What I would give.

To my Davis Emmett, 

Though you have been apart of my world for a brief time, I want to take a moment to let you know everything you are to me. To try and let you know just how much I wanted you, love you, and would do for you. For now and always, but also for the entire time you were developing inside me. Because I never want to forget. And I never want to take for granted so many times during your pregnancy, we could have lost you. Someday when you think you know everything, you think I am unfair, or you just wish I would leave you alone, I will look to this letter and this exact moment when you are as big as my palm and reliant on me for everything; And I will know that you are my fighter. You have been stronger than me from the very get go. And I would do it all again just to have you. Even when I am "totally uncool" or "embarrassing."  

It's not uncommon or unusual for a women to sacrifice so much emotionally and physically for even the slightest opportunity to be a mother. Over the past few years, it has been a pleasure to me to welcome many amazing women into my life through the death of your big sister. Many of these women lost children in many different ways than I, but in the end we all share the same common ground.  And they have been by my side as we welcomed you. I would never compare to my pregnancies to the uphill battles some of these women faced. 

Except with you little boy. And this is our journey. Just so you know, and I never forget.

May 23rd, 2011 we found out we were expecting you. Our hearts were filled with so much delight, excitement and worry. Almost before we blinked, two weeks later mommy started bleeding. We thought we were going to be saying goodbye to everything we had already dreamed for you. Daddy took me to the emergency room where we discovered another medical diagnosis we never would have known existed otherwise. There was a subchorionic hemorrhage between the uterine wall and the placenta, and the chance of miscarrying you went up greatly. Mommy was devastated and tried her hardest to remain optimistic. I scheduled a doctors appointment right afterwards, and found out my doctor was leaving her practice of thirty years. She recommended the hospitals maternity center for my obstetric care, for the amount of high risk prenatal care available to me there. 

I began having weekly ultrasounds to check your heart beat, growth and size of the hemorrhage. Also at every ultrasound appointment, I had my blood drawn to check my hormone levels. Each week they were going up exactly as they were supposed to. I was on moderate bed rest, and Dr. Perry told me every week that until I was thirteen weeks along, you were not out of the woods yet... No matter how good everything looked. I laid on the couch everyday overcome with worry that your heart would no longer be beating, a strong 170 beats per minute, at my next appointment. I was so afraid I was becoming too attatched to you and you were going to leave us before you ever really "were."

The doctor made plans for us to see the perinatologist from UC Davis Medical Center. She laid out our prenatal plans for everyone else to follow. Due to the blood clot I endured with Michael's pregnancy, she ordered a blood thinner injection.  

Subcutaneous Lovenox Injections 40mg-1xdaily

At 16weeks pregnant, I was to begin progesterone shots in concern for my history of 36week  deliveries, early dilation, and preterm contractions. I began contracting during your pregnancy at 14 weeks. And so as ordered, at 16weeks I began getting weekly injections of progesterone, hoping you would stay put.

Things continued fairly smoothly after we reached the 13week mark, and the hemorrhage absorbed back into my body. Dr. Boe the perinatologist put in an order for a level II ultrasound to be performed also at UC Davis when I was 18 weeks pregnant. My worry and anxiousness finally lifted from the subchorionic hemorrhage to the thought that you could have some kind of congenital abnormality. 

September 6th, 2011 daddy and I drove to Sacramento to see who you were. To see if you were okay. We honestly thought we would driving home, knowing the little girl inside me. Much to our surprise, you were definitely not a little girl. You were a the most perfectly formed little boy, with very healthy organs. A handsome little profile. And ten fingers and ten toes. I longed for a little girl. A little girl to fill the void of the little girl who left so soon. 

Davis you are so much more than a little girl could have ever lived up to. Savannah had your fighting spirit. I see it everyday that I look into your eyes. That same determination for life. Savannah fought for her life on the outside. You fought for yours on the inside. A strength obviously only a boy could obtain.

November 8th, 2011, 27weeks 2days pregnant, after our weekly routine doctors appointment, we were admitted to Mercy Medical Center. Premature rupture of membranes. A nitrazine strip had tested positive, as well as a microscope slide showing ferning for amniotic fluid. I was put on permanent hospital bed rest, meaning no privledges in getting out of bed what so ever. We were given two stereiod shots each given 24hours apart to speed up lung development. We met with one of the NICU nurses in preparation for life with a 27week preemie. But they were taking every measure into their hands to make sure that did not happen. For the next 72hours I was given intravenous fluids and magnesium sulfate. 

Fluids and Magnesium Sulfate

It was and is not any ones idea of a fun medicine to be put on. I slurred when I talked, had lack of control of my eye muscles, felt like my body was burning, and found myself quite flushed and sweaty.

72hours of Magnesium Sulfate.

Grandma took care of your big brothers and sister while we stayed in the hospital. Daddy had to go back to work, since they were doing everything they could to make sure you were not coming. I no longer experienced any leaking, and they could not prove again that my water had broken. It was you and I alone in our little hospital room. In the silence of being alone after everyone would leave, and everything I knew was at stake I'd find myself desperate to be home. To walk away from the medically sustained infant idea, that was all to real and raw. I remembered vividly, the feeling of wanting to open my eyes to only what you hope for as a bad dream. 

After the first 72hours, and for the next week, the nurses brought me 20mg of Nifedipine. (Also commonly referred to as Procardia.) It is more used for cardiac patients as it works to relax all blood vessels so the heart does not have to pump as hard. People with high blood pressure, or chest pains for example. It was not ideal considering mommy struggled more during the pregnancy with low blood pressure. So I was given many side effects to watch for, and during our hospital stayed they monitored my blood pressure regularly. 

We were also given three ultrasounds to check the amount of fluids surrounding you. The first time, the doctors were concerned that the amount of amniotic fluid surrounding you was too high. They began running more tests. They told me that high amounts of fluids can sometimes signify congenital defects. In a instant every fear I had during the pregnancy was a possible reality. I didn't understand how a congenital defect was even remotely possible since we had a level II ultrasound. They also began blood work testing for the human Parvo virus. The test came back negative, and the following two ultrasounds showed normal fluid results. As did all possible congenital abnormalities that they double checked. You were still perfect in every possible aspect.


We finally were sent home, and the premature rupture of membranes were diagnosed as sealed over. Light activity and pelvic rest were ordered until "full term" was reached. Mommy was so happy to walk away from the hospital with her tiny 27week baby still growing and thriving inside. I was happy at the thought of getting to hold you in your first few moments of birth. Getting to take you home, all together. To not see you hooked up to monitors and wires. To not be a "visitor" of the neonatal intensive care unit. To spend Thanksgiving, and Christmas at home with all four of my babies. 

250mg Hydroxyprogesterone Injection 1weekly
10mg Nifedipine, every 4hours

I was discharged with a prescription of the Nifedipine, and was instructed I could take them as needed for any contractions every four hours. One pill consisted of 10mg. If the contractions weren't to be stopped with one pill, I could take up to two. And in the beginning I only occasionally needed the pills. I carried them with me at all times. It was almost like a drug addiction. They stayed in my purse if I left the house. They came to Christmas parties, and always sat perched next to the bed while I slept. I knew that if I needed them, they needed to be right there. Right then. I was determined to keep you inside as long as you needed to be there. And they worked. Every single time. Calming my stomach muscles. Washing away all trace of contractions.

Being released from the hospital also meant I was required biweekly Non Stress Tests. Where I had to go into the hospital and we monitored your heart rate, movement, and contractions. Since we lived an hour away from my doctor, I was able to transfer doctors and go into the local hospital for the monitoring. Each test you passed with flying colors. The nurses became accustomed to the mild regular contractions as a "normal" aspect of our weekly visits. 

Things continued smoothly until 34weeks. The contractions were much stronger and a very regular. The nifedipine was not working this time. They gave me a shot of terbutaline to stop the contractions. And they did, for about 45 minutes before they were back the same as when they left. They gave me another shot. Same thing, only this time it lasted 30minutes. Though the doctor really didn't want to, a magnesium sulfate drip was ordered. This time, they brought in a fan and pointed it directly on me taking away the burning feeling, and keeping me quite comfortable. But the magnesium sulfate was working in the opposite as it was supposed to. The contractions were worsening and beginning to feel like true labor. They stopped the IV drip, and gave me another shot of terbutaline. I had dilated 2cm since I was first admitted that morning. And because the hospital I was in did not have a NICU, I was required to have an ambulance transport back to Redding. Every 30 minutes from then, until the ambulance arrived, and we made the hour trip south, the nurse gave me another injection of terbutaline. 

Once we had arrived the staff informed us that their NICU was closed, so they really didn't want to deliver because then you would have to be transferred elsewhere. I was angry, and couldn't believe they hadn't told us before we had be transported and admitted. They gave me more Nifedipine, which still wasn't stopping the contractions, just slowing them slightly. The pain was overwhelming, and it was becoming overwhelming being I had contracted all day long, and I knew it was to have no prevail. They gave me Nubain, and I warned them of my high intolerance to IV pain medications. As she began administering the drug the room instantly began spinning. She assured me "I was supposed to feel like that." And I spent the rest of the evening throwing up. But the pain medication did manage to stop contractions at a dead halt. 

New years eve, we were discharged only with instructions to take two Nifedipine every four hours. No longer "as needed." I was told that at 36 weeks I could finally stop taking them all together. And so I did. And so you became. 36weeks and 3days. And it was over. The twice a week non stress tests. The every four hour pill taking. The many many injection sites. We had made it through all odds against us...

I tell you this Davis, more for my sake. So I will remember every detail of how far my love for you began. So I will never forget that before I ever saw you, I would have sacrificed everything for you. One day you will probably drive me crazy. One day you will probably color on my walls, stomp on my flowers, come home late, or selectivly listen to my motherly advice. But I write this so you know, that even when you make mistakes, even when you really don't "like me," I would do it all over again. I would endure the heartache, the emotional stress, and the physical pains just to have you in my life. Through the good times and the bad, I love you. It's a love that you will never fully understand. I would give you my life. And I promise to give you all of my heart. Thank you for showing me strength. A strength I lacked during your pregnancy at times. You will always be my fighter, and I know because of that you are going to do very big things. I will support you, encourage you, and guide you. You have already made me so proud. Your pregnancy was only the beginning. The beginning of what I would give for you. I love you little one... With every beat of my broken heart.

-Mommy

We've waited so long. {Written January 19th,2012}

He is officially here. 

Safe, healthy, and more handsome than my mind ever could have imagined. Today he is eight days old. And tonight, I am having a hard time with that. Eight days old. I look at him, this tiny helpless little person and remember what it was like to have to say goodbye after only eight short days. I cannot imagine telling him, how much I love him, and that I promise I will see him again. How did I do that once before? How was I ever able to let go of a little person I loved and still love so very much?

I want a pause button. These past eight days have gone more quickly than I remember Savannah's time with us going. Maybe that was a gift to us? Feeling like time was suspended during those eight days so we felt like we were given a lot longer. I don't want my time to go so quickly. I already know I am not ready. I was not ready for him to be a week old. I am not ready for him to be one month old. I want nothing more than an opportunity just to push pause. I want to cherish this moment of him being so tiny and fresh to my world as I process everything he is and everything he means to me.

He does not look much like Savannah. And I am perfectly fine with that. He does though, look like his older brother Brody. The night he was born and filled his perfectly formed lungs with beautiful scream worthy air, I knew that it wasn't just Davis. A piece of Savannah came back with him. Now I don't ever want to sound like Davis will always live in the shadows of his big sister. Because he won't. And he isn't. He is loved for just who he is. But he is much more than that. He was the first, and only person who fit right in the empty wounded spots of my arms.

I anticipated January 9th, for my little one's birthday. My body naturally desires to give birth at 36weeks, and I didn't expect any different from the way this pregnancy seemed to go. January 9th, not only marked 36weeks, it was also the full moon (say what you want) and it was my birthday! I fully expected to have the best gift for my birthday! That morning I had my weekly non stress test at the hospital. The night before the contractions were fairly regular but not painful enough to where I felt the needed to go in. Now if you know me, regular contractions are not cause for alarm in my case, and even the ob nurses knew that was the case. I went to bed that night, knowing I had an appointment first thing in the morning and I would wait it out until then.

Once I got to the hospital the following morning, and was hooked up to the monitors, sure enough the contractions were regular, every four minutes. The nurses all laughed being I had bonded with many of them, and knowing that I had predicted a birthday baby. After the 20minutes of monitoring, and making me drink a sugary drink to get Davis to move and groove like he usually did, the nurse called the on call doctor. My doctor was out of town for the holidays all the way in Europe. The on call doctor, also the doctor who delivered my Michael, said that being I was 36weeks, he would not give me anything to speed labor along, but suggested I walk. The nurse assumed it was getting close since Davis, our usual A+ non stress test achiever, had slowed down a lot.

By the time I made it home, the contractions were stronger and getting closer together. My mom brought over my birthday gifts, and took me to the park for a walk. Considering we took her one year old terrier, it was more like a slow jog. And by the time we made it back to the car, I could hardly sit down.My husband had dinner and a movie plans for my birthday, and in not wanting to ruin the few and far between chances to be alone with all of his attention, we proceeded with the plans. I indulged with a vanilla Italian soda, at a quaint Italian restaurant, where the contractions stayed close by. Afterwards we went back to the park in hopes that another walk would be just what was needed, but the contractions remained the same so we drove over to the movie theater. With not much of a selection, and knowing my husband was interested, we sat down to see "War Horse." Before the previews even had a chance to begin, I said, "maybe we should go." Because just in sitting down to watch a movie the contractions got much more intense. My husband, said "lets just wait and if you need to go we will." Me being cheap "frugal," I hated the thought of watching 15minutes of a movie only to have to leave and not be refunded our money. Haha! So knowing my husband really didn't want to leave, I endured all 146minutes in pain.

YES, 

I AM THAT LABORING PREGNANT PERSON IN THE MOVIES.

As we walked out the doors I said, "okay time to call the hospital." And we went straight there. I was checked only to find that I was dilated to two centimeters. Exactly what I had been dilated to, two weeks prior. The contractions were two to four minutes apart, so they planned on monitoring me for an hour, and check me again... 

One hour later: 2cm. No change.
I was being sent home... In pain.

On the way home, I cried. So much had taken place during this pregnancy, and it seemed like hospital stays and hospital visits were a permanent part of my future. (Pregnancy has a tendency to be a little irrational.) I tried my best to sleep through the contractions, but by six in the morning, I sat up mulling over the fact that I could very possibly continue contracting for another four weeks. At eight, when I heard my husbands alarm go off, I was discouraged to find out he had every intention on still going to work. After he left, I continued to clean up the house before I headed to my mom's to pick up the kids. (They had stayed there the night before.) My mom suggested we go on another walk, and I was all for it if there was even the slightest possibility real labor would be imminent.

We walked around her subdivision, which was what felt like a ten mile hike, since it consisted of a pregnant waddling whale, a hyper puppy, and three kids on bicycles. By the time we made it home, Koady was back from work already, and the kids went to Zumba on the WII. I figured I'd go home and talk to Koady and probably call the hospital back. It just didn't seem normal for someone to be in that much pain, and not be "in labor." I walked through the door and told him he should probably submit his paperwork for the day, just in case they told us to come back in to labor and delivery. Not too long afterwards, there was a tell tale sign that we needed to get to the hospital to be checked out. (I'll spare the gory details.) On the drive there, I knew I had to be in labor. Heck, if you saw how I ever so slowly waddled my way into the hospital, you would have known I was in labor too.

4-5cm. I was admitted. 

We we're finally going to meet our little boy.

The night nurse came on, and was so supportive to my desire to have a natural birth. It was 4:45pm January 10th, and I guessed I would have him before 10:00pm. Koady guessed 2:17am. The nurse brought in a birthing ball, which is more commonly known as an exercise ball. I walked, bounced, rocked, stood, and laughed. Yes, you can ask the doctor who sat on the edge of my bed, I was still smiling up until I pushed him out! (With no pain meds what so ever! Yay me!) We laughed hysterically after I referred to "pushing" as "the burning ring of fire." And as I bounced on the ball, my husband put on Johnny Cash's "burning ring of fire." We were creating enough of a commotion to bring the nurse in to see what was so funny. (For anyone who has experienced natural childbirth, the song is quite ironic, and dedicated to you.)

Not too long after being dilated to 4-5, I was dilated to 6cm. And I was six.... And six.... And six again.... No matter what I tried I was stuck at six. And since the doctor still wouldn't help anything along, it was up to me. In the beginning he said that if my labor did for some reason just stop (because I guess that can happen) he would probably send me home. As the night continued and we passed by my 10:00 prediction, by 1:30am, I was beginning to become discouraged. The birthing ball seemed to be calming my contractions. Still 6cm dilated, my contractions were beginning to span to 6-7minutes apart, and everyone was tired and falling asleep on me. I began to cry. "They just need to discharge me. They need to send me home. I'm stuck at 6cm, and my contractions are going away. All of this pain is for nothing. I just want to go home!" (Didn't you know that pitty parties are all the rage during labor? Especially pitty parties wanting to be sent home?)

Almost as soon as my sobbing stopped, wham! Three contractions in a row, that we're unbearable. Thinking I was going to be laboring for the next 24weeks, I said, "go get the nurse I think I need an epidural!" My mom went out into the hall, and said she knew something was happening because she could hear me breathing outside of my room. I don't even know how you can hear someone breathing, and I honestly don't have any idea what I sounded like, just as long as I didn't sound like the dying moose in the room next to us. The nurse came in and asked, "you want an epidural?... I think I need to check you." I was 7-8cm, and she went to call the doctor. As she came back she informed me that I needed to go through an entire bag of saline drip before they could give me an epidural. (I hadn't been on an IV at all.) My exact words were, "I guess its worth a shot." Not too long after they started the IV, the doctor came in. He was half asleep and literally must have rolled out of bed and come to the hospital because he had the ever glamorous bed hair! :)

The nurse asked him, "does she have time for an epidural?" He looked at me like I had lost my marbles and said, "AT EIGHT CENTIMETERS? NO! You still have thirty minutes for your IV, 15minutes for him to get here, and 15minutes for him to give it to you. Your looking at 3am!" I sadly acknowledged my fate, and the doctor got his scrubs on while the nurses set up the room. In between contractions I muttered, "oh I'm so scared of crowning!" But the nurse was still so encouraging. "You're almost done, your baby will be here so soon." The contractions at this point were about five minutes apart, which they said was very good for relaxation of me and the baby. I said, "everyone take note, my pain is at a ten and I am still smiling." During some of the last few contractions I remember grabbing the handrails and yelling, "stupid epidural guy!" His ears probably burned that night; wherever he was...

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the fully dilated mark, nodding off during contractions. He checked me once more and I told him, "I don't know what hurts worse the contractions or your fingers!!" I was 9cm, and the doctor told me I could probably push through the last centimeter. He told me, "with the next contraction, go ahead and push." I replied, "WITH YOUR FINGERS IN THERE!?" Still dozing, he gave a slight nod, with a easy going, "yes." I gave a good push, and we decided to wait until I was fully dilated. So as we sat anxiously waiting, the doctor held his gooey gloved fingers over his pants with his eyes closed. Koady and my mom watched as his fingers dripped onto his pants, yet no one wanted to disturb his slumbers to point out the mess that was dribbling onto his scrubs. He cracked his eyes open enough finally to very casually flick the next glop back around his fingers.My mom, casually laughed and said, "looks like brass knuckles!" And finally it was time to push. One. Baby moved down, head right there. Two. Head out, sharp scream. Three, shoulders and baby came out, and I lunged back on the bed, smacking my head into the head board that I was COMPLETELY unaware hospital beds had until that very moment. The nurse said, "op, we've got a jumper!" And in three pushes he was out.

They had asked me if I wanted him laid on my chest. I said yes, only if it was okay to do so. In his first moments he squeaked. That same tiny squeak Savannah made. The only sound she made. And though it was only a moment, it felt like minutes went by before he cried. The most beautiful cry I ever remember hearing after giving birth. A cry I've waited a very long time to hear. And they laid him into the crook of my arm, and I stared at him. Speechless. Everyone began talking about him. But it was literally as though someone took away my ability to talk. I couldn't process "what he looked like," or "how long his fingers and toes were." All I could process was my overwhelming love for him in just those first few minutes. All I could think about was my little girl who I missed out on all of those glorious traditional milestones with. And then, they whisked him away to the warmer to be checked. I could not see him, but I studied the looks on the respiratory therapist, and the nurses face, for any signs that "he was not okay." I watched for any look of concern. Stress. Uncertainty. I held my breath every time they held the tiny stethoscope up to his chest.

And then something amazing happened. They gave him back to me. There was no reason they couldn't. His temperature was a little low, and for that they laid him on my chest, where I was told he needed to stay all night. There wasn't any place in the world I would rather him stay.

We didn't wait nine months for Davis to become a part of our lives. We waited nine months for Savannah. We waited another eight months to conceive. Finally a very tragic and long 26months became a reality, as he stared back into my eyes. And now, I want nothing more than to savor every blessed moment I have with him. This little boy has been healing. Yet he has pulled greatly at my heartstrings over and over again. I cannot begin to explain the love you feel for children once you have lost one. But it is one of the most overwhelming, and breath taking emotions a mother could ever experience. I cannot imagine my life without this baby boy in only eight short days, just as I can't imagine life without Savannah in only her eight short days...

Davis Emmett

January 11th, 2012

2:33am

6lbs 2oz.

19.7inches

What's in a name.

Lately I feel as though I am on a merry-go-round. Round and round I continue to go. I think I have rambled about baby names more than anyone would like to hear, but I can't help but feel agony with settling.

What's in a name anyways? A believe a name can become a personality... it molds and grows with a person... What you do in life, you take your name with you. It's your mark on the world.

I remember being told Savannah didn't need a social security number since she had passed away. I remember what it was like having a birth certificate that boldly stated deceased horizontally across the page. These things, these standard procedures, make a mother feel as though their child, a human being with a name, are insignificant. Just paperwork. A Jane Doe.

There have been times, that when sorting through files, I have run across Savannah's insurance card. And to see her name, that I know we were so meticulous in picking out, brings my heart such warmth. Since she left, I don't have reason to say her name everyday. I don't have reason to talk about her and say her name to people I talk to. I miss her name, for I loved her name so very much.

I want to love Davis' name as much as I loved and long for Savannah's. In something I have learned just in my own experience. I wanted this little boy's name (or girl had he been) to be something that would remind me of Savannah everytime I hear it spoken from someone's lips.

Family and friends weren't too sold on "Savannah" when we finally reached our decision. And this time around they aren't too keen to warm up to the name "Davis." It's so much more than the little one growing and thriving inside me for a mere eight more weeks. To me it is also about the little one that brought "Davis" into existance.

We picked Emmett for the middle name. Had Savannah been a boy, her name would have been Liam Emmett. Another piece of our girl. To hear and remember her by. To know that when the social security administration and county records department see her name as only a deceased person, no longer needed in the system, Savannah Victoria gets to live on in her baby brother...

But I keep second guessing. Is it good enough? Will people ever love his name as much as I do? In the way that I loved Savannah's?

Recently my husband and I came across the name Jax. We loved the spelling, and liked the name. In a casual google name search, I discovered in English it means "God is gracious." To me, yes, Davis is a very gracious gift. But we can hardly get people to want to call our son Davis as a first name, how would we ever get acceptance over Jax?

Come on readers... Davis Emmett or Davis Jax?

Enter the Poll! 

Recklessly Loving.

When I was pregnant with Sarah, I was barely twenty weeks when my mother threw me my very first baby shower. So young, I didn't once stop to think that the daughter I had just found out I was carrying could surprise us all and come out needing blue ensembles rather than all of the pink that was received. I never once thought that the daughter inside me could leave us all before we really had a chance to say hello. All of the baby gifts instantly came out of their perfectly boxed packaging. Furniture was assembled. Tags were removed. No hesitation; no questioning. 

I was a bit obsessive with the motherly need to prepare for our sweet Sarah. I washed and folded. If something even got bumped in the slightest I would wash them again. I am probably the only expectant mother in the world that can go through more bottles of Dreft than a new mother uses in six months. Koady claims even that her treasured pink clothes were fading by the time we welcomed her into our lives.

With Michael and Brody the need to prepare, nest, and wash their clothes was still there, just not as neurotic as the first time around. And as badly as I wanted it to be there, it was non existent for Savannah. I did like a clean house. I did feel that things couldn't be "clean" enough. But her things? I never could bring myself to submerge myself in the heavenly pink outfits I had longed years to see again. 

Now any honest women would admit that baby boy clothes are just never going to be as cute as the girly outfits available in department stores today. And though I wanted so bad for Davis to be the little girl I hoped he would be, I want to dive into his clothes and just live there for awhile. I want to nuzzle his blankets, and snuggle his stuffed friends. His room has become my absolute favorite place in the world. 

But... that fear in the back of my mind haunts me. We have been assured our Davis is healthy as can be, and realistically there is no reason to believe anything could go wrong based on what happened with Savannah. It took me quite awhile to assure my heart that this little boy, is going to be just fine. I was finally feeling ready. Ready to throw boxes and packaging away. Ready to clip tags. Ready to become a Dreft consumer once more.

After being admitted for the hospital for an entire week from ruptured membranes, being given excessive amounts of magnesium sulfate and antibiotics that I am pretty sure could have cured a small country, I was discharged. Originally they wanted to keep me until I delivered. I couldn't see any point of that, since they could not confirm that my water had broken after I was sentenced admitted. They deemed it up to a leak that sealed itself over, and I was sent home on pelvic rest, and with instructions to put my feet up as much as possible. 

As I stood staring at his precious blue outfits awaiting his arrival patiently, the fear creeped up on me once again. A week prior I was being prepped for life with a baby in the NICU. A baby with a head the size of a "tomato." A baby who would be far to neurologically sensitive to rub, but I could gently place my hand on his teeny tiny body. As I assured the nurse I had in fact been in their NICU and was familiar with the "medically sustained infant," her interest was heightened. I then told her about Savannah. She put her hand to her chest, "I was there that night. I was one of the nurses that took care of your baby girl. That was a very rough night." I then proceeded to tell her that she lived for eight days on the ECMO machine, but she had passed away. She nodded. "Yes, we heard." She reached out and grabbed my leg. Tears welled up in her eyes as she said again, "that was such a rough night." An overwhelming wave of emotion came over me as I really remembered what that night was like. I began to cry as well, when that NICU nurse took my in her arms and held me as we cried together. I sobbed, "I am so glad you will be there to take care of this baby." 

No matter who is caring for my unborn son, I don't and didn't want him to face that road. To be so tiny and helpless, fighting a fight they may or may not be ready for. Once again, I was reminded that in a second, Davis could not be safe and sound doing baby aerobics in his mommies tummy. And the packages, the teeny outfits, and the beautiful blue color I have grown to love so so much, would once more sit. But as I have made it from twenty seven weeks, to thirty and a half since then, recently I removed tags. No not all of them. Hardly. But I have a diaper bag packed. I have outfits, socks, mittens, and blankets picked out. Because it's love. Love can be reckless sometimes, but that's what makes it so intense. Not knowing what may or may not happen, my Davis deserves every bit of my love. And until he is here, full term, and I can smother his face in kisses to let him know, right now I show him by washing his bundles of blue. By folding repeatedly. By sniffing the sweet smell of baby detergent. By sitting in his bedroom taking in everything about his presence. Tags are a big step. But an even bigger deal. Because I recklessly love him. For now. For always.

 

Gifts of Life

baby shower

n:

a party given for a pregnant woman, 

to which guests bring presents for the baby

The question has been asked. And I find it more frequent these days. I've had three out of four baby showers. My fifth pregnancy. People still wonder, "when is your baby shower." My, uh, baby shower? I cannot help but be taken by surprise. 

Your first baby. That by far was my most extravagant baby shower. Of course it would be. First time parents, that is a given that the family has nothing "baby." By your fifth? People stop offering advice. People hardly ever ask how your feeling. I see commercials about pregnant women being lavished in "stretch mark lotions" during their pregnancy. Cocoa butter has yet to show up on my doorstep. And let me tell you, I think there is an invisible stamp on my forehead that says,  

"it's not my first baby,

it's not exciting, 

please feel free to NOT touch my belly

or ask when I am due."

Sometimes the awkward "baby loss mommy" inside me cannot help but wonder, "can they sense that I've lost one? Do complete strangers even not want to get too attached?"

So when the question arises, "when is your baby shower." From the beginning I've said, "I'm not having one, I don't see family members and friends really wanting to take that chance again."

Two weeks ago, giving my typical answer, I received a new response. It took me a little by surprise. The voice on the other end replied, "yeah. I'll send something after the baby is born." Now I am no stranger anymore to people saying things that sometimes hurt my feelings. And it really doesn't sound like much, but it got me thinking.

I don't see family members and friends really wanting to take that chance again.

-Yeah.

I feel guilty for every last gift received for Savannah. Every dollar spent to forever sit cold in a tub in our garage.  I had really hoped I would be able to put those gifts to use with this pregnancy. But God felt my life needed something a little different.

The night Savannah died, as I leaned over her body, gently caressing her skin, the nurse said to me, "if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call us." I looked at her through teary eyes, "Can you tell me what I am supposed to do with everything I received at my baby shower?" She looked at me, her eyes empty with an answer to my question. I said, "I'm thinking I'll give it back to everyone who bought it, so they can get their money back." She shook her head no, "don't do that, you hang onto it for awhile, and one day you will know what to do with it."

And I did I kept most everything. We returned some big unused items that were in definite pink colors. The car seat. Some blankets that weren't really sentimental. In it's place we purchased floating shelves to hold the ceramic figures bought for us to remember her.

The idea of sitting around once more opening presents in front of the same people who bought gifts for the hope that was our Savannah, I just cannot come to grips with. 

What would they be thinking? {"I hope I didn't just throw my hard earned money away again."} Would they only look at me and Davis through sad uncertain eyes? Would a day of celebration become a day of remorse?

But at the same time, I am an expecting mom. It is my fifth baby. My fifth pregnancy. Yes, I have a crib. I have a changing table. I have a glider rocker that I never got to rock my baby in. I've got some saved items through the years, and I have bought many of my own outfits for my little guy to be. 

Davis is a completely different person. He is a great gift in itself. He will show me and my husband that no matter what, Hope and Life can emerge from anything. I hope he can bring that message to those who did and didn't attend Savannah's baby shower. And though I feel every baby is worth celebrating no matter what the circumstance, I feel Davis deserves a celebration. He deserves a gift... Because he is our gift...

Because his mommy needs to know that herself, her husband, and Grandma are not the only people in the world to trust that he is here to stay. 

How many second, third, or fifth time mothers made the decision to celebrate? Or celebrate after a loss?

So on behalf of this journey that you all have walked through with me, I want to share my Gift of Life idea.

If you've followed along with "Savannah's story," I thought it would be inspiring, touching, and hopeful for anyone who would like, sent something USED from one of their own little ones. 

Sounds weird right?

Well, I'm not asking for you to buy anything.

I'd just love to see how many people Savannah's life has reached,

and I'd love to receive something from all of my readers whom have

been there for me and my family this past year

  from their own babies. 

A gift of life. Something that has seen life. Something that has seen love.

For the hope we have for Davis.

I would love to be able to share the hope that others have too.

You do not have to. At all.

But if you would like to.

If you have something you wouldn't mind parting with.

I would cherish every last glimpse of life.

{And please share with me about your little one, and your gift choice.}

<3 Leave a comment below. <3

 {25weeks}

Perspective.

I remember way back when I was pregnant with Sarah. Every milestone was new, exciting, foreign. With each passing pregnancy, things were still exciting; but they were no longer foreign.

I cannot speak for every mother, but my own views are sometimes different than others on this journey of loss, or as I like to call it now, life after loss. Which I feel is okay. I am only one person and by no means is grief of a child something that can or should be judged or dictated by someone else.

For me though, this pregnancy is far different that the rest. All over again, I feel like I am a first time mother. Not in the sense my Sarah, my Michael, or my Brody are now insignificant or are no longer deemed "my children," but a first time mother because my Savannah brought forth her own set of new and foreign experiences.

I'm not sure if you'd call it grief. I'm not sure if you'd call it uncertainty. I'm just plain and simple not sure what it is, but I'm not sure how to be a mother to an infant again...

Today marks the twenty fifth week of this pregnancy. With only fifteen weeks until we meet Davis in person, I wonder to myself, "where did this pregnancy go?" I've been the pregnant mother who complains about being uncomfortable. Wishing the baby would just "hurry up and get here." And though I may complain about the temperature, or whine mention that my pelvic bone pops with each and every step, the thought of the next fifteen weeks passing as quickly as the twenty five in our rear view mirror, is enough to bring me to tears. Because right here in this moment, Davis is at home. Davis is safe. These moments are how I got to mother a different child. After this moment? This is what I cannot remember.

We are now the proud owners of our very first mini van. With thanks to my dad for searching it out, we, once more, have an automobile that fits our family. Now having moved into our new house, and buying the not so "mini" family "van," I couldn't help but hit a brick wall.

"What will it be like to bring a baby to their new home? What will it be like to buckle the car seat into those extra seats bought just for their anticipation? What will those final moments in labor and delivery feel like?" The upcoming emotions, I have tried running through my head again and again.

Fear.

Facing my Fear.

Yesterday I let Sarah and Michael watch a movie I found to be deeply inspiring. "Soul Surfer." Here at the Fraser's I try my hardest to monitor what my kids watch on tv realizing the impact the littlest things can have on young hearts. "But Megan, isn't Soul Surfer about a young girl getting her arm bitten off by a shark?!"

YES!!

But the story is so much more than that. When I watched the movie prior to allowing the kids, it really hit home for me. I knew aside from the slightly gory shark attack, my kids could really learn something from the story offered. 

An example given in this movie; when you are really close to something it is hard to see the overall perspective.

Sarah and Michael watched the entire movie and I was delighted with the flow of questions afterwards...

Michael asked, "why did God let the shark take her arm?" Without thinking I said, "as terrible as it was, she learned in the end that God could use her to inspire people through her tragedy and though she has to live with this handicap she didn't let that stop her from doing what she loved. It's like how God took Savannah. That was a terrible thing, but if we lived in fear from experience we would have missed out on getting to have Davis."

And stepping back from perspective, I paused and thought for a moment while four brown eyes stared back at me. Again I said, as if I was speaking to myself, "we would have missed out on a really great thing."

Michael chimed in once more, "well... I still think she is just as beautiful."

In the eyes of a six year old, he still sees the beauty in what others can only see as tragedy, or mistake.

Bethany Hamilton's story is far from tragedy. Her story is yet another example of God's divine purpose for everyone. I may face my own future of uncertainties, but I know that facing my fears is only just the beginning. 

I cannot wait to see His plans for Davis.

From Savannah's story,

I know they must be pretty great.

If I am chosen.

Today, I found myself staring down at my round, but not too big belly. And a wave of emotion flushed over me. As I watched the tiny little movements, suddenly, I felt ignorance again. Here I am, 18weeks 1day pregnant, and I have fallen head over heels in love with my fifth unborn child. Motherly instinct. And why wouldn't I? Regardless of a life or death situation with each one of my children, I am going to love them with all of my heart if they live or if they are destined to die.

But here I was, ignorant to the fact that in less than a day {tomorrow afternoon to be exact} we will know for sure if everything is okay. We've been given the inclinations that sure we have a healthy little baby. With a strong, fully formed diaphragm. But haven't we heard this once before from "regular ultrasounds." From everyday technicians? This is where I became aware. I feel an overwhelming sense {quite different from the overwhelming sense that I had with Savannah} that everything will be just fine. But here is what I've learned from just fine...

Just fine can mean, healthy baby staying here with us, or just fine can mean we as humans can weather any storm. That God will hold our hands through the toughest of times. That if a baby has a defect, and if they pass, in the end they will be just fine.

I am not going to sit here and tell you the thought of staring down another dark resting place, doesn't terrify me. Because if I did I would be lying. I remember what it was like to be overcome with nothing but excitement when the midpoint ultrasound came along. There is too much to bear in those moments leading up to our future though. Our fate. Our babies fate. I am thankful for my level two ultrasound. For the time, care, and extensive detail that will go into every last piece of our baby's body. But as of this moment, while my belly dances once more as I type this, only God holds the answer to what lies within me tonight. For one more day, our baby's development is a complete secret, between them, and their maker.

The other night, driving down the freeway after dark I started talking to my mom about the results that await us. She said, "in this situation, it all comes down to faith." I told her, "I understand that. And this concern doesn't effect the faith I have at all. All it means is I never thought it would happen to me once. I do have faith that God is in control. But he has chose me once, who am I to say that the only faith I have, is faith that he wouldn't choose me again?"

Tomorrow we will know. We will drive in faith once more to Sacramento, California. This time, we have hope that everything will be okay. Last time we had faith that God would take care of our girl. This evening I live in ignorance once more. And I like it. Because tomorrrow? Tomorrow could possibly change our lives forever... All over again.

One other thing I need to sit here and say, since I am feeling the deep seeded need to spill all of my overwhelming emotions to my readers; I want a girl. After the first need for this baby to be healthy, I hope in my heart God see's my desire for a girl.

"How selfish." I can sense so many of you thinking. And maybe it is. But let me explain. I thought and wanted my sweet Sarah to be a boy. I was ever delighted to find out she was definitely not. When we found out we were expecting our second, that of which is only eleven months apart from his sister, I hoped my second would be a girl. So close in age, my "girls" would be able to grow together, share together, and build a bond I could never begin to imagine. Michael most certainly was not a girl. Then I convinced my husband it was time for number three. I knew in my heart I would finally recieve the girl I had been hoping for for three years. My husband knew it was a boy. I doubted him. The ultrasound technician announced we were in fact having another boy. I remained quiet until we got into the car. My husband said, "I told you we were having a boy." Tears streamed down my face. It felt as though it was hopeless the sight of another girl. My sister-in-laws each have all boys. Between me and them, there are a whopping SEVEN boys vs. ONE girl. Will my Sarah not even have a cousin to bond with doing girly things? A cousin her age? A first cousin? I cannot procreate a sister, but having no girl cousins?! Family members have grasped onto the fact that Sarah, by some Grace had been the only girl in the family. "She was meant to be our only princess." "I think it is special that Sarah is the only girl in a family with all boys."

But this only added to the saddness, {not in replacement of my boys, because I LOVE my boys} but the saddness that I had yet to see the girl I longed for.

The day of Savannah's ultrasound {and I hold a lot of guilt for this... A LOT} I kneeled down on the side of my bed, folded my hands, and prayed outloud. "Dear Lord, Please let this baby be a girl. PLEASE." God indeed answered my prayer that day. But selfishly I prayed for a baby girl. I never once stopped to pray that the baby girl I longed for, that I needed, to be healthy of all things...

My girl, came into this world and never once tasted sweet life. The baby girl that God gracously answered my prayer with died in my arms. I had to bury all of the hopes and dreams I had created for her in the few short months I planned for her. I realized two nights ago, that a lot of things go when you loose a daughter. Mother, daughter bonds. Sister bonds. Meeting the wonderful man that chooses our daugher as his wife. Helping her plan her wedding. Holding back tears as she wears her wedding dress. Talking on the phone everyday. {Or many many many times a day.} Feeling your daughters belly, as your grandchildren kick from the inside. Crying as you watch your daughter deliver her first baby, and remembering the day they laid her on your chest. I want daughters. Daughters that can have the same relationship I have with my mother. {And yes, I do acknowledge sometimes its a love hate kinda thing. Hehe.} But no matter what, I have my mom, and she has me...

Savannah will never get to see those things. And I will never get to experience them with her. I have one daughter I will cherish every one of these moments with. But her baby sister won't get to be there with us either. I long for a girl. One that can stay.

"Dear Lord, Please let this be a healthy baby girl. PLEASE.

I need this not only for my heart, but for Sarah's heart too...

If our Victoria, happens to be a Davis...

I promise to love him just the same.

-Amen."

Blessings amungst Pain.

Yesterday was not hard at all. Believe it or not. There was a brief moment of overwhelming tears, but I describe them as "happy tears" rather than sad ones. We recieved our "Savannah Bear," made by "Molly Bears." I have mentioned Molly Bears once already in my blog, but let me refresh your memory. After recieving my bear, I can assure you they are worth a second introduction. SO worth it. It is a group of amazing women who make weighted bears for the baby whom passed away. Its a chance for mother's to get to feel their babies weight in their arms. -Sigh-
Let me tell you, it isn't the fact that every bear they make is the one and only, or that they include little memories of your baby on the bears. It's the weight. I cut through the box yesterday and the purple fur peeked back at me. My bear was smiling. Oh how I had wished that I would recieve a smiling bear. And then I lifted all 6lbs. 2oz. out of that box. And a wave of emotion blasted through me. Wow. Had she really felt this heavy? I asked my mom if she wanted to hold her. As I laid the bear in my mom's arms instant tears overcame her as well, and she buried her face in the neck of our Savannah Bear.

So yes,

it's the weight.

We spent time yesterday afternoon at her gravesite. Making it as special as can be for we know Savannah looks down from heaven and see's the people who care enough to visit her grave. Without saying a word, Koady's heart was crying the same things mine was. There I was knees buried into the grass, as I brushed away dry grass that had blown onto her headstone from the weed eater. 

Here we were. Yet again, probably our millionth time at her burial site, on her birthday, and we were the first and only visitors to her site. Her blue granite, dusty and deserted, was finally gleaming back it's beauty because her mommy, daddy, brothers, sister, and grandma, were the only ones who cared enough to go. We left Savannah's earthly resting place far from dusty and deserted. 

We were thought of all day yesterday, as people remembered our girl. I've grown so much through the past year, and have learned that even one year later, there will still be things people say that hurt. That people don't stop to think about how we may percieve them. And I am finally capable of saying "that's okay." Yes it may still hurt. Yes they still make me cry. But it's okay. Because no matter the things people say to comfort themselves, I know that Savannah is Koady's... And Savannah is mine. And people can believe what they want to believe, for it isn't going to change who she really belongs to. And till Koady and I can be with her again, she belongs to God. She always has. And she will remain in HIS arms, until she can be placed in the only arms she rightfully belongs in...

Yesterday morning, I had the pleasure of having a doctors appointment scheduled. On the day we remembered Savannah's arrival for her short visit, I got to hear the beautiful sound of our new babies heartbeat. Still in the 170's, and as quickly as his or her heartbeat was galloping, mine was beating just as fast. It was just what I needed yesterday. A reminder that though Savannah is no longer here with us, we are still awaiting yet another treasure in our lives. Our Hope.

And on that note, have I mentioned we have a new girls name? It is much more fitting...

Victoria Hope

Boy's name? Yeah we are in the process of changing that too! And all we've got for now?

Davis

{First name.}

I suggested Koady for the middle name, but the other Koady, doesn't like that too much. So readers, what do YOU think, his middle name should be?

Annnd, do you guess PINK or do you guess BLUE?

{Enter your guess in the poll on the top right side!!!}

Another blogger did this comparison and I thought

it was a great idea...

:::So here is what you have to go off of:::

SARAH:

Carried: High

Craved: Lemons

Heartbeat: 160-170bpm

Didn't look FAT at all.

MICHAEL:

Carried LOOOW

Craved: Ribs and Corn on the Cob

(EVERY night!)

Heartbeat: 120-130 bpm

Looked FAT FAT FAT.

BRODY:

Carried: LOOOW

Craved: Apples

Heartbeat: 130-140 bpm

LOOKED FAT FAT FAT.

SAVANNAH:

Carried: High

Craved: Sour Punch Straws and Cherry Slurpies

{Not the best choices huh?}

Heartbeat: 160-175 bpm

Didn't look too FAT.

 BABY TO BE:

Craving: Lemons.

{I actually sqeezed lemons on my stuffed shells last night.}

Heartbeat: 170 bpm

Can't judge my fatness or how I am carrying yet.

Hmmm...

Leaving yesterday.

Well it wasn't as easy as it has been in the past. Moving that is, but we did it. As we drove down the road after locking the doors to our house one last time, there was that burning feeling in my throat. Any women reading this, knows the feeling I'm referring to. It's called the, "I am not going to cry" reflex. In turn it burns your throat. You hope you don't actually have to speak a word in this moment, because then all it is, is a quivery shaking sound.

Okay, I am probably the most horrible crier in the world. Anyone who knows me would tell you, and that is just because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve and put on a "I can carry the weight of the world all on my own thanks," attitude. When in all actuality I am very sensitive. {Where the blog writing comes in handy.} When I DO cry though, I'd probably describe it as a high pitched air raid siren to alert people of a crisis. :) Most people cannot even make sense of what I am saying when I am crying, which sends people into a state of panic. See the air raid siren and I have a lot in common.

As our house sat empty, not surrounded by the sounds of chaos and life's mess, I stood in her room one final time. It was quiet. I thought back to my pregnancy when we first moved in. I stood in the same spot picturing where her nursery furniture would be placed, and I sat in the middle of the freshly laid beige carpet. The smell of new fabric was overwhelming, and I touched my belly imagining sitting in that very spot with a wiggly baby laying in the carpet before me.

That image never became reality, and now sitting in that spot I was only reminded of her short time with us. The feeling of wanting so badly to be awake all night in that room. I must say, I do not appreciate the new mothers who make comments about how hard it is having a baby who doesn't sleep much at night. Or who cries all the time. Who has colic. Not trying to sound like your typical mom who lost a baby, because I DO know how tiring other children can be, but I would wake up in the mornings after Savannah died HATING that I slept through the night. I would have given anything to be with her all night long. To hold her in my arms for the rest of my life if that is what it took to have her here.

This morning, I sat showing my mother "The Moby Wrap." It is a safer "sling" that allows you to cradle your baby close to your chest however often you'd like so you can still manage everyday tasks. I've had the cheaper version of baby carriers from the stores but was not impressed enough to use them regularly. Especially being the last one I had with Brody ended up on recall after he was a year old. But I love the sense of closeness the Moby Wrap offers. "Baby wearing" is what they call it. Well, I can assure you Moby Wrap or no Moby Wrap, you won't find me without baby wearing.

I've heard a lot, "you will spoil your baby." Can someone classify this to a mother like me please? Spoil your baby in the sense they will want to be held all the time and will demand too much of your attention? Spoiled in the sense they cry because they desire the touch of their mommy? That bonding experience? If that is spoiling them, I think I will take those chances. I have a baby that I carried for nine months I was not able to hold. I held a baby as she passed away. My baby never got to cry for me, and I've spent too much time crying for her. I was never disturbed to feed, change, or love on them.

Now when I see a baby, or infant longing for their mother's arms I have a hard time seeing them turned away to their independence. These unknowing bystanders are clueless to the effect it has on my heart. Socially acceptable. This is a word I must remind myself of. It is not "socially acceptable" to yell through tears, "please hold your crying baby, I never got to hold mine and I would give anything for that opportunity again." Not socially acceptable.

Now have I turned into a Saint of a mother? Ha, hardly. There is no such thing. Even in the event you loose a thousand children. {And Heaven forbid.} Children are difficult. They are loud, can be slightly obnoxious at times, nagging, tattling, bickering, mess making, and down right frustrating. For someone to not say any of those things have been in their list of descriptions would be lyyyyyying. They will draw on your walls. YES, THEY WILL. Even if you stare at them. {Add sorcerers, to that list.} They will break your favorite decorative figures. {My ceramic little girl that was given to us after the funeral to represent Savannah in heaven.} She will now always remind me, that Savannah was not perfect, but we LOVED her anyways. Children will sometimes even lie to your face. Even if you saw them commit the "crime." More so my beloved three year old, but again it is all apart of the learning process of life. If you do not ever find any of these things irritating, I would have to wonder if you were possibly in a coma. {I pray someone is protecting your oxygen from the small children in your house as well. And if anything your tank will probably be drawn on.}

So no, I'm not a perfect mom.

My hair is not always perfectly neat. I do not make homemade cookies everyday. I do not have boys that don't try and pumble each other at any given opportunity. I have on occasion thought bedtime was the most beautiful part of my day. {Oh I ADORE the sight of peaceful, quiet, sleeping children.} I get upset when long tentacle beetles are brought in to say "hello mommy." I don't understand why the floor under my table looks worse than the aftermath of Pearl Harbor after every meal. I've considered taking every one of my children in for hearing tests because of their incompetence in listening. I sometimes forget that my children are only seven, six, and three. I admit there are times that I have expected too much from them. I've lacked patience at times, when I shouldn't have. I've raised my voice.

But...I've questioned every decision and reaction I've ever had. I've wished I could start bad days all over. I've said my fair share of sorry's. {Mommy's can and should be sorry too.} I've said no, and yes. I've given punishment when due and praise where deserved. I've slowed it down. I've experienced the feeling of life if any of them were no longer with me. I miss them the second they are away from me, and would live in constant missing them if their life slipped away. {Even the constant questioning.}

Loosing a child doesn't make motherhood any less frustrating. It doesn't make it "easier." It just reminds you of what is really important. The things you don't want to take for granted. The things you would miss. In a sense maybe it makes it harder. Being a parent to a child in Heaven and children on earth, there is always a hidden fear. A fear that you cannot protect the ones here from everything. The fear you didn't protect the ones gone, enough. A constant reminder that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow. It makes the "hard" days harder I think.

Just don't ask me if the baby keeps me up at night. If I'm lucky I'll answer, "thankfully yes."

Don't "suggest" that I hold my baby too much. Because only if I'm feeling socially acceptable, I'll refrain from saying,

"your right, I should have just held my dead one longer." 

Timeless memories.

A different love. That is what I described having another baby will be like. Not more. Not greater. But different. Every moment spent pregnant this time around, are spent in a constant state of Savannah. Oh how another beautiful life, can make me miss another life so.

Today, marks 10 weeks of this pregnancy. As rough as it started, and we were not sure if this pregnancy would continue, I am so happy to share, everything is fine. I've had four ultrasounds since I started bleeding, and not only is baby progressing well, the Subchorionic Hemorrhage is almost completely dissolved! Baby to be has a healthy heartbeat of 171, and we are moving forward to so many in depth plans on constant prenatal care and attention. My doctors this time around are Dr. Perry of over 30years experience, and Dr. Nina Boe. Perinatologist of one of the dearest places to my heart. UC Davis. Although, I will still be delivering here in the same hospital Savannah entered our life at, from first hand experience, there isn't a hospital that comforts me more than Davis. And having a specialist with her hand in my pregnancy, I know that there isn't greater care I can be in.

So far this pregnancy will be high maintenance. I begin weekly appointments at 15weeks. I go in for genetic screening July 20th, for a Nuchal Translucency Ultrasound, followed by a level II ultrasound towards the end of August.

I have to be honest, today, being 10weeks pregnant, sets my nerves on edge... I now have a baby growing and thriving inside of me, with either a formed or unformed diaphragm. What ever the future result holds for us, it is already set in stone. This week begins the process where all of the organs begin to really grow and mature. Today's knowledge of CDH, brings me back to the most horrible feeling I've ever had to experience. The look of a human being as they suffocate before your very eyes. The colors that you cannot imagine a person turning. I don't want to witness such a thing ever again...

And I miss her. Her eyes. Her smell. Her dry skin, that was still oh so soft. Her capabilities of glaring at doctors and nurses as a brand new person. Her ensemble of girly socks. Her fingers tightly wrapped around mine.

Nine months is too long to wait to meet someone that your heart already loves and longs for so much...

The ones who bring us up.

Even though I feel like there's nothing to say, I feel as though I have nothing else to do. Literally. Although I am still very much pregnant, and things are very much okay, I've been sentenced to temporary bedrest. "Take it easy.--Put your feet up.--Relax." All of these things, every mother dreams of. But when it comes down to it, it isn't as luxurious as it sounds. It is actually pure torture. I've spent as much one on one time with my couch that I ever wanted to, particularly at the beginning of summer.

After my emergency room visit on Sunday, I had my first follow up appointment Tuesday. It didn't start exactly as I had planned it would. My doctor is planning on leaving her practice. Thirty years of nurturing babies into the world, and my doctor was finishing up her days.
I knew that this meant she was not going to be there. She was not going to be the one. She was not going to cherish the moment that I hold the baby I've longed for.

Dr. Thomas Perry has taken over my prenatal care. I am currently going to to Mercy Maternity Center, so I can be seen regularly by the UC Davis Perinatologist, and she can schedule me a level 2 ultrasound at UC Davis to check for any possible problem this baby could possibly have.

At first I was not thrilled at the idea of just being seen at the Maternity Center associated with the hospital. During my follow up appointment, Dr. Perry discussed many things that comforted my mind. Based on my last menstrual period, the doctor said I was supposed to be 6 weeks, 4 days pregnant. But I continued to stress that I do not have 28day cycles. Usually more between 33-35.
He assured me that Sunday at the ER, my beta levels {or HCG/pregnancy hormones} were 6,958mlu. Which were again, perfect for where they were supposed to be. He wanted to do more lab work, and schedule yet another ultrasound to check the progress of the baby. He then told me, for things to look positive my beta levels needed to at least double what they were.
I asked many questions, and another 30year OB assured me... assured me...  that subchorionic hemorrhage is extremely common. And he see's them all the time. And since I am sure doctors just love and appreciate google, I asked some of the things I had heard. This kind of bleed reabsorbs into your body, or bleeds out, and the placenta does heal. So when I asked him if this increases the risk of placenta abruption the bigger the baby gets, his exact reaction, was a quaint smile, a kind eye roll, and a "not at all." Right now with the gestational sac being so small, it makes the hemorrhage seem so big in comparison. But as the baby grows, the sac grows, and the placenta grows. Making the clot smaller and smaller and less evasive. Until it eventually is gone. He said the hardest thing about Subchorionic Hemorrhage is that in the beginning, when the placenta attaches, or "implants", and causes the clot behind the placenta, there is a chance that it doesn't deliver proper nutrients to the baby, which can end development.
So another tube of blood was taken, and I sat in the parking lot in my car crying over my new environment, and saying goodbye to my doctor, while my mom listened and tried to comfort me on the phone.

I headed up to the hospital that same afternoon for a "doctors orders" squeezed in appointment. The technician who did my ER ultrasound, greeted me once again, and told me she was surprised to see me so soon because we wouldn't see much change in just two days. But we looked again anyways. Being she wasn't a doctor she isn't at liberty to give any information. I asked her a question about the previous ultrasound she had done. Hesitantly, she asked, what my doctor had told me. So I told her what I knew. She excitedly agreed. I told her as well that I wasn't a typical 28day cycle. She said that makes a big difference in fetal age, and the accuracy on where development stands. She showed me the screen, and said she knew it was just to early to see a heartbeat. If the doctor would wait another week, she would be able to see more.
Wednesday afternoon, my mom came down to join me on my second follow up appointment. My levels had doubled. 13,528mlu. He was pleased and said that my numbers were great. He also showed me the change in just a few days between my two ultrasounds.
I was rescheduled a third ultrasound for Monday June 13th, as well as a repeat blood draw. Which brings me to today. Friday. Still a complete two days, for final answers. A healthy heartbeat. What every doctor needs to see to be comforted in any early pregnancy.

So knowing all odds are in our favor, I find myself anxious for the news. For some news.

Which leads me to an irritable pregnant mood. Maybe it's the couch. Maybe Oscar was such a grouch because he was limited to his garbage can all the time. It's a good theory I think. Bed rest no matter how temporary can lead to insanity.

My Sarah turns seven years old in eight short days. I have exactly 41 people, including every child in her class invited to a party, I can not yet prepare for. My husband celebrates his 28th birthday in only four days. This year, I had plans to go above and beyond for his birthday. But this has limited me to what I had planned. And I don't like it. My husband is my everything, and I want him to know that he was born for me. His birthday is important. Something to be remembered. Something to not be late on. Because if you truly care for someone, you would never be late on their birthday.

He called his mom the other day. I could tell in his voice that after he had talked to her, he seemed happy. He called me afterwards, {Where was I? You got it, the couch...} and told me his mom asked if we were still going camping, and he said no. She asked if she could take us out to dinner for his birthday. As he was telling me this, I said, "I can tell that my hormones are still rising. Because first it happened when all my dear friends left encouragement for me on Facebook before my doctors appointments. The ones who care, are always there for us, not just when it is convenient for them. And it means so much, that your mom can make plans for your birthday when she knows I can't!!!" ::SILENCE:: My husband asked "Are you crying???" ::SNIFF SNIFF:: "Yes!"

So yes... Aside from my irritations. There are so many people who have touched my heart. Through the death of Savannah. Through this pregnancy. You've left congratulations. You've sent positive prayers and wishes. You've offered nothing but encouragement in a angel mommy and daddies worst fear moment. {The danger of loosing yet another baby.} I am a mother who has buried my daughter. I am far from Naive. Babies die. But to offer nothing but encouragement, means alot to me. Because you all know that my mind is already running with the possibilities. The statistics. Right now, love and encouragement is all we need... Thank you to everyone who has been less than selfish through this. You are the ones that matter. (((BIG HUGS FROM MY COUCH TO YOURS!!)))

Me and my thoughts.

Here I am, 3:58am sitting at my computer, alone in the silence of the night. Alone. Just me and my thoughts. I find it easier tonight to battle back and forth with my thoughts, rather than battle with my subconscious waking me repeatedly with thoughts in my dreams. In my thoughts of mine I wonder...


"Does anyone else wonder to themselves while pregnant with their  "miracle " baby, did I make a selfish decision? Did I make a decision to have another only because of my own motherly desires. My own wants. My own needs. Is my world going to be shattered once more, because I can only think of myself? "

I do.

And I am.

Tonight especially.

Yesterday afternoon, I insisted my family and I take a leisurely walk to the grocery store right around the corner from our house. We picked up some items at the store, with plans in our minds of coming home and making a fun lunch. Headed back, and about half way home, I felt a gush. I quickly and instantly shoved my negative thoughts into the back of my mind. A few more steps. Another. And another. And another. It was too familiar. My husband continued with his happy chit chat, as I felt the color vanishing from my face. I told him, "all I want to do is go to the bathroom. " Being a pregnant mommy in her first trimester, obviously that wouldn't sound alarming. More normal and expected than anything. I told him, "I think I am bleeding. " It was a quiet remainder of the walk, and through the door and straight to the bathroom I went. There before me was the red I feared would be staring back at me. 

As my mind raced, I mentally scanned through my thoughts on the couch before getting up, finding a spot to sink into on my bed and sob into my hands. 

"WHY!? " I began to ask.

"People criticise me everyday for the faith I have in you, and yet I stand by your side and continue to promise that no matter what YOU have not forsaken me! How can I try to continue to lead these

people, with my constant examples of what others see as your absence?  "

I felt angry. Angry in the sense I knew I was going to have to stand up once more in front of the crowd and let everyone know, my prayers and hopes, were once again shattered. Knowing all of the impending whispers would be starting about how far my faith was really getting me. I was preparing myself for the strength I knew I had to find deep inside me, yet again.

Once I had released my anger, and my heartache in my tears, I stood up, and came back downstairs. Standing in the kitchen, I hunched over as my stomach turned from the nausea I was feeling. I laid down on the couch, and forced myself to eat the lunch my husband still sweetly prepared for me. It didn't taste nearly as good as I had imagined it would only an hour prior. Turning on a movie, I fell asleep. I thought rest would be in my best interest. A few hours later, I woke and went to the bathroom. I was still bleeding, but I began to notice it wasn't what it "should" be. I told my husband that I wanted to go to the emergency room. We called my mother-in-law and she met us in the parking lot, where she took the kids off of our hands. The initial process was quick. I was seen within minutes, from a nurse practitioner. They seemed optimistic from everything I was describing. They told me I was going to need an ultrasound, and some lab work done. Where a few minutes later, they took me back to a room. I found myself waiting, and staring down at the same patterned hospital gown that I once wore only nine months ago. Ugly checkers, how I loathe you...

The doctor came in a performed a topical ultrasound hoping to see everything he needed to see. But it was too early. He ordered a "internal" ultrasound, and shortly after that some nice nurses came in to take my blood. And then began the typical emergency room waiting game. My husband and I joked and laughed ourselves into a frenzy. I suddenly thought to myself as my side ached from laughter, "why am I so happy right now? Why am I feeling so calm and optimistic? " 

Finally the ultrasound technician came and wheeled me back. {Wheeled. By that I mean bed and all. There is nothing I tense up with more than feeling the loss of my independence.} As I lay in a pitch dark room, the only light shining on the technicians face coming from the ultrasound machine, that I couldn't see, I found myself chatting up the silence in those fifteen to twenty minutes. After all, there was time to kill, and so much I wanted to inquire her about regarding CDH. {Bless her little heart, I think I taught her a thing or two about it. Because my questions ended up being her questions.} I began asking her, if she saw anything. I swear ultrasound technicians would make the best poker players. I tried so hard to read her face. But it always looked the same. No promise of hope, no promise of devastation. Just a poker face.

Once again, I had to wait for the doctor to tell me anything, and hours later, they moved me to yet another room for a pelvic exam. My cervix was completely closed...

He then began to tell me, "Okay, here's the thing. You lab numbers look perfect. Baby is measuring right on schedule at 5-6weeks. But.... " {I hate buts...} "But, where the placenta is attaching to the uterine wall, there is a pocket of fluid. Which we assume is blood obviously. We have also discovered a mass growing on your left ovary, which we don't know what to think about that. This has us at a point where we don't really know where to go from here. " He then told me he was going to call my doctor, and see what she had to say.

So back down the hall we went into my room where my husband was waiting. I told him everything the doctor had just said. And again we waited. We waited for at least another hour. I relayed the message to my mom, my mother-in-law, and a friend anxiously awaiting news back. A few minutes later, a message appeared on my phone. My friend had gathered any information based on what the doctor had just told us. She sent me a message, saying this was what "the internet" thought it was. It lifted my spirits. 

Maybe fifteen minutes later, the doctor came back in. "You have what is called a subchorionic hemorrhage. What your body is doing is releasing the blood buildup behind the placenta. Right now you need pelvic rest, and your doctor wants you to call her office tomorrow to come in and see her. She will want you to get more lab work, and have another ultrasound done. "

And like that, I was discharged. Still pregnant. But still so unaware of where life would lead us from here. We came home and I once more became a fixture on the couch. The bleeding had stopped completely. 

But here I am. Wondering. Hoping. Scared out of my mind in the middle of the night. Everything I have read, says women go on to deliver healthy babies having this sort of hemorrhage. But... do these women stand up with my odds? With my similar history? Why did the doctor not say anything about the "mass" he seemed to focus in on? What am I going to do if the doctor puts me on bed rest with three children? Will my baby lack the oxygen and nutrients to be the healthy and thriving child I hoped for? Am I going to continue this pregnancy with problems from the very beginning? Did I make a selfish decision? The list of questions continue running through my mind. What ifs... 

All I can do is make it through the rest of the night. Just me... and my thoughts.