Midnight Rush

It's 20 to midnight. The Seahawks lost. My husband is sick, my back is out, and just I'm case today wasn't awesome enough, Ondine decided tonight would be a good night for a hospital run.

So were here, waiting for meds to kick in so they can stitch up her absurdly deep gash from her acrobatic flip over my lazy boy chair. Oi. Vey. 

With all that in mind, I'm so grateful for Seattle Children's Hospital. Their staff is efficient, kind and dedicated. It may be the night shift, but they're as bright-eyed as if they just got here. The nurses have tricks to get kids to calm down or focus on something other than the exam at hand and, just in case, there's helpful kids movies to watch for kiddo distraction.

So while I'm in really severe (read I can't hardly walk myself) back pain and my husband is having trouble breathing normal, at least we can take short stuff to this grade A hospital with top of their class staff to attend her owies large and small.

I love my emerald city, especially our fantastic Children's hospital.

Life's Curve Balls Stink Like... Well, Balls

I had a plan. It was a beautiful plan. Go to Spokane away from all distractions and write. It was simple, clean and everything I needed to be an effective and creative writer.

Then sometimes, life has other plans.

For the first several days, I did not get more than 2 pages written. Because as an independent filmmaking team, we often write our own contracts. They're typically straightforward and to the point of "if you do this we do this and we all agree to this." I think 5 pages might be the longest contract we've ever written with some very specific points of definition in them. It was several days of hashing those out, and to satisfy our investors, we are still working on them, negotiating terms so that our expectation are fully established in ink before we move forward. But the work had to be done.

I got a little more writing and a surprise visit from my husband and daughter for our 4th Wedding Anniversary. It was a beautiful and appreciated relief from all that legal and business jargon I loathe so much. But it was out to the farm very shortly after where I could write, ride, and shoot as needed.

Nope. Family, allergies that kicked my rear and other business to attend to.

I quickly found a way to get myself away from it all with no phone, no email, no nothing but the sweet sound of clickety-clack of my keyboard. I got 30 pages in. I was on FIRE! It was amazing, to know that it wasn't my inability to write through writers block, it was so many distractions I couldn't focus. Glorious day!

Too bad the bed at the lake is so awful I threw out my back. I mean big time. I couldn't walk, was sort of tipped to one side and really the only position remotely comfortable was sitting... for about 5 seconds before I was in pain again. Back to town for some medical evaluations.

It took nearly 4 days, a bottle of anti-inflammatories a chiropractic visit and a massage therapy session to get to a place where sitting/standing/sleeping was not painful. I went back to the lake, alone and prepared to write. I had a day and a half by myself before the family would join me for the 4th. I got 20 pages in.

So now, I'm back in Seattle. Been here a few days with my 50 pages I was able to accomplish in the 4 days I had of actual writing time. Not bad if I do say so myself. Now, for the last 40....

Wedding Bells

Last Friday was Ondine’s first ever Wedding. There was some deliberation about what to do if she got fussy so as not to ruin her Godmother’s special day (Sean and Amy are now officially hitched!). Godmother #2 had offered to babysit since both Collin and I were set to be a part of the bridal party long before we even knew we were pregnant. The worry was that with the addition of the nasal pieces she might be more fussy than her normal chill baby state.

This kid lives to defy odds.

Comfortable in her baby Bjorn with “Aunties” Jill & Chelan in the back row (strategic location for a quick exit) the wedding begins. Mommy and daddy pass by and she is passed out cold in her pink party dress. Go team!

Of course to rapidly follow is the reception. I realize more everyday that a baby is like a hot potato that no one wants to let go of. Gimme-Gimme is the name of the game and after dinner once dancing started she was passed from one oohing woman to the next. Everyone wanted time with her. I came back from the bathroom to find her in the arms of a woman I never met- no Collin in sight. “Excuse me that’s my baby.” I said.

“Oh that’s alright, she matched our table.” said the grandma-type. “I’m ok. You go have fun.” Well alrighty.

It was how the entire night went. If they didn’t want time with the bride and groom, they wanted to check out their goddaughter. She got a dollar dance with the groom and with the bride (a little unfair because no one wanted to cut in on the infant) and danced with mom and dad a line dance. Our good pal Miles sang his epic “Milkshake” song and then it was time to get going.

Note to new moms: If you want your infant to sleep for a solid 5 hours and then most of the following day, take them to a wedding.

Jun

A Baby In Waiting

3-5 months. That’s what they told us for surgery. And we’re right on track. Ondine’s molding is going exactly to plan. And we are now scheduled for July 25th. She will be 17 weeks old.

You know, caring for a new born is never easy. I want to slap moms who say to me it’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever done. While every day I love my daughter more and more, it’s also the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Compound the regular care schedule with weekly hospital appointments, add a combination of pain and uncomfortable medical devices that must be worn 23 hours a day and then you have an idea of what this takes. We are by no means the only parents with children who have special needs. But I’ve also noticed that not many people talk about those needs or problems. I’ve been directed to find support groups that sound more like an AA meeting than supportive  parents who are going through the same things.

This week Ondine was given the additional nasal part of the molding. The tissue inside her mouth has moved nicely and the gap is now less than 5mm apart.  They congratulate me on the progress and discuss the next phase: adding two pieces if metal to hold her nostrils up.

Up until now, Ondine has really only been bothered by the tape. She sleeps through 90% of her appointments. Not this time.

Ondine dozed once we had the device out for molding, but it was only temporary. The metal pieces are attached to little soft waxy pieces that look like lima beans. Her nostrils sit on the divet while the bulbous part pushes up on the inside of her nose. This is to form her nostrils for breathing and cosmetics. Ever had a pencil up your nose when you were a kid? Now imagine being an infant that can’t complain with words. So you scream.

It’s her most stressful appointment to date. I pick her up and cuddle her, bouncing a bit to comfort while I listen to the doctor explain where we are and where we go from here. I look at my pretty girl, her device looks more like a mask now, like a little baby Bane or something. While I hate every minute she has to wear it, I also realize it’s essential for her to be prepared for surgery. So I bite back tears and carry on, thankful she wont remember anything. 

Struggle for Air

It’s 5:15 am on a Saturday. The only thing I can do is type a note on my iPhone while my baby girl sleeps. What’s that? Put her back in the bassinet you say? I’d love to. Except she has a bilateral cleft pallet. That’s easier said than done.

I’ve previously written about the heart break and fear my husband and I went through during my pregnancy because doctors scared the shit out of us with the news that our child would have a bilateral cleft lip and possibly a pallet as well. Even more recently I talked about the process of delivery. But no blog I’ve read, no doctor I’ve spoken with could really prepare me (or my husband) for caring for a newborn with a cleft.

It not that different I suppose. You wake every 2-4 hours to feed/change/cuddle. There are giggles at her precious sounds and complete frustrations when nothing you do will console a screaming baby.  There’s the normal fears of am I a good parent, what if I’m doing it all wrong?

None of that compares to the fear of holding your helpless baby in your even more helpless hands as she stretches her neck gasping for air.

Hence I sit in a recliner at zero dark thirty, with no Oscar nomination in sight, and my 3 week old slumbering at a slight angle on my chest so she can breathe a little easier. We discovered this brilliant little trick at the hospital when one of the very clever nurses tilted her bassinet ever so slightly so that she wouldn’t choke if she threw up, and to ensure that anything in her mouth went where it was supposed to go: down her throat and not into her nasal cavity.

I guess I should explain. A cleft pallet is essentially a hole in the roof of the mouth. It means the barrier between the nasal passage and mouth is MIA. This leaves her open to fluid in her ear canal, problems with sight if milk clogs her tear ducts, and the very real possibility of her choking every time she eats which is about every 2 hours.

But in spite of all of that, the fear, the frustration, the sheer panic that wakes me after 5 minutes if she gurgles instead of breathes is worth it. Because her voice is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, and her deep blue eyes see right through my soul. Because right now I have a flesh and blood angel sleeping peacefully over my heart.

Painful Joy

3 am wake up.

During the course of pregnancy I’d come to recognize this as my nightly bathroom break, or perhaps it was time to shift to the other side because baby had decided it was time to practice her ballet bar then.

This was very, very different.

I couldn’t breathe at first. I sat straight up an immediately regretted it. My husband slept beside me and I didn’t want to wake him up in a panic if it was another false alarm. I grabbed my phone, flipped on the stop watch and started timing.  Contractions: 5 minutes apart, lasting for a minute… 20 minutes.

They had us practice in our birthing class holding ice in our bare hands to feel the pain and breathe through it. Sounds crazy but that ice burns like a mo-fo and without that mental prep, I could see how it was easy to grab the nearest intern and roar for drugs before you rip out their heart. I’m luckily stubborn enough that it worked. Time to wake up the husband.

“Babe?”

“What?! What’s wrong!”

“It’s time.”

“Are you sure? We can call the midwife.”

“No. It’s time.” 10 minutes or so later my husband and my mom had me in the car and we were on our way.  It was the most painful car ride I’ve ever endured. Not sure if it was the pain or my mom and my husband cracking really bad jokes to take my focus off the pain. Either way the drive sucked big time. Mom dropped us at the front entrance. I’m praying the doors are unlocked because I really don’t want to waddle through emergency and then up to the birthing center. Luck was on our side.  Contractions: 4-5 minutes apart, lasting for 1 minute for the last 45 minutes.

My husband checks us in at Swedish Hospital in Ballard and fills out any paper work not already prepared in our birthing plan folder. The midwife comes in and they get me into a gown, explain that they still have to check my cervix to determine if they should keep me for now or send me home.

“You made it to 5 cm dilated before coming in? I’m impressed”

“I told you I have a high pain tolerance.”

The first thing they did was put me on antibiotics with a locked IV in case I needed a bath or shower during the process. About 2 weeks prior I had tested positive for Group B Streptococcus (GBS) which is normal and occurs in 25% of healthy adult women, but can be harmful to newborns. Ergo, antibiotics.

For the first several hours not a lot happened. Meaning I did a lot of breathing and bracing through contractions. Friends started to show up. My vitals were taken, we monitored baby and the routine parade of medical professionals made their presence known to me, who they were and what their specialty was. I was tough. I can handle this. Just breathe.

Around 12 hours I broke down.

I was ready for an epidural. I felt like I had failed. I had wanted so desperately to have a drug free delivery, and with my scoliosis, it was incredibly risky .

I even had second thoughts when my midwife came in, asking her to check how dilated I was because if I was getting close enough to push then it wasn’t worth it.  Then the mother of all contractions hit me and I couldn’t breathe at all.  I was on all fours screaming in my pillow until it passed. I collapsed on the bed and sobbed. I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted to pain to stop. I held my husbands hand and waited for the anesthesiologist. What seemed like hours later, I woke up. I had finally gotten some real rest. I was able to joke again, tease my husband and hold his hand. I couldn’t feel my legs at all, so they turned off the epidural. I’d need to be able to feel at least a little in order to push.

When the pushing came time, it wasn’t at all what I expected. In the movies I see the crinkled faces and the screaming anguish. But I was drugged and couldn’t feel my legs. I felt the contraction, but barely. Time to push. To me, it felt like I was doing sit ups for an agressive trainer who wont take no for an answer.

With one foot in my mothers hand, the other in my mother in laws and gripping my husbands hand so hard I might break it, I pushed. Ten seconds. Breathe. Repeat.

I’m not sure how long this took, maybe thirty minutes, maybe an hour. And then she was here. Ondine Evelyn Neal, 8lb 15oz, 20inches long. She was purple, and crying. But she cuddled onto my chest, set foot on my belly and was a part of our life from here on out.

Everything else sort of faded away.  Pain didn’t matter, and while the doctors were busy sewing me back together in spots, I was completely distracted by the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. I was now a mother.

Waiting for Baby

There is this thought that birth is like it is in the movies. I am here to tell you that is a dirty lie. It’s NOTHING like it is in the movies. I should know better, being a filmmaker. We practice in the magic of illusion everyday. But I also have this hopeless romantic faith in fairy tales and happy endings so I can justify my naiveté here.

Early Sunday March 17^th I pulled myself out of bed. “Today’s the day!” I thought. Anticipation since July when a sudden and surprising little bird made her presence known. It was our delivery day. Our little peanut had been right on target every week for growth and there’s no reason to even think she won’t come on time. Saint Patrick’s Day was finally here and we were determined to encourage her to hit her holiday. Both her dad and I missed our holidays by one day (4^th of July and Thanksgiving) so we didn’t want her to suffer the same irritation.

I had decided I would refuse C-section unless medically necessary for personal reasons. My husband and I had also discussed at length the pros and cons of drugs during the labor and decided a natural birth (unless medically necessary) was also on the books. So we began our Sunday with a game plan. Operation Baby Drop was a GO!

I was feeling contractions and could time them but there is this numbers rule they give you in preparations to judge when it’s best to ACTUALLY show up at the hospital. 4-1-1. Contractions are 4 minutes apart lasting for a minute for at least 1 hour. I have an absurdly high pain tolerance so I called the midwife and she told me I would really be able to tell the difference, so wait. Contractions: 10-15 minutes apart lasting for 30 seconds.

First, a nice… long… hot…

Bath. Where was your mind?  My two girlfriends picked my mom and I up. The four of us headed to Bella Nails in Ballard. We made our appointment and walked to Cupcake Royale. What’s a birthday without Irish Crème Cupcakes? Or Whiskey Bacon Cupcakes? This is an Irish baby damnit, she’s got to start it out right. Back to the nail salon and we all pampered ourselves. There is rhyme to this indulgence. There are pressure points on your feet that can induce labor. Of course it would have been awkward if my water had broke there, but hey we were on a mission. Alas, baby has enough of her stubborn Scottish mama (Me) to stay right where she was. Contractions: 10 minutes apart lasting for 30 seconds. I’m not unsure these are just really powerful Braxton Hicks at this point.

Onward we went to the Freemont Sunday Market.  We mingled, bought things we had no intention of buying until we got there, and I got my photo taken with the best baby buggy in the world. Still my baby wasn’t encouraged enough to make her appearance.  Time for lunch, er… dinner.

Normally a spicy meal is in order. But seeing as A. I’d been eating Pho and Indian food my whole pregnancy I didn’t think it would do the trick and B. It was St. Patrick’s Day we opted for home cooking. It’s sacrilegious to eat anything other than corned beef and cabbage in the Neal house on St. Patrick’s Day. My mom had recently shared her recipe with my husband who then took that and ran with it creating his own fabulous concoction.

The boys had been busy playing Halo and making the meal while we were out so it was time to head home. Contractions: 7-10 minutes apart lasting for about 30-45 seconds.  Still thinking these might just be my uterus doing push-ups in preparation for the marathon.

The Godparent couples (we have two) and some more close friends showed up and it was a regular Irish gathering. We talked, they drank, played games and ate delicious food.  We went for our second walk up to the elementary school and back. During the walk the contractions increased in intensity and I was happy for the pain. “This is it!” I thought.

Wrong.

As soon as I sat down to time them more specifically they went right back to being strong Braxton Hicks. Lame. I consulted the midwife again, emphasizing my pain tolerance and again being told that I would really be able to tell the difference. That the reason so many women have “false labor” pains is because they’re not listening to their body. “Trust me, you’ll know when it’s time. You wont have to ask, you’ll just come in.”

Several hours and rounds of Cards Against Humanity later, it was time to say goodnight to our friends. Contractions: 5-8 minutes apart lasting 45 seconds.

Well, it was time for bed. The sun had set on St. Patrick’s Day and I felt a little sad, but equally happy that our little girl had decided that she was going to do things on her own schedule.  Perhaps it’s delusion, but I thought to myself it was an encouraging thought knowing she was exerting her independence even before she’d left my body.

Doctors, Midwives and Doulas, Oh My!

So if you have a doctor and you love them, congratulations! You have one less headache to worry about. But if you haven’t made your selection yet for who’s going to, you know, deliver the baby… Get on that train and make a decision ASAP. You’re going to want to have a feel for this person who’s going to be a familiar face in a medically sterile environment. Did I mention they’ll also be up close and personal in your privates any day now?

I know this is weird, but I didn’t know where to start…. so I looked on Yelp for a doctor. Call me crazy, but every woman I knew who had a doctor was either a high paid attorney (who didn’t mind dropping several grand on a new purse) or my blessed family who haven’t seen a maternity doctor in, well, years.  I wanted to see what others had to say about the top rated OB/GYN’s  in my area. I found several and one in particular who worked at Swedish Medical Center, the hospital that delivers more babies than any other in my state. She had top marks from everyone and I mean everyone. That’s a rare feat in Yelp. When EVERYONE thinks you’re the bees knees, it’s probably because you are. Unfortunately with my estimated due date, they didn’t want to over schedule her so I made my number two selection and set up an appointment.

This doctor was fabulous. She was so kind, and sincere. She answered all of my questions and made me feel right at home. Of course my husband was a little unprepared for a vaginal and breast exam that happened right there in the little room. He found himself a little horrified at the vaginal exam (they do open you up with steal tongs) and justifying the breast exam because she was pretty and that made it ok for a doctor to touch me like that (I laughed the whole way home). But in general we really loved our doctor. She was a little pricey and we had this moment where we weren’t sure if we could afford to keep her so we looked at other options.

My sister was the one who turned me onto midwives. She had both of her kids before she and I were sisters (marriage is a fabulous thing). She was young enough to not know there were options beyond a sterile room and a doctor. What is a birthing center? Well she told me. It’s just like a regular doctors office, but it costs a little less and if you so choose some midwives will even deliver in the comfort of your own home. So I looked at that very same Swedish Medical Center had a Midwifery clinic in their ever so much more chill Ballard Hospital. Win.

But I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I mean, switching from a Doctor to a midwife is a big deal. And I really, really liked my doctor.

Then the standardized testing started.

What the Halo?!

I understand there are some basic questions that you will be asked when getting to know your doctor so that they can also get to know your medical history to give you the best possible care available based on your personal biology. When was the first day of your last period? Have you ever used elicit drugs? Do you look both ways when crossing the road….?

But some of the tests are rather scary and can really put things in perspective for you. Some of these tests are there for standard medical preparation. Others are there for the comfort of the family, i.e. if you want to have as close to a perfect baby and ONLY if it’s a perfect baby, there’s a test for that. The only problem is that if you’re uncomfortable with the tests in any way, the pressure to take them can make pregnancy a burden and not the joyous time it’s supposed to be.

As I mentioned in my blog about perfect children, the choice is up to you. I still don’t entirely know what a doula is, but I’m betting you have a new age friend who can explain it to you better than I can with a Google search. Suffice it to say we chose a Midwife and haven’t looked back. They have been wonderful at Swedish Midwifery and Women’s Health.

When I compare the two, I liked my doctor, but I love my midwives (yes plural, there’s a team of them!) and I’m glad that I live in an age when choice is the staple of our time.

The Only Gift I Have, For Mother's Day

Because I’m a starving artist, I don’t often have the means to treat my family to the wonderful things they deserve. And when holidays like Mother’s Day come up, I don’t know how to give without going even more broke.

This year an opportunity came up to write an essay with the grand prize being a day package to Olympus Day Spa.
Here is the essay I wrote. (ps. I WON! pps: You want to win with the wife/girlfriend Get her a package here)
________________________________________________________________________________________

My mother has always and ever been a fighter, and a lover. A fighter because she has an iron will to accomplish the impossible. A lover, because no amount of hardship or mountains she had to cross would ever dampen her spirit of generosity.

When I was a little girl, I lived in a fantasy world. Most children do, but mine was filled with Tigers, and Elephants and magic. My mother was a dresser for a stage show at the MGM Grand in Reno, NV. I was the stage brat running around under dancers feet and weaving in and out of the catacombs of a theater that was very much a little Neverland.

I never knew how poor we truly were.

I remember one Christmas distinctly. We had a huge roast turkey and all of the trimmings. There were presents under the tree and a fire in the hearth. She took my hand and led me and my younger brother into a homeless shelter where we spend the morning serving others. For me it was a game. And when we came home I won the prize of a wishbone. What I didn’t know that my mother had barely been able to afford the turkey, let alone any presents. We were at the bottom of the bottom for income, surviving on table scraps while she worked full time to support myself and my younger brother. But to us, it was ever an adventure. Rain or shine, she loved life and made sure we did too.

Years later I would finally understand it. How she would go without so that we could have. How she would smile so that we would know that everything was ok. I remember living in a dream world because my mother made it so. She allowed us to be kids. She allowed me to be a young girl who discovered the world on my own terms. She held me when I hurt, taught me when I was wrong, and led me to be the best person I can be.

My mother taught me to be a woman who loves first, questions second and commits to the ones I love with an undying devotion.