tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84354105367586036182024-03-13T10:17:50.638-05:00Isaac and CamberIsaac Hesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05220318409225789036noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-58688528056449339132018-02-01T17:15:00.000-06:002018-02-01T17:15:03.540-06:00The dreaded third childI wasn't very good at having 2 kids. When Matthew was born Mary was 3 years old (3 is SO much worse than 2, am I right?) and Matthew was...colicky? Sensitive? Opinionated? He was by turns a happy and a miserable baby. Some nights he'd wake up crying every hour. We sleep-trained him probably 6 times. Mary loved the new baby and hated me for ignoring her. I felt exhausted and overwhelmed.<br />
<br />
I couldn't believe ANYONE would choose to have more than 2 kids.<br />
<br />
Then, about the time that Matthew turned 1, we both knew it was time for another.<br />
<br />
Juuuuuust as having 2 kids was no longer horrible.<br />
<div>
<br />
I spent pregnancy feeling guilty for yelling at my kids (I am very grumpy when pregnant) and using Netflix to babysit when I desperately needed to nap.<br />
<br />
Everyone I knew said that 3 kids was their hardest number. After all the trauma of two kids, I knew having 3 kids was going to ruin my life.<br />
<br />
It didn't.<br />
<br />
It began with a mostly drama-free birth, on a Saturday 3 days after my due date. My body is ok at starting labor but always has second thoughts. Each delivery has been preceded by on-again, off-again labor, and this one was no different. Luckily I have a doctor willing to induce a VBAC, and so on this Saturday I went in to be induced, already 5 cm dilated.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My last night pregnant</td></tr>
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<br />I continued having spotty, mild contractions.<br />
<br />
We increased my pitocin.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for that pitocin to kick in.</td></tr>
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<br />
Not much change.<br />
<br />
Increased again.<br />
<br />
I stayed standing. swaying, lunging, walking, etc. trying to help move things along.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Then I glanced at the floor by the IV pole. Was that tubing tangled up underneath the wheels?<br />
<br />
No, it turns out that the was the tubing with the pitocin, dripping onto the floor instead of into my arm. I wasn't having contractions, but the floor probably was.<br />
<br />
Once that was fixed, I delivered in about 2 1/2 hours. I have never had an epidural and with the last two kids the pain was very manageable until transition. (With my first baby the pain was horrific from start to finish).<br />
<br />
Then panic overcame me as the pain became unrelenting and <b>it was too late to change my mind about the epidural!</b> Blubbering and screaming ensued, and then, after pushing through one contraction, a baby was born, bringing profound, immediate relief.<br />
<br />
"I'M NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN!" was all I had to say at the moment. In retrospect, she was by far my fastest and easiest delivery, with no complications at all.<br />
<br />
We named her Grace Carolyn (Carolyn is my mom's name).<br />
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She slept so much those first weeks, that at one point my husband, mom, and I sat around fretting about the amount of sleep. That day she had been asleep the ENTIRE day except for eating (and then fell asleep at every feeding). We stared at the sleeping baby and asked each other, "<i>IS SHE IN A COMA?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>We Googled, "Newborn is sleeping too much".<br />
<br />
Turns out it's a thing, newborn sleepiness. She has since proven herself to NOT be comatose.<br />
<br />
Grace cries...sometimes. When she's hungry or wet. She eats and sleeps like a champ, and my greatest fear is forgetting her somewhere because she's so quiet.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing about having 3 kids. My older two kids can PLAY WITH EACH OTHER when I'm busy with the baby. Further, they're less resentful of the baby this time around because they're already used to sharing my attention.<br />
<br />
I was already used to being outnumbered during the day, and used to taking extra time to get everyone into car seats any time we went anywhere. Adding a third child (who goes without any kind of fuss, thank you very much) hasn't been that much harder.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These kids. Such weirdos.</td></tr>
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Somewhere between having 1 kid and having 3 I've grown as a mother. Some things don't overwhelm me as much as they used to. Some things don't bother me as much as they used to. (Some things that SHOULDN'T overwhelm me or bother me still do, because I'm a work in a progress).<br />
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<br />
I've learned that the experience of parenting is different for every single parent. All I can speak to is parenting my 3 kids. It's great.<br />
<br />
I mean, sometimes it's a disaster. But sometimes it's breathtaking.<br />
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I thought a third child would be the straw that broke the camel's back. Rather, Grace is a breath of fresh air and my link to sanity. When mothering a 5 and 2 year old is too much, I take a moment to mother a newborn. A newborn that makes no messes, pushes none of my buttons, and gives me smiles that are straight from heaven. </div>
Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-62476014966347022642017-01-19T22:51:00.000-06:002017-01-19T22:52:55.956-06:00The Layman's Guide to Winter DiseasesThis time of year my time at work is spent almost exclusively with patients suffering some upper respiratory ailment or another.<br />
<br />
This is a basic guide to what I've learned and some of the guidelines that direct my care.<br />
<br />
The bottom line? <b>You probably don't need an antibiotic.</b> (See my <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2015/04/what-i-want-my-patients-to-know-about.html">previous post on antibiotics</a>). BUT if you're miserable it might also be worth coming in to the doctor's office.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Sinus Infections</span></b><br />
<br />
These are almost always viral. More than 90%. Some small percentage will turn bacterial, and of these, new research is showing that most people will get better on their own even if it's bacterial. What can you do if you feel like your head will explode from the pressure?<br />
<br />
-Try a steroid nasal spray (Nasonex or Flonase). These are available over the counter and decrease the inflammation in your nasal passages. They are not a cure-all but do help with the symptoms.<br />
<br />
-Try a good decongestant. By "good" I mean pseudoephedrine, or Sudafed. If you don't have to show your ID to buy it, you're probably wasting your time. DON'T take sudafed if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, or have any problems with high blood pressure.<br />
<br />
-Try a sinus rinse, such as the <a href="http://shop.neilmed.com/Products/Sinus-Rinse">NeilMed Sinus Rinse</a> or the Neti pot. They are weird and a little gross, but some people find them very helpful.<br />
<br />
-Drink a lot of fluids, humidify your air (put a pot of water on the stove to boil all day and put a humidifier in your room at night), eat healthy foods and rest.<br />
<br />
-Come to the doctor's office if you are no better after 10 days or if your symptoms are progressively getting worse.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ear Infections</span></b><br />
<br />
For adults or kids, take some tylenol or ibuprofen for the pain. There are also over-the-count ear pain relief drops (such as Hyland's earache drops or Equate homeopathic earache drops at Walmart) you can use for the pain.<br />
<br />
For adults and kids over 3, 75% of ear infections will clear up on their own within a week without antibiotics. I generally like to see my patients wait at least 48-72 hours before starting an antibiotic if they're a little older, unless symptoms are severe.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Sore Throats</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Everyone thinks their sore throat is strep throat. The vast majority of the time, they are wrong. 90% of sore throats are actually viral. <b>If your sore throat comes with a fever AND you don't have other symptoms like a cough or runny rose, then the chance that it is strep is much higher. </b><br />
<br />
When in doubt, I personally never mind running a strep test to provide a patient peace of mind, and sometimes I really can't tell just by looking. Mono can also look a lot like strep.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, salt water gargles (about 1/2 tsp salt to 1 cup of warm water), throat lozenges, warm liquids, and tylenol can all be helpful.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Coughs</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Your cough is probably caused by a...wait for it...VIRUS. People love to talk about getting bronchitis like they were two steps from the grave, but antibiotics are rarely indicated for bronchitis (like sore throats, 90% of bronchitis is viral).<br />
<br />
That said, a bad cough can be life-threatening in some situations--pneumonia, severe croup, RSV in infants, etc. And even if your cough is caused by virus, it certainly may still be worth a trip to the doctor's office.<br />
<br />
<b>Some guidelines: </b><br />
-If your cough <b>came on suddenly and came with fever and body aches</b>, that smells a lot like influenza. We can test for that in the office and in some cases give antiviral medications for influenza. Another thing to consider is <b>pneumonia</b>, which I will sometimes check for with a chest x-ray. I always take pneumonia very seriously.<br />
<br />
-If you have a cough that is <b>so bad it's keeping you up at night or causing shortness of breath or wheezing</b>, come on in. Often coughs will cause inflammation in the lungs that can make breathing a little more difficult. Sometimes inhalers or breathing treatments can be helpful, and in some cases I'll give some cough syrup to help with sleep.<br />
<br />
-If your child has a cough that is causing them <b>ANY degree of respiratory distress</b>, don't hesitate to come in. If they are not eating or drinking, seem to have a hard time breathing, are wheezing audibly, or can't sleep because they're coughing so much, they may need treatment.<br />
<br />
-If you have had your cough for <b>more than 3 weeks with no improvement</b>, or if it has been getting worse, in some cases I may consider antibiotics. Some coughs that persist may also be caused by other treatable problems like reflux.<br />
<br />
<b>Self care for coughs:</b><br />
-For adults and children over 6, you can try over-the-counter medications like guaifenesin (Mucinex or Robitussin) or things like Dayquil, Delsym, Theraflu, Alka-Seltzer plus, etc. Children under 6 should avoid most cold and cough medications--current evidence suggests that they don't help much anyway and also can have risky side effects. There is some mild evidence in favor of honey, however, so it doesn't hurt to give them some of that if they're over 1 year.<br />
-Humidify your air if you live in a dry climate like I do. Put a humidifier in your room at night while you sleep. Put a pot of water on the stove to boil during the day. Take a steamy shower or bath. Humidified air soothes your respiratory tract and loosens secretions and mucous so it's easier to cough up.<br />
-Kids with croup will often benefit from cold air. Sometimes taking them outside at night during a coughing fit will calm it down quite a bit.<br />
-Drink a lot of fluids (preferably water). For kids, I care less about their appetite than I do about their willingness to drink fluids. Eat healthy foods (7-9 fruits and vegetables a day). Get a lot of rest.<br />
<br />
Last but not least, I really do recommend getting a <b>flu shot</b>. Flu shots WILL NOT give you the flu and are for influenza, not the stomach flu. Influenza is miserable and very dangerous for babies, pregnant women, elderly, and anyone with respiratory problems. Even if you're not worried about getting the flu, you could give it to someone else.<br />
<br />
Stay healthy, my friends.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-38279335292434718172016-11-13T22:37:00.000-06:002016-11-13T22:37:09.666-06:00Letter to my infertile self<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">*Background* My husband and I eventually conceived our oldest daughter after just over 4 years of trying to conceive and with our 4th round of IVF. We have since been able to have 2 more children without fertility treatments. I am acutely aware that every fertility story is unique and many have a different outcome than ours. Nevertheless, amidst a crowd of my fertile, complaining, peers, I used to spend a lot of time panicking about whether or not I wanted to a mom, and whether I’d like it or even be good at it (I’m not very good at it, but I do like it…) This letter is what I wish someone had told me 8 years ago. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dear Infertile Camber,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Stop panicking. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If parents are good at anything it’s telling horror stories about parenting. They relish horror stories. They try to outdo each other’s horror stories. 10 minutes in a room full of mothers is all the birth control anyone needs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Having kids is about as hard as you think it will be. Of course it’s hard. Things that ACTUALLY matter are always hard.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s true that most of the things you hear parents griping about will be part of your reality as a mother. Tantrums in public. Messes. Expensive things getting broken. Sticky floors. Sticky chairs. Sticky door handles. Sticky EVERYTHING. Body fluids of all types. Sleep deprivation. Desserts you no longer get to yourself. Being late to everything. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But none of this surprises you. You probably feel depressed about it. “Why spend thousands of dollars to bring a miniature dictator into my life?” you ask yourself. And, “WHY does anyone have more than one child?” (The answer is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">free babysitting </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in 12 years). </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Love will </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 18.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">surprise </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s real. It’s better than you think it will be.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When the screaming child is YOUR screaming child, it feels different. You know why she’s throwing a fit. You know she’s not always like that (unless she’s 3. Then she’s always like that. But really, stay calm). An hour ago she probably threw her arms around your neck and gave you a big wet kiss. Tonight you’ll check on her and she’ll look strangely angelic in her sleep (is this the same kid?)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You will find yourself savoring the little moments because they completely DWARF the bad ones. Like kids snuggled up on your lap to read books, kisses goodbye when you leave, a baby crying for you when you leave because they want YOU. Other people’s babies may seem a tad uninteresting, but you’ll find yourself happy to hold your own baby for hours at a time. Just looking at them. Just feeling their warm weight against you. Just </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">staring at their face</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being a mom is nothing like babysitting. Put all previous (and sometimes traumatizing) babysitting experiences out of your mind, because the truth is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you don’t have to like babysitting to like motherhood</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Frankly, you don’t actually have to like kids to like motherhood. Motherhood isn’t about other people’s kids. It’s about YOUR kids. Your kids, which, did I mention, you love more than your own life? More than your sleep or a decent sit-down meal or a whole dessert all to yourself? Motherhood isn’t like teaching kindergarten. Your kids will be different ages and you will love and dislike different things about each age. And they will be YOURS.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Obviously you’ll have to give things up. Forget reading a book for fun in the afternoon or sleeping in on a Saturday. Long, expensive vacations will be put on hold indefinitely. Hot dates become takeout and a cheap movie that’s over by 9PM. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So what? You’re making another HUMAN BEING. You teach them how to walk across a room, how to eat grapes, how to sing ABCs, how to start a movie by themselves or get their own cheese sticks out of the fridge. You will hear your voice in their voices because they will mimic everything you do (except picking up. They hate that. Probably because they know you hate it too.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-4969e150-611d-87d8-2fbb-a8111495a254"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Keep on. Keep on trying. Keep on hoping. All of this lousy infertility nonsense--the temping and clomid and embarrassing procedures and mounds of negative pregnancy tests and feeling awkward in a room full of pregnant women and mood swings and painful shots and MONEY--all of it will fade away with those first moments holding your baby. It’s cliche, but there’s no other way to put it. It’s worth it. All this nonsense is worth it. In the end you will find that infertility gives you a present: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 18.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">perspective</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Remember the infertility years on the hard days. Remember and be grateful. </span></span></div>
Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-49489804979352854352016-07-03T21:23:00.003-05:002016-07-03T21:23:48.045-05:00My year as a rookie Last year, still new on the job as a nurse practitioner, I had a phone conversation with a patient's husband I will never forget.<br />
<br />
He said, "This CT scan will cost us $730 out of pocket. My wife is feeling better after the shots you gave her. Are you SURE we need to do this today?"<br />
<br />
I looked around desperately for someone to tell me what to do. No one did. Had this room always been so Hot?<br />
<br />
I tried to sound confident. "Based on her lab results, I really do think she should have the scan done. I think there's a good chance she might have appendicitis."<br />
<br />
Truthfully, I had never seen a patient with appendicitis before. She might be my first, and $730 were hanging over my head.<br />
<br />
No one warned me about this kind of thing in school--the pressure of trying to keep costs down while also trying to <i>keep my patients alive</i>.<br />
<br />
She had appendicitis.<br />
<br />
Exactly one week later, I had the <i>opposite</i> conversation with a patient. He had similar pain but looked much less sick than appendicitis lady, and his labs were perfectly normal. I consulted with another doctor, and then told him he probably <b>didn't</b> need to do the CT scan (he also had a high-deductible plan and faced high costs for it).<br />
<br />
"I'm already at the hospital and prepped. The pain is worse. If it's OK, I'd like to go ahead and have the scan done."<br />
<br />
He had appendicitis too.<br />
<br />
Thank <b>GOODNESS</b> he followed his instincts instead of mine.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my job freaks me out.<br />
<br />
One thing that is difficult for a new healthcare provider is to find the balance between thinking every patient is on the <span style="font-size: large;">brink of death</span> and thinking everyone is perfectly fine.<br />
<br />
Most people with abdominal pain <b>don't</b> have appendicitis, most kids with coughs don't even need antibiotics, more sore throats are not strep throat than are, and most chest pain is not a heart attack.<br />
<br />
BUT some chest pain IS a heart attack, and truthfully the only way to know (depending on symptoms), is to run the appropriate tests.<br />
<br />
I've only seen one patient having a heart attack so far, surprisingly (out of a dozen or so that I've sent to the ER to be checked), and it <b>wasn't </b>the guy that showed up with crushing chest pain that radiated down his left arm, who looked sweaty and a little out of breath.<br />
<br />
No, it was the lady that showed up with one complaint: <b>excess burping</b>. I'm serious.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my job FREAKS ME OUT.<br />
<br />
Although the majority of what I see is upper respiratory illnesses (sinus infections, coughs, ear infections, and sore throats), I'm often surprised at the variety of what comes through the door.<br />
<br />
I have told 2 girls they were pregnant.<br />
<br />
I diagnosed someone with type 1 diabetes.<br />
<br />
I have pulled an ear bud out of someone's ear, a popcorn kernel from a toddler's nose, and sticks too large to be called splinters from arms and feet.<br />
<br />
I have seen quite a variety of broken bones, treated migraines, backaches, stomach aches, rashes, pink eye, burns, eye injuries, abscesses, STDs, and on and on and on.<br />
<br />
I have sutured eyebrows and shins, chins and fingers, knees and bottoms of feet. Sometimes I suture under perfect textbook circumstances, and sometimes I just <i>really wish someone else would come in and rescue me from my job.</i> The most miserable I've ever been at work was suturing the bottom of a toddler's foot while his dad held him. It was a bad angle to work from, he kept kicking his leg, and I bent 3 needles trying to get that thick skin pulled together. Zero fun. Maybe negative fun.<br />
<br />
Some of my interactions with patients are funny. Like the time a fully-grown, obviously athletic man was terrified of getting swabbed for strep throat. ("How far back do you have to put that thing?") Every time I came near him with my swab he dodged me. I told him to hold still. "I'm trying!...Please don't tell the nurses out there about this..."<br />
<br />
Some of my interactions are heart-warming. Kids that are SO excited if I let them listen with my stethoscope, or that try to comfort their siblings when sick or scared. Grandparents that light up when I ask about their grandkids. Patients that come in terrified of a procedure that leave saying, "That wasn't so bad."<br />
<br />
There have been diagnostic wins, such as finding whooping cough or mono, suspecting aspiration pneumonia or urosepsis and being right about it, or basically any time I figure out what someone's rash is.<br />
<br />
There have also been diagnostic FAILS, which are inevitable but discouraging. I have sent patients to the ER thinking they had something serious going on which turned out to be something minor. Something I could have treated, saving them an ER visit. Sometimes I think someone has appendicitis and they don't. Sometimes I treat people for an illness and they don't get better.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I just have NO IDEA WHAT'S WRONG. This is just as discouraging for me as it is for my patients.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I go to bed at night worried about patients I've seen that day. I question whether or not I did enough for them. Sometimes they even find their way into my prayers. Inevitably the kids are the ones I worry about the most. I recognize the look of worry on their parents' faces as the same look on MY face when MY kids are sick, even with all my training.<br />
<br />
More than a year and a half into this business, the misdiagnoses and treatment failures remain deeply disheartening, but I've also learned that they continue to happen even to seasoned providers. Turns out none of us will ever know everything. But we all keep learning. All the same, I'm sure the wonderful, truly kind doctors I work with tire of my incessant, "rookie" questions.<br />
<br />
But at least they're <i>less </i>incessant than they used to be.<br />
<br />
I'm making progress.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-19012099394103067892016-02-21T22:12:00.001-06:002016-02-21T22:12:19.218-06:00Two KidsI still need a little practice at this "2 kids" thing. (Moms of 3+ kids, kindly hold your fire).<br />
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I think of having kids as a little like learning to play the piano. Students can play the notes separately just fine, but the first time I ask them to play two notes <i>at the same time</i> they look at me like their brain might explode.<br />
<br />
That's what 2 kids feels like to me.<br />
<br />
I have faith that I will get better at this, but there's this thing called "leaving the house" that leaves me feeling exhausted by the time I make it to the driver's seat. Mary requires extensive negotiating at each juncture. Putting socks on. Putting shoes on. <i>Keeping</i> the shoes on. Putting on a jacket ("But mom! I like being cold!") Getting IN the car. Getting IN the carseat. Getting in the carseat with bum down instead of out. Last-minute delays: "I need WAAAAAATER!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">One of Mary's cuter delays: "I giving myself a hug!"</td></tr>
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<br />
Matthew is too little to require negotiating, but inevitably I'll forget something crucial on the looooong list of stuff to remember when leaving the house: diapers, wipes, binkies, blanket, extra outfit, nursing cover, water for me, burp clothes, and so on.<br />
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<br />
Sometimes I successfully pack it all and then leave the diaper bag by the door as we drive away. Leaving the house FAIL.<br />
<br />
And mealtimes are always a crisis. Not one of us is very cheerful when hungry, and at lunchtime we all seem to be hungry at the SAME TIME. Poor Matthew always wears part of my lunch on his face. (I'm not that good at eating left-handed while nursing him).<br />
<br />
A 3-year-old and a 3-month-old are easy and hard in opposite ways. Mary eats when I do, takes only 1 nap a day, can feed herself if I provide the food, and doesn't need to be carried anywhere. But she has OPINIONS and her OPINIONS rule my life. Matthew has almost NO opinions, but requires hours of my day immobilized on the couch feeding him, while trying to read a book to Mary that she is balancing on Matthew's head.<br />
<br />
In the middle of all this, we just bought a home and moved into our new house. Three days in a row I haven't unpacked a single box during the daytime. THREE DAYS. Isaac is a tactful husband but I can sense a little confusion in his carefully worded, "So, um, what did you do today?" Fed the kids, gave them baths, and made dinner, thank you very much. So what if that took ALL day?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Bad memories of packing...</td></tr>
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<br />
I keep telling myself that in the history of the world probably billions of women have had 2 kids. (Pull yourself together Camber!)<br />
<br />
Then I tell myself most of those women didn't have to get their toddlers into carseats.<br />
<br />
TWO kids! And yet, sometimes I feel kind of awesome. Like when I successfully carry a wobbly-headed baby and a 30+ pound 3-year-old down the stairs at the same time. Or when I manage to get all three of us taking a nap at the same time. Or when I catch Mary taking a binky to her crying brother and telling him, "It's ok! Your sister's here!"<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdPvm7BK_39MbDvaxrBneGbVyu5QtZOcR0xif2dBpzm_KbTf7b961ak0P5dn0qCRUzareQfHW5csy-0QvAEuK6-HQtIu7yUI7h7a02tn8FovAxH8_Nr0lerBSHzv6qFL4EKJctAfBpqI2/s1600/Matthew%2527s+blessing+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdPvm7BK_39MbDvaxrBneGbVyu5QtZOcR0xif2dBpzm_KbTf7b961ak0P5dn0qCRUzareQfHW5csy-0QvAEuK6-HQtIu7yUI7h7a02tn8FovAxH8_Nr0lerBSHzv6qFL4EKJctAfBpqI2/s400/Matthew%2527s+blessing+collage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">At Matthew's baby blessing</td></tr>
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<br />
There was a time when I doubted whether we'd have one kid, let alone 2. Ungraceful as I am at handling both of them I feel blessed beyond measure. And, though I admit that some days I want bedtime to come an hour early, the kids are no sooner in bed than I start thinking affectionately on them, no matter how hard the day. I'm pretty in love with my 2 kids.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-74472738451041543412016-01-07T21:17:00.002-06:002016-01-07T21:17:48.794-06:00Gift of GodI am happy to report that the numerous fears catalogued in my previous post have proven to be unfounded.<br />
<br />
Our baby boy is here.<br />
<br />
He is healthy.<br />
<br />
He has a name.<br />
<br />
And, it turns out, I <i style="font-weight: bold;">can</i> love a boy. (Actually, I'm smitten.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWB4_IPtvuY_ciIJ2uWuT-Iu6hvIVM5FqJYwFJW4AnNTjG800fabnLmaxI7-F3nbzhF5crmDurQ-QhVTFv9qZ0xEAQ2f2IPrQTzYjDYjDEbmIxShYCmr7P6Lno7ZKychF2wmS5G2ZebK3/s1600/IMG_1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSWB4_IPtvuY_ciIJ2uWuT-Iu6hvIVM5FqJYwFJW4AnNTjG800fabnLmaxI7-F3nbzhF5crmDurQ-QhVTFv9qZ0xEAQ2f2IPrQTzYjDYjDEbmIxShYCmr7P6Lno7ZKychF2wmS5G2ZebK3/s320/IMG_1984.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet Matthew Dennis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
His arrival started on his due date, as Mary's did. My doctor stripped my membranes and by that evening, my contractions were coming stronger and more frequently than the braxton-hicks I'd been having for weeks. I warned my sister-in-law about this before we went to bed, in case we needed to bring Mary over in the middle of the night. <br />
<br />
A few sleepless hours into the night, with contractions continuing, I went downstairs to watch Home Improvement reruns and pace around in between contractions. When Isaac came to check on me, I told him to go back to bed and sleep some more, but he wanted to stay with me. So we watched Tim Taylor break stuff and timed contractions. An hour later we called my doctor, dropped a sleepy Mary off with my sister-in-law, and drove to the hospital, where I was 4 1/2 cm dilated. I was admitted and my doctor broke my water.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrUykmmLz5AX5Ek2SRr0EXfqLSHPmBsOkMHCopCN8dcO4T2f0WU4euiVymiE_G7trl0HYqET7N6-2AX6Mlgb4x8Uy6gCClN6Nc4T66o8tWm2zRwkkWuGyCjHPtlfsjAur7rsWBetjS57l/s1600/DSC00486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrUykmmLz5AX5Ek2SRr0EXfqLSHPmBsOkMHCopCN8dcO4T2f0WU4euiVymiE_G7trl0HYqET7N6-2AX6Mlgb4x8Uy6gCClN6Nc4T66o8tWm2zRwkkWuGyCjHPtlfsjAur7rsWBetjS57l/s200/DSC00486.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Then I had a dilemma. I didn't get an epidural with Mary, and Sarah was an emergency C-section. Since I was hoping for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), my doctor had previously recommended getting an epidural in case of uterine rupture, which would require another emergency C-section.<br />
<br />
To this end, I didn't plan for an unmedicated birth, and looked forward to a nice, relaxing labor with an epidural when the time came. When I showed up at the hospital, however, my doctor told us that in almost 30 years he's only had 2 uterine ruptures, and with an IV in they could always put me under if an emergency C-section was needed. So I didn't HAVE to get an epidural.<br />
<br />
Well, shoot.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to get an epidural because, darn it, my doctor made me do it.<br />
<br />
It's another thing to get an epidural because I "couldn't handle the pain."<br />
<br />
And as I lay there in my hospital bed, watching yet more Home Improvement reruns (a movie seemed like too much commitment), contractions getting stronger, I kept thinking of how soon I could ask for the epidural.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyZDRIBdRNGhQb5_ifuMF5twNtyFjIqyAPAq3oBemsmtp21StyZnv5a5v0CSWFnmPGnpyHfKSTBkumviD4Mvq5oUkuWJmqx-ZoauufCHPs1rvWxszELpETrR-uOa1eJD7lNU-eNyUu9o4/s1600/DSC00488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyZDRIBdRNGhQb5_ifuMF5twNtyFjIqyAPAq3oBemsmtp21StyZnv5a5v0CSWFnmPGnpyHfKSTBkumviD4Mvq5oUkuWJmqx-ZoauufCHPs1rvWxszELpETrR-uOa1eJD7lNU-eNyUu9o4/s320/DSC00488.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When I get to a 6? When I get too tired? If they have to start pitocin?<br />
<br />
As it happened, my contractions started stalling a little, and they <i>did</i> have to start pitocin. But I still felt a little sheepish asking for the epidural. I told myself over and over again--next contraction FOR SURE I'm asking for one.<br />
<br />
Finally, at 8:30 AM, only 6 cm dilated, and with the decision made to up the pitocin dose again, I meekly said, "Would it be bad if I got an epidural?" With such slow progress I was envisioning labor lasting well into the afternoon, and I hadn't slept a wink all night. I wanted a break.<br />
<br />
Isaac said, "Well, sure, but I think you've got this!"<br />
<br />
My nurse said, "Honestly, once we up the pitocin again, you're going to progress really quickly. I predict you'll be done in an hour, hour and a half tops. I think you can do this."<br />
<br />
My spirits soared when she said this--I could be DONE in an hour? I decided to go for it unmedicated. What choice did I have, with that kind of peer pressure?<br />
<br />
The problem was, <b>I knew what was coming</b>. In childbirth, things only get progressively worse as you go. I remembered from Mary that the baby only comes after you've already reached the point of pure despair, suffered the loss of all dignity, and wished for a swift death.<br />
<br />
I tried to put such dark memories out of my mind. My nurse suggested having Isaac put pressure on my knees during contractions, to give my mind another sensation to focus on during contractions.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, it <b>worked.</b> The contractions were still intense but somehow the knee trick made them bearable, along with the deep relaxation and controlled breathing I was already doing.<br />
<br />
I'll spare you the details of the final, ugly moments of childbirth. A nursing student came in for the birth and I told her, "I'm about to show you how unglamorous natural childbirth is." And it was terribly unglamorous. The final moments were just as despair-inducing as I'd remembered.<br />
<br />
But he came, and despite a brief tense moment when it looked like his shoulders might get stuck, I was able to push him past that and out he came. The first comments I heard were, "Wow, he's chubby!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-POpG7j9wGqZc7fEpP8UHiC6s-l-hTuzVPdoA9LUkONRgYCuM6Of_vtn0yuL8DwbVkilebs29CquPXqu-VqBCUMf6_Aw0nXCoh8MsE4YagKbOctLS1nWY5PBEeHqgez2QFruv6wDhwiW/s1600/DSC00492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-POpG7j9wGqZc7fEpP8UHiC6s-l-hTuzVPdoA9LUkONRgYCuM6Of_vtn0yuL8DwbVkilebs29CquPXqu-VqBCUMf6_Aw0nXCoh8MsE4YagKbOctLS1nWY5PBEeHqgez2QFruv6wDhwiW/s320/DSC00492.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9JmOGiQTRqDhyphenhyphenGSl0SUA29niJDi3BnLF9rqLCcRvcdh4isdO231LnJNZ-8FVNVWnYrpWcgmBMPujeI6uocZbTesAQ4daP0ZX7igqbUVWmwwVzNPpVL9VxkMf94KIpMBzyiIO1QcqFSO9/s1600/DSC00498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9JmOGiQTRqDhyphenhyphenGSl0SUA29niJDi3BnLF9rqLCcRvcdh4isdO231LnJNZ-8FVNVWnYrpWcgmBMPujeI6uocZbTesAQ4daP0ZX7igqbUVWmwwVzNPpVL9VxkMf94KIpMBzyiIO1QcqFSO9/s320/DSC00498.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out of pain. And in love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And he was--all 8 pounds, 2 ounces of him. We were, honestly surprised by this--I measured small my whole pregnancy and never showed all that much. Mary was 7 pounds even. To this day I don't know where I was keeping that baby.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaq-O3pCs0fcc7tR1N5rz3_dW10axcyQufg8Wx2fhO_I1FYrsRbJ46YWDg2nB_iW3CnRPCpxodXL3bgRY1Ovo7pzL_gaesJky_g13TZT18f8lMEzM95kLsR2U4RMlQzdTr6y7Jt_xIgXQ/s1600/DSC00502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzaq-O3pCs0fcc7tR1N5rz3_dW10axcyQufg8Wx2fhO_I1FYrsRbJ46YWDg2nB_iW3CnRPCpxodXL3bgRY1Ovo7pzL_gaesJky_g13TZT18f8lMEzM95kLsR2U4RMlQzdTr6y7Jt_xIgXQ/s320/DSC00502.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
He was crying, he was chubby, I was out of pain, and everything about it was different than Sarah's birth. I snuggled him right up to my chest and just loved him and his healthy self.<br />
<br />
As the birth approached, I found myself leaning towards the name Matthew, because it means "Gift of God." I could never commit, though. Perhaps I was waiting to see if he would be okay. But moments after birth, when Isaac asked if we could pick a name already, I just wanted to name him Matthew. Our gift from God.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpZzLif46PxfQgb5Wt6MYACojOUKhuuBfS9QZAiTr-dj6WTTfjC1zSYnphKBPrxhtkLLo1VmCMWg48MKwvNYRQYzSg6KeKdEzjxhZBnJO_DGDMe1R3-Xa2ygQso4CwsLo9VA3KuoZKFN5/s1600/DSC00505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpZzLif46PxfQgb5Wt6MYACojOUKhuuBfS9QZAiTr-dj6WTTfjC1zSYnphKBPrxhtkLLo1VmCMWg48MKwvNYRQYzSg6KeKdEzjxhZBnJO_DGDMe1R3-Xa2ygQso4CwsLo9VA3KuoZKFN5/s320/DSC00505.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud Daddy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBOr3dSchCbgqfJDWJD6ro9w40tDfHaVmGkli9eqGCuw3QLlLJgqAla5T9w98sZEUkixIHSES7Gx3DYwlE-4Sm71suAtllccJMQRLIUZU5PrlZ7RMbARbQKP8EE_RDnIrQhuVHFRPstER/s1600/DSC00530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBOr3dSchCbgqfJDWJD6ro9w40tDfHaVmGkli9eqGCuw3QLlLJgqAla5T9w98sZEUkixIHSES7Gx3DYwlE-4Sm71suAtllccJMQRLIUZU5PrlZ7RMbARbQKP8EE_RDnIrQhuVHFRPstER/s320/DSC00530.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRhiv__wFXUZ5W-NTX0uFTHIOiIhqrBEZ3I0BNRB57W3PQ9nOacWbhYE69FUKR3EPajHNsKttP1bpDvxUzmpX_MiTpdSDBadCaBJuFrmFVMsGDFSWHg4aUAjZGP04nK8_bp01bQYh12Fk/s1600/DSC00548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfRhiv__wFXUZ5W-NTX0uFTHIOiIhqrBEZ3I0BNRB57W3PQ9nOacWbhYE69FUKR3EPajHNsKttP1bpDvxUzmpX_MiTpdSDBadCaBJuFrmFVMsGDFSWHg4aUAjZGP04nK8_bp01bQYh12Fk/s320/DSC00548.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeling profoundly grateful.<br />And smiling because NEXT time I'm getting a dang epidural. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-28024290226620239472015-10-12T21:00:00.000-05:002015-10-12T21:00:11.276-05:00Tales of a Pregnant WorrywartI am 34 1/2 weeks pregnant with a little boy.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTpsIEeJZk2rur7Pyethh_z_euG5RQqEJgELffhHCjPOgILtHKeZR9XXtlwdx6dAV6_1MKHGsrQ6xtgEWGvZ0uOtun0Qff_hlRrAuVor5FU53Dxjy3LC_lT16XHnamu_kjWNiBJXn3k2-/s1600/DSC_0498.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTpsIEeJZk2rur7Pyethh_z_euG5RQqEJgELffhHCjPOgILtHKeZR9XXtlwdx6dAV6_1MKHGsrQ6xtgEWGvZ0uOtun0Qff_hlRrAuVor5FU53Dxjy3LC_lT16XHnamu_kjWNiBJXn3k2-/s320/DSC_0498.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">From family pictures a few weeks ago, almost 32 weeks pregnant.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I have handled the past 8 months or so in the most rational state available to me: <span style="font-size: large;">near panic. </span><br />
<br />
Yes, I'm grateful for another chance at a baby. Of course we're thrilled and befuddled that we managed to conceive again without IVF. And I have been, naturally, <b>quietly freaking out.</b><br />
<br />
I think everyone knows in the abstract that things can go awry with pregnancy. Working in the medical field, I've always been ever more acutely aware of this, and now, after our own experience with Sarah, I'm left to wonder, <b>How do people make producing babies look so...easy?</b><br />
<br />
We have had a lot of discussions with our really great perinatologist, who is the same doctor that first discovered Sarah's brain abnormalities. Neither he nor Sarah's neonatologist felt like we were any more likely to have a repeat of Sarah's condition than your average couple. That is reassuring. Each new milestone reached has been a relief, and at this point the baby still looks completely normal, so we have fingers crossed and prayers said that little Mister will make it here safe and sound.<br />
<br />
So, panic about the baby's health aside, I have another, equal source of anxiety that keeps me up at night:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Can I love a BOY?</span></div>
<br />
If the baby boy clothing selection at the store is any indication, we are in serious trouble.<br />
<br />
Everything seems to be sports-themed or camoflauge.<br />
<br />
Even worse, there is a disturbing lack of bows and headbands to mask bald spots or general homeliness.<br />
<br />
Can I possibly love a bodily-functions obsessed, rough-and-tumble, nothing-you-can-do-if-he's-funny-looking boy like I love sweet, innocent little Mary? (Who is, by the way, back in diapers, after deciding 3 or 4 weeks into potty-training that she was going to fight me tooth and nail every time I mentioned going potty? And who recently announced, screwdriver in hand, that she wanted to kill her doll? Most disturbing moment of my parenting career, hands-down).<br />
<br />
Well, she's not actually sweet and innocent ALL the time. But she really is <i>that </i>adorable:<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEj0wIct0skhw_1v6HdDZFhxq9GCEdnTlM6mym75njMPkurHKoeeYA3oGdZXyhXxQvv-OiSVki1NuZ0IxVNVBp1ya-8-krhPuc0jUpkv4xyvlDBn-Wrncqb6bxUj-3FAr0NcDZQ7mYT7Q/s1600/DSC_0251+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEj0wIct0skhw_1v6HdDZFhxq9GCEdnTlM6mym75njMPkurHKoeeYA3oGdZXyhXxQvv-OiSVki1NuZ0IxVNVBp1ya-8-krhPuc0jUpkv4xyvlDBn-Wrncqb6bxUj-3FAr0NcDZQ7mYT7Q/s320/DSC_0251+2.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Don't worry. It isn't actually possible to kill a doll.<br />Plus she kind of melts our hearts. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And while I'm opening up about pregnancy worries, there is another thorny issue about this one that I should bring up: <span style="font-size: large;">THE NAME. </span><br />
<br />
We have never disagreed on a baby name before. With both Mary and Sarah we both agreed on a name within 24 hours of finding out the gender. This time we're well over 4 months past and still have no idea how to come to any agreement. Flip a coin? Arm wrestle? (No good, we already know who would win). Paper rock scissors? Arbitration?<br />
<br />
At the rate we're going, "Baby Boy" may end up on his birth certificate.<br />
<br />
So here's to 5-ish remaining weeks of pregnancy anxiety.<br />
<br />
Then bring on the new baby anxiety.<br />
<br />
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Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-7824526302424411082015-08-18T21:59:00.000-05:002015-08-18T21:59:43.371-05:00The case against potty-trainingA few weeks ago we decided to just go for it and potty-train Mary.<br />
<br />
She is 2 1/2. She's smart, she communicates well, and we wanted it done before we bring home little Mister.<br />
<br />
I asked for advice on Facebook and got, of course, a little more than I needed. It seems that there are as many opinions on potty-training as there are parents.<br />
<br />
It also seems that most parents remain scarred for life after the experience.<br />
<br />
Knowing that struck deep fear into my heart of the process.<br />
<br />
I thought it over and chose the potty-training method that fit our personalities the best. "Wait until she potty-trains herself" isn't my style, and neither is the "just let her run around naked until she figures it out" method. I wanted a <b>system</b>. So I chose the "Toilet Training in Less than a Day" (Azrin & Foxx) method. This involves about 4 hours of time where ALL YOU DO is potty-train. You practice going potty, have the child teach a doll to go potty, stay off the carpet at all costs, and reward any successes shamelessly with junk food (M&Ms in our case). Also you shove as many fluids down the gullet as possible to, of course, increase urinary output. Because when they pee more, they practice more.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, Mary is, I'd say, about 90% there with potty-training. She wears pull-ups at night, and I frankly don't care if she keeps that up until she's 10. Accidents are getting pretty uncommon (we're still working on pooping), and all in all I think she's done as well as can be expected for a child her age. She was already starting to get it by the end of the first day. (In spite of what I'm about to say, I was very pleased with the book we used. I plan to use it again on future kids.)<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, no experience with parenting thus far, not even the newborn stage, has made me question my decision to bring children into this world like potty-training has.<br />
<br />
By day three I started panicking. What had I done? I'd created a monster! I'd left the blissful life of the diapered child. On purpose, no less!<br />
<br />
Why on EARTH would any parent willingly give up the freedom of diapers? Who are these parents that push potty-training at absurdly young ages? Or that complain about having a child in diapers?Sure, they cost money, but they are a PORTABLE TOILET the child wears ALL THE TIME.<br />
<br />
That day I hit a wall. Would I ever leave the house again? Would the fear of an impending accident forever cloud my sense of well-being? At one particularly low point, I looked down at my own expanding belly and thought to myself, "What have I done? Why am I having another? I'M GOING TO HAVE TO POTTY-TRAIN THIS ONE TOO?!?"<br />
<br />
I started surveying parents of toddlers in diapers with pure jealousy.<br />
<br />
With Mary in diapers, I never second-guessed what surface she sat on. Sure, sit on that couch! Wondering how I would clean pee off of it never even crossed my mind. Marathon grocery trips? No problem! Road trips? Big deal! My bladder reached capacity long before her diaper ever did. Leaving the house? Piece of cake (compared to now, anyway)! Because I didn't lose 15 minutes in negotiations, trying to get her to pee before we left. ("I'll give you anything! What do you want? Chocolate? Chips? A pony? Just sit on the dang toilet!")<br />
<br />
The panic is starting to subside and I have, in fact, left the house successfully with Mary in tow. I am clinging to the hope that my decision to potty-train before kindergarten might not actually ruin my life.<br />
<br />
All the same, I plan to outsource potty-training with the next kid.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-80379455920766573422015-08-18T21:54:00.000-05:002015-08-18T21:54:28.317-05:00Sarah's First BirthdaySarah's first birthday was last week.<br />
<br />
I've had a long time to think about her birthday. I've talked to other Angel Mommies. I've reflected on what her life means to me. I've watched other babies due around the same time as her hit milestones that Sarah is missing.<br />
<br />
We decided her birthday should be fun--at least in part. We want our kids to look forward to her birthday, not dread it. WE want to look forward to it. We also decided that finding some small ways to give back would also be nice. Never have I experienced such an outpouring of generosity from others--friends, family, and strangers--as we did during her life and after her death.<br />
<br />
This in mind, I busted out my almost-non-existant sewing skills and made a few quilts to donate to the NICU where Sarah stayed for a few days. When I finished, I vowed, as I always do after a sewing project, NEVER TO SEW AGAIN.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbxOXkzPIAibVze-l4wDklHh2teL1GGjGS3_EVI0IEdP0GhmquD4RN94kOID7q-NlJnoNYa4hm-XR1lh7-Wh7qBt9HrrkomhiymcUaUK_LEtWVCGOY32-EtxUbz1i0kIax-mYaNgILwbt/s1600/Blankets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbxOXkzPIAibVze-l4wDklHh2teL1GGjGS3_EVI0IEdP0GhmquD4RN94kOID7q-NlJnoNYa4hm-XR1lh7-Wh7qBt9HrrkomhiymcUaUK_LEtWVCGOY32-EtxUbz1i0kIax-mYaNgILwbt/s320/Blankets.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Here's hoping that whoever gets these doesn't look too closely at the seams...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We had a full day--going to an LDS temple to worship (one of the places I feel closest to Sarah), visiting Sarah's grave and having a picnic there, showing Mary the photo book of Sarah's life, going to the NICU to drop off donations (some family members also made donations), playing at a park, going out for dinner, having birthday cake, and watching a movie (Mary's all-time favorite activity).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1PhRSTcV2Ozbt185pR-Y2PT_dSLaA9xDvcfIcAg8KY7GjQj6UMCkSBCakmpzF32HeBdsWjX744IZ0-BeHK5bC390SJha38GdgqkQ8wlZdeVmtDW6SaPPzGCQwD6ttEosq7R6ImEnpuHR/s1600/Sarah%2527s+b-day+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1PhRSTcV2Ozbt185pR-Y2PT_dSLaA9xDvcfIcAg8KY7GjQj6UMCkSBCakmpzF32HeBdsWjX744IZ0-BeHK5bC390SJha38GdgqkQ8wlZdeVmtDW6SaPPzGCQwD6ttEosq7R6ImEnpuHR/s320/Sarah%2527s+b-day+collage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Taking flowers to Sarah. Reading her book to Mary.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Also, Mary was happy to take the job of blowing out Sarah's candle for her.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbM5LqQldTyte55HXNXSLZbSe7AF9oL0Xqgpj8_Y4Lx2Q5S9wRTqg9c2ob8bY8dGTe4sv2tKgcscsC_jTk2rCLgiISV1_COB9pTcovQr5djjE0K6J_NljTruBiFXwH-St1ZNGEK-maZKk/s1600/DSC00290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbM5LqQldTyte55HXNXSLZbSe7AF9oL0Xqgpj8_Y4Lx2Q5S9wRTqg9c2ob8bY8dGTe4sv2tKgcscsC_jTk2rCLgiISV1_COB9pTcovQr5djjE0K6J_NljTruBiFXwH-St1ZNGEK-maZKk/s320/DSC00290.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Frosting Sarah's cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the end, it wasn't a depressing day. Obviously there were sad parts, but grief isn't always the horrible thing we make it out to be. Sometimes I think it's even okay to seek out chances to grieve, to choose to feel the hurt in a sense. But I will say this: we remembered her, and we grieved her, with gratitude, not bitterness.<br />
<br />
And we've learned that remembering, and even grieving, can be beautiful.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-45852331107254152322015-06-28T22:07:00.000-05:002015-06-28T22:07:59.268-05:00Low-MaintenanceI thought of a new name to explain my <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2011/10/girly-or-not.html">girliness impairment. </a>"Tomboy" brings up this image in my mind of a 10-year-old girl climbing trees and wearing jeans with holes in them.<br />
<br />
No. That's not me. I'm not 10. So I've settled on "<span style="font-size: large;">low-maintenance</span>".<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I hate clothes shopping and decorating, I'm a mediocre housekeeper at best, I'd rather wear T-shirts and flip-flops than anything else most days, and I may never change my hairstyle until the day I die.<br />
<br />
I am amazed by beautiful woman that put together outfits with matching jewelry and shoes. But my way is <span style="font-size: large;">cheaper</span>--I have 2 or 3 pieces of jewelry tops apart from my wedding ring. I buy a lot of my clothes at thrift stores, and I'm willing to wear the same styles for years at a time.<br />
<br />
[I'm still on the fence about skinny jeans. Aren't some things better left to the imagination? Like thigh circumference?].<br />
<br />
So how on EARTH is it that I find myself raising a daughter?<br />
<br />
I used to think it's so I can help her avoid a lot of my own youthful pitfalls, including (among others):<br />
<br />
-Don't wear your brothers' T-shirts if they are 3 sizes too big for you.<br />
-Actually, don't wear your brothers' clothes <i>ever</i>.<br />
-Even if you brushed your hair yesterday, you still need to brush it today.<br />
-It's ok to own more than 1 pair of shoes.<br />
-When the original color of your shoes is not identifiable, it's time to get new ones.<br />
-For your own sake, you probably shouldn't let your mom (ahem, <i>me</i>) pick out your clothes.<br />
-There's this thing called "outfits." Ummm... you're on your own. Google it or something.<br />
<br />
But then I realized that maybe I'm raising a daughter so the <span style="font-size: large;">world can be graced with one less high-maintenance woman. </span><br />
<br />
I'll admit that I find myself buying princess flashlights and umbrellas for Mary, dressing her in pink, and collecting for her an excessive number of bows (far more than my own accessory limit). We have tea parties with pink and purple cups, watch Disney princess movies, and she loves to twirl to music in skirts and dresses.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJihtSh2o3LJmWdaZDoNG5GBCd4iNxHGF52y81RP8DE8-MvJJEVkf7KKTWtlmPqWU6JellJd8b_lq6mYYF3K1BbiIABWFHIMRP23RAx59XKrHM5ZXikiaR14NPz3AlS-VXCxA4iiu2EYeA/s1600/Girly+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJihtSh2o3LJmWdaZDoNG5GBCd4iNxHGF52y81RP8DE8-MvJJEVkf7KKTWtlmPqWU6JellJd8b_lq6mYYF3K1BbiIABWFHIMRP23RAx59XKrHM5ZXikiaR14NPz3AlS-VXCxA4iiu2EYeA/s320/Girly+collage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A princess tea party. Princess glasses.<br />
Princess shirt. Excessive bows (I'm ashamed to say this isn't all of them). </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then again, at a recent trip to a children's museum her happiest half hour was spent in the trucks room (she could have stayed there all day). <i>Cars</i> is one of her favorite movies. She loves trains and she loves pretending to fix things. She builds towers and loves to knock them over. I buy almost all of her clothes second-hand (seriously, she's just going to get stains on it within an hour anyway). She is hardly a prissy girl.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimn-FxnnjYtmQSCHvAD2ZZv025xVTTDe1GgslJCbQwRnv6OwdGtUr2PljiCB4mFsyFC8BdtRsPotBSpDVpsnwdEV-gIEiiyRQrJvscNX0i62ATF_Axo6fsOkc6TiHezQGGH3LXCGlMSq-s/s1600/Non-girly+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimn-FxnnjYtmQSCHvAD2ZZv025xVTTDe1GgslJCbQwRnv6OwdGtUr2PljiCB4mFsyFC8BdtRsPotBSpDVpsnwdEV-gIEiiyRQrJvscNX0i62ATF_Axo6fsOkc6TiHezQGGH3LXCGlMSq-s/s320/Non-girly+collage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The truck room at the museum. "Horseback" riding.<br />
The tower she's about to knock over. Loving her first roller coaster.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I wonder sometimes what kind of daughter I want to raise. I want her to be a little less <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2013/04/the-awkward-stage.html">awkward in middle school</a> than I was. But I also want her to be confident and kind. I want her to be educated and well-read and loving and full of faith. I want her to work hard for the things she wants and to be grateful to people around her and to God. I hope she'll love music. I hope she'll love serving people. <br />
<br />
And I <span style="font-size: large;">don't particularly want her to be beautiful</span>. I had someone at a grocery store once tell me that I should enter her into a baby contest because she was, I think objectively, a CUTE baby.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORm62m8MWHGlRbZvFXmYty1rK169HvuVeXTrXAOPq5qEZZSFYlvbdkRXU5-DQK0l8S6AcGo21LwiBMR9H4qxLRuFZXrZNgamptnqfXXR4RXgMMeu7xMOCcwImp3Susf8hrOOplBxhsViA/s1600/Mary+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORm62m8MWHGlRbZvFXmYty1rK169HvuVeXTrXAOPq5qEZZSFYlvbdkRXU5-DQK0l8S6AcGo21LwiBMR9H4qxLRuFZXrZNgamptnqfXXR4RXgMMeu7xMOCcwImp3Susf8hrOOplBxhsViA/s320/Mary+baby.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WAY cuter than I was at this age. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I thought about it. And decided not to. Her looks are not her greatest asset and I don't want them to be. They are not wasted if they go unrecognized by the world.<br />
<br />
There are plenty of beautiful women in this world. If she chases beauty as the source of her self-worth she will always fall short. Maybe that's the real reason I want to raise a low-maintenance daughter. I want her to find value in herself that doesn't require mirror time.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it's just because I don't know how the heck to raise a girly daughter.<br />
<br />
The first reason sounds more noble.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-45398873745439807472015-05-10T09:02:00.000-05:002015-05-10T10:02:16.594-05:00Why I refuse to hate Mother's DayI've been hearing a lot of people complaining about Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
Everyone has their own reason for dreading the day (and I'll admit these are legitimate reasons):<br />
<ul>
<li>They never knew their mothers or lost them prematurely (or ever). </li>
<li>They have strained, complicated, or otherwise lousy relationships with their mothers. </li>
<li>They long desperately to be mothers and aren't--whether because they're unmarried or infertile or have lost a child. </li>
<li>They have as many children as they want and feel guilty on Mother's Day for not being perfect at raising them.</li>
</ul>
<div>
I have been thinking about this a lot this week, since reading a blog post by a <a href="http://www.todaysthebestday.com/mom-or-not-mothers-day-is-for-you/">woman with infertility </a>and another by an <a href="http://eatthinkbemerry.com/2015/04/a-simple-idea-that-will-rescue-your-mothers-day/">overwhelmed, inadequate-feeling mother.</a> Both found ways to come to love Mother's Day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My own path to motherhood has hardly been smooth, but for some reason I've never hated Mother's Day. Even during the height of our infertility I didn't hate Mother's Day, nor do I hate it now when I have a daughter to miss.<br />
<br />
Why is that?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's because <b>Mother's Day is something different than we think.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not about celebrating perfect moms. No one is a perfect mom. It's not about celebrating perfect families or perfect kids. No one has a perfect family or perfect kids.<br />
<br />
The woman who founded Mother's Day, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Jarvis">Anna Jarvis</a>, never married or had children of her own. Her own mother had at least 11 children, and <b>only 4 of them survived to adulthood</b>. Does that sound like the perfect family to you? Both of these women are just the type that would feel resentful about Mother's Day today--a childless woman and her bereaved mother.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Motherhood is messy.</span><br />
<br />
Conception and pregnancy and childbirth are messy. Along the way you find miscarriage, morning sickness (sometimes severe), pre-eclampsia, gestational diabetes, premature births, birth defects, still births, traumatic birthing stories, stretch marks, C-sections and their scars. Then you find NICU babies, some that make it home and some that don't. You find SIDS babies. You find allergies and reflux and colic and genetic defects and autism and behavioral problems and on and on and on. I think almost every mother out there fits something on this list.<br />
<br />
Having kids is not glamorous or efficient or tidy.<br />
<br />
And moms. Moms are exhausted and inadequate. You have working moms and stay-at-home moms, both feeling a little guilty for opposite reasons. You have married moms, divorced moms, widowed moms. You have moms that are too young and moms that feel too old for the task. You have breastfeeding moms and bottle feeding moms, overweight moms and underweight moms. You have overly strict moms and overly lax moms. You have overwhelmed, exhausted, resentful, inadequate, temper-losing, letting-my-kid-watch-too-much-TV moms, sick moms, and mentally ill moms. But all moms are, to some extent, <i>trying. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And we love our moms, even though they are all just...human.<br />
<br />
Mother's Day isn't meant to honor perfect moms. It's meant to honor imperfect moms and their ability to still, somehow, leave a beautiful mark on the world.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Today is a day to feel grateful for what I <i>do</i> have, not for what I don't. </span>And I think most women have much more than they realize.<br />
<br />
I have a really amazing mom.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjX6_byYb7g31-Vt38u-ok7QMpzFb2hA36PxjZ-vTQtWWrz5Bns6EDIuMFcpyQ6AKsCwuivInyUyuG9zOArIDAHYhyphenhyphenJg-2jsj7BPaDDD2tuTVoKDSpld4MxGxl5FTk49mQY4K8gslsg9H/s1600/Mother's%2BDay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjX6_byYb7g31-Vt38u-ok7QMpzFb2hA36PxjZ-vTQtWWrz5Bns6EDIuMFcpyQ6AKsCwuivInyUyuG9zOArIDAHYhyphenhyphenJg-2jsj7BPaDDD2tuTVoKDSpld4MxGxl5FTk49mQY4K8gslsg9H/s200/Mother's%2BDay.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But in addition to my Mom, I have a thousand <i>moms</i>. They are the women that told me I was good at school. That encouraged me to go to college. That taught me silly campfire songs. That loved me, comforted me, helped through hard times, listened to me, fed me, gave me rides, and did other things any mom would do. My moms also include grandmas, aunts, cousins, sisters-in-law, my stepmother, and my mother-in-law.<br />
<br />
The truth is, no mom can be everything and do everything for her children. My Mom has blessed my life but so have my other <i>moms</i>.<br />
<br />
I have 2 beautiful Children.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSusQKABhEB48fnmrSMIRwrjDut6_wH_yTDtutfrwQ4XYRpmsa4bzBMowr3rGEaHW4544T1v2zz3yp64fR49jRgjMqK2_lQU7xNHmBqvqRm1HWGpQkmfojC-Xo48gxb0Gb_EDIqjPqFXT/s1600/Mother's%2BDay%2Bcollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSusQKABhEB48fnmrSMIRwrjDut6_wH_yTDtutfrwQ4XYRpmsa4bzBMowr3rGEaHW4544T1v2zz3yp64fR49jRgjMqK2_lQU7xNHmBqvqRm1HWGpQkmfojC-Xo48gxb0Gb_EDIqjPqFXT/s320/Mother's%2BDay%2Bcollage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But I also have a thousand <i>children</i>. Every patient that I see is temporarily my <i>child</i>. I comfort, listen, and try to heal. My <i>children</i> are the little ones I babysit for friends, my nieces and nephews, children that I share our snacks with or teach about Jesus or the abcs or comfort when their Mom is not around.<br />
<br />
Someday my parents may live to a ripe old age and become frail. If that happens, I will, in one of life's beautiful reversals, be my Mom's <i>mom</i>.<br />
<br />
I am a daughter of a Mother. I am also a daughter of <i>mothers</i>. I am a mother of Children. I am also a mother of <i>children</i>.<br />
<br />
On Mother's Day I honor the women that have touched my life and been my <i>mothers,</i> including my own amazing Mother. I am also profoundly grateful to <i>be </i>a mother--of Children and also of <i>children</i>. I am grateful that, as a woman, I can touch lives, inside and outside my family. I can leave my own beautiful mark on the world.<br />
<br />
May Mother's Day prove to be happy for more of us. </div>
Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-68544620830862755542015-04-17T15:22:00.001-05:002015-04-17T15:22:58.476-05:00What I want my patients to know about antibioticsI saw a patient recently that had been very ill for quite some time with a variety of weird symptoms, some of which were very concerning. I recommended further testing to help us narrow down what the problem might be.<br />
<br />
Her response: "Can't you just give me an antibiotic?"<br />
<br />
Ohhhhhh no. I tried to explain that I can't just "give [someone] an antibiotic" if I don't know what disease I am trying to treat. I explained again that she needed more testing so we could figure that out, and <b>maybe</b>, if appropriate, start an antibiotic.<br />
<br />
She never had the testing done. She wanted to start feeling better <b>today.</b><br />
<br />
Working in urgent care as I do, I prescribe antibiotics <b>every day</b>. People are often miserable when they come to see me and the request for antibiotics is frequent. <b>They want a quick fix.</b> I often hear, "Well, I have to do this huge presentation next week at work, so I want an antibiotic so I can be better by then."<br />
<br />
The reality is, <b>their immune system is the one that is going to have to dig them out of this miserable illness</b>, and the best care I can give them is to try to alleviate their symptoms in the meantime.<br />
<br />
Here are a few things I wish every patient knew about antibiotics.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1. <b>Antibiotics aren't harmless</b></span><br />
<b><br /></b>
The most common side effects of antibiotics are <b>nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting, along with allergic reactions.</b> They are hard on your digestive system. There is also the risk of yeast infections among women, and pathological diarrhea, C. difficile, which can also result from antibiotics.<br />
<br />
Then there is the risk of increasing the prevalence of <b>antibiotic-resistant bacteria.</b> These pathogens require the big guns to treat and there a few strains out there with no known antibiotic to treat them. Often these bacteria are kept in check by other bacteria in and on your body, but if the "good" or "less harmful" bacteria are frequently killed off by antibiotics, it increases the risk that these resistant bacteria will be allowed to flourish.<br />
<br />
Last, there is a multitude of research coming out now about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Microbiota">Microbiome</a>--the colonies of good bacteria living in your digestive tract. This research is interesting and exciting, because scientists are increasingly finding links to the types of bacteria in your gut to allergies, autoimmune diseases, digestive disorders, metabolic disorders (like obesity and diabetes), mental illness (believe it or not), and others.<br />
<br />
There is a lot of need for more research in this area, but some studies are suggesting a <b><i>possible</i></b> link between early antibiotic use and childhood <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/24062298">allergies</a>, <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21606151">asthma</a>, and <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20966024">inflammatory bowel diseases</a> (like crohn's disease or ulcerative colitis).<br />
<br />
[I don't want any parents out there freaking out about what I just said. We don't know for sure what the link might be. I'm just making a point that some caution is merited.]<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">2. Antibiotics aren't always necessary or even appropriate</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The number one thing that I see in urgent care is upper respiratory illness: coughs, sore throats, colds, and sinus infections.<br />
<br />
The number one cause of upper respiratory illnesses is VIRUSES. Antibiotics treat bacterial infections. They do not treat viral illnesses, or illnesses caused by fungi, parasite, or protozoa.<br />
<br />
Even if your snot is <b>bright green,</b> <a href="http://www.aafp.org/afp/2010/1201/p1345.html">that doesn't necessarily mean you have a bacterial infection. </a>The green color is caused by your immune system doing its job, and there hasn't been much correlation in the literature between mucous color and type of infection.<br />
<br />
Antibiotics don't treat the common cold, most sinus infections, most coughs, or most sore throats, so I usually don't give people antibiotics for these.<br />
<br />
I am frequently a heartbreaker.<br />
<br />
To help you out, <b>here are some of the guidelines I follow</b>:<br />
<br />
1) I never give antibiotics for the common cold<br />
2) I try not to give antibiotics for sinus infections unless they are quite severe or have been going on close to 2 weeks<br />
3) 75% of ear infections will clear up on their own within 7 days, and antibiotics usually only shorten the course of symptoms by 1 day. <a href="http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/early/2013/02/20/peds.2012-3488">Current recommendations suggest waiting 48-72 hours</a> to see if it will improve alone before starting antibiotics. The exception to this is young kids, especially less than 6 months old. <b>The first treatment for ear infections is tylenol or ibuprofen for pain control.</b><br />
4) I rarely give antibiotics for coughs (including bronchitis), unless I really suspect pneumonia. <a href="http://www.aafp.org/afp/2010/1201/p1345.html">90% of bronchitis is viral.</a><br />
5) I rarely give antibiotics for sore throats unless someone tests positive for strep. <b>If you have a sore throat with no fever and have a cough with it, there's a really good chance it's not strep.</b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">3) Some times when you really should go to the doctor</span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
That said, antibiotics, when used like they should be, are amazing! They save lives every single day. I'm not an antibiotic hater by any means.<br />
<br />
Here are some times you really should get to the doctor:<br />
<br />
1) <b>You strongly suspect strep throat.</b> Strep (the bacteria) can travel to other areas of the body and lodge there, including your heart (rheumatic fever) and your kidneys. If you truly have a full-blown infection, you need to treat it.<br />
<br />
2) <b>You have a raging UTI (urinary tract infection). </b>Some UTIs will clear up on their own with lots of hydration. The ones that don't, however, may travel up to your kidneys, where they will make you incredibly sick. Sometimes once bacteria reaches your kidneys it has easy access to your bloodstream, which can cause sepsis (an infection in your bloodstream). By no means will every UTI do this, but they are worth treating.<br />
<br />
3) <b>You have a fever and a cough or your child's breathing scares you.</b> If you have a fever and a cough together, there are two things I'm concerned about: influenza and pneumonia. You may not have either. But knowing you have influenza gives me the chance to get you on medication for it (if appropriate, especially for someone very young or with asthma) and also to tell you to <b>stay the heck away from other people!</b> Never go out in public or allow your kids to go to school with influenza. It kills thousands of people every year.<br />
<br />
Pneumonia can also be very serious (sometimes life-threatening), and I always treat people with pneumonia.<br />
<br />
If your child is having difficulty breathing or their cough is so bad it's freaking you out, COME IN! There are a couple of things we can do for that. Antibiotics may or not be on the list.<br />
<br />
4) <b>You have vomiting or diarrhea along with high fever, significant pain, dehydration, or bleeding. </b>Most vomiting and diarrhea will clear up on its own, and diarrhea may linger for 2 weeks or so. Dehydration can be dangerous, however, and some types of bugs that cause stomach flu symptoms can also be dangerous. They are worth investigating if some of these "danger signs" are present.<br />
<br />
5) <b>You're worried about yourself or your child. </b>There are hundreds of legitimate reasons to look for medical care, and my intent in writing this isn't to scare anyone off from coming to the doctor's office if they're sick or worried! Come. Sometimes I find people that felt reluctant about coming in are actually very seriously ill.<br />
<br />
But remember this: if you go to the doctor, and you leave without a prescription for antibiotics, that's not always a bad thing.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-31759525834410164952015-02-24T22:09:00.000-06:002015-02-24T23:14:16.280-06:00Life after LossSarah would be 6 months old now.<br />
<br />
I can't bring myself to say those words out loud. I kind of choke on them. 6 months seems like a weird milestone to mourn. But this also seems a fitting time to share some thoughts about life after loss. (<a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2014/09/peace-like-river.html">Here's her story</a> if you need a refresher).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The dreaded question</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
First, there's the question I hate: "How many kids do you have?"<br />
<br />
It's really incredible how quickly I can break out in a cold sweat. Often I panic and say "one." It seems to blurt out of my mouth before I can stop it.<br />
<br />
It's the easy answer but it's the wrong one. I am a mother of 2. One of those 2 is just really, <i>really </i>easy to take care of right now.<br />
<br />
If I do manage to answer "two" I pray they won't ask the natural follow-up question: "How old are they?" Poor souls. I have to tell them the truth, and I wish I could warn them first that things are about to get awkward.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The grief bucket</b></div>
<br />
Then there's grief, Mr. Unpredictable. Grief isn't like I thought at all. I thought I would grieve a lot at first and then gradually just heal and move on, in a tidy linear fashion. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like a bucket that slowly fills up and then spills over in a fresh wave of sadness. In between spills I go about daily life and I lead a happy, full life. Over time the bucket does seem to fill up more slowly, but once it spills over the feelings are just as fresh as day 1.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Known and Unknown</b></div>
<br />
I have to admit there's some fear wrapped up in the question, "What about the next?" After years of infertility and two miracle pregnancies, will I ever be pregnant again? And should I be that lucky, will my baby survive?<br />
<br />
I should back up and explain that we chose to have an autopsy done on Sarah (is this too macabre to blog about? I'm a medical person and this is all very natural for me, so my apologies...). She had a condition called "multicystic encephalomalacia". That's a fancy term for extensive damage to the brain from massive oxygen depletion, due to infection or circulatory problems.<br />
<br />
Put in plain terms, the most likely scenario is that, sometime during my second trimester, Sarah's cord got kinked or twisted, blocking blood flow for long enough to cause irreversible damage to her brain, but not long enough for her to pass away in utero. She had been perfect at the 20-week ultrasound.<br />
<br />
Thus, as far as we know, there's no greater risk of this happening to us again as there is of it happening to anyone.<br />
<br />
I'm still nervous.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Irony...or poetry?</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This is probably an appropriate time to mention something else about Sarah. Her name was Sarah Emily, in honor of Isaac's twin sisters, Sarah and Emily, who passed away as babies. They had a shared blood supply, and due to complications of this, Emily was stillborn and Sarah, similar to <i>our</i> Sarah, had severe brain damage from the lack of blood flow. She lived about 7 months and then passed away as well. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We really felt like Sarah Emily was the right name for our daughter when we picked it after the gender ultrasound. It seemed so redemptive to imagine her living the full life they missed and honoring their memory in that way. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Instead, in one of life's ironies, we watched our Sarah follow a similar path as her sweet aunts. Perhaps this would be an opportunity to let bitterness in. But I see it differently. I think it's fitting that such pure, beautiful spirits as Sarah and Emily would have a namesake equally as pure and beautiful. Isaac's mom says she likes to picture the three of them up in heaven, dear friends, and jumping on beds like teenagers at a slumber party. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Closing the door on bitterness</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
I picture Bitterness as one of those door-to-door salespeople trying to shove his foot in my door while I've got my back against it, trying to force it closed. I can't dwell on other people's large families or the healthy babies born around the same time as Sarah. I can't dwell on the seeming unfairness of struggling with infertility and then losing a child.<br />
<br />
Despite it all, though, I regard Sarah's life and passing as <b>one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.</b> It was a privilege to be in her presence, to be her mother, to give her life and love her, and then to send her peacefully back home.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
I remain convinced that, if her time here needed to be short, <b>she was taken in the gentlest way possible</b>. There's no way to send a child home without grief unless you don't love her--a rare scenario indeed. But she lived and died peacefully, with little distress and almost no trauma or pain. We had a little notice that something was wrong but not too much. Choosing to take her off the ventilator didn't feel like a dilemma--we all agreed it was the best thing for her. All these things softened the experience. And through it I came to know God in a way that would otherwise be impossible. I have felt peace that didn't--<i>couldn't</i>--come from me.<br />
<br />
That's how I keep the door (mostly) closed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Different</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
I am a different person now. More compassionate, I hope. Better educated on grief. Better equipped to empathize. I have received so much kindness that I feel eager to give back where I can.<br />
<br />
I used to see other parents losing children with health problems and think it mattered less to lose a "damaged" child than a normal one.<br />
<br />
Here's the truth--I loved (and love) Sarah just as much as Mary. It's remarkable, really, since our time together was so short. That beautiful girl wasn't damaged goods. But the gift her health problems gave me was the ability to let go with fewer regrets. On days when I try to imagine life with her here, a chubby, laughing 6-month-old that's sitting up and grabbing my hair and learning to eat solids, I remember she wouldn't be doing those things. I can't wish she were here if it means keeping the body she came in.<br />
<br />
I would have never chosen the past 6 months to happen as they did. But I'm forever grateful they happened anyway.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-49689255907546070002015-01-21T13:50:00.001-06:002015-01-21T13:50:21.068-06:00The Year I Feared<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mary is two.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Y71RoYIHMyLa3oVMjVYECBpdsZm_GseYYnB8yas2GTjI9fDBBubVyy2FyWW2gDHONKYJTcU7veLCe0DhjF6G_zauXblI_oVwoF3Hh_M1nalOiDFSZD6Qi-Fa2BRX6ZPhofG-75eBg-T/s1600/IMG_0332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Y71RoYIHMyLa3oVMjVYECBpdsZm_GseYYnB8yas2GTjI9fDBBubVyy2FyWW2gDHONKYJTcU7veLCe0DhjF6G_zauXblI_oVwoF3Hh_M1nalOiDFSZD6Qi-Fa2BRX6ZPhofG-75eBg-T/s1600/IMG_0332.jpg" height="320" width="190" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This stage has filled me with terror since the day we decided to start trying for kids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It might have been the day, now seared permanently into my memory, of being at the grocery store and hearing a toddler <span style="font-size: large;">screaming</span> from the other side of the store. For 15 minutes straight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were starting fertility treatments at the time, and all I could think was, "We're draining our savings account for...<i style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;">this</i><i style="font-weight: bold;">??</i>"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My perception of toddlers used to be that they were somewhat akin to cats. Babies, like kittens, are so adorable that we seem biologically hard-wired to want them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The problem is, kittens turn into cats.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4H7ywhBnhbAHOK2iDFbaPMbeZv9AUiiG2A6WrNFfMUOh0j_mC-C3rf-INPhQksHEq1IXEUIWimZipeEq2K4kW1X1cRf1aynHsn-h9IbSKFRjoKSEhhB8okqnr3cyyVI0cJyVseexyWmy/s1600/Grumpy-Cat-Releases-Second-Book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4H7ywhBnhbAHOK2iDFbaPMbeZv9AUiiG2A6WrNFfMUOh0j_mC-C3rf-INPhQksHEq1IXEUIWimZipeEq2K4kW1X1cRf1aynHsn-h9IbSKFRjoKSEhhB8okqnr3cyyVI0cJyVseexyWmy/s1600/Grumpy-Cat-Releases-Second-Book.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And babies turn into toddlers.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4Hgj4-NL4t93OZEy_sqBLTPXVX5uAq6m9FhiVezUGie2VOu6bULXtj8twb5yajuHKdO4GFPgTXFlpHx56OMn2ntkoMO8HoJsoi33iyCXlCR5eiV-J0JuBn2RQm3fe5IVOuT4AsnNESv4/s1600/IMG_0360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4Hgj4-NL4t93OZEy_sqBLTPXVX5uAq6m9FhiVezUGie2VOu6bULXtj8twb5yajuHKdO4GFPgTXFlpHx56OMn2ntkoMO8HoJsoi33iyCXlCR5eiV-J0JuBn2RQm3fe5IVOuT4AsnNESv4/s1600/IMG_0360.jpg" height="320" width="230" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, less than a month into having a 2-year-old, I have decided to come out and announce that the "terrible twos" are only a half truth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, Mary throws tantrums.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, I have been that mom at the store with the screaming child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, she hates sharing, hits when she's mad, pulls her shoes off and promptly starts crying for me to put them back on, and occasionally pounds on the piano.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, she draws on the walls and tables, ruined a good shirt of mine the other day by drawing on it with a pen, and last week discovered her cousin's poopy diaper and used it to decorate the walls, the floor, the furniture, and her face. (I missed that incident, but Janae, I'm truly sorry.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But I want to announce that <b>there is another side to two-year-olds that I never knew about.</b></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy86MNpP9Vlzvlfv1VgXoRP05HRRnngqnRku9NeAq6gYSNJJCIyG96UGuyyTP6yjMSW1AxB1zZcUkcI1j40Eu5Wr4EckeKSp9rMEAWvrhWhf32tSOoruWGZvuREypateKMtdH8otED4BSA/s1600/IMG_0302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy86MNpP9Vlzvlfv1VgXoRP05HRRnngqnRku9NeAq6gYSNJJCIyG96UGuyyTP6yjMSW1AxB1zZcUkcI1j40Eu5Wr4EckeKSp9rMEAWvrhWhf32tSOoruWGZvuREypateKMtdH8otED4BSA/s1600/IMG_0302.jpg" height="320" width="218" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Riding the horsey on the couch. Wearing my necklace.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's the thrill of watching her master skill after skill. Counting to 10, then 12, then 20 (she skips 15 and 19, but those are ugly numbers anyway). Colors. Shapes. Jumping. Pulling on her own boots. Stirring cake batter. Communicating increasingly specific desires.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4mN50pYdH4FmPCJFnN2eAH-kLl-MG3DU4xm0u_Dmbn-2M3I3MgoT7I4GGSFhOJKgLRW4FHidsS_zdaIgZZohqKvAyH2PShPEEzcN96m0XSsmHx0doN6qBg7dumDVXsecQYjrxZ7Wq2JZ/s1600/IMG_0351.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4mN50pYdH4FmPCJFnN2eAH-kLl-MG3DU4xm0u_Dmbn-2M3I3MgoT7I4GGSFhOJKgLRW4FHidsS_zdaIgZZohqKvAyH2PShPEEzcN96m0XSsmHx0doN6qBg7dumDVXsecQYjrxZ7Wq2JZ/s1600/IMG_0351.jpg" height="320" width="196" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Reading on the laundry basket. Of course. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's toddler hugs and wet kisses. There's chubby little hands and feet. There's the prayers she insists on saying herself (she always blesses the food, even at bedtime).</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5-pDze9ZQoTHBZnYodlJ7sqxs_gpLA7NIwnLI31xILIcYnW_vGDR3JFBfAmbRscVMrpnt2ir1Wa4Ld1IxjI-pgmLlbpecEp6ngaU1Q1X_fbuokTpNxN2FeVTYf56AfdidCKiTXJxGLZf/s1600/IMG_0341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5-pDze9ZQoTHBZnYodlJ7sqxs_gpLA7NIwnLI31xILIcYnW_vGDR3JFBfAmbRscVMrpnt2ir1Wa4Ld1IxjI-pgmLlbpecEp6ngaU1Q1X_fbuokTpNxN2FeVTYf56AfdidCKiTXJxGLZf/s1600/IMG_0341.jpg" height="320" width="186" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Pushing her beloved stroller.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's the unbridled enthusiasm with which she encounters life. Whoa! A train! An ice cream cone! Stars in the sky! Swings at the park! Grandpa! Cousins! CHEEEEESE!!!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26i8vtCC0DmYmWCxt4oR1dM-1C_JTp-FAJZt5DjIVI4BpmhIUAB4f33VIUctMusnhHUwAgcBJxOGi7Hpw67OVDmrrTPsVxq7KpNQsvWRN_8fowzbvrrcQSgZcgv5w8rK0EsFmqFjWu0ht/s1600/IMG_0354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26i8vtCC0DmYmWCxt4oR1dM-1C_JTp-FAJZt5DjIVI4BpmhIUAB4f33VIUctMusnhHUwAgcBJxOGi7Hpw67OVDmrrTPsVxq7KpNQsvWRN_8fowzbvrrcQSgZcgv5w8rK0EsFmqFjWu0ht/s1600/IMG_0354.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Using any means necessary to maintain order at church. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's snuggling her on my lap and reading stories or singing songs. (Or watching YouTube...on bad days).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's the adorable way she speaks about herself in the third person (Mawy do it!).</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Accessorizing herself.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the way she learned not only to do somersaults, but also to cheer for herself beforehand (Mawy! Mawy!) and congratulate herself afterwards (Tada!).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the way she sits at the piano and sings an entire song by herself...getting 80-90% of the words right. (For the record, she gets about 10% of the tune right).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, of course, there's the heart-melting "I yuv you!"</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjebOXQx279RjvfEzZsvKmldHqryMii0hMPO35WGqODXCHlPW-dVlH_fW6NQ0fd6AkEF6F6CpCQZPHsJs-UROaPyDPxeMzlzEFTHhX_EYhanXRiFrF9obgj92exLYSHMGh9xs2_rcKl2_bM/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjebOXQx279RjvfEzZsvKmldHqryMii0hMPO35WGqODXCHlPW-dVlH_fW6NQ0fd6AkEF6F6CpCQZPHsJs-UROaPyDPxeMzlzEFTHhX_EYhanXRiFrF9obgj92exLYSHMGh9xs2_rcKl2_bM/s1600/13.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know for some that 3 is harder than 2. I know many toddlers are more difficult than Mary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm just saying there's more to love about 2 than there is not to love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Also, she's not a cat.</span>Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-25767312864122922822014-12-07T14:15:00.000-06:002014-12-07T14:15:19.332-06:00The dreaded learning curveI think I have discovered the antidote to pride.<br />
<br />
Some people might tell you it's humility or loving other people, blah, blah, blah. Maybe those work, but a <i>faster</i> way to combat pride is to keep altering you career path slightly, so you <b>always feel a little stupid</b>.<br />
<br />
Here's an example. I don't know how it happened, but somehow I made it through more than 500 clinical hours as a nurse practitioner student without ever checking a live male for a hernia.<br />
<br />
Sure, we talked about how to do it and what to check for in one of my classes. TWO years ago.<br />
<br />
And so it was that, fully licensed and orienting at my new job with the PA, that he assigned me a male physical exam. "I'm not even going to go in the room with you. You just do the whole thing." Now, to clarify, I worked in the hospital as an RN for more than 5 years before going back to school. I have seen EVERYTHING.<br />
<br />
(Let me quickly interject that you should all know that someday you're going to be old and get pneumonia and go to the hospital, and once there you will pay good money to have your dignity taken away from you. I don't say that to make you panic. I just want you to know what's coming).<br />
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But there, in that little office, with the poor guy's dad watching from the sidelines, I did every single part of the exam that I could think of, even checking a few unnecessary things, trying to stall for time. Then it came down to it. I was going to have to check for a hernia and I had to make it look like I'd done so a hundred times before. The problem was, being a woman myself, I wasn't sure what the protocol was. So I panicked, handed him a sheet, and told him to undress while I stepped out of the room.<br />
<br />
I returned, red in the face and sweating bullets, to find him wrapped in the sheet and his dad laughing at him. I did the hernia check, signed his papers, and shuffled them on their way.<br />
<br />
I came home that evening to ask Isaac what <i>usually</i> happens when a person has a hernia checked. "They just have you drop your drawers and cough. It takes like 10 seconds."<br />
<br />
Oops.<br />
<br />
My little brother is still laughing about the whole incident.<br />
<br />
And thus I revisit the dreaded learning curve. I rode the learning curve when I was a new nurse, and hoped to never, EVER ride it again.<br />
<br />
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I recall, with a lot of discomfort, the time that I, brand new as an RN, called a rapid response (a team in the hospital that responds to patients that are acutely deteriorating) on a lady having chest pain, only to have the team show up and ask what her vitals were.<br />
<br />
Wait, what? I was so busy panicking about her chest pain that I forgot to do the obvious stuff like check her blood pressure. Turns out this patient had chest pain all the time, even before coming to the hospital. I felt very, <span style="font-size: x-small;">very, </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">small. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
After some years working as a nurse I stopped being the one making REALLY stupid mistakes and gradually became the person that other people asked for help.<br />
<br />
Then I decided to go back to school and started the process again. And I was back to that stupid feeling.<br />
<br />
Like my first day in clinicals when I went to look in someone's ear and couldn't remember how to turn on an otoscope (it's actually not that intuitive).<br />
<br />
Or my first pap smear, during which I learned the hard way not to open the speculum until you're ALL the way inside. Ouch.<br />
<br />
Or, again as a newly licensed NP, again orienting with that same PA, when he put me in a room with a guy that had cut his hand and told me to suture it. Then left. I'd put in sutures before, but never without supervision! My little hands were shaking so hard I could barely grab the needle. I got the sutures in, and they looked fine, but I think I did the <b>slowest suturing job in the history of medicine</b>.<br />
<br />
The way I figure, if you start really, <b>really</b> low, then there's nowhere to go but up.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-81780264910282010112014-12-07T14:12:00.000-06:002014-12-07T14:39:47.300-06:00Guest Post: Infertility and Marriage<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few week ago my friend from Iowa, Celeste, asked me to write a guest post for her series about infertility and marriage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm honored that she would ask me, because she is an incredible person and writer, and her blog is well-done and very insightful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You can read my post <a href="http://www.athingcalledloveblog.com/blog/the-years-before-we-met-our-baby-the-unexpected-blessings-of-infertility">here</a> and see the rest of the series on infertility on her blog, <a href="http://www.athingcalledloveblog.com/">A Thing Called Love.</a> There are some other really beautiful posts in the series, written by women coming from a variety of experiences with infertility. If you or someone you know is struggling with infertility, they are well worth your time to read. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here are some of my previous posts on infertility:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2013/11/cold-feet.html">Cold Feet</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2012/04/at-least.html">At Least</a><br />
<a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2012/06/roy.html">Roy</a> (achieving pregnancy after infertility)<br />
<a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2011/02/my-moment-of-silence_24.html">My Moment of Silence</a>Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-46419942005806828882014-11-08T22:26:00.000-06:002014-11-08T22:34:06.583-06:00The Great SAHM Debate<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a wonderful mom who was able to be a Stay At Home Mom (SAHM) until I was about 12.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She came on field trips, kept the house organized and clean, volunteered, made dinners, knew our friends, greeted us after school, helped us do homework, and did a million other things I was blissfully unaware of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was wonderful.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I always pictured myself doing the same thing as my mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then my parents divorced and she had to try to find work. She started out making something like $5 an hour standing in a cold, windy field holding a surveyor's pole for a civil engineer. She did that bravely and went on to find gradually better jobs and now has a wonderful job. My mom is my hero for so many reasons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the midst of all this, Mom made me swear I'd go to college and <span style="font-size: large;">graduate</span>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">True to my word, I went to college and I graduated. I married Isaac the next day. I got a job as an RN.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A little later, we started talking about kids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My friends, this is where things get complicated. Do I stay home with the kids and live the SAHM dream like my mom's first 17 years? Or do I work and keep up my license in case, like her, I need to be the breadwinner some day?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As it happened, I didn't get pregnant that year. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next. Work gave me something to do, social interaction, and a way to feel useful, and it helped get Isaac through grad school. I kept working until I was utterly <b>burned out</b>. Meanwhile, after 3 failed rounds of IVF, we decided to adopt. Feeling tired of putting my life on hold for kids that didn't seem to want to come, and knowing that adoption can take years, I decided that I wanted to go to Nurse Practitioner school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've blogged about this--applying to school, getting accepted, <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2012/06/roy.html">finding out I was pregnant</a> (we ended up doing one more round of IVF, but that's another story), <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2012/07/mormons-moms-and-masters-degrees.html">agonizing over what to do</a>, <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2012/08/decisive-sort-of.html">finally deciding to go,</a> and <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2013/09/the-dreaded-day.html">leaving Mary with a babysitter</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I took my last final a few months ago on a Saturday night, and on the next Monday morning began studying for my certification exams (this made finishing school feel a little anticlimactic...). Four days later I was in the perinatologist's office talking about the problems with Sarah, and four days after <i>that</i> I spent a Tuesday trying to study in between increasingly forceful contractions. That night Sarah was born.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My review books sat untouched in the hospital room for 3 days (I think I was delusional when I packed my hospital bags). Sarah passed away, we planned a funeral, family drove back home, I figured out how to function, and then I was back to the books.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I took and passed my certification exam about 3 weeks after Sarah's funeral.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That sounds insane, but <b>I needed something to do with myself</b>. I'd been in school Mary's whole life, and after Sarah's passing, with school finished, I faced a string of empty, obligation-free days with a sense of gnawing dread. Studying was familiar, even comforting. It gave me a job to do every day, besides keep Mary alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A month and a half later, I officially have a job seeing urgent care patients at a family practice clinic. They need someone to do some evenings and some Saturdays and occasional day shifts--in other words, perfect Mommy hours.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Where once I felt vaguely guilty for wanting to go to school with a baby on the way, now I find that <span style="font-size: large;">I need an identity outside of being a mother. </span>Rather than dwell on the feeling that bringing kids into our family doesn't appear to be my strong suit, I have found a place to progress, to learn, and to help people--while doing something I genuinely love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I hope no one that is a SAHM feels guilty reading this. Nor do I want any working mothers to feel guilty reading this. We all have to choose what is best for us and our families. For me, for now, my work schedule is conducive to motherhood and, well, <span style="font-size: large;">work helps make my loss bearable. </span>After it all, I feel like I was guided here, to help me with losing Sarah, but hopefully for more than that as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So for now, I'm a little bit SAHM and a little bit working mom. I'm grateful to be both.</span>Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-21862797165665957342014-10-13T10:39:00.000-05:002014-10-13T23:08:52.236-05:00Say...what?<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last week I saw two people I haven't talked to since Sarah's passing. Both asked me, sincerely, "How are you?" Both times I responded, <i>mostly </i>sincerely, "Good!" I was distracted by Mary's antics at the time and also feeling excited because I'd just come from my first job interview.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Afterwards I felt a little sick about it. In the moment, I felt good, but that's not what they really wanted to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A more honest answer would have been, "Oh, I have good days and bad days," or, "Great today, lousy yesterday."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have moments and even days in which I feel...fine. I laugh, I chat about normal things, I play with Mary, I may even talk about Sarah with full composure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then I'll walk past the same picture of Sarah I walk past every day. Or I'll see a baby girl in the grocery checkout line. Or I'll walk past a bunch of women at the store...ALL pregnant. And a wave of grief will hit me with rather stunning velocity. Those days I'd prefer to curl up into a blubbering ball on the couch and stay there for a while, thank you very much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grief is weird.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now all this may leave some of you wondering...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What on EARTH should someone like you say to someone like me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lest anyone start panicking that they're said the wrong thing to us, I want to first assert that almost everyone has been wonderful, tactful, helpful, and kind. Many of the examples I will list below of things NOT to say have NOT been said to me (thank goodness). But many have been said to others in my shoes and are worth mentioning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1) Before you say anything, know this: <b>Everyone grieves differently.</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even if you've been there, things that helped you might not help someone else. For example, my aunt gave me a picture of Christ holding a baby. I <b>love</b> that picture. I find it comforting to think of my daughter safe and loved and happy. I know someone else that got a similar picture and put it in a closet and never looked at it again. Be careful projecting your own emotions or reactions on someone else.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Along the same lines, every situation is slightly different. Losing my daughter at 4 days old is different than having a stillborn, is different than a miscarriage, is different than losing a baby to SIDS or drowning, is different than losing a 10-year-old, and is certainly different than losing a grandmother, a sibling, or a dear friend. <b>All are sad. All are different. </b>Tread carefully.</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2) <b>The safest words are the simplest: "I love you" and "I'm sorry". [Insert Hug]</b></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You don't have to fix it. You're not going to bring her back. <u>You don't have to make me feel better. </u> But feeling loved and just having you acknowledge the loss goes a long way.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For ME another safe one is, <b>"I'm praying for you." </b>That means a lot to me. For someone else that's not religious, maybe not so much. Be considerate. </span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3) <b>Kind gestures</b></span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't list all the kind things that have been done for us. My mom and sister-in-law watched Mary. My dad deep-cleaned the kitchen and stocked the freezer. Two brothers drove up from Arizona TWICE in 5 days to be there for Sarah's passing and then for the funeral. Another brother stayed the whole time and kept all his kids out of school. People brought meals, sent flowers and cards, and helped with the funeral and luncheon. A thoughtful neighbor gave me a couple of necklaces with Sarah and Mary's names and initials on them. A friend named a star after Sarah. Someone else brought over a little dress-up skirt and wand she'd made for Mary, because she wanted to do something for us and didn't know what else to do. Mary loved them. (Plus poor Mary kind of got the shaft through all this, so doing something for her was brilliant). A sister-in-law paid for us to stay at a bed and breakfast and watched Mary overnight. Many donated to an online fund set-up by a friend and others just gave us money to help with funeral and healthcare costs. Family drove hours to come to the funeral. One aunt even came to the funeral despite being up all night with her husband who had <i>kidney stones</i>. And on and on and on. Even texts or messages on Facebook expressing love and support meant a lot. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The lesson: <b>doing anything, big or small, helps. </b></span></li>
</ul>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnzJMxvTIkzmIVD6X2uTXhz2dkc6oe08jNUh1Yb2fruNWCbi0SG_Qgv_rd-63iu5bhvGlr6YIq3apHWMc5DTTOhH5SLUpQsRypoa3IEeeHC037ncEixKFco_t4cTC5Nlz_YEbgdAf7Nwgy/s1600/Gifts+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnzJMxvTIkzmIVD6X2uTXhz2dkc6oe08jNUh1Yb2fruNWCbi0SG_Qgv_rd-63iu5bhvGlr6YIq3apHWMc5DTTOhH5SLUpQsRypoa3IEeeHC037ncEixKFco_t4cTC5Nlz_YEbgdAf7Nwgy/s1600/Gifts+collage.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah's burial quilt and dress from Isaac's mom and aunt.<br />
A box of sunshine from a friend. A star named Sarah.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4) <b>Offer specific services</b></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Grieving people are <b>overwhelmed</b> and <b>indecisive</b>. Also, in my case, I hate asking for help. (Let me rephrase that. I <b>HATE</b> asking for help). One of the best things that happened to me was when someone from church stopped by to announce that three people planned to bring us dinner that week. I was up and functioning at a basic level by that point, and could have managed mac & cheese or takeout to keep us from starving. So I never, EVER would have asked for meals. They just brought them anyway. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>"Let me know if I can do anything" </b>is a nice thing to say and I really appreciate it. But it puts the responsibility on me to <b>a) </b>figure out what I need and <b>b) </b>get up the guts to ask for it, which I hate doing. Rather, look to see if there's a need you can fill and just fill it, and override my objections if necessary. </span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">5) <b>Ask about Sarah, and don't panic if I cry</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sure, grieving is unpleasant. But, believe it or not, <b>I like talking about Sarah, even if it makes me cry</b> (which it doesn't always). I love her. I miss her. Asking about her may be awkward because you don't know what to say. But it's better to say, "I don't know what to say, but do you want to tell me about her?" than to pretend nothing ever happened. When I went in for my 6-week postpartum check--a potentially sad experience--the MA, who I know pretty well, just asked about Sarah and then listened when I shared some of her story. I wanted to hug her I was so grateful.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the risk of being perverse, <b>there may be times when I want to talk about anything BUT Sarah. </b>While in the hospital, at first we didn't know what was going to happen and we kept getting bad news, and I spent a good amount of my time...um...crying. I had a cousin come visit and we talked a bit about Sarah at the beginning, and then went on to just shoot the breeze for an hour. She got me laughing about frivolous things and it was so refreshing to feel <b>normal</b>. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The lesson: Listen if I <i>want</i> to talk, move on if I don't. But <b>please don't pretend Sarah never happened. </b></span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">6) <b>Let me feel what I'm feeling</b></span></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Isaac and I each spoke at Sarah's funeral. We both wanted to. And we both worried that we'd be too emotional to say anything. The morning of the funeral, we felt super calm, and I actually felt guilty that I wasn't crying as I greeted people that morning. <i>People are going to think I have no soul</i>... I've learned that <b>grief is up and down and unpredictable and utterly unreasonable.</b> I'm just along for the ride. (And don't worry, I finally lost my composure at the funeral when we closed the casket. But I still made it through my talk.)</span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">7) <b>Please don't minimize my grief</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Just about any sentence that begins with "At least..." is dangerous.</b> "At least she didn't suffer," "At least you have Mary," "At least you'll see her again," "At least you didn't have her long enough to get attached," (Hah) "At least she's in a better place," etc. Here's the thing: some of those statements are true, but it's better for <i>me</i> to decide what I am or am not grateful for. Yes, I'm grateful I have Mary. But Mary doesn't have a sister now. And having another child means that I know what I'm missing. Yes, I believe I'll see her again. Yes, that comforts me. But my arms are empty NOW. The rest of my life feels like a long time to wait to be with her. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Please <b>never compare </b>my situation with someone else that "has it worse." Hearing about someone who lost more kids than me, or that never had kids, or that had a child die in a horrible, tragic way <i>won't make me feel better</i>. Does losing one kid stop being sad just because I could have lost two? Am I only allowed to be sad if she died in some horrible way? Further, hearing horror stories only makes me afraid of also losing Mary or any future children. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Please don't placate me. </b>The phrase I haven't yet heard, and hope to NEVER hear, is "Don't worry, you'll have lots more children." There are so many things wrong with this. Sarah was a person, not a microwave. Even if I get another one he/she won't be <i>Sarah</i>. I miss a specific child, not a replaceable object. Secondly, I don't take my pregnancies for granted. Both were miraculous. While I hope to have more kids, I have to also consider the possibility that I may never get to be pregnant again. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last, <b>don't be a victim</b>. I appreciate it if you're sad on my behalf or sad about Sarah in general, but please don't be SO sad that I end up having to comfort you. </span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">8) <b>Belated might be <i>better</i></b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There's no need to feel embarrassed offering condolences awhile after the event. We received the most support during the first few weeks after Sarah's passing. But grief doesn't magically stop after a week or a month or even a year. A few very welcome surprises have come in the mail even almost 2 months out, and <b>I'm grateful they came late. </b></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">9) <b>My faith is intact, but even if it wasn't...</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even Christ wept at the passing of his friend Lazarus. Grief is instructive. It is humbling. It is refining. It is part of life. Grieving doesn't mean that I lack faith. It means I loved.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But regardless of the status of my faith, <b>don't judge</b>. If someone gets mad at God for "taking" their child, <i>your job isn't to fix their faith</i>. It's not your place to decide how a believer should respond or lecture them about repenting so they can see their kid again. <b>Please don't add guilt to grief. </b></span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And finally...</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">10) <b>Sincere compliments</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am still a mom, and every mom loves to hear that her child is beautiful. One sister-in-law mentioned what a beautiful <i>presence</i> Sarah had, that she could sense the purity of her spirit. And I thought, <i>Oh good! You could feel it too!</i> It was also encouraging to hear people say that we were strong. I don't know how a person is "supposed" to act or respond to something like this, but it's strangely comforting to have people think I'm handling it "well"...whatever that means. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">T<b>he single best thing to say to me is that Sarah's life touched you somehow</b></span>--strengthened your faith, helped you appreciate your children more, inspired you to be a little better, etc. Every mother wants her child to be remembered. I think Sarah brought goodness and beauty into this world. Knowing that helps replace a little bit of my grief with gratitude. </span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And because poor Mary has been a little neglected on here lately:</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0rLcdvAsWUPtJN3HYC9DUhGAGbDNi9HbELPRsnann9N6ln9yc8sQRmcZFZG3NblqAyqhKu-Rf8EfkoB6N0j-PwCusjK_pyS0Z3JbyYvkPyCxvzUW_zs4sGKgZwooVbNaoxRT73QLIURF/s1600/Mary+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0rLcdvAsWUPtJN3HYC9DUhGAGbDNi9HbELPRsnann9N6ln9yc8sQRmcZFZG3NblqAyqhKu-Rf8EfkoB6N0j-PwCusjK_pyS0Z3JbyYvkPyCxvzUW_zs4sGKgZwooVbNaoxRT73QLIURF/s1600/Mary+collage.jpg" height="320" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making faces in the mirror. Profile at the zoo.<br />
New wings. Nerd glasses.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br />Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-60549345001046245402014-09-28T21:57:00.000-05:002014-09-28T22:11:22.402-05:00Goodness and MercyI haven't posted on this blog for several years now (this is Isaac, by the way). But our recent experiences with our daughter Sarah have made me want to write a little about my own thoughts and experiences.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrY05QY6Xt2AoJ8uFL8T8KJgt6Jic1RtumDIqsj2R2MSemX__BtYeXHd_2eU3-PXMWPOpjpxLXTdfZnvNUcC-Zx3_TmMjMe-0j40c_CpCK6c1BkeSIhZVZ6MvlqCP7paHcXxnFbcv0ZcP/s1600/IMG_0969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrY05QY6Xt2AoJ8uFL8T8KJgt6Jic1RtumDIqsj2R2MSemX__BtYeXHd_2eU3-PXMWPOpjpxLXTdfZnvNUcC-Zx3_TmMjMe-0j40c_CpCK6c1BkeSIhZVZ6MvlqCP7paHcXxnFbcv0ZcP/s1600/IMG_0969.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our little Sarah, all bundled up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For those who don't know, our second daughter Sarah lived only four days: she was born on August 12 and died on August 16. She was beautiful. She was born. She was alive. She breathed. She slept. She awoke. She held our hands. She once looked into our eyes (at least that's how it seemed). Then on a peaceful Saturday morning we removed her breathing tube and she died peacefully in our arms. Our beautiful little girl, gone from this earth.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHz_lWFR7DLNyUWgShk7LHzjCXNRIdabBB9dcFxfJzrshlqQkn9s1vmvrXajgrUEz1letoCiNmGfu9I4BzLsNda9Vd2CourYoo5KYyD1uA5Ih1P_ICynsGHgVXpbSUnofh6AjTALXJCj8/s1600/060_140902_SarahHess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHz_lWFR7DLNyUWgShk7LHzjCXNRIdabBB9dcFxfJzrshlqQkn9s1vmvrXajgrUEz1letoCiNmGfu9I4BzLsNda9Vd2CourYoo5KYyD1uA5Ih1P_ICynsGHgVXpbSUnofh6AjTALXJCj8/s1600/060_140902_SarahHess.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy's little girl</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In those four short days Sarah changed my life, I hope forever. She changed the way I see my life, but most importantly she changed the way I view my faith in God.<br />
<br />
I believe in God. I have always believed in God. But before Sarah my faith in God was more intellectual, more spiritual. But Sarah made the love of God <i>tangible</i>. Rather than an abstract thought -- something that made me feel good inside -- the love of God become something <i>real</i> to me, something I could directly interact with. It was given to me and washed over me during the hardest time of my life.<br />
<br />
At Sarah's funeral I described it like this: It was like being thrown into the darkest abyss, only to find myself standing on solid ground. There is no other way for me to describe it -- something was <i>there</i>. It was not something I earned. It was given to me as a gift.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSIotyL3MlSouQWZAOsiNGDIkDW1VpR3rcUHqTOVDYeeaM0GrBJ5gjBq5rYW2OwW-eWUYHw_z8oCG4i9CTjVx0X6qv6wh3nis8bkfhNCGA8RWHrvBTNrbu2Jr-4jQrXJazZUshbHCMl_r/s1600/065_140902_SarahHess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOSIotyL3MlSouQWZAOsiNGDIkDW1VpR3rcUHqTOVDYeeaM0GrBJ5gjBq5rYW2OwW-eWUYHw_z8oCG4i9CTjVx0X6qv6wh3nis8bkfhNCGA8RWHrvBTNrbu2Jr-4jQrXJazZUshbHCMl_r/s1600/065_140902_SarahHess.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbye, for now</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgis4Uj7lc9WN4BwC-70gN-3WRzshlGryljzXIqJea8rjcSgIXBniT0TtuZT2e_hIEHfcJ4qdIwnfwF1xtnk9uFmTRq1nntggBpUr6Pjg9Ecz_ASKWiy6tWvk-VsqlfrRSTcZGJSwnWuO/s1600/IMG_1036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgis4Uj7lc9WN4BwC-70gN-3WRzshlGryljzXIqJea8rjcSgIXBniT0TtuZT2e_hIEHfcJ4qdIwnfwF1xtnk9uFmTRq1nntggBpUr6Pjg9Ecz_ASKWiy6tWvk-VsqlfrRSTcZGJSwnWuO/s1600/IMG_1036.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the funeral</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We who believe in God often say that our belief, our faith, is meant to make us "happy." I believe that this is true, but that it is also untrue. "Happiness" as we define it now is a rather recent, modern idea. We are not promised that if we keep the commandments of God and follow Jesus Christ that our lives will be filled with ease, that our stress will always be low, and that our mood will always be slightly toward the "pleasant" end of the spectrum.<br />
<br />
Throughout my experience with Sarah I had a scripture in my mind, which I think better describes what we can expect from a spiritual life, from a life committed to following Christ. It is found in the beautiful Psalm 23:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Surely <b>goodness</b> and <b>mercy</b> shall follow me all the days of my life</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Goodness. Mercy. <i>That</i> is our promise and our inheritance. During Sarah's four days on this earth there was so much goodness, so much mercy, that we hardly had room enough to receive it. Sarah herself was the epitome of Goodness and Mercy. She was Goodness and Mercy packaged up in an imperfect body, sent to show us God's love.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Many more challenges await me in my future life, I am sure of that. But I am confident that goodness and mercy <i>will</i> follow me, all the days of my life. And someday I will dwell, with my daughter Sarah, in the house of my Lord, forever.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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Isaac Hesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05220318409225789036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-54141475596201723012014-09-13T13:16:00.000-05:002014-09-13T18:43:14.903-05:00Peace like a riverOur daughter Sarah lived only 4 days. Though her life was brief, it was also beautiful, and it was miraculous.<br />
<br />
Her story starts back in early January when I found out I was pregnant. This was confusing to us because I hadn't done IVF <b>four</b> times like we did with Mary. We took 7 pregnancy tests, just to be sure. They were all positive.<br />
<br />
My little miracle pregnancy progressed very normally until about 32 weeks, when I suddenly doubled in size over about 2 weeks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">32 weeks</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">34 weeks</td></tr>
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I wondered idly if I had extra amniotic fluid or something that made me get so big so fast. Isaac pointed out that I was <b>supposed</b> to get bigger during the 3rd trimester.<br />
<br />
During my 34-week check, a quick ultrasound to check Sarah's position (breech, with her head up by my ribs) also showed that there was WAY too much amniotic fluid surrounding her. The next day we went to see a perinatologist (a pregnancy specialist) for what I thought would be a quick chat about trying to get Sarah to turn before the delivery.<br />
<br />
Our quick little appointment turned into a 2 1/2 hour doozy of a meeting with the doctor.<br />
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The bottom line: there was too much amniotic fluid because Sarah had something very wrong with her brain, and she wasn't swallowing the fluid like she should.<br />
<br />
Bless that doctor, he took a long time with us, explained everything very thoroughly, and emphasized a few things:<br />
1) The extent of her brain damage may be anywhere from mild to profound. He could not tell in much detail with just an ultrasound. His instinct, however, was that she would be more likely on the severe end of the spectrum.<br />
<br />
2) We needed to deliver at the bigger hospital that was slightly further away. It has a higher-level neonatal ICU and he wanted us there as a precaution.<br />
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3) I should expect an early delivery. The extra fluid would trick my body into thinking it was more pregnant than it actually was. (In fact, I was already having contractions by that point).<br />
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4) He recommended further testing, and we scheduled a fetal MRI for the next week, followed by possible genetic testing.<br />
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The doctor was dead-on about #1-3.<br />
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I'll admit, that appointment was overwhelming. I'd had a very healthy, normal pregnancy up to that point, and of all the problems she could have with her little body, neurological problems were what I feared the most.<br />
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As it happened, Isaac and I had planned a weekend trip for just the two of us at a local ski resort starting that evening. We went directly from the appointment to drop Mary off with some family, then went on our trip. This allowed us a weekend together of (short) nature walks, breakfasts overlooking the river, rides on the ski lifts, and lots of time to talk about Sarah. We told our immediate family members, but with such limited information we weren't sure what to expect. We prepared ourselves to raise a mentally handicapped daughter.<br />
<br />
That weekend we happened to listen to a talk by one of the leaders of our church, Dieter Uchtdorf, titled <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2014/04/grateful-in-any-circumstances?lang=eng">"Grateful in any circumstances"</a>. He said, beautifully, "those who set aside the bottle of bitterness and lift instead the goblet of gratitude can find a purifying drink of healing, peace, and understanding."<br />
<br />
Those words set the tone for the rest of the week. We decided to be grateful for Sarah, and to love her and accept her regardless of the extent of her problems. We decided to trust God, believing that He was in control.<br />
<br />
The timing of that ultrasound, the meeting with the specialist, and our little weekend trip proved to be miraculous.<br />
<br />
Sunday we returned from our trip, and Monday, 35 weeks along, I started having contractions in earnest. They continued, maddeningly, on and off for two days, until Tuesday evening, when they became strong enough that I couldn't walk around any more. I finally consented to have Isaac call my doctor (who is also my uncle), who told us to go to the hospital. I went grudgingly, knowing that the contractions were just going to peter out again, as they'd been doing the last 2 days. Sure enough, they subsided almost completely on the way to the hospital.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camber in labor. Mary imitating Camber.</td></tr>
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I felt super frustrated with my body, and we decided to just walk around the hospital for a few minutes and then drive home if the contractions didn't start up again. As we walked toward the entrance, someone greeted us. It turned out to be my uncle's partner, Dr. C., who was going to do my delivery since my uncle couldn't deliver at the bigger hospital. Now I just felt embarrassed that this doctor had driven down to the hospital to check me when my contractions had petered out again, but there was no turning around to go home at this point.<br />
<br />
It turns out that was a very fortuitous encounter, because when Dr. C checked me, his eyes grew wide and he said, "You're at a 9. We need to GO." Sarah was breech, and we hurried to do a C-section before she came out on her own and, potentially, got stuck.<br />
<br />
A flurry of activity followed--Isaac in white suit and blue booties, calling/texting family and doctors, IV, spinal block, drapes, uncontrollable shaking, nerves, warm blankets, Isaac's hand in mine. Baby.<br />
<br />
I barely knew she was out, since I couldn't see or hear her. A team started working on her right away in an adjoining room, and Isaac went back and forth from her to me, giving me updates. Not breathing on her own, but beautiful. I wouldn't see her for 3 more hours, when we dragged my barely-working legs into a wheelchair and went upstairs to the NICU to visit.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On my way to the OR</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isaac's hot OR suit</td></tr>
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It was evident from the beginning that something was wrong. Not only could Sarah not breathe on her own--couldn't even keep her own airway open--but she lacked all the normal newborn reflexes, including a gag reflex. Bad news kept pouring in. Her movements were erratic, resembling mini-seizures. The electrical activity in her brain was abnormal. The nerves in her eyes were malformed, meaning she was likely blind. The ventricles in her brain were too big. An MRI of her brain showed a missing corpus callosum, missing sections of the hypothalamus, and general lack of development.<br />
<br />
Despite all this, on the outside, she was beautiful. She even had a head of adorable light brown hair. Her perfect little features belied all the neurological problems she had. She never cried, since she was on a ventilator, and never seemed to be in distress.<br />
<br />
We held her for the first time about 24 hours after her birth. Aaaaaand...we cried. A lot.<br />
Because, despite everything, we were in love. <br />
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<br />
Thursday evening we had the <b>Meeting.</b> All the needed tests had been done, and we met with our wonderful neonatologist, Dr. M, who had spent much of the day discussing Sarah's case with other doctors, reading the MRI report, and researching her case. She explained the following:<br />
<br />
1) The problems in Sarah's brain looked more consistent with some kind of global injury rather than a malformation--meaning some kind of damage has occurred, rather than a genetic or chromosomal defect.<br />
<br />
2) The damage probably happened sometime during the second trimester, halting the development of her brain from that point onward.<br />
<br />
3) Ultimately, Sarah's condition was not survivable. The damage had been present for long enough that there was no hope for recovery of function from this point onward. And unable to breathe, swallow, see, hear, or move well on her own, she would have poor quality of life should we choose to prolong her life.<br />
<br />
I think Dr. M, who had been present at Sarah's birth, knew pretty much from the beginning what the outcome would be. She had determined from the beginning to give us the best experience with Sarah possible, while hinting at the severity of what she saw and never giving us false hope.<br />
<br />
We knew this was coming, and hoped and prayed that the decision we would have to make that night would feel clear. It did.<br />
<br />
In the end, we all agreed that taking Sarah off the ventilator and allowing her to pass away was the best course of action. I was fine in this conversation up until this point. Then I started plowing through the tissues. Because obviously I wasn't going to <i>not</i> be there while she died, but that meant I'd have to <i>be there when she died</i>. It was a task that felt utterly overwhelming.<br />
<br />
We decided that Saturday would be the day. My family all drove into town on Friday; Isaac's family is already local. I was discharged from the hospital that day as well. I tried not to dwell too much on the thought that I was leaving the hospital without my daughter, while I listened to other babies crying in rooms near mine. I was once that mom. I'd had Mary, she was healthy, and I brought her home with me. I had that experience. This time I was going to have a different experience.<br />
<br />
Friday night we drove back to the hospital for one final visit with Sarah. Her nurse, knowing that I'm also a nurse, offered to let me do some of Sarah's cares for the evening. So I awkwardly took her temperature (keep in mind, I always took care of adults, never newborns), changed her diaper, weighed her, and gave her a bath. Isaac and I both held her for a long time as well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giving Sarah a bath</td></tr>
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<br />
That night is one of my best memories of Sarah. One of the hardest things about having a baby in the NICU is that someone else is generally your child's caregiver. I showed up for visits, but I was never the one <b>taking care</b> of her. I longed to just feel like her mom. That night I had my chance. Also, something changed in us during our time with Sarah that night. Usually visiting her just made us sad (my personal habit was to burst into tears every time I saw her), but during this evening, the grief dissolved into peace. I started to think that maybe, <i>maybe</i>, Saturday would be okay.<br />
<br />
There's something else about Sarah that I find hard to explain. There was a spirit about her. She didn't feel like less of a person to me because of her neurological problems. Rather, it felt like she was too good, too pure to stay here long. I am convinced that she was aware of us, despite her sensory limitations.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning we dressed Sarah in her beautiful white blessing dress, after disconnecting her from all tubes except the ventilator. The NICU had a large room set aside for our purposes that day, where we met our families. Isaac gave Sarah a name and a blessing (a tradition in our church), and then all of our immediate family members took turns holding her.<br />
<br />
A photographer drove over an hour each way to volunteer her time to take these beautiful pictures of us with Sarah both before and after we took her off the ventilator (there's a <a href="https://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/">national organization of photographers</a> that volunteer for things like this). Bless her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-Uc3D7XN2YZJkzC6Vv1pN8-5nV7f4oO21Mp1nZ0acLHe5VsTk_PB4UF-YGoW668W9z5TkD8vk0m6uQhEoAcvj_H_75UoAh13Pr3R7e6ftgQK3CIy8Ew4IlFMX3D2v38aHLsnbeGfCcCD/s1600/001_140902_SarahHess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-Uc3D7XN2YZJkzC6Vv1pN8-5nV7f4oO21Mp1nZ0acLHe5VsTk_PB4UF-YGoW668W9z5TkD8vk0m6uQhEoAcvj_H_75UoAh13Pr3R7e6ftgQK3CIy8Ew4IlFMX3D2v38aHLsnbeGfCcCD/s1600/001_140902_SarahHess.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary meeting Sarah for the first time. This was just before she poked Sarah in the eye and said, "Eye?"<br />
She has newborn anatomy down pat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my girls.</td></tr>
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Then everyone left us alone, except a few hospital staff, and the time came that we'd initially been dreading. At first, when we decided to take Sarah off the ventilator and let her pass away, that seemed like the most traumatizing thing I could possibly imagine. That morning, though, a feeling of peace permeated the room. I almost felt a sense of anticipation, because we were sending her home. It felt right.<br />
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<br />
One of our fears was that she would linger for hours. She had been taking a lot of breaths on her own, beyond the help she received from the ventilator. Dr. M prepared us for the possibility that, if she kept breathing well on her own, we might have to wait for her to be overcome by her secretions before she would succumb. We sedated her slightly beforehand so she wouldn't struggle too much or become uncomfortable with the process. But, as it turned out, she stopped breathing almost right away. She didn't have enough strength to keep her own airway open without the ventilator in place.<br />
<br />
It took maybe 45 minutes to an hour for her heart to stop completely, and during that time we held her, admired her little face without the ventilator, and told her we love her. By the way, I thought my tear ducts would have dried out by then, after the week we'd had, but those things just kept <i>producing</i>! Remarkable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6oBF0P3bzmm-X1Lc4t2qgoBGy9iL9H2TWHiWgo5WDZnQ-LwwtNHRSYFuTH-zAVmzFinJYpyl04lvqrZ3vWW00JepTq0sE5KMOmis3C_ZL1b5pBOyxPi2XujYrRKcCvzQnegshm69A5PD/s1600/044_140902_SarahHess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6oBF0P3bzmm-X1Lc4t2qgoBGy9iL9H2TWHiWgo5WDZnQ-LwwtNHRSYFuTH-zAVmzFinJYpyl04lvqrZ3vWW00JepTq0sE5KMOmis3C_ZL1b5pBOyxPi2XujYrRKcCvzQnegshm69A5PD/s1600/044_140902_SarahHess.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I decided to leave out the pictures where we're crying.<br />
Didn't want to make it awkward for you all.</td></tr>
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What I remember most, though, is the feeling of peace. Nothing about the experience seemed horrible. Sarah's passing was beautiful and serene, as was her life. Reflecting back over our time with her, it felt like a privilege. Back to the gratitude thing--I felt profoundly grateful for our time with her, and to God for blessing our family so much with such a beautiful person. In our church, we believe that <a href="http://www.mormon.org/values/family">families are forever</a>. That belief became very real to me as she left us that day. I felt--and feel--an assurance that we will see her again.<br />
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I don't want to downplay the grief or the sadness of sending this girl back home so soon. But Sarah's life was a string of miracles, and the last one was this: that day, we left the hospital smiling.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-31891315606138691022014-03-30T18:18:00.001-05:002014-05-06T22:26:01.078-05:00Survival TacticsThis semester has been my hardest yet.<br />
<br />
I believe there are 3 reasons for that.<br />
<br />
<b>Number 1:</b><br />
My clinical hours increase each semester, and now I'm at the clinic two full days a week (that probably doesn't sound like a lot, but it <i>feels </i>like a lot).<br />
<br />
<b>Number 2:</b><br />
Isaac, Mary, and I have been taking turns getting <i>reeeeaaaaally </i>sick. On the couch watching <i>Home Improvement</i> reruns all afternoon for a week sick. Ugh.<br />
<br />
And <b>Number 3:</b><br />
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With regards to #3, I can sum things up simply by saying I am 16 weeks pregnant, am thrilled and surprised and grateful and nervous, and feel great. </div>
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<ul>
<li><i>Thrilled</i> because I love being a mom. </li>
<li><i>Surprised</i> to be pregnant again. Not "Whoops we forgot about birth control" surprised but "How can I possibly be pregnant without spending hours in a doctor's office?" surprised. That is a miracle. </li>
<li><i>Grateful</i> because of what I just explained. </li>
<li><i>Nervous</i> because Mary is so gosh-darn cute and I'm terrified that she has raised the bar TOO high for future kids. <i>Nervous </i>because I don't want to hold them all to her standard. </li>
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And, lest you jump to any unfair conclusions, let me assert rather sheepishly that just now when I told you I was sick, I did not mean <i>pregnancy </i>sick. Just winter-time disgusting upper respiratory sick. At the risk of inciting violence among any hyperemesis moms out there reading this, I have to admit that I really don't get very sick when I'm pregnant. Mostly I just crave pizza and want long afternoon naps. </div>
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At any rate, all this brings us down to the gritty details of surviving the last 2, and busiest, semesters of grad school with a toddler, a fetus, and sometimes a rhinovirus. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Camber's Survival Tactics</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">In no particular order</span></div>
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1. My house is <b>never, ever immaculate</b>. NEVER. Horrible housewife that I am, I'd rather spend Mary's naps watching lectures than cleaning. Please don't judge.</div>
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2. I have to encourage Mary to <b>entertain herself</b>. This might mean letting her gnaw on a red pepper she found in the fridge. Whatever. I can cut the teeth marks out later...</div>
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3. I give into <b>pregnancy cravings</b>. Things I have craved include baked potatoes, grilled cheese sandwiches, pizza, broccoli cheese soup, Panda Express, Wendy's chili, Subway, sweet pork salads from Cafe Rio, enchiladas, and basically anything deep fried or smothered in ranch dressing or melted cheese. Apparently the baby is really into health foods. Also salads are about the only vegetable I can stand in the first trimester.<br />
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4. <b>I don't do extras</b>. I don't decorate. I don't bake bread (usually I love this). I keep non-grocery shopping to a minimum. I don't make quilts or crafts. I don't practice the piano. I don't read. I postpone haircuts as long as possible. I minimize social engagements and have even had to cancel things a few times because, well, <b>homework</b>. </div>
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5. I keep my to-do list for the day <b>short</b>. Keep Mary alive. Eat. Write paper. Exercise. Pray. Shower (optional). The fewer the goals, the less depressed I feel at the end of the day for not accomplishing everything. </div>
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6. I r<b>ely on Isaac.</b> That amazing guy spends Saturdays watching Mary so I can study, puts up with my horrible housekeeping skills, often does the cleaning himself, tells me I'm beautiful even when pregnancy acne stages a coup on my face, and reassures me that I'm a decent person when I feel like I'm barely keeping things together. </div>
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Survival aside, Mary is a blast right now and I spend more time than is practical reading her stories, singing her songs, doing her hair, wandering around playing with her, and generally admiring her cuteness. She imitates animal noises, narrates herself in gibberish all day, will eat green beans almost to the point of puking, and is <i>just</i> starting to walk, although she seems convinced that crawling is the superior way to get around. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8aNNSzdC1EdrwxC5lo3IRE3-jzMMHQ8V-Ewwq2wvqsXQ3yWfKjxpWHKqm5GMRPDPxoLMnQF1LiOCRwAWZA3s1u4-2qDtmvnvvZBTzS-9qcva1HQpZLMwqOgG4S5HSOUFu9H2tOBnTPbr/s1600/Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8aNNSzdC1EdrwxC5lo3IRE3-jzMMHQ8V-Ewwq2wvqsXQ3yWfKjxpWHKqm5GMRPDPxoLMnQF1LiOCRwAWZA3s1u4-2qDtmvnvvZBTzS-9qcva1HQpZLMwqOgG4S5HSOUFu9H2tOBnTPbr/s1600/Collage.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
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Also, petrified though I was to spend a semester in pediatrics, I have <i>loved </i>it. The vast majority of kids are actually really good for me during exams, and I get to see squishy babies EVERY DAY. I love talking to teenagers, love telling toddlers that I just saw Tinkerbell in their ears, and love it when I can figure out what's wrong with someone's child and my preceptor (who is amazing, by the way) agrees with me. </div>
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I am not thriving, but I am surviving. </div>
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And I'm really, <b><span style="font-size: large;">really</span></b> excited for graduation. 4 1/2 months to go. </div>
Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-72328830267839422022014-01-29T09:22:00.000-06:002014-01-29T09:22:07.955-06:00Party AnimalsSomething a lot of people don't know about us is that we are <b>party animals</b>.<br />
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In the month of December we had finals, shopped for Christmas, took treats to the neighbors, attended 2 MoTab events in SLC, went to a wedding, helped family move, celebrated our 7-year anniversary, celebrated Christmas, celebrated 2 other birthdays, and went to a cabin in southern Utah for 3 days.<br />
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As ridiculous as December was, it didn't stop me from going ALL OUT for Mary's birthday party.<br />
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Theme, decorations, entertainment, food...I spared no expense. She is our first child, after all.<br />
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<b>Theme:</b> Mary's birthday</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcA6PEqIWqiD7muv2DRsMhIYNsi2NNmAnWUZZFYL1SP7vUuvvUlsmd4pZyL0KJaIPZxBMwAguGOgi4FmdNHVY8RHK7xOG_8Nmyqsmzg1AIn5XHCq_EBy8lHPiz5FUqbBfv37tWIDB-mwZ/s1600/presents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcA6PEqIWqiD7muv2DRsMhIYNsi2NNmAnWUZZFYL1SP7vUuvvUlsmd4pZyL0KJaIPZxBMwAguGOgi4FmdNHVY8RHK7xOG_8Nmyqsmzg1AIn5XHCq_EBy8lHPiz5FUqbBfv37tWIDB-mwZ/s320/presents.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note the super adorable outfit I picked out for her to wear.</td></tr>
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<b>Decor:</b> Nana and Grandpa's house</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XqEUySaIUTce1lEb2TkcQXpshlEtgmW05pecXaCK_y9xkT8M8qQ58Zxz5I6OnbRx31vXRDewH3HHVia2k7-u3ePIVfDzdJE5vRsrlfcZFreFMuhUBurPgkMp1s2j-R_X8Bm8T3i6hD6N/s1600/Cousins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4XqEUySaIUTce1lEb2TkcQXpshlEtgmW05pecXaCK_y9xkT8M8qQ58Zxz5I6OnbRx31vXRDewH3HHVia2k7-u3ePIVfDzdJE5vRsrlfcZFreFMuhUBurPgkMp1s2j-R_X8Bm8T3i6hD6N/s320/Cousins.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Food:</b> Taco soup and rainbow cake (I assure you, I spent hours dumping stuff into the crock pot and baking a cake from a mix...)</div>
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<b>Entertainment:</b> Watching Mary down her whole piece of cake. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGzKO6kOHY8s8so0j_fiYnodCh3gEkTWZACqIXLc-6cn7QsXrer4a1aFCmM1swwRcTok_n1phxk1Do5LdpEj5lo218grJt_wx9HXbwaBl4Mlf2JfNvHN2zrjCkjOe8STX2CGLzG6JVBzp/s1600/Cake+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGzKO6kOHY8s8so0j_fiYnodCh3gEkTWZACqIXLc-6cn7QsXrer4a1aFCmM1swwRcTok_n1phxk1Do5LdpEj5lo218grJt_wx9HXbwaBl4Mlf2JfNvHN2zrjCkjOe8STX2CGLzG6JVBzp/s320/Cake+collage.jpg" height="132" width="320" /></a></div>
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We also went all out for our anniversary, going out for a super romantic dinner with Mary tagging along, and opening our very elaborate and expensive anniversary present in our PJ's.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzh-yEjoPvD0c_UbufFueJeO4g9HA9ySjlTIEhoaiOOE6vDFy_jemtevEYfHolke_2RFT3X_HJTBT483yxltJQosIkeo4kmypUf8beFQOU5gM2irrmpNKtY148ljIFc_vUvXYTZEZfyo9v/s1600/anniversary+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzh-yEjoPvD0c_UbufFueJeO4g9HA9ySjlTIEhoaiOOE6vDFy_jemtevEYfHolke_2RFT3X_HJTBT483yxltJQosIkeo4kmypUf8beFQOU5gM2irrmpNKtY148ljIFc_vUvXYTZEZfyo9v/s1600/anniversary+collage.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional 7-year gifts are copper and wool. <br />Hence the copper cowbell and the <b>wool</b>ly mammoth</td></tr>
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In other news, school has started up again and I'm doing a rotation in pediatrics, Mary is getting 4 new teeth (for a total of 8), and, in keeping with my theme of going overboard, I have started experimenting with Mary's hair.<br />
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Her hair is getting longer now and is often in her eyes, and, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, I found an idea for her hair that I just knew had tremendous potential.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tElv79T3Hu1E9MKfoirIL6Lioi-mulq-KbBl5GPrvDJuJZR56Y_0lXOT8pkxhCW0LsI3NsYPf1cPNCHnJWxZ6Uio0kq9I5hBMBjDiT8O5l5vTEFj3aN0khtVoebJoimU_YmzrLMMvIOL/s1600/Toddler+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tElv79T3Hu1E9MKfoirIL6Lioi-mulq-KbBl5GPrvDJuJZR56Y_0lXOT8pkxhCW0LsI3NsYPf1cPNCHnJWxZ6Uio0kq9I5hBMBjDiT8O5l5vTEFj3aN0khtVoebJoimU_YmzrLMMvIOL/s320/Toddler+hair.jpg" height="320" width="290" /></a></div>
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Mary's hair is not quite as long as shown in the picture, but I thought I could make it work. </div>
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What ensued was Mary struggling valiantly to remove the elastics as soon as I put them in her hair, me trying valiantly to comb very fine hair and attach those dang elastics (which are barely bigger than my pinky, I might add) to a thrashing head, and Isaac listening to his wife call out things like, "HELP! This isn't going well!" and "I'm a failure as a mother!" and "Why did God think I could raise a daughter?"</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMpbJJI05frlpQa3yxDmuRPm6Ef-Bk4lBnhCgBj2UZhOXWNQn9YNjWQKl2b5Nluofkw8uimxMiQm6BTWO-WD3uUwmMNo4Egj_aRKMLaf_frA3qvXIqWJnDPRyyqufCLIabvKFV_W4fuqy/s1600/Mary+hairbow+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMpbJJI05frlpQa3yxDmuRPm6Ef-Bk4lBnhCgBj2UZhOXWNQn9YNjWQKl2b5Nluofkw8uimxMiQm6BTWO-WD3uUwmMNo4Egj_aRKMLaf_frA3qvXIqWJnDPRyyqufCLIabvKFV_W4fuqy/s1600/Mary+hairbow+1.jpg" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I finally resorted to the "let's just stick a flower in her hair and be done with it" approach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhis17UVn2q-Qm00u2kHuvEbgID1OoX8BGNI983WlrtREEvq7t79T1zlovHRPAH41IfsW4QJRJthxEIPSKXS9VmHDVvOJiMSCg1yAi-iQlWmAjuAkWNbZYxOYEnyHSXru26utpXtchZsyQt/s1600/Mary+hairbow+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhis17UVn2q-Qm00u2kHuvEbgID1OoX8BGNI983WlrtREEvq7t79T1zlovHRPAH41IfsW4QJRJthxEIPSKXS9VmHDVvOJiMSCg1yAi-iQlWmAjuAkWNbZYxOYEnyHSXru26utpXtchZsyQt/s1600/Mary+hairbow+2.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which Mary quickly sabotaged...</td></tr>
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But Pinterest hair or not, here's to the girl that brings out the party animal in all of us:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7xSErqPW4gE_fAyIX6bTDQB03WdYBs7W0gCaUaBANesL203EZ-4YjcrJR2q-kFOI5LqZ9U6DcTVBHStlAU4bEIvKiPoT0-Rv3ywvjrO0LxbMJAuz2XcT_ajP7nSFUYZF9cCShvuPSJnH/s1600/All+months+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7xSErqPW4gE_fAyIX6bTDQB03WdYBs7W0gCaUaBANesL203EZ-4YjcrJR2q-kFOI5LqZ9U6DcTVBHStlAU4bEIvKiPoT0-Rv3ywvjrO0LxbMJAuz2XcT_ajP7nSFUYZF9cCShvuPSJnH/s1600/All+months+collage.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-28788089875554115992013-12-16T08:54:00.002-06:002013-12-16T08:54:58.282-06:00Laughing turns to crying<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have survived a lot of things: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Winter in Iowa. Hang gliding. Centipedes <b>in my house</b>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Nursing school. Having an anniversary in December. Accutane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Going without chocolate for a WHOLE day. Natural childbirth (but just barely).</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I just survived Disneyland with 6 kids under 6. </span></b></div>
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This is one of those things I swore I'd <span style="font-size: large;">never do</span>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My family frequented Disneyland when I was young, and the haunting image of hundreds of toddlers simultaneously <span style="font-size: large;">melting down</span> after lunchtime has been forever seared into my memory. I vowed at that time never to bring any of my own kids to Disneyland until they were at least 5.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That vow has been BROKEN.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Up to this point I have a very strategic, <a href="http://www.isaacandcamber.com/2010/06/cooper-rules-for-disneyland_10.html">very serious plan for approaching Disneyland</a>. Without rehashing a previous post too much, my strategy includes arriving early, running (NEVER walking) from ride to ride, skipping all parades, musical shows, and unnecessary bathroom breaks, using Fast Passes as much as possible, and eating a churro EVERY day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Under my previous strategy, one or two kid rides a day were acceptable ONLY directly after mealtimes to prevent barfing, and riding "It's a Small World" is never, NEVER allowed. Ever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, Camber, adapt or die, because that strategy only works for 12-year-olds or <strike>immature</strike> young-at-heart adults. Not 6 wee ones that don't meet the height requirement for...anything.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I revised my strategy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then I burned it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The result was a Disneyland experience unlike any I'd ever had.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We rode the kid rides.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWNL0xOhY5gS-8ACQZPcIPkaso3JfeaHC7HfeIzg8iJc6EN6S7HHkgXg_M8UU1ObfhAGxvJzY0nNrLUoZURuUX8-OPP9baTQ50Rj938Nsz6_IB7dObQ9xSXT3TvE5nyTv2xdHTRQDjTCv/s1600/Kid+rides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWNL0xOhY5gS-8ACQZPcIPkaso3JfeaHC7HfeIzg8iJc6EN6S7HHkgXg_M8UU1ObfhAGxvJzY0nNrLUoZURuUX8-OPP9baTQ50Rj938Nsz6_IB7dObQ9xSXT3TvE5nyTv2xdHTRQDjTCv/s320/Kid+rides.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We took loooooong breaks.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3G9TZspGNmP2x4YTMbP6rXanNoarQy1YQMc4xW2Vvl2mm4fvOfOXLP107_ltRfTlf6uZ67-yn6tTX5v_791IHJmp7c-NSVFv_JsckbEqlmkFovNl8xOlJ6VK536UuJzDgs0ilxTLQA6r/s1600/Nap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3G9TZspGNmP2x4YTMbP6rXanNoarQy1YQMc4xW2Vvl2mm4fvOfOXLP107_ltRfTlf6uZ67-yn6tTX5v_791IHJmp7c-NSVFv_JsckbEqlmkFovNl8xOlJ6VK536UuJzDgs0ilxTLQA6r/s320/Nap.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We took pictures with Disney characters.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrDcdp4gnjohaCRFdDHgWBcxpb-GuzzOEf9YafJU3SqwXjh4cKGpNkb5WrQC7FAcGXTSyf9rQExILoJm1pvrYcPiXgiwGgyvZw4zUvZVWdW52llXBmKCFl45t8APiIwckdQTmU3hBuIoVQ/s1600/Characters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrDcdp4gnjohaCRFdDHgWBcxpb-GuzzOEf9YafJU3SqwXjh4cKGpNkb5WrQC7FAcGXTSyf9rQExILoJm1pvrYcPiXgiwGgyvZw4zUvZVWdW52llXBmKCFl45t8APiIwckdQTmU3hBuIoVQ/s320/Characters.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We watched meltdowns happen in rapid succession. We rode more kid rides. We walked slowly. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCrweipDRr0RCt-IH3L6gN9BrwA589Oq1R-a_JTX5U0jN2uYrJ4I7EIuc9nvgQCdlSFoX22GGcwpmDpSuWSeQScEpGSj8DN0puKcmW8L7__8j7PH4xB-fY_Wrt6lRFU5FtkNFyRvgRcpt/s1600/Isaac+and+2+babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCrweipDRr0RCt-IH3L6gN9BrwA589Oq1R-a_JTX5U0jN2uYrJ4I7EIuc9nvgQCdlSFoX22GGcwpmDpSuWSeQScEpGSj8DN0puKcmW8L7__8j7PH4xB-fY_Wrt6lRFU5FtkNFyRvgRcpt/s320/Isaac+and+2+babies.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We (gulp) watched the parade.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGk6JkPG_Jr7Pd5iSgjBQnaySRHr_qenBRUAGrzvAVjtaYnAuUVoTvFIWi-QlW6GxG4VIfdIOraflnVKRJz-rbjVxw4acY-e7KqmXs2KeKWsCK9ZLXs87rKGeZkCrSL3_RrqjUhoekB9a/s1600/Parade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGk6JkPG_Jr7Pd5iSgjBQnaySRHr_qenBRUAGrzvAVjtaYnAuUVoTvFIWi-QlW6GxG4VIfdIOraflnVKRJz-rbjVxw4acY-e7KqmXs2KeKWsCK9ZLXs87rKGeZkCrSL3_RrqjUhoekB9a/s320/Parade.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Don't be fooled by my smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was still whining about watching the parade at this point.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We played duck duck goose while waiting for others on the grown-up rides.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P87mFzl6tu1Qyc8YmLjgcSpSHh7gDoONmwNY0-i_lj-OiSkYp48DI-kQ9qasU1nK5TFBbgzWlB2RsK9l82AxCt7LXaxpMojjsHC79lor1Zh3Ro4fCHAoo5aWhDJq6ySzP0D-kC8kn697/s1600/Duck+duck+goose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P87mFzl6tu1Qyc8YmLjgcSpSHh7gDoONmwNY0-i_lj-OiSkYp48DI-kQ9qasU1nK5TFBbgzWlB2RsK9l82AxCt7LXaxpMojjsHC79lor1Zh3Ro4fCHAoo5aWhDJq6ySzP0D-kC8kn697/s320/Duck+duck+goose.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And we <span style="font-size: xx-small;">kind of sort of possibly may have ridden It's a Small World. Ssssshhhhhhh......</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
And....we wore Construction Orange shirts with possibly the most prophetic phrase ever printed on a T-shirt:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCxa8vSUQhzGViRZzvyse3Ti3tHtq4bAvRCPrfxa3nrUqlBBj43t7mSuiR480nUgw_ZCxMhxcsNG1Lmw2dip7G9LxvROos31VIyVy3wCIwYosbU_1CnTnIYtu7ckFd-dfkWb0QvgEENJp/s1600/T-shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCxa8vSUQhzGViRZzvyse3Ti3tHtq4bAvRCPrfxa3nrUqlBBj43t7mSuiR480nUgw_ZCxMhxcsNG1Lmw2dip7G9LxvROos31VIyVy3wCIwYosbU_1CnTnIYtu7ckFd-dfkWb0QvgEENJp/s320/T-shirt.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a saying from our childhood that we like to joke about now.<br />Also it is as true today as it was back then.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks to the shirt color, we could pick out members of our group from half a mile away. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the fulfillment of the T-shirt prophecy:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2UjCX91cwUyhRWgc1VKmMgYCV9R5WcWImcWO3xbEEmVH_KjeaMO_DACgiCVcRcsNYmdP1jnGYr_Qd-PAKNIBoa96JZKabrS0hGwrZmjwhZI2E3RtNEA5K6u3rI8Om8eTJrtPFutwUupP/s1600/Laughing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2UjCX91cwUyhRWgc1VKmMgYCV9R5WcWImcWO3xbEEmVH_KjeaMO_DACgiCVcRcsNYmdP1jnGYr_Qd-PAKNIBoa96JZKabrS0hGwrZmjwhZI2E3RtNEA5K6u3rI8Om8eTJrtPFutwUupP/s320/Laughing.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Laughing</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeroWrGJq13YrhXIdA69hpZ9z5GaS9RzqbNciJh693E2smvWQaowI_Qu7wj_9CI1V-XKO2tGl05Z2OFPONeJSy0hB0O-GOtjY2jIQnL7H27zuXJw_Z3Pd4l-RZEIux0_DgF-GE_HHHrTp/s1600/Crying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeroWrGJq13YrhXIdA69hpZ9z5GaS9RzqbNciJh693E2smvWQaowI_Qu7wj_9CI1V-XKO2tGl05Z2OFPONeJSy0hB0O-GOtjY2jIQnL7H27zuXJw_Z3Pd4l-RZEIux0_DgF-GE_HHHrTp/s320/Crying.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Turns to crying</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Aaaaaannd again...</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XyKnhicO5BRnvF9mmxweiaupPO_QuKszj8kABfxMRmfE9heSdE-ummO-YqIKlyUNaXAAaEmGbmcHdu13z5-ACdAmxeztaxih_xgMLsCkzRWIO9-9X9JswSgKgBlxs5cSAqOFgfQBBYDL/s1600/Laughing+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5XyKnhicO5BRnvF9mmxweiaupPO_QuKszj8kABfxMRmfE9heSdE-ummO-YqIKlyUNaXAAaEmGbmcHdu13z5-ACdAmxeztaxih_xgMLsCkzRWIO9-9X9JswSgKgBlxs5cSAqOFgfQBBYDL/s320/Laughing+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Laughing</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlCjVjqHytM0Qzga6LdEI5ttJKx3UW4Tuf4VY_kcWdDOksKOhUc8yqC8r3JgAhykxbfTG4k_eiEfWe1Q-VoVdZDuQZcohQFag0_sKG9OZrfNQg5F5aYf6Ht1Y7CJhJG2YqXRAOeWUEILp/s1600/Crying+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlCjVjqHytM0Qzga6LdEI5ttJKx3UW4Tuf4VY_kcWdDOksKOhUc8yqC8r3JgAhykxbfTG4k_eiEfWe1Q-VoVdZDuQZcohQFag0_sKG9OZrfNQg5F5aYf6Ht1Y7CJhJG2YqXRAOeWUEILp/s320/Crying+2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Turns to crying</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And finally:</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXl_EUk9qbzuK-2BN6x2eqxMCNpXCGIQc1K8EbqNQWBLMZ0s2tNCpUzAMvKED-_buhFWt_HoDBqYDBzZi07wDVeIuxHEJzz9Hcj7orK5rFRV-Cu1-KwpQ-N9ICiUjxUR7ykyy0a0_XIojS/s1600/Sleeping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXl_EUk9qbzuK-2BN6x2eqxMCNpXCGIQc1K8EbqNQWBLMZ0s2tNCpUzAMvKED-_buhFWt_HoDBqYDBzZi07wDVeIuxHEJzz9Hcj7orK5rFRV-Cu1-KwpQ-N9ICiUjxUR7ykyy0a0_XIojS/s320/Sleeping.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Disneyland success.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We're already talking about going back.Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-65667061084333562592013-11-11T20:20:00.000-06:002013-11-11T20:20:36.599-06:00Cold Feet<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This kid had cold feet about coming down to us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6mnv9sEbqh5oGisn9FjnKEoyP690DnzrsWBurbWtlCNIm7BMp0c74bIMAlXQajCc1NqUx82hCv7rg-R82KJGZc7ktgj2PBGHouI1LHM5f1UKY1yIK8pUgpY6votA0LnVQfD3eIYB0V-A/s1600/20130126_148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6mnv9sEbqh5oGisn9FjnKEoyP690DnzrsWBurbWtlCNIm7BMp0c74bIMAlXQajCc1NqUx82hCv7rg-R82KJGZc7ktgj2PBGHouI1LHM5f1UKY1yIK8pUgpY6votA0LnVQfD3eIYB0V-A/s320/20130126_148.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't blame her, really. We started trying for kids in the middle of the economic meltdown. That would make anybody think twice about, you know, being born. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CYcwfYqt5cYkRArov9sO_uyrhEt-ICm2wHqU7lmTZhw4XyvfGGxkNI4dFE_OkcmSyoOGiMcKroRPP5A0FUfM9lT-BAMxlHDu8VdzcJgAghyphenhyphen9Ja1bsoWWP8WZ5DNZ5dqWIaHuQElGFUIE/s1600/scared-kid2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CYcwfYqt5cYkRArov9sO_uyrhEt-ICm2wHqU7lmTZhw4XyvfGGxkNI4dFE_OkcmSyoOGiMcKroRPP5A0FUfM9lT-BAMxlHDu8VdzcJgAghyphenhyphen9Ja1bsoWWP8WZ5DNZ5dqWIaHuQElGFUIE/s1600/scared-kid2.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It took us, in fact, almost exactly 4 years and 3 months to get pregnant with Mary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's a number, just a number. I put it out there for perspective, not comparison. Some infertile couples wait much, much longer, some shorter. It is usually hard, regardless of the number.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doctors never found anything wrong. Our diagnosis: <b>Unexplained Infertility</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some people hear this and say with derision: "Doctors! What do <i>they</i> know?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In defense of the wonderful specialists we saw, it turns out that the process of becoming pregnant is incredibly<b> complicated</b>. There are hundreds of things that can go wrong and doctors can only test for a few of them. Human beings are, in fact, one of the least fertile animals on earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's really no surprise, then, that about 1 in 4 couples will struggle with conceiving at some point in their lives.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These couples may not believe that when they see unwed teenagers effortlessly pump out unwanted babies. One reason for this is that infertility is age-related. Teenagers have an infertility rate of around 2-4%. 40-year-olds are around 40-50%.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For us, not having a diagnosis led to a maddening mix of hope and hopelessness. Every month I got my hopes up that <i>this</i> would be the month. Unexplained infertility meant endless waiting and uncertain guessing at which treatments to try. A part of us wished for a final, crushing diagnosis of Sterility. At least then we could mourn and move on.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When people found out how long we'd been married and that we were still childless, we generally got one of two reactions:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1) That's smart of you to wait to have kids. They are stressful and expensive. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-or-</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2) You know, you really shouldn't wait so long to have kids. It only gets harder the longer you wait.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It didn't seem to occur to anyone that there was a third possibility: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are not in control here. </span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I may take my temperature every morning and use ovulation strips and take Clomid and go through embarrassing tests and procedures, but <b>we are not in control</b>. We cannot force my body to get pregnant. No one's in control, really. I know lots of people that have gotten pregnant on birth control. It goes both ways.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The treatments were hard in other ways, too. I was grumpy on the hormones. I had days when I <span style="font-size: large;">did not</span><b> </b>want to be around a single person. I've always valued being kind and easy to get along with, but everyone seemed to do such irritating things during that time. Like stand in the same room as me. <b>Breathing my air.</b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had some sad days and some <i>really</i> sad days, but you should also know that 4 years and 3 months of trying does not mean 4 years and 3 months of <i>suffering</i>. We had some really happy, fun times. We went to Hawaii. We went to the beach. We went on weekend trips to our favorite bed & breakfast. We both worked and that allowed us to save money. We hung out with friends. We enjoyed being together. I love being with Isaac a lot, and I was daily conscious that although we wanted kids, I was incredibly blessed to be married to a great guy.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdi31n4d4QgfUvqrJLgx8wgH79ariS3U_VtlBHzHJBjlmn5Rqcz6kOgt_dfYs-D0kI-BNcuEYXE1uMpTB9dJJ-m9YatMpGD1QERXDqmUNhqfATou9Kl0v3i9uS277crF2nI4-XncYu4L_/s1600/Two+of+us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdi31n4d4QgfUvqrJLgx8wgH79ariS3U_VtlBHzHJBjlmn5Rqcz6kOgt_dfYs-D0kI-BNcuEYXE1uMpTB9dJJ-m9YatMpGD1QERXDqmUNhqfATou9Kl0v3i9uS277crF2nI4-XncYu4L_/s320/Two+of+us.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Disneyland. Homecoming. <br />Ketchup and Mustard for Halloween. Zion National Park.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Further, although I wanted very much to be a mother, I was equally terrified of being a mother. I had deep, abiding doubts about being a good mom. I feared finally having a child and then resenting him for requiring so much work. The longer it took, <span style="font-size: large;">the more I wanted kids and the more I feared them</span>. I wondered if our infertility was some great cosmic sign that I wasn't cut out to be a mother.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn't. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rather, it was the experience of infertility that has made me a <b>better</b> mother.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This brings me around to God. Some question how a loving God could withhold children from a couple like us, yet seemingly send them in droves to unwed teenagers and abusive homes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I cannot explain everything that God does, our experience made me more convinced, not less, that He exists, hears prayers, and cares about what is happening in my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We prayed <b>every. single. day.</b> for a baby. Those prayers were not answered right away, but they were eventually answered. And in the meantime other miracles happened in my life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I prayed every day not only that we'd be able to have children, but also that God would take bitterness and jealousy out of my heart. He did that. I was able to be genuinely happy for other people that were having babies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other miracles include being guided to move to a state and job with insurance that would cover fertility treatments (a rarity), frequently meeting others with infertility (giving me hope, or at least, community), and finding purpose and meaning in my work, marriage, and friendships. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am certain I would not be the mother I am today without infertility. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I watch Mary with that sense of <span style="font-size: large;">awe</span> you feel when watching something miraculous. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Without infertility, on hard days I wouldn't get to remember a time when I really thought I would never get to carry and give birth to a child. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Without infertility I might not be filled with profound gratitude every time I hold that girl in my arms. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And without infertility, I wouldn't whisper with quite so much sincerity, "Thank you, God, thank you."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have no idea about if or when baby #2 will come. For now, I am convinced I will never get tired of looking at this face:</span><br />
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Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8435410536758603618.post-73479115911629307982013-10-10T23:15:00.000-05:002013-10-12T13:11:38.157-05:00My Daughter: The Zombie (and other news)<div style="text-align: center;">
This girl,</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43Qeja_F8PI0EoplWtNpY7nu_B7XtG62MfcfzFzVEwfkBR2JQWJ5vYOydUYi1uGg7ywmz6xWzmJfrZVSuES_lNDYGH_DGHaksxBBHy0JX7N8KrJkhpKkqDzAxEQvKMJ-_j-crsL9tgFui/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43Qeja_F8PI0EoplWtNpY7nu_B7XtG62MfcfzFzVEwfkBR2JQWJ5vYOydUYi1uGg7ywmz6xWzmJfrZVSuES_lNDYGH_DGHaksxBBHy0JX7N8KrJkhpKkqDzAxEQvKMJ-_j-crsL9tgFui/s320/1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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at 9 1/2 months old,</div>
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changes every day.</div>
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Sports has two teeth:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlcmmwGPKlqA9AJxSZ7fQvp7BnKQz-00Sp1PnwOR0EgyzEeaV6z7_ZIkGc29aq7zWWIGMkUBiVH2EGCDCwfSpW_kwMF8Nh-lGq5UswyUX5qxQcssy1AAy_giiRo3nwBYgIfbd_A6PC7Gw/s1600/Teeth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlcmmwGPKlqA9AJxSZ7fQvp7BnKQz-00Sp1PnwOR0EgyzEeaV6z7_ZIkGc29aq7zWWIGMkUBiVH2EGCDCwfSpW_kwMF8Nh-lGq5UswyUX5qxQcssy1AAy_giiRo3nwBYgIfbd_A6PC7Gw/s320/Teeth.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
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Crawls. In a weird "Does she know that right leg works?" kind of way (11 seconds long):</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzMovwGi4UdG7BGsvuQb8CReSJ_WQw-4p_460OdwOLIoe7kGGsJrHTNJmYd_8FEzkeeT2aOUiznWKvyfL9oXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Pulls herself up to stand.</div>
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Feeds herself Cheerios.</div>
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Is weaned (*sniff*).</div>
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Loves shoulder rides:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPUXMDkPew_ESyPEr7IjRmmM9Zgx4O4rBZzyUXvRtwt-_3OVANE3YbCHDFMjJk6uYU2RUHQ2AuMy2d1Nn91pbM7bfG8MWlzS5KzfzmUz6jeJz1dXryTQdvmfLhQ-ifL37ZDSF6QVyBnf1/s1600/Shoulders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPUXMDkPew_ESyPEr7IjRmmM9Zgx4O4rBZzyUXvRtwt-_3OVANE3YbCHDFMjJk6uYU2RUHQ2AuMy2d1Nn91pbM7bfG8MWlzS5KzfzmUz6jeJz1dXryTQdvmfLhQ-ifL37ZDSF6QVyBnf1/s320/Shoulders.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>
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Babbles almost all the time.</div>
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<strike>Snuggles up to my shoulder when I hold her. </strike></div>
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Snuggles up to my shoulder to bring it within chewing range.</div>
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Makes me laugh:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrJVWkOlyHo67tDr5QIq6Ogbhr_DTqdUk4IwCuNukmF7Axy_9ebc6SvKlFjhsRHMCGypZ3LUed1d1QDkXAgcZkuqerKkpxNRjhfe4hG_1QRfzA0QvkQMAAqU-qFDY5pSC7Xd3z39FUHRy/s1600/Bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrJVWkOlyHo67tDr5QIq6Ogbhr_DTqdUk4IwCuNukmF7Axy_9ebc6SvKlFjhsRHMCGypZ3LUed1d1QDkXAgcZkuqerKkpxNRjhfe4hG_1QRfzA0QvkQMAAqU-qFDY5pSC7Xd3z39FUHRy/s320/Bath.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
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Makes me cry.</div>
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Loves electronics (for chewing purposes only). </div>
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Imitates zombies:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwm8UyYR_N1oQ1N_L0ERKC3Vj-Fs7xpofzGjZPC-UDlXxyZiJNCqKVBKH3DshbGZiCO0uXrR_oXfLfynToKgpqtNQcFwUXBXlN95Pe244qE2ljSFR6zjgBi-fFfWB_kB9pjguwuZHvJjH/s1600/Zombie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwm8UyYR_N1oQ1N_L0ERKC3Vj-Fs7xpofzGjZPC-UDlXxyZiJNCqKVBKH3DshbGZiCO0uXrR_oXfLfynToKgpqtNQcFwUXBXlN95Pe244qE2ljSFR6zjgBi-fFfWB_kB9pjguwuZHvJjH/s320/Zombie.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Turns the pages of books when I read to her.</div>
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Bursts out laughing when she sees other kids. </div>
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And, my personal favorite, gasps (4 seconds long):</div>
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Please never, ever tell me, "Oh, just wait until she's a toddler. It's going to be horrible."</div>
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I'd rather not waste time dreading what's coming when I could be enjoying what IS.</div>
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Camberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08638196039962561654noreply@blogger.com7