You know you've got a sick kid when...

I started pondering this the other day and thought that it would be a fun way for me to return to my blog!
So, without further delay......

You know you have a sick kid when:

1. Not only do you know your kid's insurance member ID by heart, you also know the member appeal line number and the phone options to get to a mostly real person, before the prompt.

2. You know ALL of the receptionists names' and can recognize them by their voice.

3. When leaving a phone message, regardless of recipient, you spell your child's first and last name, birth date and a number where you can be reached.

4. You know the general schedule of the people at the pharmacy and know when to go to avoid the annoying clerk.

5. That deductible that seemed so high, was reached in the second month of the policy. And the yearly out of pocket max is reached four months into the "new" year.

6. And when you call Children's Hospital during the week, you can ask Moniqua how her weekend was.

7. You know the home health delivery schedule and that if the phone rings at 9 am on Tuesday, it's Apria calling to see what we need for our delivery the next day.

8. You have discovered that good things happen if you compliment the receptionist and the intake nurse on their nails, hair, etc


More to come soon.

The smallest victories

In the poem I posted a few weeks ago, it mentions not taking anything for granted. Adorable baby babbles. Rolly poly little baby thighs. And baby pants. Well, that last one is just for us.

Because Hannah has such bad reflux, she has been unable to wear pants since she was born. The pressure from the elastic waistband would put too much pressure on her little belly. causing her reflux to break through the medication. Within a short time, she would be fussy, grumpy and crying for no apparent reason. Except I knew why she would cry. And all it would take for her to settle down is a little momma snuggle and for her to ditch the pants. But today was a big day. She has successfully worn pants ALL day. (Envision a cascade of balloons falling from the ceiling while a band, appearing out of nowhere, starts to play a victory song.)

Ahhh, the little things that make the day wonderful.

Getting better

The healing process from our experiences with Hannah and her troubles is an interesting one. At first, it is overwhelming and you feel like the most worthless being on the planet. Then one day, things start to get better. And better. And better. Until you start to let your guard down. And that is when things get really messy. As I have worked through my feelings and emotions, I unintentionally put a little bit of that guard back up. Quickly stuffed the worst and scariest feelings into a cardboard box, shoving it high onto a closet shelf. I took my big marker and wrote "Do not open - ever" on the outside of the box. I thought that was all I had to do. Until this week, when that last little bit of the guard came crashing down.
I saw one of my online friend's pictures of her freshly baked newborn. No tubes. Fabulous skin to skin time. Nursing in bed without pumps and residual volumes. And all of a sudden, these terrible feelings came out of the box. Like someone had ripped off the tape and dumped the box upside down. I am not saying that I want her to experience what I have. Not in the least. I am ecstatic for every new mom that welcomes a baby into the world without drama or fear. (Other than the "what did I just get myself into" fear of course!) Many of my closest friends are pregnant right now. I pray every night that they have a fabulous pregnancies and healthy newborns. And I will be truly happy for each and every one of them when things go perfectly for them. But I have this terrible sorrow that when I see these pictures I just want to lay down and cry. It sucks out all of my energy and strength and deflates me like a week old birthday balloon after being drug around by a toddler. Great mental pic, huh? It reminds me of what I didn't experience with Hannah. More importantly, what I wasn't able to give her. Instead of me comforting her during her transition into her new world, she was sedated and laying under a heat lamp. Instead of skin to skin time while she learned to nurse, I hooked up to a pump eight times a day. I realize now how much I miss the "normal" newborn experience with her. I am so thankful that we have her here now. My brain won't let me even imagine how much worse this could be. I just struggle to chase out this feeling of misfortune. And I think fondly back at Emily's newborn days and how wonderful it was. I wish I could explain the inner turmoil. Moreover, I am surprised with these feelings. After feeling so much better for so long, I thought that this skeleton had been laid to rest. Apparently he was creeping in the shadows waiting for this moment.

I am so thankful for this blog. It has helped me heal in a way that was so unexpected. I started this blog because I needed to vent off all of this emotional upheaval before the top of my head blew off. And since my head is still intact, I'd say it has been a success. I am thankful for everyone that reads it. I hope that I am able to help someone by sharing my experiences with life, love and everything in between. In the next few weeks, I think I might start blogging about a wider range of topics, if that is okay with all of you. I would love to share more of what the board girls are up to and our adventures, instead of just stories of our past and recent crisis. Of course, I will still use my blog to prevent unintended head eruptions. And toddler tantrums in grocery stores. Okay, that last one was just wishful thinking! I love you.

Tomorrow...dum, dum, dum

Tomorrow night is Hannah's much awaited sleep study. Finally, after waiting six weeks just to schedule it. And then waiting another five weeks to get in. We have finally made it to the appointment that is making all of us hold our breath. Hoping, wishing and praying for answers. Trying not to dare to think, "Will we know why?". Oh, the hope. And trying to prepare ourselves for the very real possibility of another normal test. But there is one emotion that I wasn't really prepared for. Leaving Emily for a night.

This is Emily. She has a firm grasp of many of my heart strings.

These are Emily's curls that make my ovaries ache.

And here are the pig tails that remind me that even though she is in the full throws of toddler-dom, that my sweet, perfect baby is still in there. Somewhere.

 And this is what Emily does when I leave. Phase 1: The look

(Please ignore the dirty cheeks. Keeping this toddler clean is much harder than it looks!)

Phase 2:  The meltdown...

And then I feel like a schmuck. A schmuck that just stepped on a baby duck. Wow, that was graphic. Sorry about that. I have only been away from Emily overnight seven times. And out of those seven, five of them were in the hospital with Hannah. I am dreading the overwhelming guilt I will feel when I kiss those sweet toddler cheeks tomorrow night and leave. At least I'll have a board girl to keep me company. 



I don't know why, but...

I don't know why, but I emailed my blog "hero" this week. I felt kind of silly. Strike that, really silly. I tried not to just write about how much she inspired me. I made a valiant effort to try and explain why I felt that I needed to write her. I attempted to thank her for teaching me to cook as well as teaching me to blog. I tried not to sound like a preteen writing her favorite boy band singer. I don't know, maybe I wasn't successful. Maybe I sounded like a total freak and I am now on her list of banned emails. Who knows, now that she is so popular, she may not have even read the email herself. Some assistant probably screens them for her to prevent the inevitable boredom of hearing how fabulous she is. See, there it is again. Boy band crush. But hey, I have a lot to thank this woman for. She makes me laugh even when I don't feel like it. Her blog is always there for me, even when I am stuck on house arrest because pertussis is making the rounds in the Fort. I some how feel less lonely when I read her blog. Maybe it is because I can relate to what she writes about. Not true you say? How could I possibly have something in common other than a computer to another blogger? Well, she posts cute, adorable pictures of Spring calves next to pictures of peach pie. Or fabulous pictures of steak seared to perfection and then writes about how the basset hound ruined dinner. See why I like her blog? It is like my little inner monologue creeps out while I sleep and writes a blog. I have been secretly hiding on to hope that maybe she'll write me back. But after a week, I highly doubt it. Oh well, at least I got all of that off my chest and now I feel like I can continue on with my day. Happy trails my friends.
And since my posts are rarely complete without a picture....here is one of Miss Emily...who will soon be joining my blog topics.

A light at the end

It had been a whole week since Hannah's last desaturation. That week was blissful. She was doing so well that in the morning I debated about turning down her oxygen even further. I decided against it and I am so thankful I did. But this time aound it was so much harder. I don't know if it was because this one was worse clinically in some way or if in just a week's time I had gotten out of practice of dealing with my apnea kid.

 I would like to wander off topic for a moment and continue to express my unbridled hatred for her pulse oximeter. I keep waiting for someone to pop out of my closet and tell me that I've been on some form of a candid camera show. I stare at it for a few minutes. Perfect wave form. Great sats. I turn around - it beeps. I turn back around to face it. The alarm silences itself. I walk away and get to the doorway. It beeps again. Seriously? Where is the camera crew to apologize and show me my little footage from the show?! I digress, back to Hannah.
I was changing Hannah and noticed that she wasn't cooing or doing her normal adorable things I do when I change her. I took one look at her face and knew she was sliding down fast. Her lips turned blue and her tongue wasn't pink. (Insert any number of inappropriate words here. That way you will truly feel like you were in the moment with us.) I check her tubes and cannula while with my third hand (it only appears during times of crisis and panic) cranks up her oxygen to a full liter. I pick her up and start talking to her. Because, obviously she has full control over the situation and if I just ask her nicely she'll bring up her saturations for me. (I seriously wonder why anyone trusts me with kids in the first place.) Here is when I really want to throw this fancy monitor with all the bells and whistles out the window. I can't get a reading on her. Of course, this is the first question her doctor asks me-how low did she go? I resist the urge to yell, "I don't freaking know because the bloody machine wouldn't read". Instead I try to explain how an inanimate object wouldn't work even though I did the same thing I always have. Thankfully, her doctor understands how frustrating this monitor can be and doesn't call CPS. Hannah finally came around after a short time. I hate how time slows down when things like this happen. In reality, I know that her desaturation can be measured in seconds not minutes. But it feels like hours when it actually happens. Sigh. Wow, off topic again. Sorry about that. The hard part about this time is that it took her much longer to get really stable and happy again. She rode her full liter setting for a few hours. I was able to turn her back to a half a liter by bedtime and normal settings in the morning. But for awhile, she was barely maintaining at a liter. I have this terrible feeling that if we don't get into the sleep lab soon, we'll be doing an informal study at PVH as in inpatient.
I have been carrying around this one bad desaturation all of last week. I let it hang around like the odor my boots emit when I been working hogs. The way it wafts into the air even when it isn't pleasant or invited. Then the weekend came and we had some wonderful people come visit us. They have walked this road. They have worn the exact stinky boots that we are forced to wear now. They understand what turmoil we are in and what the constant stress and worry can do. And it was so reassuring. All I can come up with is that this past weekend was like a big, warm hug. (Corny I know, but it is the best I can do. I went to school to count cows afterall.) It energized us and gave us a new understanding of where we stand. And all of a sudden, I can see a light at the end of the road. It isn't big or bright. But baby, I see it and I am not letting go of it.  

How preemie Moms are chosen

To all the preemie moms out there, who struggle with the what ifs and the whys. I know a few people have tried to help me understand this. But for some reason, this little poem helps.

~~
How Preemie Moms Are Chosen ~Erma Bombeck

Did you ever wonder how the mothers of premature babies are chosen?
Somehow, I visualize God hovering over Earth, selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.
"Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.
Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.
Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint...give her Gerard. He's used to profanity."
Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles.
"Give her a preemie." The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."
"Exactly," smiles God.
"Could I give a premature baby a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel."
"But does she have the patience?" asks the angel.
"I don't want her to have too much patience, or she'll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll handle it. I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has a world of its own. She has to make it live in her world, and that's not going to be easy. This one is perfect.  She has just the right amount of selfishness."
The angel gasps, "Selfishness?! Is that a virtue?"
God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word. She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see--ignorance, cruelty, prejudice--and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side."
"And what about her Patron Saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in the air.
God smiles. "A mirror will suffice."
~~

Some how, after reading this, my less than perfect child seems seamlessly perfect!

A needed dose of reality.

Yesterday I wrote about how Hannah's case reads much like a baby born much earlier than she was. It has become my little rain cloud that I have allowed to follow me around. A little cloud filled with the "what ifs". It eats at me a little everyday when I let my brain slow down enough to wander. But today, I had a brutal slap of reality that reminded me of a very, very important lesson. Hannah is here. She is at home with us. She is able to develop as a normal baby and hopefully like a normal kid. And if we are really lucky, she'll fall in love, get married and have healthy beautiful grand babies for us to coo over.
Two beautiful little babies did not survive their fight with prematurity today. These tiny little angels have touched more lives than we will ever know. But for me, these tiny angels reminded me that even though I have my little rain cloud, at least it isn't a downpour. I can still see the light even if the cloud is threatening to rain. I try not to focus on the "at least it isn't worse" here on my blog. That is the whole reason I started my blog. To have a place that I could be truly honest with my fears, sorrows and frustrations. But I can't get these families out of my head. I just keep thinking about them and their babies and the agony that they must be in tonight. Please pray for these families that have had their hearts broken. Please pray for all of those angels who were called home far too soon and the families that they touched on their way.

Congrats?

It is kind of funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny as in hmmmm.  Everyone told us when Hannah arrived that at least she was a 35 weeker and shouldn't have too many problems. The neonatology team didn't even show up for her birth since she was so close to term. (They sent a nurse from the NICU and more arrived pretty quickly after they saw how small she was, but still.) I felt a little dismissed when people in the NICU would find out how old she was. I felt almost embarrassed to participate in the preemie support board since my baby was so close to term. Most women on the preemie support board have babies much, much earlier than Hannah. My problem is that most of preemies that are earlier than Hannah, while having much longer stays in the NICU, seem to have had less problems then and now(exluding micropreemies of course). A 32 weeker that needed a little oxygen for a day and now is nursing great. The 30 weeker that spend a few days on the CPAP. (And of course I am so happy for those moms that have healthy preemies. That isn't what I am getting at in case you were wondering.) Maybe it is just the group that I have joined. But when they talk of milk residuals, ventilator settings, reflux and apnea spells, it is all too familiar. Which begs the question of how sick was my baby? I can't help but ponder why my little Hannah, who was so close to term, would have so much in common with these obvious preemies. Was I in complete denial or did we not have the full picture? Was I in a hormone and sleep deprived daze and shouldn't have been trusted to make any decision bigger than lunch choices? I have no doubt that she was in the best hands and she had an amazing team caring for her. And for that I am so very thankful. Her nurses and doctors kept our beautiful girl here with us and I try to keep that at the front of my mind everyday.
I just can't figure out why she needed so much help. I guess I need to start digging through those feelings and memories that I have tucked into a nice little bag in a corner. I have a feeling it won't be pretty or easy. But I need to know why my kid's chart reads so thick. Maybe I need to accept that Hannah's case, like her current oxygen need, doesn't have any clear cut answers. That this might just be a trust in God exercise and I need to learn to let it go. I wish it was as easy to write as it was to do. But something is nagging at me. I feel that it might hold the answer to what is wrong if I can figure it out. Maybe not. Maybe it is just hopeful thinking and a mother wishing for "normal" to return. But I do know that if the answer is out there, I will find it. I am a momma bear and hear me roar!

House Arrest and Such

It is funny how being advised to stay at home and away from crowds changes everything. Almost all day I wish we could go into town and do fun little toddler and baby things. Catch the toddler or baby support group. Sign up for a music or swimming class. Attend reading time at the library. Grocery shop without trying to run through the store so Hannah won't be exposed to some random germ floating around. Or shop during normal hours so I don't have to wait until Ben can stay with the girls. But then when I get the chance to get into town and run errands, everything is different. I feel like visitor in my own town. The fronts of buildings changes, old ones are demolished or new stores appear. I feel like I should scuttle from shadow to shadow, like a vampire out in the day. If I dart around then maybe I won't feel guilty for breaking the baby in the bubble rule? What if I run into someone who knows we shouldn't be out. Gasp. The horror. I avoid making eye contact with anyone for the fear of casual conversation. I feel like I have nothing to offer a conversation that doesn't involve dragging one of my kids into it. It isn't that I don't like talking about my girls. It is just that I don't have anything else to really talk about. Seen that new movie? Nope. Tried that new restaurant? Nope. Not only that, but being surrounded my so many people now makes me a little twitching for lack of a better word. And not to mention that when did everyone in town feel the need to move a million miles a minute? I feel like if I slow down in the cereal aisle, I'll get plowed down by the lady needing to get to her Extra Fiber Cereal. Or if I put on my turn signal, chances are that at least one person will try to zip in front, even though they are headed to the same lane I am. Am I really the country mouse in the big city? Do I appear as awkward and alone as I feel? I hope not. But in some strange way, I'm okay with that.

Lessons from Hannah: Part 1

Hannah is useful for many things. Most of them are fabulous. She can get a grumpy toddler to squeal with joy. She can make even the worst day better with one of her smiles. Watching her sleep may be one of the greatest pleasures ever. My arms are getting toned without doing formal exercises. (Okay, that one is just for me.) Other things are not bad, but I don't wake up and leap out of my bed for them. Diapers, diapers, and more diapers. The never ending parade of bottle washing. Wondering how she can spit up that much when I only put a small amount in. Some things are less than ideal. Stress. Bills. Worry. Fighting to get the meds in her that I know may help, but watching her gag makes me cringe. But even though we have just a few less ideal things that come with Hannah, she is perfect and I wouldn't trade her for anything. This journey we have been on has been quite an experience. But she has forced us to grow as a family and as a couple. She has taught me to be a nurturing mother and a fierce warrior all at the same time. She has taught us balance even in times of uncertainty. She has taught me a few other things too.

Lesson 1: Timing is everything. A good day for the Seger girls hangs in the balance each morning. Sleeping in and missing her first dose of meds is definitely not worth the havoc that the afternoon will bring. Never, ever miss the first dose.
Lesson 2: Don't trust anything without using your brain first. I realize that this is pretty common sense, but it is a very important lesson. I obviously needed to be reminded of it. Even if the monitor says that Hannah is desaturating, look, look, look at the baby first. Don't trust a doctor who doesn't even look at your baby. Trust the doctor who spends a half an hour on the phone with you at least twice a week, even if he doesn't have fancy credentials behind his name.
Lesson 3: Naked is good. There are few simpler joys than laying on the couch naked kicking your legs. Okay, maybe that is just Hannah's joy. But that brings us nicely to lesson number 4.
Lesson 4: KISS it baby. Yup. My high school English teacher, Ms. Small, would be proud I still use her principle-keep it simple silly. Yes, multitasking is a fabulous skill that many people, including me, find appealing and time saving. However, multitasking while dragging a pulse oximeter and an oxygen tube around is an invitation for disaster. A few people have told me that I have a super power. Relax, it runs in my family. Mine is lack of grace. I can trip over imaginary cracks in the floor, slip on a non-existent ice patch, or just fall while walking. So you can see how walking, with a cord, a tube, and baby while not focusing on the immediate need to stay upright could be dangerous for me. But what I have noticed is that while not keeping myself so ridiculously busy, I notice other things that I would have missed. Those things help me appreciate the simple joys that our world offers us. Sometimes we are too busy to see them. But sometimes we catch them. An elderly couple holding hands in the grocery store after fifty plus years of marriage. A smile from a kid who just got a cookie from the bakery lady. (Can you tell I was just at the grocery store? Hang with me here, I don't get out much.) Watching someone light up as they realize that someone noticed them and they do matter. Or someone else holding open a door for a solider and thanking them for their service. My goal is to see as many of them as possible and enjoy them to their fullest extent. Thank you my dearest Hannah. You have so much to teach us don't you?

Sherpa....

I think I must be a pretty pitiful sight when I am in town with both girls. People hold open doors for us. Strangers scramble to get us a cart or offer for us to cut in line. Others give us a really, really wide berth. Is it the fact that I have two under two that causes this general outburst from the public? I think it is more that other than the two babies I am hauling around, I also have a diaper bag and a huge oxygen tank with accompanying dangling, trip inviting tube that wiggles around my feet with each step. I added it up the other day and I haul over fifty pounds of baby and gear in and out of the car each time we stop. "No, that can't be right!" you exclaim and ponder why someone hasn't taken the children away from a woman who clearly can't add. "Oh no, I am good with numbers." I protest. Let me show you some fun momma math:
Car seat: 10 pounds (Hannah stays in her car seat, aka "The bubble" to keep her as far from real world germs as possible)
Hannah: 14 pounds 5 ounces (as of 1/14/11)
Emily: 19 pounds (she rarely walks these days in public-the house arrest has it's downfalls for her too)
Oxygen Tank: 8-10 pounds (depending on fill level)
Diaper Bag: 3-5 pounds (also depending on fill level!)
Grand Total: 54-58 pounds.
No wonder my back hurts at the end of the day. And yes, I guess watching a woman try to balance all of those pounds through a parking lot would cause people to pause, watch and then sometimes help. I used to tell people I had it all and I didn't need any help. I am invincible I would bellow (inside my head of course). I am woman-hear me roar! Again, just in the confines of my little blond head. But I'm tired and my back hurts. I now find myself welcoming the offer of help from strangers. Unless they smell funny. Or it is dark. Or if I don't have time to have the what is wrong with your baby chat. I have found the "Thanks, but my dog won't let you near the truck" line, delivered with a smile, works really well. It doesn't matter if I am not driving the truck. Or if my wonderful Bear dog is at home, probably sleeping on the sofa like a naughty dog. They don't know that. And it makes me giggle thinking of my naughty dog and my husband's truck, which leads me down a whole other road.

Dang you oxygen tank!

Hannah had a rough night last night. This cold is not going away easily. She has been fighting it for ten days. She started to get better and then took a turn back in the other direction. She's tired. I'm tired. Ben is tired. We take turns getting up in the middle of the night to do percussion on her chest. It is supposed to help her move all that "junk" out. All I can see it doing is teaching my baby, who just figured out to sleep through the night, to wake up in the middle of the night. I had great plans to rebel last night. I thought I'd let the poor kid get one good night sleep. And yes, I was being a little greedy and hoping for a good night sleep for myself too. Hannah woke up at midnight coughing. And at half past. And at one. At two I gave in. And at three, her alarms on the monitors started going off. She wasn't keeping her saturations up.  I got back out of bed. I checked all the lines. I checked her cannula. All fine. So dang. I had to believe the monitor at this point. I watched her for another ten minutes. She wasn't getting any better. So back out of bed again, this time to turn up her oxygen. Why, why, why, are her oxygen needs still going up? Isn't she supposed to be getting better at this point? Or at least stable? I am beginning to doubt her diagnosis now. I am getting an irrational hatred of the oxygen tank. Is it still irrational even if I admit it? I know the tank has nothing to do with our current problem. But if I could pick it up, so help me God, I would do some serious damage to that thing. Instead, I try to remind myself that the tank is the sole reason I am able to keep Hannah at home. And for that I am so grateful. So I am off to try another new recipe for mocha brownies. And I wonder why my pants no longer fit the way they used to. Sigh. I guess it is the lesser of two evils at this point.

Bath Time

I am having a dark day. There really isn't any true reason for it. Hannah's little friend Scarlett made it out of her second brain surgery and her tumor is gone. Hannah has found new interest in nursing and may actually get the hang of it. Emily is being an adorable and amazingly patient toddler. Today should be a great day. But I can't help but fight back tears. I think it comes from bath time.
Yes, bath time. Bath time is what strains my heart and teeters me on the brink of gloom and sadness. Why? Because about once every other week Hannah is healthy enough and stable enough to take off her oxygen while she bathes. I take off her tender grips and for even a few minutes, she looks like a normal, healthy baby. I snap pictures of my tubeless baby like a visitor at Disneyland. I gaze at her and see her full beauty, not hidden by the mask of her weak lungs. I see her as God made her, perfect. But then the hard part comes, getting her back into her "outfit". I have to put the stickers that she hates back on her cheeks. I have to hold her head down so that she can't faille to avoid them. She cries. I cry. We both cry together. I hook her back up to her oxygen and we have to face our reality again. Things aren't normal. They aren't going to be normal for a long time. Sometimes I look around and wonder what I did to push my path in this direction. Is it karma? Did God get distracted by some epic disaster when He was creating her tiny body? Did I run over a kitten in a past life?  And then Hannah lets out a joyful squeal as Emily runs around the corner to say hi to her little sister. I wouldn't trade that moment for anything. Suddenly, even though things aren't normal, they are perfect. And maybe today won't be so bad after all.

Why I Blog....

I know that even though things are hard right now, we've got it easy compared to many. A trip to Children's Hospital is a good reminder of that. Passing the huge PICU on the 3rd floor and hearing the beeping of the monitors slap me back into reality pretty fast. But then a little voice says as I enter those big glass doors, "If we don't have it so bad, then why is my baby here?".  This inner turmoil has made me into an emotional wreck, trying to hold it together for my girls. After all, what good am I if I just wallow and give up? This is my motivation to start this blog. I need a place to vent and stress and gripe without feeling like I need to be grateful it isn't worse. Yes, I am so thankful that Hannah can be at home and that she will eventually out grow this. But I need a place to mourn the loss of a normal, healthy baby. Wires, tubes and monitors that we drag around with us eventually takes its toll on normal.  And I am not implying that we don't have an amazing support network. My closest friends have become my family, stepping up and helping to hold my little family together. There is something so wonderful when people who were just casual acquaintances last year become people that you know you couldn't live without. I'm not to saying that our families haven't been amazing as well.  But there is only so much that friends and family can take. I feel like I can't be completely honest all the time without people worrying about me. I am fine. I am strong. I am a cowgirl and it will take much more than this to break me. But to stay that way I need a place that I can vent all of my dark feelings and deepest fears. That place is here. It isn't all butterflies and flowers. It is messy and real.  Consider yourself warned. Read on if you wish or hit the back button, I won't judge either way.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

Me vs. Pulmonology: The Epic Battle

A few weeks ago we went to Children's for our first visit to the Denver Campus. Well, our first visit to either campus. We saw the head of cardiology and we loved the whole experience. Minus the fact that she was sick enough to need to be there of course! We had a nurse that was assigned to us and she made everything so much easier. She met us at the check in desk, walked to the different tests with us, met us anywhere in the hospital anytime anything was going on with Hannah. What a positive experience the whole thing was. And then we went back to see the Pulmonology department.
Wow, what a different experience. From the intake desk, we felt much more like cattle being pushed through the chute than our red carpet treatment from the week before. The intake nurse was nice, efficient and cooed at Hannah. The doctor that came in first was kind and patient. She explained that she was working with the pulmonologist that would be in charge of Hannah. I liked her well enough. She seemed well past the point of exhaustion and looked like she had been on call for the past week. But she was able to smile at us. I know when I'm that tired, there is no smiling. So the fact that she smiled meant alot. Respiratory therapy came and took her pulse ox with and without oxygen. I remember the therapist saying that even though she wasn't clinically desaturating (she went from 98 to 91), the fact that her heartrate when up when we turned the oxygen off wasn't a great sign that she was handling the room air well. She told us to turn the oxygen back on and she would let her doctors know of her concern. Then the pulmonologist came in. He was very clinical. He listened to Hannah's lungs for less than a minute. He didn't make eye contact. Looked at me and said that without any clinical data he couldn't tell us what was wrong. I asked why she needed more oxygen each week. He got very short with me. Almost snippy. I hate how he made me feel. He made me feel like I was wasting his time and that I had no reason to bring my baby to him. He made me feel like I had made all of this up. He made me feel so small and insignificant. This is where things got better. Did I mention that I was able to bring my brother in law with me? The fancy, super fantastic ER doctor brother in law who isn't afraid of pushy doctors. He came to be our advocate and to translate things from doctor to plain English. I am so thankful that we had him there! He asked a similar question in doctor language. I saw the pulmonologist's ears turn red. Apparently we weren't and aren't ever going to be his favorite patients. He he he. Ah, the simple joys. Then my brother in law questioned the pulmonolgist's diagnosis. More than just his ears turned red. We have been referred to the sleep study lab so that he can get "real clinical data". Okay, fine. After talking with my brother in law, it is the most logical next step. (Even if the pulmonologist was an arse.) Downside-wait time is 4-6 weeks. Okay, so now this is a test in patience. Well, the pulmonologist wasn't exactly accurate on the wait time. Yes, 4-6 weeks, but 4-6 weeks until we got a call to be scheduled another 6 weeks out. But at least the people at the sleep lab seem nice. I guess only time will tell. For now, there are no clear winners in this battle. But instead of crying every time I think of that appointment, I chuckle now-thinking of the pulmonologist's ears. He he he. Maybe we did win after all.