Goodbye, 2007. Don't let the door hit you on your way out.

A few of my regrets

1. I didn't wait until 37 weeks to deliver.
2. I didn't get to hold both my babies at the same time.
3. We were never all in the same room together.
4. I didn't bring you home alive.
5. I didn't hold you while you died.

The American Idea

I am looking at the American Idea through a long lens trained on the life of my daughter, which lasted 29 days, and its aftereffects.
My parents are immigrants and when they got here, they (like all immigrants) hit the ground running. In raising me, they imbued my consciousness with all the things we all assume when we think of this singular idea of our country. It is, after all, the essence of the American identity, which I embodied for them. They told me I'd be the first woman president of the US (though mercifully it seems I might be beaten to that punch). I was told in school as evidence of my specialness that "God don't make no Junk!" For me, the takeaway was that a future dutifully-planned and carefully-examined would lead to a good (i.e. stable, prosperous and happy) life.
In the wake of my daughter's death, I think that my utter disbelief and disappointment is in part a response to the horrible realization that I won't have a straightforward happy life. The most basic assumption about my path, no matter what equivocating I might have done on the surface of my consciousness is shattered.

For the Memorial I didn't know existed

Here's the draft as it stood on Sunday, the day I was supposed to give the talk that I thought I was giving in two weeks....sigh...

Hi. I'm Audrey. I would like to share the story of my daughter Eva with you.

In this place of white-knuckled anticipation, I spent the last 11 weeks of my pregnancy waiting for the birth of my daughters. They were monochorionic monoamniotic twins, meaning they shared an amniotic sac, which is a dangerous, albeit cozy way to spend the prenatal period. Complicating matters further, Eva was diagnosed with a complex heart defect called Hypoplastic left heart syndrome, meaning her left ventricle was underdeveloped, which is fatal if left untreated.

In this place of redemption, my daughters were born at 34 weeks, 6 days gestation, a time of my choosing, offering a tenuous balance of risks. They were smaller than we thought they would be, but they surprised us in other ways as well. Most notably, Eva's heart was in far better shape than anyone anticipated in utero. She was not treated as a hypoplast and the 3-stage surgery that seemed a certainty no longer was. Over the first days of their lives unfolding, we received the best diagnosis possible, short of "Oops, did we say there was a heart defect? Our bad." That said, Eva's heart was not normal and she still required a surgical repair, but a less drastic one than we'd been prepared for. We were eager for her surgery. In the days leading up to it, Eva was starting to struggle to breathe and we wanted to get past that phase and have her on the road to recovery. Onward and upward! The night before, Dave and I were with her in the NICU, there were a number of people there surrounding us, we were all so positive and happy. I was holding Eva and she was happy to be held by me, I think. We had been at the nadir for so long, that we were anticipating relief at the upswing we thought we'd be starting.

Then the next morning, day of surgery, I had a minor car accident and failed to make it to the hospital in time to walk Eva to surgery. I was calm about it because I never seriously considered that there might not be a happy ending. After all, the doctors had never seemed as confident about Eva's chances as they had the night before.

But, in this place of avalanches, Eva arrested on the operating table before any repair had been done. It was, of course, one of those terrifying transformative moments. The happy calm of the staff surrounding and supporting us became the sounds and the sights of the center ceasing to hold in an outcome we never suspected. I will never understand why but with that catastrophe we began the process of losing Eva and the discovery of what a nadir really feels like.

Later, there was another arrest, another operation, blood, kidney failure, lung collapse, horrible swelling. Torture, in other words. We just didn't see it. We just believed our baby was a fighter and would make it and so we didn't do our basic job. We didn't protect her or save her or even hold her while she died. Only after.

And in what now feels like another spectacular failure of mothering, I stayed home the day before she died. I had gotten a cold and I didn't want to risk getting Eva sicker. She had a long road ahead of her (we thought) and infection was her biggest risk (we thought). So, I stayed home. Dave was there and reported back that she had had her best day post-surgery. Until.

"I don't think we can get her back" were the few words that ushered in the vast hollow of life without Eva. Once we got the phone call summoning us to the hospital on that night, I felt as though I was standing between two sets of train tracks. At the moment of her death, I felt as though trains were passing on either side of me, overwhelming me, threatening to level everything in our life.

In her 29 days here, in this place of possibilities, Eva fought like hell. Even before she was born, she revealed herself to be a tough little kid. She was the one who pushed and kicked and squirmed during all the sonograms and non stress tests. She climbed over her sister at one point, not content to keep to her side of the uterus. Once she was born, the precious few times we held her she sank into our arms, telling us that she needed us and causing us to recognize that she was more than her tiny mass. She was 4lbs 9oz at birth and never really got any bigger. She endured so much and I regret it all. We never questioned the path we committed her to until its futility became clear to us only after she succumbed to trauma after trauma. But we were just accepting what had to be done to have her home with us. We believed absolutely in her recovery, so much so that it was 3 or more months before the shock of her absence finally gave way to despair. I remember saying to Dave the day she died, or maybe the day after, "I miss Eva" as though she were away at camp or visiting Grandma.

In solitude, I wake every morning attempting to map the boundaries and terrain of grief, looking for its edges which don't seem to exist. I am trying, have been trying to put words to a situation in which words fail utterly, and yet I want to talk and could talk for hours. There are so few opportunities to celebrate and mourn Eva openly. At first, our friends and families surrounded us with love and support. Basking in that warmth, we initially sought out people to see and talk with. But we had no idea how quickly time would force us to close the book on Eva, at least outside our closest circle. We've become marked people, the ones with the dead child and few if any dare breach the wide perimeter of pain surrounding us. Eva's absence is a tangible thing, a large piece of cold, raw and rotting meat. I can't cook it and I can't eat it. It's an albatross that is to be carried.

If you didn't know about Eva, if she'd never existed, we would appear to be the American ideal of the nuclear family -- 2 parents who love each other, who've had a long and relatively uncomplicated relationship, with their 2 kids - 1 boy and 1 girl, healthy. We got exactly what we wanted but there's hell to pay. I feel as though I walked out of a Greek tragedy meant to warn against hubris and the folly of thinking you're in control of your life. And now we can spend eternity longing for Eva, wishing things had been different, willing to suffer any ruin to have her back, the presence of her identical twin amplifying everything - giving comfort and underscoring our loss in equal measure.

In this place of beginnings and endings, what we all share is the ultimate disappointment, the nuclear weapon of outrageous fortune -- that our children will not all survive us. Our babies – the best of what we offered of ourselves to the world-- are gone and we're a little diminished. I can only hope that while this sorrow is permanent, it doesn't crowd out all else. Over time, we must try to scratch out a place of peace, however tentative and uncertain.

Disappointments

The memorial at which I was to speak took place on Sunday. I didn't speak because I didn't know that it was on Sunday. I was upset, to say the least. I still don't know if the fault lies with me or someone else, but it hardly matters. I was mortified and hurt and disappointed and so on. It sucks because it was a missed opportunity and because I let people down (albeit unintentionally), but so be it. There's not much more to say.

I did make it to the hospital, though. The man had hernia surgery today and I made a quick visit to HRP, my heart in my throat as I did. I saw one of Eva's neonatologists, Dr. W. She was being seen at the Antenatal Testing Center and was like a fish when I saw her regarding Eva. But at least she remembered us. That's something.

I didn't get to see many people I would have liked to have seen. And today I feel more wistful for Eva than despairing. The boy told me this evening that he dreams about Eva every day and he asked me if she will grow. If only.

But hey, at least the man's surgery went well.

Draft for memorial

The last time we were here, in this place of avalanches, we'd just laid eyes and hands on our daughter, Eva, for the last time. It was April 4th and our daughters were 29 days old. I'd always intended to come back here and get Closure with this place, in which I spent 79 days before being released on my own recognizance. In times like these, Closure, like control, is a mirage that evaporates as you get too close.

Here are the facts: After a false positive screening for neural tube defects, I was diagnosed at 18 weeks of pregnancy with monochorionic monoamniotic twins - meaning my girls shared an amniotic sac, one merciful step shy of conjoined twins. At 20 weeks, I found out that Baby B also had a heart defect -- Hypoplastic left heart syndrome, meaning her left ventricle was underdeveloped, which is fatal if left untreated. Because of the rare form of twinning we had, which could result in cord accident and death for both girls, I was kept in the hospital for monitoring of the babies after they achieved viability at 24 weeks. Once they were born, however, it looked as though Eva's heart was in far better shape than anyone anticipated in utero. She was not treated as a hypoplast and the 3-stage surgery that seemed a certainty no longer was. We received the best diagnosis possible, short of "Oops, did we say there was a heart defect? Our bad."

But there was still a defect and its effects would become more apparent over the coming days. So, we were eager for her surgery. In the days leading up to it, Eva was starting to struggle to breathe and we wanted to get past that phase and have her on the road to recovery. Onward and upward! The night before, my husband and I were with her in the NICU, there were a number of people there surrounding us, we were all so positive and happy. I was holding Eva and she was happy to be held by me, I think. We had been at the nadir for so long, that we were anticipating relief at the upswing we thought we'd be starting.

Then the next morning, day of surgery, I had a minor car accident and failed to make it to the hospital in time to walk Eva to surgery. I was calm about it because I never considered that there might not be a happy ending. She arrested on the table before any repair had been done. Everything changed. The happy calm of the staff surrounding and supporting us became the sounds and the sights of the center ceasing to hold in an outcome we never suspected. I will never understand why but with that catastrophe we began the process of losing Eva and the discovery of what a nadir really feels like.

Later, there was another arrest, another operation, blood, kidney failure, lung collapse, horrible swelling. Torture, in other words. We just didn't see it. We just believed our baby was a fighter and would make it and so we didn't do our basic job. We didn't protect her or save her or even hold her while she died. Only after.

And in what now feels like another spectacular failure of mothering, I stayed home the day before she died. I had gotten a cold and I didn't want to risk getting Eva sicker. She had a long road ahead of her (we thought) and infection was her biggest risk (we thought). So, I stayed home. Dave was there and reported back that she was finally making urine and had had her best day post-surgery. Until.

"I don't think we can get her back" were the few words that ushered in the vast hollow of life without Eva. Once we got the phone call summoning us to the hospital on that night, I felt as though I was standing between two sets of train tracks. At the moment of her death, trains passed on either side of me, overwhelming me, threatening to level everything in our life.

In her 29 days here, Eva fought like hell. Even before she was born, she revealed herself to be a tough little kid. She was the one who pushed and kicked and squirmed during all the sonograms and non stress tests. She climbed on her sister at one point, not content to keep to her side of the uterus. Once she was born, the precious few times we held her she sank into our arms, telling us that she needed us and causing us to recognize that she was more than her tiny mass. She was 4lbs 9oz at birth and never really got any bigger. She endured so much and I regret it all. We never questioned the path we committed her to until its futility became clear to us only after she succumbed to trauma after trauma. But we were just accepting what had to be done to have her home with us. We believed absolutely in her recovery, so much so that it was 3 months before the shock of her absence finally gave way to despair. I remember saying to Dave the day she died, or maybe the day after, "I miss Eva" as though she were away at camp or visiting Grandma.

We're here to try to put words to a situation in which words fail utterly, and yet I want to talk and could talk for hours. There are so few opportunities to celebrate and mourn Eva openly. At first, our friends and families surrounded us with love and support. Basking in that warmth, we initially sought out people to see and talk with. But we had no idea how quickly time would force us to close the book on Eva, at least outside our closest circle. We've become marked people, the ones with the dead child and few if any dare breach the wide perimeter of pain surrounding us, no matter how much we might want them to. Eva's absence is a tangible thing, a large piece of cold, raw and rotting meat. I can't cook it and I can't eat it. It's an albatross that is to be carried.

If you didn't know about Eva, if she'd never existed, we would appear to be the American ideal of the nuclear family -- 2 parents who love each other, who've had a long and relatively uncomplicated relationship dating back to their teens, with their 2 kids - 1 boy and 1 girl, healthy. We got exactly what we wanted but there's hell to pay. I feel as though I walked out of a Greek tragedy meant to warn against hubris and the folly of thinking you're in control of your life. And now we can spend eternity longing for Eva, wishing things had been different, willing to suffer any ruin to have her back, the presence of her identical twin amplifying everything - giving comfort and underscoring our loss in equal measure.

I wake every morning attempting to map the boundaries and terrain of grief, looking for its edges which don't seem to exist. I saw a couple in their 90s on TV recently, crying over their daughter who lived for mere hours more than 60 years ago. They haven't found the edge of grief either, apparently.

More than 6 months on, I have good days (when we're together and happy) and bad ones (when cheerfully worded medical bills arrive at home long after her, weighing now more than her),. Like an adolescent trying to make accommodations for some disappointment, I still fantasize that it was a mistake and Eva will somehow find her way back to us, but I held her dead body until it turned cold and blue. Finality it its purest form.

What we all share is the ultimate disappointment -- that our children will not all survive us. Hope in the form of our child has been crushed and the future is diminished permanently. I can only hope for now that while this piece of sorrow is permanent, it doesn't crowd out all else. Permanently, but not completely.

train of thought

On your best day we got the call that doesn't honor bed time protocol.
I handed your twin to Teta, said you were not well, and left in my frayed pajamas.

I was between two train tracks, the ground started to rumble beneath me.
We drove to the hospital, that place of avalanches, running red lights and chanting
It can't end this way.

We ran to you, the place where you exited my body a horizontal burn radiating
Men compressing your chest and nurses calling out the numbers read on your blood
The tea leaves of your X-ray

Chaos as the rumble grew louder, trains coming in on either side of me
Your father paced outside of your room and I stared dumbly at the scene of your
death unfolding

I don't think we can get her back, your surgeon said.
in the moment that the trains passed me simultaneously
Pulling in opposite directions at the center, not holding.

Opening doors down the dark corridor

I feel as though I've become aware of dimensions of consciousness that were previously unknown to me. There's a darkness I've come to wear on my soul.

Mapping it Out

Every day, I spend hours thinking about Eva. Each day I awake with a single desire -- to fully map the terrain and boundaries of my grief. I just want to know where it begins ... and where it ends. So on a daily basis I run my fingers through it. I go over it and through it. I come up with daily metaphors to try to understand it. But I always come up with very little. Almost nothing.

I want to create something good out of loss. I would endure any ruin to have her back, but short of that, I am desperate to have something good in her name and memory.

call all good things Eva

A Cancer

I know now that Eva's death will be my slow metastasizing cancer. It will be my undoing. What started on April 4th and what will finally end when I do. That's what this pain feels like. That's what I fear I am becoming. I walk through every day deadened by this pain. I think thoughts that eventually lead me back to the chair I sat in while holding Eva's dead body. I marvel at the person who went through 29 days in a blind rush and panic from one child to the next, hoping to give each one his or her due. Eva will never fucking get her due. I should have been with her every moment she was alive. Would it have many any difference in the duration of her life? I wish I could just understand why she died.

I want to tear my eyes out, but mainly I want to carve holes into my left arm for Eva. For the side of my body she lived in. Should I have waited to deliver? Why did she arrest on the operating table? Did someone's negligence cause her death? If they'd given her anticoagulants on April 3rd, would she be alive today?

At so many moments her course could have changed. At so many moments she clung to life by a thread. So we shouldn't have been surprised when she died. But we were.

I'm disgusted with myself for writing this pity party like a goddamn teenager.

On Pain and Suffering

In the hospital, when I was in pain, a nurse would always ask me to quantify my pain on a scale of 1-to-10. I found that to be a very weird and confusing exercise. I had to call up all my experience with pain and what I could only imagine the extremes of physical pain might be, and then chart myself along that continuum somehow. Putting a number to it seemed to give the pain a definite value, but that value was meaningless in the face of my own subjectivity, inexperience and the complete inadequacy of the right side of my brain.

My friend sent me an email in which she claimed (in so many words) that what she's going through pales to my suffering. That statement, albeit well-meaning, is utterly futile. I can't a) know the boundaries of suffering in my own life, much less understand its possibilities in an empirical sense, b) quantify this payload of pain to any other in my own life, much less to any in the life of another human being. So how much pain am I in on a scale of 1-to-10? Go f**k yourself.

The interminable march of days ahead

When Eva first died, I thought I could handle the grief. The initial pain was searing, a great shock, but I felt that I could make room for the weight of my grief. It could find a space in which to settle in. But I had people around me then. They knew I was grieving and expected and nurtured my grief. It's been 3 months and 10 days. It's harder now in some ways. I feel as though my window to grieve is closing. The time to "move on" has come. I have nowhere to move on to without this beautiful baby of mine who will never grow.

July Update

The girl has made great progress in physical strength in the past few days. She's doing great with trunk strength, managing to hold her self at nearly a 90 degree angle. She's even started to roll over, from stomach to back. She really doesn't like tummy time I guess! I've come to realize, though, that we will likely face some challenges with her. I think she's going to be very attached to me and it won't be easy to start her in daycare, which we're currently looking to do at about 10 months (or January, if all pans out).

The boy also continues to amaze, but on the cognitive front. The other day, he told me he wanted to move because our garage is too messy.
Today at the park, a parent said he was taking his son to get I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M. The boy immediately responded, "Why is Willy going to get ice cream?" Our tools are quickly being diminished...

Therapy

I am starting to come around to the idea that this is a free form of therapy for me. And it is a way to make something of this experience and all the resulting pain. Sure, I could go to a support group but they meet during the precious short hours that we are all together as a family. I could try to see a therapist, but when? I have the girl all the time and cost is a factor. My luxury is staying home with her, since we're skimming savings every month to do it.

So this will have to do, a place where I can let it all hang out.

My sweet girl is sitting beside me as I type this, trying to sit up.

My Eva... well, she's in a malachite box on a shelf over my headboard.

I was thinking of the night of their birth, how my favorite nurse, G, asked one of the NICU nurses to take pictures of the babies so I could see them. The resulting polaroids were wholly unsatisfying, but the thought was wonderful.

I remember the NICU, the long corridor between where each of the girls were. It killed me that they couldn't even be next to each other. The NICU was such a cold place. My hands were so dry from all the washing that they burned when I used the anti-bacterial foam.

I remember the few times I got to hold Eva, how heavy she felt, how completely she sank into my arms. I knew she needed me.

Changes a' Comin'

I've noticed in the past few days that the girl's eyes are changing color. They are starting to look a little more yellow, which is to be expected, considering her parents and brother all have some variation on brown eyes.

In other news, she has a double ear infection.

A Daughter's Worth

I think that I provided my mother with some consolation. Living with the daily challenge that my autistic brother posed made me special to my mother. I was the good kid, I always knew, with all the benefits and pain that that entailed. She recently told me that she saw me as more of a peer, a co-mother than a daughter.

My living girl is my consolation in Eva's loss, but as I've written, she is also a daily reminder of just how precious Eva is to us. Eva and her twin would have been more than their sum, I can't help but feel. Yet, I would hate to imply that my survivor is diminished in her twin's absence -- that her potential is impacted. Quite the contrary, she is what's left of what I think of as a vast treasure and I clutch her more tightly because of it. But surely, her trajectory has changed. I know mine has. What will become of this good kid's good kid?

A Twin's Loss

The girls are two months old today, in gestational terms, anyway.
As time passes, I am filled with joy and sadness in equal measure, for the person my living daughter is becoming and for the person Eva would have been. The more I grow to love my survivor, the deeper my pain for Eva burrows into me. The ones who are here make clear what we're missing.

But what I truly dread for our future is our daughter's realization of what she has lost. Some day, we'll start the conversation with her about her identical twin. I try to imagine what it would be like to know that someone with exactly my DNA and exactly my start in life will never be known to me again. It's inconceivable. I just hope her loss doesn't define her and our hope our loss doesn't define us.

Standing on Ceremony

I have found that while I naturally resist ceremoniousness, I have developed a newfound respect for ceremonies. They, when embarked upon judiciously, turn the book of one's life from a paperback to a hardcover.

It seems silly now, but before we were married, the man and I dreaded the idea of a wedding. Part of it was the ridiculous wedding-industrial complex that we wished to avoid, but part of it was a real fear of bringing our very different families together. But what became apparent to me almost as soon as the day was done was that the experience of the wedding created a bond between us all. It enabled our relatives (especially the more socially conservative ones) to recognize us as a family unit. Never mind the fact that this man had been in my life for more than seven years by that point. That day made "US" real and definite to our loved ones and remains a threshold, a part of our shared history.

With Eva's service, we were able to put another distinct marker in our lives and the back cover on hers. The ceremony enabled us to honor her life and recognize and mourn its untimely end. It served many purposes, actually. For those in attendance, it provided a window into our lives and perhaps made Eva's story more real and definite to those who never had a chance to meet her. It has not given me total peace, but I think the best I can hope for is a tentative one.

Be Careful What You Wish For

When we planned our family, we decided we wanted 2 kids, about 3 years apart. Though I am not sure we ever discussed it, I think we both wanted to have 1 of each -- a boy and a girl.

We have what we wanted. We just never knew how painful it would be to get here. It feels like a Greek myth wherein the dumb mortals are taught a wretched, powerful lesson by the gods.

I don't know whether I should feel humbled or just beaten down.

The Itch I Can't Scratch (to Satisfaction)

I have a problem that I am hoping will subside. I want to bake. Sure, I want to eat what I bake, but I have been really enjoying the baking process and seeing the results of my efforts, Making a great cake and seeing others enjoy it is really cool, particularly because I think I've made some tasty stuff lately. Oh, and I like to eat treats, too! But, it's impossible to manage one's weight with too many decadent foods around. Even the man, who runs a whole lotta miles every week can't seem to run enough to run off all the sugary calories we eat.

So, I promised the man that I would do no baking until this weekend, for B's baby shower. It's going to be a tough few days. And how will I limit myself to just one or two things?? Perhaps, however, I should turn my energies to all the funky grains I came home with yesterday.

Wheatberry, here I come.

Refrain

Since Eva died, I've been schizophrenic.
I have seventeen different thoughts every second, but some thoughts have become refrains.

Grief is a relentless predator.
My third child died three weeks before my thirty-third birthday.
There is no "survivor" without Eva.
The FACT of her suffering...
What if I'd waited to deliver?

Invisible and Unspoken bonds

About a year ago, a heard of a former co-worker whose wife was due to deliver their first child. Tragically the baby was stillborn due to a cord accident. I had never been very close to this colleague, but the story of this baby really stuck with me. How could one not empathize with someone in these circumstances. All these months later, we've been through our own scare related to cord accident. We lost one of our beautiful babies. We're bonded now in a way, though he likely doesn't know it and we haven't even been in touch in many years.

And Islands of Sanity

The complexities of this pregnancy have required some emotional acrobatics. In order to avoid being a total nutter each and every day, I create what I call small islands of sanity for myself. These are the places to which I retreat, my private fall back positions. It's fine and I'm relatively okay, as long as I don't lose any more ground.

Well, if I can't have a normal, healthy pregnancy, at least I can rest assured knowing that I'm doing everything I can to bring these girls to viability.
Baby B has a long, hard road ahead of her, but at least it looks as though Baby A has a good shot.
I have to be here in the hospital away from my family, but I'm getting the best possible care -- a level of care, in fact, that most people in the world in my circumstances could never imagine.

And that brings me to a a topic that I'm not even sure how to address. After many weeks here with little to do but think, I've come to realize that I am getting an extraordinary level of care. I will be in the hospital for over 10 weeks when all is said and done. The reason: to have the babies closely monitored in case the start to show signs of distress. In most places in the world, women in my situation would be sent home and told to hope for the best, if they ever got the mono-mono diagnosis in the first place. I did a little back of the envelope calculation and figure I've blown through the amount we have paid into the healthcare system in the form of insurance possibly within the first week or two of my stay here. Although hospitalization is the current standard of care in this country, I can't help but think about the inequities this leads to on a global scale. I'm in no way suggesting that the best care shouldn't be had, I'm just feeling guilty and confused about being one of the very few who can attain it.

A Thousand Indignities

I have been here in the hospital for 7 weeks. Usually, there is not much more to do than think (or brood or obsess, as the case may be). For me, adjusting to my stay here and maintaining sanity to the extent possible has required a slow but determined relinquishment of the illusion of control.

If you've never been in the hospital yourself, be aware that hospital rooms are not havens of privacy. Anyone with any pretense of business in your room will knock and enter, enter and knock or just plain enter.

Early in my stay a flurry of entrances would habitually occur and happened to coincide with the time of most satisfying sleep 6-8 a.m. or so. The first visit usually comes from the resident or med student. "Any cramping? bleeding? leakage of fluid?" At least 3 times per day, these questions are posed. The only deviation took place one day when a med student asked, "Is anything coming out of your vagina?" [insert *pregnant* pause here] Some days, the questions are even accompanied by a physical exam, featuring frozen sardines in the role of fingers.

These visits are followed by the delivery of breakfast, clean linens, fresh water, morning meds, etc. etc. Strangers in your room while you're sleeping? Yeah, at least initially, these visits were highly jarring.

One kindly resident once asked me how I was adjusting to my stay here. I told her I felt like a project that was being managed in pieces by many people, but that no one was assigned the role of project manager. I certainly didn't feel like the manager.

A long time coming

How does one bridge the gap in 6+ month hiatus? Especially when those six months have been pretty darn significant in the course of my family's life. I guess it's fitting that my last post was about parenthood. And butt sniffing.

I am pregnant.
With twins.
Who are monoamniotic.
One of whom has Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome.
And I've been in the hospital for nearly 6 weeks so that the twins can be monitored closely. I'll be here until the twins are delivered, which will hopefully be on February 28th.

Pheww. I'm plumb tuckered out. See ya next year!