So it's been a long time

These last few months have been more unimaginable than I could have ever thought possible. For some reason, I thought that after we lost Brady that I would grieve for a while but that it would continuously get easier. How wrong was I!

Here's a brief update. In October I started seeing a new neurologist for my Fibromyalgia (chronic pain condition I've been diagnosed with for nearly 7 years). He put me back on antidepressants because stress and depression can worsen Fibromyalgia, and god knows with losing Brady I was suffering enough from those. Things seemed to be going a little better.

Then in November, my aunt with whom I was incredibly close, passed away. More stress, more depression, so in the beginning of December my neurologist doubled my dose of antidepressants. A combination of too high a dosage and all the stuff that had happened really made me go off the deep end. I would sit in the bathroom with a razor blade to my wrist just telling myself to do it. Or I'd eye all the pill bottles in the medicine cabinet and think to myself how easy it would be to just take them, go to sleep, and never wake up. I was cutting myself again, which I hadn't done in over 5 years. I was drinking all the time. I was abusing painkillers. When I had my follow-up with my neurologist I asked him to back off the antidepressants. I've noticed some changes in my mood, but I still struggle with depression and addiction every day. It's nearly cost me my marriage, my friends, my life.

Needless to say, getting pregnant has been put on the back burner. I'd love another baby, but I need to get me right before I can bring another child into this world. I'm so glad Jonathan has stuck by me through all of this, because I don't know how I could have done this on my own.

A non-update that should've been

Yeah, guess it's time to update with some "current" information and stop relaying the past. As Wayne would say..."Live in the NOW!" :o)

So our first cycle TTC was a bust. I was really bummed about it, especially because I had felt pretty good about that cycle. Our timing was awesome, my chart looked SWEET! I began testing at 10dpo...something I swore I would never ever ever ever do. I did. BFNs from 10dpo to 13dpo...and then AF showed her ugly, good-for-nothing face. Stats from my first cycle: 30 days, O'd on day 18, 12 day LP.

Now I'm on CD 10, I'm still charting but I forget to temp sometimes (last month I was neurotic about it). I haven't bought any OPKs, and I'm not sure if I plan to or not. I guess I'm just really "whatever" about this one. I don't know why, really. I want a baby, that hasn't changed. But I'm getting close to what would've been my due date, I'm arguing with Jonathan a lot lately, and with my Aunt Patti dying and now my dad having a biopsy this week for possible prostate cancer...I guess it's just not at the top of my priority list. Guess I should get on that.

Always Blessings Never Losses

Here is the poem I wrote for Brady.

Two hearts and souls created one,
Little Brady, precious son.
Each hope and dream we rested on
The chance to see each breath or yawn.
Then came the day we’d waited for,
To see our darling baby once more.
But nothing prepares a mother for news
That her heart will bear an eternal bruise.
“The baby is sick,” the tech confides
And instantly a part of me dies;
The part that longed to snuggle close,
Counting fingers, kissing toes.
“He has no chance for life as others.”
Leaving the hardest choice for a mother.
“Let him live!” my heart appeals,
“He can fight with a will of steel!”
“Let him go,” my head then scolds.
But how can a mother be so cold?
“It’s not cold,” his Daddy explains,
“To save him from all the hurt and pain.”
So brave a man to surrender his joy
To do what is right for his little boy.
And so that sunny August day,
The angels came to take him away
As one of their own who will guard and protect
Those he left behind who will never forget.
But will remember him always the rest of their years
Knowing his wings beat, drying their tears.
We must always remember the happiness
Of the little angel who too quickly left.
And think as we look at flowers and crosses,
Always blessings, never losses

After Delivery

(top)Brady's Tree we planted. (bottom) Brady's frog sitting in front of his poem I wrote and behind his urn.

I'll continue where I left off. We had delivered Brady at exactly 8:00 on August 14. He was 13oz, and 9 inches long. Despite the fact that he was not quite fully formed and was incredibly discolored, I could tell immediately that he looked just the way his big brother looked when he was born.

Before handing him over to the nurse and saying our final goodbye, a chaplain came in to dedicate Brady. Now although we are not super religious people, I consider myself a very spiritual person and it felt like something I needed to do for both me and for Brady.

He was taken away, and I was given 4 hours to deliver the placenta naturally. If I had not delivered it by 12 they were going to take me to surgery and do it then. I prayed like hell that it would pass, this horrific journey would be over, and I could just go home. But no such luck. At 12:15 I was prepped for a quick surgery and by 12:30 they were wheeling me into the OR. They told Jonathan not to worry, that the entire procedure would take less than 30 minutes, they wouldn't even tube me, and I'd be back in my room within an hour.

I awoke in recovery very groggy and with the most horribly empty feeling I believe I ever felt. Every little piece of my baby that I shared with him was no gone. And nothing I could do would bring it back. I was in recovery for 20 minutes, then it was back to the 7th floor where Jonathan was waiting anxiously. He had a look of pure terror on his face and said "I'm so glad you're back!" I was confused. It was a 30 minute procedure, surely he could pass that short amount of time without me right? I thought he was being a little overprotective, even given the circumstances. As they moved me from the stretcher to my every-so-uncomfortable bed, I happened to glance at the clock. 3:30! What happened to being back withint the hour?

That's when the nurse told me that they had encountered some problems during surgery--to this day I don't know what--and that they had to intubate me as it was taking much longer than expected. It seemed to be the theme of the entire hospital stay, after all. However, she assured me that whatever problems they faced in the operating room would not hinder my chances at having further children. I found this incredibly reassuring, because I knew right away that as soon as I had the okay from the doctor, I was going to be trying to get pregnant again.

They released me from the hospital that afternoon to go home and rest. Recovery from the surgery would take a few days, and the emotional healing would take longer. We knew we were going to have a service for Brady. We had already made arrangements for him to be cremated. As Jonathan said, he wanted him home one way or another.

The week after the hosital and leading up to the service is quite a blur. I was so heavily medicated between painkillers and medicines for anxiety--it was like living in a bubble and watching my life as if it were a dream. Parts were very clear, others I couldn't remember at all no matter how hard I tried, and none of it made sense. I don't even remember what order everything happened in. Thank god for Jonathan.

I do remember booking the funeral home for the service, picking out the urn (silver and blue with white doves--the symbol of going home), buying the tree that we planted in the backyard, and selecting the black marble stone that would lay beneath it. Besides that, my memory is mostly blank, and I believe I would like to keep it that way.

We held the service on Saturday, August 23 from 2-4pm. Guests began arriving at 2, and I greeted them as graciously as I could. Though I have to say, my mother-in-law slipping me Valium throughout the day probably assisted in my ability to do it so well. Jonathan spent much of the time outside--being inside was too difficult. At 3 the chaplain began to speak. It was very touching, and he made sure to include AJ, who would have played a huge role in Brady's life. After the chaplain's speech, he asked if anyone would like to say anything. My mom thanked everyone on coming on mine and Jonathan's behalf. Then, to everyone's amazement, my shy little AJ stood up in front of all those people and said something that brought even the strongest men in that room to tears. He said:
"My baby brother was very sick, and he had a bad heart. Now he lives in heaven. But we can talk to him whenever we want, because he always sees us and hears us."
To conclude the service, they played a song that I had selected when I first learned Brady was sick: Baby Mine. I'll include the lyrics:
Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part
Baby of mine

Little one, when you play
Pay no heed, what they say
Let your eyes sparkle and shine
Never to tear
Baby of mine

If they knew all about you
They'd end up loving you too
All those same people who scold you
What they'd give just for the right to hold you

From your head, down to your toes
You're not much, goodness knows
But you're so precious to me
Sweet as can be
Baby of mine

Where it all began

I guess the best place to start is from the beginning. And here is the abbreviated version.

On April 26, after nearly 7 months of trying, my husband Jonathan and I found out we were pregnant with our second child. We were ecstatic! We knew we wanted to wait until our son AJ was old enough to handle everything, and at that point he was 4 and a half, so the timing was perfect. We broke the news to everyone on Mother's Day, and naturally they were thrilled. Still, from the very beginning, I had this nagging feeling that something was wrong.

In the beginning of May I started spotting. Like nearly every pregnant woman in the world, even though we're told "it's normal," I began to panic. I went in for an ultrasound where we saw the yolk sac. We were told to come back in 10 days for a follow-up ultrasound to check viability. Basically, if there was growth we could consider it a normal pregnancy. If there was none, I was having a miscarriage. Those 10 days passed by more slowly than you can imagine. But when we went back, right away we saw our little gummy bear on the screen. All was well, and we could rest easy. Theoretically, of course. A pregnant woman never rests easy when she knows the risks that are involved.

Eventually, as I moved into my second trimester I began to relax. At the end of June, I went up to my friend Jaime's baby shower in Maryland. As much as traveling from NC to MD 14 weeks pregnant sucks, I was still excited. This was Jaime's first baby, and one that we had all been praying for since Matt and Jaime got engaged. The shower was fun, and Jaime looked adorable with her big round belly at 35 weeks. I rubbed my own emerging bump and thought about how I couldn't wait to be that far along.

Even at 14 weeks, Jonathan and I had chosen names for the baby. If it was a girl (as Jonathan suspected), we would name her Kylie Marie. If it was a boy (as I was so sure), we would name him Brady Alexander. Our ultrasound was scheduled for August 7, and it felt as though the day would never come. We just wanted to know--boy or girl, pink or blue, Brady or Kylie.

While I was at my appointment on July 18, I was 16w6d, I received a text message from Jaime--her water had broken and she was on her way to the hospital! I was so excited, I hardly heard a word the Nurse Practitioner said for the rest of the appointment. Jonathan and I went out to dinner that night to celebrate, and found out that Jaime had delivered her baby boy, Brandon, that evening. I kept saying, "I can't wait until it's my turn."

Finally, after having been sceduled for 10 weeks, it was the day of my ultrasound--August 7. The whole day I could think of nothing else. I just wanted to skip everything and go right to the doctor's office. Of course, that wasn't really an option with work. Jonathan picked me up from work that afternoon, he already had AJ with him. AJ was so excited to see his baby on tv, as he said. He just couldn't wait to be a big brother. We were a little early, so we waited in the waiting room. And we waited. And we waited. Finally, almost 20 minutes after our scheduled appointment time, the ultrasound tech called us back.

I laid back on the table, had my baby bump squirted with warm gel, and the tech got to work. Immediately I saw hands and feet, and a head. Then we got the money shot. "Do you know what that is?" the tech asked. Having seen it before, I was positive. It's a boy! Then she began taking measurements of his organs--Brady's organs. It felt so great to finally be able to call him by name. When she got to the heart, the tech became very quiet. There were no more jokes, no more laughs. After a few minutes of the most stressful silence one can fathom, she turned to us with tears in her eyes. "The baby has a heart defect."

Immediately I began to sob. I knew in my heart that something was terribly wrong, and here it was, the beginning of my confirmation. She went to call the doctor to review some of the pictures while I called my mom to break the news. Instantly my mom dropped everything and said she was on her way. Even at 25 years old, I felt comforted by the thought of having my mother close by. The doctor came in and said she couldn't tell us much since she's not a specialist, but that she made us an appointment for the next morning with Maternal & Fetal Medicine. I would have another ultrasound and the specialists would look over and hopefully tell us what was wrong.

That night, we took AJ to my mom's house as planned. They were scheduled to leave for Disney World the following morning. As much as Mom and Tim, my stepdad, offered to stay behind, the more we insisted they should go. There was nothing that they could do by canceling their trip. And we didn't want AJ to have his plans ruined either. They should all go and do their best to enjoy themselves. We promised to stay in touch.

Friday morning we awoke and headed straight for Maternal & Fetal Medicine. There was a tech and a doctor present during the hour and a half long ultrasound. They debated back and forth with several medical terms that neither Jonathan nor myself could understand. All we knew was that it was bad. Very bad. The eventually brought in a pediatric cardiologist to confirm their diagnosis. Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, or HLHS. This was all new to us, our heads were swimming. Apparently, Brady's heart had not developed properly, particularly on the left side. His aorta, mitral valve, and left ventricle were all underdeveloped. The cardiologist asked us to meet him in his office later that afternoon and we would discuss it more in depth. With that, we left to pass an agonizing 4 hours.

In that time, we called friends and family. Several of them researched the condition on the internet and gave us some hope, some promising news. HLHS patients now have a three-stage surgery open to them that helps restructure the heart so that it pumps as normally as possible. We were cheered up a bit. We kept saying that so what if he needed some surgery, there are worse things in life. And who cares if he'd never play sports, he'd at least be able to live a somewhat normal life.

However, our meeting with the cardiologist changed all that, shattering what hope we had left. While the surgery is an option for ideal candidates, Brady was far from ideal. He had almost no left side of his heart at all. At birth, his aorta would be no bigger around than a strand of spaghetti, and his left ventricle would be almost nonexistent. It was the worst case the cardiologist had ever seen. We asked for his honest opinion. "He's going to suffer," he said. "He will need a heart transplant fairly quickly, and infant hearts are hard to come by. He will probably suffocate to death waiting for one."

We walked out of the office stunned, confused, and broken hearted. How could it be? How could our baby be so desperately sick? And, as any mother would do, I asked myself what had I done wrong? It had to be my fault. He was living in me, he needed me to make him better, and I couldn't. What could I have possibly done to cause this to happen to my baby boy?

Jonathan and I spent the weekend wrestling with the decision. Do we proceed with the pregnancy, knowing he will suffocate to death? Or do we terminate? I couldn't kill my own baby! What kind of a mother would do such a thing? he was fine where he was, I could feel him moving and kicking. How could I possibly end that for him? But then Jonathan made me think about what he would go through. The pain, the suffering. How could I do that to him either? Monday morning I finally decided that we would end the pregnancy. I would rather him go peacefully in my stomach than to fight to live to no avail after he was born. I couldn't let him hurt.

Monday afternoon we had an appointment with Dr. Tidwell. He explained the procedure to me so that I would feel as comfortable as possible. I almost laughed--there would be no comfort in what I was doing. He said that he would insert the laminara into my cervix that afternoon, which should help it to dilate naturally overnight. The following morning I would be admitted to the hosital in outpatient surgery. He would remove the laminara, then perform something similar to an amniocentesis. The difference would be that he'd be removing much more amniotic fluid and replacing it with saline, which would cause an electrolyte imbalance and stop Brady's heart almost instantly. I would then be hooked up to pitocin and moved to a private room where I would go through labor and deliver his body. It all sounds so technical, so black and white. I wish it had felt that way.

Things went as planned at first. I was moved to my own room to begin labor. Almost immediately the cramps and the contractions started, so they hooked me up to a morphine drip. It didn't do much to ease the pain, but it made them feel as though they were doing something great for me. Hours and hours went by. I was told that the average length of the delivery at this stage was 18 hours. That time limit came and went with no success. I had not dilated at all. 24 hours--still no change. 36 hours--no change. At 46 hours my water finally broke, and it was the most amazing sense of relief i've ever felt. I was beginning to feel like I would literally split in half. But finally, at 6:00 Thursday morning, my water broke. And then at 8:00 we delivered him.

The nurse took him away to get him cleaned up, and then brought him back so Jonathan and I could spend a couple hours with him. They were the hardest two hours, but also the sweetest. We held him, talked to him, told him how much we loved him and would miss him. The absolute most difficult moment was handing him back to the nurse because I knew at that point that we would never see him again. It almost killed me to do it. We were able to get 2 pictures of him though.

That's all I feel up to typing now. I feel exhausted just reliving it all.