling an impending sense of panic that I really should be doing something else, it was kind of nice. 

Lowlight: Bedrest.  I know better now.  Firstly, there is no continuous sleep.  There are only uncomfortable cat naps.  Secondly, there's a spot in the middle of my back that hurts no matter what position I try to sit/lie in.  Thirdly, the scenery never changes.  And lastly, I am stuck here; every body I love is not.  They have their own lives that need tending to, and can't simply stop everything to sit in this tiny room with me and help me stare at the walls.  Even James.  Poor guy, after two nights sleeping on the "couch" in my room curled up in the fetal position, I sent him home last night to get a real night's sleep.  He's been such a trooper.  After going home last night, he offered more than once to come back and spend the night with me instead.  And I know he would have done it.  But there's no reason for BOTH of us not to sleep and slowly lose our sanity.  They come in and check my vitals every four hours, which necessitates waking James up, too, for no good reason.  I think I should earn MAJOR good wife points for selflessly sending him home to our lovely, king-sized bed, which I am hopeful will translate into illicit treats he brings me from the "outside" when he returns.

So, there you have it.  What's been on my mind for the last couple hours as I could not get back to sleep.  Feel free to interrupt the monotony as often as you'd like; I promise I won't mind!

Because everybody with a baby needs a blog?

As any 20-something married in Utah knows, it is pretty much the 11th commandment to blog.  Some of us do it in an effort to satire (my personal favorite).  Others of us just do it to communicate with friends and family the funny details of day-to-day life to stay connected. Yet others of us still, I'm convinced, blog to make sure the rest of the world knows what FANTASTIC people they are being.  While I myself generally favor the satire road, there are still elements of the other two veins that appeal, enough so that ever since we got married two and a half years ago, I've felt the nagging urge to blog. 

Here's the problem, though.  We really didn't have too many things I felt I could really blog ABOUT.  Yeah, we're insanely happily married.  Yeah, James is the funniest person I know, and DAILY there are James-isms that I feel ought to be shared with the world.  Yeah, our dogs are super cute.  But if I filled blog with these things, the inborn editor in me would probably throw up in my mouth a little bit.  Because we aren't THOSE kind of people.  We're the Normans. And nothing about that sickly-sweet idea of blogging about our perfect marriage, perfect life, perfect home, etc. appealed to James or I.  We agreed that when we had a baby, then it would be a good idea to blog.  I mean, people would want to see/hear things about a baby.  Well, at least family would, and it wouldn't seem so much like an ongoing litany of our own awesomeness as much as a legitimate thing to share with friends and family who couldn't witness said baby's progression in person.

So that was our agreement. No blog till baby.  And that wasn't supposed to happen until May 24, 2011, when THIS baby was supposed to make his grand entrance.

Rigby James Norman is only 32 weeks along, and apparently impatient of making his arrival.  Like his dad, impatience and stubbornness already seem to be governing his tiny personality.  Just when I thought I had 8 weeks to think of a clever title for my satirical/informative/maybeslightlybragging blog, suddenly Rigby went from an idea that occasionally socked me in the stomach to a very real little human being whose opinion on his arrival was VERY different from my own.

Yesterday, my "membranes ruptured."  A gross term for saying that my water "broke," or more appropriately, "leaked," which actually is just another slightly gross idea.  While he seems content to camp out for the moment, the result of Rigby's in utero coup for freedom is that, whether he wants to or not now, he will have to be delivered no later than 34 weeks to prevent infection.  For those of you counting, that's 10 days.  TEN DAYS.  And that's if my body doesn't decide to go into labor to counter act Rigby's little act of defiance and show him whose REALLY boss. 

So suddenly, my plan for the next 8 weeks has drastically altered.  Whereas I thought I'd spend my time actually getting my head around the idea of having a baby in 2 months, now I have to get my head around the idea of a baby in 10 days or less.  Crazy.  And not just any baby.  A Norman baby.  A Norman baby who at 32 weeks already weighs about 5lbs 9oz, with an apparently developing sense of humor - after all, my water ruptured on April Fool's Day.  A Norman baby who will spend at least 2 weeks or so in NICU so that his tiny lungs can learn how to breathe outside of me.  I won't lie - it's scary, and definitely does NOT comport with the plan I had in my mind about starting our little family.  But if I've learned anything from three years of being with James, it's that our impulsive decisions are often our best ones (see: our decision to get married after dating 1 week; our decision to get our awesome dog on a whim; our decision to get pregnant; et. all).  I guess we shouldn't be surprised that Rigby's demonstrating the same tendency.

Until his arrival, I am stuck on bed rest at the hospital.  Which, it turns out, is highly boring AND inherently humorous at the same time.  I anticipate the next few days will reflect some of these moments.  That is, unless this show gets going and Rigby arrives.  In that case, I'm sure this will be much more about him.  How can you blame me?  His tiny act of defiance marks him as our own already.  Much as I want him to stay put and cook a little longer, I'm terribly intrigued by this tiny force of will currently holding my body hostage.  Hopefully, you're all (almost) as excited to meet him as we are :)