Peace like a river

Our daughter Sarah lived only 4 days. Though her life was brief, it was also beautiful, and it was miraculous.

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 four times like we did with Mary. We took 7 pregnancy tests, just to be sure. They were all positive.

My little miracle pregnancy progressed very normally until about 32 weeks, when I suddenly doubled in size over about 2 weeks.

32 weeks

34 weeks

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 supposed to get bigger during the 3rd trimester.

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.

Our quick little appointment turned into a 2 1/2 hour doozy of a meeting with the doctor.

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.

Bless that doctor, he took a long time with us, explained everything very thoroughly, and emphasized a few things:
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.

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.

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).

4) He recommended further testing, and we scheduled a fetal MRI for the next week, followed by possible genetic testing.

The doctor was dead-on about #1-3.

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.

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.

That weekend we happened to listen to a talk by one of the leaders of our church, Dieter Uchtdorf, titled "Grateful in any circumstances". 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."

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.

The timing of that ultrasound, the meeting with the specialist, and our little weekend trip proved to be miraculous.

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.

Camber in labor. Mary imitating Camber.

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.

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.

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.

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.

On my way to the OR

Isaac's hot OR suit

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.

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.

We held her for the first time about 24 hours after her birth. Aaaaaand...we cried. A lot.
Because, despite everything, we were in love.

Thursday evening we had the Meeting. 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:

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.

2) The damage probably happened sometime during the second trimester, halting the development of her brain from that point onward.

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.

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.

We knew this was coming, and hoped and prayed that the decision we would have to make that night would feel clear. It did.

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 not be there while she died, but that meant I'd have to be there when she died. It was a task that felt utterly overwhelming.

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.

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.

Giving Sarah a bath

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 taking care 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, maybe, Saturday would be okay.

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.

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.

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 national organization of photographers that volunteer for things like this). Bless her.

Mary meeting Sarah for the first time. This was just before she poked Sarah in the eye and said, "Eye?"
She has newborn anatomy down pat.

Me and my girls.

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.

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.

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 producing! Remarkable.

I decided to leave out the pictures where we're crying.
Didn't want to make it awkward for you all.

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 families are forever. 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.

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.

Survival Tactics

This semester has been my hardest yet.

I believe there are 3 reasons for that.

Number 1:
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 feels like a lot).

Number 2:
Isaac, Mary, and I have been taking turns getting reeeeaaaaally sick. On the couch watching Home Improvement reruns all afternoon for a week sick. Ugh.

And Number 3:

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. 

• Thrilled because I love being a mom. 
• Surprised 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. 
• Grateful because of what I just explained. 
• Nervous because Mary is so gosh-darn cute and I'm terrified that she has raised the bar TOO high for future kids. Nervous because I don't want to hold them all to her standard. 

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 pregnancy 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. 

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. 

Camber's Survival Tactics

In no particular order

1. My house is never, ever immaculate. NEVER. Horrible housewife that I am, I'd rather spend Mary's naps watching lectures than cleaning. Please don't judge.

2. I have to encourage Mary to entertain herself. This might mean letting her gnaw on a red pepper she found in the fridge. Whatever. I can cut the teeth marks out later...

3. I give into pregnancy cravings. 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.

4. I don't do extras. 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, homework. 

5. I keep my to-do list for the day short. 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. 

6. I rely on Isaac. 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. 

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 just starting to walk, although she seems convinced that crawling is the superior way to get around. 

Also, petrified though I was to spend a semester in pediatrics, I have loved 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. 

I am not thriving, but I am surviving. 

And I'm really, really excited for graduation. 4 1/2 months to go. 

Party Animals

Something a lot of people don't know about us is that we are party animals.

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.

As ridiculous as December was, it didn't stop me from going ALL OUT for Mary's birthday party.

Theme, decorations, entertainment, food...I spared no expense. She is our first child, after all.

Theme: Mary's birthday

Please note the super adorable outfit I picked out for her to wear.

Decor: Nana and Grandpa's house

Food: Taco soup and rainbow cake (I assure you, I spent hours dumping stuff into the crock pot and baking a cake from a mix...)

Entertainment: Watching Mary down her whole piece of cake. 

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.

Traditional 7-year gifts are copper and wool.
Hence the copper cowbell and the woolly mammoth

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.

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.

Mary's hair is not quite as long as shown in the picture, but I thought I could make it work. 

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?"

I finally resorted to the "let's just stick a flower in her hair and be done with it" approach.

Which Mary quickly sabotaged...

But Pinterest hair or not, here's to the girl that brings out the party animal in all of us:

Laughing turns to crying

I have survived a lot of things: 

Winter in Iowa. Hang gliding. Centipedes in my house. 

Nursing school. Having an anniversary in December. Accutane. 

Going without chocolate for a WHOLE day. Natural childbirth (but just barely).

And I just survived Disneyland with 6 kids under 6. 

This is one of those things I swore I'd never do.

My family frequented Disneyland when I was young, and the haunting image of hundreds of toddlers simultaneously melting down 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.

That vow has been BROKEN.

Up to this point I have a very strategic, very serious plan for approaching Disneyland. 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.

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.

Well, Camber, adapt or die, because that strategy only works for 12-year-olds or immature young-at-heart adults. Not 6 wee ones that don't meet the height requirement for...anything.

So I revised my strategy.

Then I burned it.

The result was a Disneyland experience unlike any I'd ever had.

We rode the kid rides.

We took loooooong breaks.

We took pictures with Disney characters.

We watched meltdowns happen in rapid succession. We rode more kid rides. We walked slowly. 

We (gulp) watched the parade.

Don't be fooled by my smile.
I was still whining about watching the parade at this point.

We played duck duck goose while waiting for others on the grown-up rides.

And we kind of sort of possibly may have ridden It's a Small World. Ssssshhhhhhh......


And....we wore Construction Orange shirts with possibly the most prophetic phrase ever printed on a T-shirt:

This is a saying from our childhood that we like to joke about now.
Also it is as true today as it was back then.

Thanks to the shirt color, we could pick out members of our group from half a mile away. 

And the fulfillment of the T-shirt prophecy:

Laughing

Turns to crying

Aaaaaannd again...

Laughing

Turns to crying

And finally:

Disneyland success.

We're already talking about going back.

Cold Feet

This kid had cold feet about coming down to us. 

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. 

It took us, in fact, almost exactly 4 years and 3 months to get pregnant with Mary.

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.

The doctors never found anything wrong. Our diagnosis: Unexplained Infertility.

Some people hear this and say with derision: "Doctors! What do they know?"

In defense of the wonderful specialists we saw, it turns out that the process of becoming pregnant is incredibly complicated. 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.

It's really no surprise, then, that about 1 in 4 couples will struggle with conceiving at some point in their lives.

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%.

For us, not having a diagnosis led to a maddening mix of hope and hopelessness. Every month I got my hopes up that this 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.

When people found out how long we'd been married and that we were still childless, we generally got one of two reactions:

1) That's smart of you to wait to have kids. They are stressful and expensive. 

-or-

2) You know, you really shouldn't wait so long to have kids. It only gets harder the longer you wait.

It didn't seem to occur to anyone that there was a third possibility: 

We are not in control here. 

I may take my temperature every morning and use ovulation strips and take Clomid and go through embarrassing tests and procedures, but we are not in control. 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.

The treatments were hard in other ways, too. I was grumpy on the hormones. I had days when I did not 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. Breathing my air. 

I had some sad days and some really sad days, but you should also know that 4 years and 3 months of trying does not mean 4 years and 3 months of suffering. 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.

Disneyland. Homecoming.
Ketchup and Mustard for Halloween. Zion National Park.

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, the more I wanted kids and the more I feared them. I wondered if our infertility was some great cosmic sign that I wasn't cut out to be a mother.

It wasn't. 

Rather, it was the experience of infertility that has made me a better mother.

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.

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.

We prayed every. single. day. 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.

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. 

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. 

I am certain I would not be the mother I am today without infertility. 

Today I watch Mary with that sense of awe you feel when watching something miraculous. 

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. 

Without infertility I might not be filled with profound gratitude every time I hold that girl in my arms. 

And without infertility, I wouldn't whisper with quite so much sincerity, "Thank you, God, thank you."

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:

My Daughter: The Zombie (and other news)

This girl,

at 9 1/2 months old,

changes every day.

Sports has two teeth:

Crawls. In a weird "Does she know that right leg works?" kind of way (11 seconds long):

Pulls herself up to stand.

Feeds herself Cheerios.

Is weaned (*sniff*).

Loves shoulder rides:

Babbles almost all the time.

Snuggles up to my shoulder when I hold her. 

Snuggles up to my shoulder to bring it within chewing range.

Makes me laugh:

Makes me cry.

Loves electronics (for chewing purposes only). 

Imitates zombies:

Turns the pages of books when I read to her.

Bursts out laughing when she sees other kids. 

And, my personal favorite, gasps (4 seconds long):

Please never, ever tell me, "Oh, just wait until she's a toddler. It's going to be horrible."

I'd rather not waste time dreading what's coming when I could be enjoying what IS.

The dreaded day

This semester in my program marks a big transition: beginning clinical rotations.

I have dreaded and anticipated this semester from day one of school.

Would I like working with patients?

Would I be able to find a doctor nice enough to be my preceptor?

Would I be able to handle the mountains of paperwork needed just to show up at said doctor's office?

Would I feel stupid all the time?

And finally, and most importantly, what about Mary?

Four weeks in to this semester, many of my fears have been allayed.

Yes, I LOVE working with patients. Yes I found a doctor to precept me and he is SO, SO nice. Yes, the paperwork darn near killed me off, and didn't all get completed and processed until the DAY I started clinicals (that was way too close for comfort). Yes, I frequently feel stupid, punctuated at times by rare, thrilling moments when I feel smart.

And...Mary.

Mary has been with me on this journey all along, from the positive pregnancy test FOUR days after I got my acceptance letter to her spectacular debut a few weeks after my first semester ended.

Then the real test came: now that I have a baby, do I keep going with this crazy school thing?

In the interest of full disclosures, I came very, very close to dropping out after my first semester with Mary.

I almost dropped out because I love being with her. I don't think staying at home with a baby is degrading or unfulfilling or a waste of a woman's time. I think it is the best use of my time possible.

I also began to question being in the program, the stresses of finding clinical sites, and the moolah--LOTS of moolah--that school tuition would drain out of our savings.

So I sat down to write an email to my family explaining to them why I was going to drop out of school.

I couldn't send that email. I could NOT sent that email, and I couldn't even finish writing it. And right then I knew I was going to finish school, no matter how hard it became.

And so, inevitably, the dreaded day arrived, when I would have to go to my scary, intimidating clinical site and Mary would go to a babysitter (her wonderful aunt). I have never left her with a babysitter for so long before.

I dropped her off...and she was fine. And I was fine. She had a great day with her cousin and was well-cared for, and I had my first day at clinicals and it wasn't as intimidating as I thought it would be.

Moving back out west has been an answer to more prayer than one--it has provided better means for me to finish. Better, closer clinical sites. Family nearby to help.

In other news, we had family pictures taken:

Isaac has a beard, which he has since shaved.
I couldn't get used to kissing facial hair, attractive as it was.
And Mary, it turns out, is more photogenic than her parents.

Blessed and Stressed

The last three months of my life can be best summed up in two words: blessed and stressed (see blog post title).

Why stressed?

I planned my summer semester with 6 credit hours, knowing we would take a 10-day trip to Utah and Idaho. I knew I'd have to work hard keep up with school over the trip. I also felt confident I could manage it if I was careful.

Isaac and Mary trying to scare off bears in Idaho.

Then Isaac got an unexpected job offer within days of returning home from that trip (which was super fun, BTW).

Then he accepted it after a few days of agonizing about what to do.

Then we moved two weeks later, after packing, writing a major paper, looking for new places to live, giving away our cat (*sob*), and saying good-bye to dear friends. Then we drove for 3 days to our new home.

Then we took a trip to Nevada and Arizona to see friends and family.

Then I took another trip to Arizona to stay with my mom after her surgery.

Lest anyone think to congratulate me on passing my classes and successfully navigating such a summer, I feel I must first come clean with you. I spent the last few months learning that I am even more  flawed than I already knew I was, and passed most of the summer scowling, snapping at Isaac, and eating chocolate.

(Thank goodness for those extra 500-a-day breastfeeding calories).

Well, then, why blessed?

Isaac struggled with his job in Cincinnati from day one. He felt bored and stagnant, and was frequently uninterested in the work he was doing there. His new job brought us back out west, minutes away from his family and an easy day's drive away from mine.

Also, during the move, all I really wanted was to curl up in a ball and hope that a natural disaster would come and wipe out our stuff so we wouldn't have to move it all.

None came.

But people came. We had help packing, help with meals, and even help driving the moving van and our car across country (thanks to Isaac's mom and brother). It would have been difficult at best to do it all alone, but we didn't have to.

There's more, too. I passed my classes. My mom recovered in record time from her surgery, staying in the hospital only one day when they told her to plan on 5. Isaac took the summer in stride, retaining his awesome attitude, putting up with AND consoling his stressed-out and grumpy wife, helping with Mary, and putting in long hours coordinating the difficult logistics of changing jobs and homes.

My mom out on a walk less than a week after her surgery.
With my brother and his adorable kids.
Smiling because we don't know we're about to be attacked by killer mosquitos.

And, of course, there's Mary, who, despite her continuing napping strike, still remained a ray of sunshine through all the stress.

Keeping it real on the road.

She's eating solids, babbling up a storm, sitting up and rolling over, and still has no teeth. She handled the three days in the car remarkably well. Better than I did, in fact.

As if she weren't entertaining enough, her feet move ALL the time. If she's awake, her little feet are moving in circles (my mom calls them prehensile toes). She also loves people, loves being outside, loves music, and laughs hysterically if you tickle just about any part of her body. 

I get comments on her cuteness and general squishiness almost wherever I go, and once in a elevator a man looked at Mary and then asked his wife if she wanted to have more kids. 

She has that effect on us, too.

The Camping Paradox

Over Memorial Day weekend we went camping in northern Ohio with one of our favorite families in the world, the Parkers.

I wish everyone knew the Parkers.

And I discovered the Camping Paradox.

The first night out there the temperature dropped to the mid-30's. And despite my supposed 0-degree sleeping bag and double layers of clothing, I spent the night shivering and trying to sleep with numb toes.

Mary was dressed in 5 layers of clothing (nope. not exaggerating) plus a blanket and a hat and didn't make a peep all night. In the morning, in a panic, I felt her cheek to make sure she hadn't frozen to death. 

It was cold, and I almost fainted on the spot. 

Then she moved. My pulse gradually slowed to a normal rate.

I think she was far warmer than I was. Partly because of all that chubby insulation she has:

Having verified Mary's "still alive" status, I lay back down and tried to remember why people like camping. It's not the dodging mosquitos. It's not the greasy hair. It's not the woodsmoke perfume. And I don't think it's the latrines. 

In my hypothermic and sleep-deprived state, I hated camping with a passion unsurpassed by inflation, dill pickles, or mean people. I hated nature, I hated the cold, and I hated the people that rated my stupid sleeping bag at 0 degrees. 

As the day wore on and I thawed out a little, we went on a hike.

The entourage: 10 adults, 9 kids, and 3 babies

We laughed at the kids. We laughed at the dog. We ate a killer dutch oven dinner. We made s'mores. We stayed up far past our bedtimes talking around the campfire. We went to church smelling like woodsmoke. We shared recipes. We watched the kids put on a "parade". 

At the end of it all, we found ourselves asking when we were going to do it again. 

That, folks, is the Camping Paradox.