I've moved my blog!

www.Lindeselephants.com

Prenatal Letters, 7 weeks 1 day

Dear pumpkin,

That's the name your Dad and I gave you last week. I think it's pretty adorable. Apparently you are the size of a rasperry today. I seem to realize your existence as your "fruit" gains in size. 

I read someone's description of pregnancy as me being two people at once, you are not yet realized as your own being, and I am no longer just me. I've been thinking about this a lot. I get a huge sense comfort and love when I think about this idea. You're always with me now, and I'll always be with you. This is the beginning of a bond that with last for eternity. I'm really in awe over it. 

We're in Chicago right now, visiting your Aunt Sara and Spikes, Regan and Alhambra are all here too. This is your first trip outside of Minnesota, your first airplane ride. Your father and I love to travel. We hope to instill this love in you as well. I can't begin to describe how much travel has given me. 

With each week that passes, we tell more people about you. Your Grandma and Grandpa Gove know, and are very excited. So are your aunts Sara and Natalie. Regan, spikes, and Alhambra also know. They were surprised and excited. Your grandpa Joe also knows, and he's thrilled. We all really can't wait to meet you. Only 33 weeks to go! 

Love Mom

Ultrasound at 10 weeks

7/6/13

I wrote these letters periodically throughout my pregnancy, and they really fill my heart now. I thought today about the idea of being two people at once while pregnant, and I felt a small sense of loss knowing that that is no longer the case. You are really your own being now, and you show us more of your being each day. 

Linde Jane, Your Birth Story

You are here, you're our daughter, and you entered the world very dramatically. We took you home from the hospital on May 23^rd. I dressed you in your navy blue outfit with the tiny white elephants, and we drove home on a sunny early summer day. The world looked like a completely new place, like I had just been born as well.

Let's just start by saying that nothing about how you entered this world went as your Father and I planned, except the fact that you are here and you are perfect. Your birth story really starts when I was about 34 weeks pregnant. We visited the midwife, who felt my belly and determined you were head down. I was so relieved, this was one less thing to worry about. I continued my prenatal yoga practice, and whole heartedly performed my deep squats and Goddess poses knowing your head was rooted in my pelvis. 

On our next visit to the Birth Center, to our surprise, the midwife felt my belly and found you to be head up. She thought maybe you flipped, but I think you were head up all along. I'd been feeling a large bump in my ribs for weeks, and it was always a little to large, round and hard to be your butt. The midwife confirmed your position with an ultrasound. I was devastated, I immediately knew your breech position meant I wouldn't be able to give birth at the Birth Center, and there was a good chance I'd need to have a scheduled c-section. My hopes for a natural birth were disappearing before my eyes. The midwife gave me a few resources for strategies for flipping breech babies, and we got started that day.

I started at home with the inversions, balancing head first off the couch and hanging up-side-down on your Grandfather's inversion table. I visited the chiropractor multiple times a week, and saw the acupuncturist, who performed moxibustion. I wore a belly band at work to prevent you from slipping too deep into my pelvis, and to prevent a spasm of my round ligaments. I wore an ankle taping to strengthen my ankle ligaments in hopes of straightening out a twist in my pelvis. We saw an obstetrician who attempted a manual external version, which was very painful for me, and probably not awesome for you. Needless to say, we tried everything. Though I held out hope, and was boosted by stories of babies flipping the day of delivery, I started to believe that there was a reason for your position and I was trying to force something that was not meant to be.

During the weeks when we were trying to flip you, people started to mention Dr. Hartung. He was an OB out of Hudson that continued to practice the disappearing art of vaginal breech delivery. Many people in the birth community knew who he was, including the midwives, the chiropractors, and the folks at Blooma, my prenatal yoga center. I did some research, and made an appointment with him, knowing I needed to explore this option. He squeezed us in at the last minute when I was 38 weeks pregnant.

Having done the research, I knew there were a number of criteria we needed to meet in order to attempt a breech delivery. You needed to be frank breech, not too big, and have your head flexed in the right position. When these criteria were met, outcomes for vaginal delivery were the same as cesarean section for breech babies, despite lower initial Apgar scores. We saw Dr. Hartung, and discovered you met all these criteria, and we were good candidates for vaginal delivery.

Despite Dr. Hartung's confidence, I continued to be unsure of the best way to deliver you. I believed strongly that I needed to go into labor spontaneously, and that the process of labor and delivery was very important to your health, and mine. There are risks with scheduled c-sections, but there were also risks with breech delivery. Everyone had an opinion, and I struggled with it until the day you were born, frustrated that the right choice didn't reveal itself clearly. We made to choice to deliver you the old fashioned way, knowing we could change our minds at anytime. For the first time in weeks, I felt relief, knowing we had a plan. When I went into labor, we would deliver you with Dr. Hartung at Woodwinds Hospital, unless you flipped. In that case we would return to the Birth Center to deliver you there.

It was May 15^th, my 32^nd birthday. Your Dad was at work, and I took myself to the salon to get one last pedicure before your arrival. As I was waiting for my toes to dry, a huge wave of nausea hit me. I thought maybe it was the nail salon fumes, but knew that this was also an early sign of labor. When it didn't pass after a few minutes, I headed home to avoid barfing in public. I came home and threw up, this was the only time I threw up during my entire pregnancy. I laid on the couch and waited to see if anything else would happen. Soon enough I felt a strange sensation, and low and behold, my water broke. It was 1pm, I never expected my water to break. I ran to the bathroom with my phone, and called your Dad. He was in Chaska, and rushed home within minutes. I called Dr. Hartung, and he told me I could wait at home until my contractions were 6-8 minutes apart. I made myself a sandwich, cleaned up the house a bit, and barely breathed I was so nervous. The contractions seemed a little irregular, but they also seemed to be getting closer together. I this point, they didn't hurt too bad. They just felt like terrible cramps, and caused me to breathe a little deeper. After about an hour, I called Dr. Hartung, and told him we were heading toward the hospital.

We arrived around 3pm, and got set up in our room. Dr. Hartung arrived and we talked though the plan. I gave him our birth plan, and told him one important thing was that I didn't want to know how dilated I was. At the birth center, they would not have checked my cervix, and I was unsure how I would deal with knowing how things were progressing in this way. I thought it better not to know. There wasn't too much else to cover, I knew I couldn't have an epidural, and wouldn't get Pitocin, as these were contraindicated in a breech delivery. I just stressed that I wanted you to be given to me immediately, and have you stay there as long as we wanted. This was incredibly important to me, and the impossibility of this was one of the reasons I really didn't want a c-section. Dr. Hartung agreed, and decided to check as see how dilated I was, without thinking he immediately said “4 centimeters.” He quickly realized what he did, and apologized profusely. I was already over it, I was glad to know, and unsure of why I didn't want to know in the first place.

I continued to labor for the next few hours. Dr. Hartung went home to eat some dinner, and your Dad and I walked the halls of the hospital. The contractions didn't really seem to be getting that much worse, but they did get closer together. We went back to the room, and your Dad ate some dinner. I sat on the birth ball, and continued to let the contractions wave over me. Dr. Hartung came back to the hospital and decided to check me again. This time I was six and a half centimeters. Things were moving along. Dr. Hartung suggested I get in the tub, and I thought it was worth trying. I climbed in, and floated in the water as the contractions came and went. They started to become strong enough that I couldn't talk, and instead hummed deeply until they passed. I'm not sure how long I was in there, maybe an hour or so. All I know is when they told me I needed to get out, I didn't think that would be possible. I needed a break in the contractions to have enough time to stand up, and that break wasn't happening. Eventually I slowly made my way out, and Dr. Hartung checked my cervix. I was ten centimeters, fully dilated.

I had no urge to push you out at this point. I read this was something that could happen with breech babies, but I didn't know what to do about it. I just knew I'd rather stay with the status quo that start pushing. Eventually, Dr. Hartung insisted I try. The first few pushes were pretty meek, I had no idea what I was doing. Just as I started to try to push, Mary Signe, my midwife from the birth center, arrived. I invited her to your birth because she wanted to learn more about breech birth, and I felt she could really help me bridge the experience I planned and the one I was going to have. She was able to help me figure out the whole pushing thing. To my surprise, it was much more difficult than the labor. It wasn't that painful, it was just hard. I couldn't catch my breath, and they had to give me oxygen. I pushed in a few different positions, on the toilet, on my back, and eventually on my hands and knees.

After and hour and a half, without any epidural or pain medications, I pushed you out. To everyone's surprise, you were pale white, and not breathing. I couldn't see you behind me, so I didn't know. I just kept asking if you were a boy or a girl, but no one would answer me. Dr. Hartung was busy cutting your umbilical cord and handing you off to the NICU team. Someone told me you were a girl and we told the room your name, Linde Jane. Mary Signe told me to talk to you, so I just started yelling across the room to you. I wanted you to hear my voice, and your Dad and I told you to breathe! They worked quickly and put a breathing tube in you to help you get started breathing. They told me you started breathing on your own in about 15 minutes. Eventually I was able to turn around and see just your tiny profile in the isolette across the room. There were bright lights on you, and many people surrounding you. All I could think of was how you looked just like the profile shot in your 20 week ultrasound picture. Everyone was very concerned, and I know your Dad was terrified, but I knew you would be OK. I was never scared in those first few moments, because I never doubted that you would be just fine, I knew it in my gut.

They took you away to put in IV lines in your belly button, and eventually came back to tell me you'd be taken to Children's hospital in St. Paul and put on a cool—it protocol. Since I worked in the cardiac ICU, I knew exactly what this was, and it should have scared me, but I knew you would be fine.

About an hour later the Children's team arrived and brought you back to my room so I could see you before you left. This was best and worst moment of my life. Seeing your tiny body in that isolette with a breathing tube and IVs, I felt like my heart was ripped out of my body and lay on that bed next to you. You were so beautiful. I wailed. I don't think I can describe it.

Your Dad and Grandpa followed the ambulance to Children's and your Grandma and I stayed the night at Woodwinds. I was discharged at 9 am and we drove to the other hospital to be with you. I was so happy to see you again, it felt to wrong to not have been with you for the last six hours.

They cooled you down to 92 degrees for 72 hours in order to save any brain cells that might have been damaged from lack of oxygen. They placed you on a continuous EEG monitor to observe for any seizures. They gave you tiny amounts of morphine to keep you comfortable while you were so cold. By the next morning, all of your wonky lab values were back to normal, they had taken the breathing tube out, and you were opening your eyes to stare at me. You never had any seizures. I still knew you would be fine, I never doubted it. 

After 72 hours, they warmed you up, and we were able to hold you. We were over the moon happy to finally have you in our arms. They did an MRI of your brain to see if you had any damaged cells, but everything was completely normal. When the doctor came to tell us the results, I just nodded and said OK, Because I always knew you would be completely fine. We spent a couple more days in the hospital making sure everything was fine, and working on feeding you. Those few days were excruciating. We often couldn't pick you up without calling a nurse first. It was crazy, you were our baby, and we wanted to hold you! Your Dad and I were brand new parents, and we were just trying to figure it out, but doing that in the NICU was like being in a fish bowl. We were so ready to take you home, and I know you were ready too.

Finally, after eight days, we took you home. You were 7 pounds 6 ounces, and 19 ¾ inches with wisps of copper red hair. You were strong and had wide blue eyes. I introduced you to your cats.

I'll always wonder if I made the right choice to deliver you vaginally. Initially I was overcome with guilt and shame, I felt selfish. I wondered what I did wrong, why I couldn't push you out faster. I was unsure I'd be able to cope with the pain I was feeling. Many people were skeptical of our choice, I was very afraid of what people would think when I told them what happened. I didn't want to be judged, not when I was already feeling so vulnerable. I spoke with Dr. Hartung while we were in NICU. I asked what happened, why you came out with an Apgar score of 1? He didn't know, he said your delivery was fine, it wasn't too slow, your head didn't get stuck, your heart tones were healthy. He told me again this was one of the risks for breech babies, and it could just as well have happened if I had a c-section. He reminded me that the long term outcomes are the same as non-breech babies. He might have been the only other person as confident as me that you would be just fine. As the days go by and I see how strong and bright you are, and as you meet your milestones weeks early, I feel assured that my gut was always right. You are and will be just fine. 

Love,  Mom

First Bath with Grandma

The Cabin

So in Minnesota we have cabins. In some places they are called lake homes, and summer houses in others. I've been going to them as long as I can remember, but we never had one we could call our own. Though some of my favorite memories are of summer nights playing Hearts at the cabin on the lake, this was always cabins rented for one week each summer. We could leave our personal stamp, or even leave behind a bag of marshmallows for 'smores at our next visit.

 This Summer that all changed with my parents purchase of our very own cabin. It's on Leech Lake (yes, it's actually full of leeches, we're slowly overcoming the fear), close to many of the rented cabins, and it oozes with a sense of timeless lakeside bliss. My Mother is so happy about the place I think she might explode. I know she's wanted this for many years, and you can see the joy in her eyes every time she speaks of it.

It doesn't have running water, and the loo is an outhouse, but I love it there. It's quiet, it's beautiful. It doesn't have WiFi (or 3G), but it's grounding. It's the only placed I've slowed down enough to read more than a page of a book in at least a year. It's a place where my sisters and I were brought together in a way we haven't been in years. It's where Joe and I celebrated our Mini-Moon after our wedding last month.

The lake is overwhelmingly georgeous. It sparkles. Bald eagles regularly swoop overhead, and the sound of the loons is indescribable other than it sounds like Minnesota. The sunsets are stunning, every night.

 It's my family's cabin. We'll spend summer days there for many years. My kids will call it "the cabin," and in their eyes it will have existed since the beginning of time. In my mother's eyes it will exist until the end of time. Hopefully true.

Inspirational Internets

So, I've discovered Pinterest, and it's amazing. The problem is it's so amazing it's difficult to tear one's self away from the site long enough to actually create any of the fun crafts, foods, or home decorations that are so inspiring.  Well this evening I finally did, and I think it turned out beautiful enough to blog! Behold:

The instructions can be found here on a lovely little blog. It was really simple, and since I'm not a scrap booker, it's nice to have a reason to buy all those pretty papers they use. I think I'll make one for each season. Only problem is where to store them in our 775 square foot apartment during the off season. Sounds like a good reason to buy a house to me.

On the Work So Far

I always thought I was a grateful person, but in the last two weeks I understood it on a whole new level. Tonight I completed my first two weeks as an oncology nurse. It's been exhausting, gratifying, concerning, and tough, but it's been good. It's not all oncology, only about half the patients have cancer. The other half are a mixed bag of medical problems, often heart disease, COPD, diabetes, etc.

But the cancer patients, wow, the cancer patients. They are young, some close to my age. They were healthy. Runners, bikers, vegetarians, new moms. Last week, a month ago, 6 months ago, 5 years ago they found out they have cancer. Some don't even know yet. They have cancer. I know, but it's not my role to tell them. What do you do with that? What do I do with that... at the hospital, at home?

They come to me, some with their first or second round of chemo, some on their last with their livers' and kidneys' and hearts' wrecked from the fight. I see them for a few hours, maybe a couple of days, of what will be the battle of their lifetime, their new identity, their new story, their last story, their survival story. There is no way to know right now which it will be. 

Selfishly I wonder, where do I fit in this story. Will my passing through their journey be positive, helpful, encouraging, comforting, truthful? I guess this is my challenge.

Oh, the People I Know

I had a great 2 hour phone conversation the other night with a friend that is so special to me. Though our conversations are increasingly rarer, and we unfortunately rely too heavily on the FB for our life updates, I will forever consider her one of my best friends.

It all started in September 2001. Though this month lives on in the memories of many for one reason,  but I am lucky to have a thousand more positive associations with it than the one negative. It was at the Hotel du Monde in Paris' 11th arrondissement on September 13th or 14th. I can't remember exactly. I had just arrived for my semester abroad from a week with friends in Germany.  9/11 just happened, but with the exception of CNN World on TV in the background, I was incredibly distanced from the situation. I arrived late, and missed our first group meeting. I made my way to our apartments to find my new classmates absent, out exploring the city. I settled in, and laid on the bed staring at the ceiling. I looked at the bed next to mine, and hoped for a roommate I could at least get along with.  I contemplated the experience that lay before me, so unaware of how good it would actually be.

Hours later, she arrived. While much of this is lost to a blur of jet lag and kir, I know two things. We stayed up nearly the entire night talking like twelve-year-olds who just discovered the telephone, and we never looked back. Though I was unaware of it until a few weeks later, there was one minor deal breaking moment. I let it slip that I was in a sorority, and Regan said she second guessed our entire brief friendship at that moment, but being the person she is, she kept an open mind.

Six weeks in Paris and Six weeks in Florence passed in what was simultaneously a moment and a lifetime. We traveled back to Kansas to construct what is the very complicated post study abroad existence.  Regan, myself, and the rest of the Dirty 7 +Spikes (another story for another day) melded our new relationships with the old, and formed some pretty solid friendships.

We laughed, man, did we laugh. We cried, we planned. We partied, sometimes a lot. We had outrageous adventures. One time we tried to take a tour of Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. Yeah, it's a working federal penitentiary, they don't give tours.

Six years ago, I moved back to Minnesota. Leaving Regan broke my heart. I knew things would never be the same. They aren't, but that's okay. Every time we talk I am amazed at the similarities in our lives, and our outlooks. We've arrived at such similar spiritual conclusions. We've used the powers of attraction, visualization, and positivity to create amazing lives for ourselves. Every time I talk with her, I'm floored by the things she is doing, living her wildest dreams.

She inspires me. She challenges me to be more positive, more understanding, more patient, more grateful. She introduced me to The Four Agreements, a book that changed and continues to change my life. A couple of years before she got married, I was telling her how inspiring I thought her relationship was, how they just worked so well together. She gave me the best relationship advice I've received to date, and I try to remind myself of it every day. "Just be nice to each other, and don't say mean things to each other," she said.

I feel so for that time in Paris, where we built a relationship that will last a lifetime. I hope everyone is lucky enough to have a Regan.