Leo's Life

Well it seems that little Leo has taken over life for now. So if you want to know how we're doing, Leo will tell you. He's started his own blog: Baby Leo's Life. These kids sure are technologically advanced.

this moment

There’s a dog asleep on my feet, a cat curled up on the loveseat. A baby asleep in a basket beside me. The baby stretches his arms above his head, makes a small squeak and falls back into a slumber his hands placed comfortably on his face. His chin nods, lost in a baby dream. I lean over and pat the dog on his belly - I get a sigh of satisfaction in response, he buries his head further under my feet. The cat’s head is submerged under his paws as if the absence of his head makes him invisible to the world. There’s a fresh bowl of cherries on the counter, half empty, the pits resting beside. Moist cherry flesh still clinging to the pits evaporates into the warm air screaming it’s summer. A view of the distant ocean and towering trees out my window, as if frozen in a photograph, alive only for the puffed cumulous that drift ever so slowly across the skyline. An old Smashing Pumpkins song comes on the radio, soothingly familiar. My coffee, still tepid, nestled on the coffee table amongst assorted magazines, home renovation books, too many remote controls. I sip it slowly, savouring the bitterness. I am doing nothing, have nowhere to go. The sun shines.

It is in this moment that I realize. I have everything.

June 17 - celebration day

There's a little baby in an incubator somewhere in this hospital and he's mine. But it doesn't feel like it yet. Those two seconds of him placed in front of me wrapped like a taco in the operating room didn't cement the bond that we had been developing as I chased his feet across my belly from the outside. He's definitely gone from inside me, no fetal monitor connected to ensure his heart is stable, no kicks or bumps or jabs as he shifts to find a comfy spot inside me. But I'm not sad because I feel better. The pressure on my body has been relieved. I don't know how to describe it really but I think this sums it up: I don't feel like I am dying anymore. I feel full of life and more healthy than I have in a long time which makes me wonder when I really first knew something was wrong.

When the doctor pulled the little guy from me he said he thought the issues had probably been going on for some time. I agree, I just didn't want to believe it myself.

As the day progresses I just feel better and better. The catheter inserted for the surgery was now serving a different purpose - providing a pathway of escape. Bucket after bucket is emptied and slowly I am detoxified. Like feeling poison flow from my body. My hands feel normal again, my arms smaller, the bones in my feet beginning to be visible again, my ankles reappeared. Two nurses commented on the difference in my face - the swollen bee stung look starting to subside.

I had an awesome nurse today that let me get up and go to the washroom to clean up and then she wheeled me to the NICU to see my little man. Never seeing an NICU before I was overwhelmed for a second, but confident. We pulled up to our little incubator just as the nurse was working on our tiny boy. "Does mom want to hold him" My first thought... who's this mom person you are referring to, my second thought, no way, I do not want to hold him. I was scared but, yes, mom wants to. So she wrapped him up and handed him to me. "Do you have him?" "Yes, yes" I reply. "I am sure." She releases her grip and for the first time he is ours, he is real and he exists not only in pictures in my camera playback screen. I couldn't stop staring at him breathing on his own in my arms. He was warm and pink, all cleaned up. His arm strapped to a board keeping his IV in, his head so tiny, a full head of dark hair. His skin softer than anything I have ever felt in my life. Like velvet and silk and wrapped up together. He opened his eyes when I talked. "Oh recognizes mom's voice!" the nurse proclaims.

I looked up at David so proud to be a dad and back at our boy. This is us. I talked to him but I don't know what I said. We took pictures but I don't know if I smiled. I held him for what seemed like a long time - but it was probably only a few minutes frozen into an eternity. I worried he was getting cold and then we had to give him back and had to leave. But it was ok because he's just a tiny taco that needs to be calm and warm and safe and I have all the confidence that he is in the best place he can be right now.

First family photo (Leuk and Mins missing of course)

I can't wait for David to hold him. I can't wait to take him home, but not yet, not yet. He looks really cosy and peaceful in his incubator and he can stay there for a long time, until he is ready.

And now the big decision, a name. We'd been going through the baby name book someone lent us only yesterday. We're not ready for this yet, but we had a few options. Funny when we saw him for the first time he didn't fit the name we thought we'd name him. Max had been one of our favorite names, but this little boy is no Max. He's too pretty, too different, too special and too strong. He's my baby lion who wasn't allowed to grow until the month of August. He's my Leo.

On an unrelated note. This our first day as parents is truly a day to be celebrated. It's June 17th. David's two year bone marrow transplant anniversary. Two and a half years ago I was walking in the main hallway of Vancouver General Hospital in a daze. David resting uncomfortably in a hospital bed 15 floors above me, a newly accepted patient in the leukemia ward. A Dr. Nantel saw my confusion, stopped me and asked me to sit down. He put his hand on my shoulder, offered no reassurances, and told me that it was going to be a long road. His eyes telling a story I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.

And to Dr. Nantel, you were right. A long road it is, but the farther we travel down it the more I realize the battle to continue forward is worth fighting for. Every second counts. Especially when you add up all the seconds and they make days, and then the days make years, and before you know it a lifetime of memories is being created. Thank you for that moment and for all the experiences that have followed. Also today thank you to Katherine. David's unrelated bone marrow donor. Without you there would be no story to tell and no baby to hold. We'll never forget the choice you made to help us without even knowing who we are.

June 16 - the big day

Woke up this morning to a new doctor and his young resident standing at the foot of my bed. My eyes still bleary from sleep, new doctor has a new idea. His brilliant solution to my predicament - a C-section. Up until now all we've heard about is induction, induction, induction. And honestly, I hadn't even thought to ask about other options.

So David and I inundated the new doctor with a thousand questions. Maybe our experience with the medical system a little too obvious, we fired question after question at the poor unsuspecting doctor. And he passed the test. I suspect he leans towards old school medicine, comfortable with offering cesareans and epidurals. But guess what, I'm comfortable with that too. We asked for some time to make the decision weighing the options.

a) induction - 'natural' but more chance that baby or I will be in stress and based on my number of weeks left in pregnancy the doctor quoted a 90% chance of ending up in c-section anyway.
b) section - planned and controlled, but longer recovery time and a scar.

I chose control. David agreed. This particular doctor agreed. We asked a few nurses about the difference in opinion from the doctors. In the end it seems that the difference is between younger doctors providing options for more 'natural' births whereas the older more experienced doctors opt for tried and tested methods, a kind of been there done that attitude. Fine with me, I'm not up for being a guinea pig right now anyway.

So an uneventful day was spent waiting for an operating room. I wasn't in any hurry anyway. Yet my time was bound to come and at 9:45pm I was wheeled into a very chilly operating room. I started shivering right away. In part due to the temperature I'm sure, but I expect most of my shaking was directly related to how nervous I had suddenly become.

The anesthesiologist hit a nerve on the way into my spinal canal sending a christmas tree light string of pain shooting down my body and into my leg. Luckily there was someone holding me in place and the pain nearly caused me to leap of the table. The flight option of fight or flight making a strong appearance. "Where'd you feel that?" he asks. "LEFT... LEG..." I squeak out through clenched teeth and then it subsides. I continue to shake on the table my arms spread wide and strapped down I wonder for a second how vulnerable Jesus must have felt staked to the cross.

A few minutes later my beautiful David was brought into the room and placed near my head. He whispers to me and I can see his eyes, a confused mixture of nervousness and excitement. I look into his eyes and feel calmer. The shaking subsides a bit.

I feel a tiny bit of pulling and tugging and then hear something.... a squeak, a crack of brand new baby lungs. My eyes must have looked shocked, I see it in David's eyes too. What? What was that? Again a squeak followed by full blown crying. I think I expected more drama to get the tiny baby to breathe and already I've underestimated him/her. Breathing on their own. Wow. An unexpected single tear runs down my face.

My taco.

"Boy or girl?" someone asks. At exactly the same time as I say boy David says girl. "It's a boy!" the someone replies. A flash of surprise crosses David's face but it melts quickly as his gaze follows his son to the corner of the room where the NICU doctors are waiting to check baby out. "He's doing well" they say. And before I know it he's wrapped up like a taco and placed in front of my face. He's all covered in white goo and one arm is poking out exposing his way too tiny fingers. "You'll be okay" I tell him and they whisk him off to the NICU to get warm. David followed. And just like that. We're parents.

3 lbs 13 oz and screaming hard.

David came into the recovery room looking sharp in his scrubs. From a distance I would have mistaken him for a doctor, but as he approached the smile on his face and the camera slung over his shoulder reveled the truth, proud dad. He showed me pictures that I could hardly focus on as I fought back the nausea. He told me that he weighed 3 lbs and 13 oz and I knew right then that he'd be okay.

What a way to enter the world.

By the time I was out of recovery and back in the jail cell of a hospital room I was so nauseated that I couldn't open my eyes. David arrived a few minutes after me so very excited "You have to see him, can you go now?" I couldn't, "Tomorrow" I said. He showed me more pictures but baby was so covered in tubes and wires and monitors I couldn't really understand what was going on. I wasn't worried though - I knew they would take good care of him.

June 15 - later that day

I'm still waiting. Boston is playing Vancouver in the Stanley Cup. I am not allowed to watch it. Apparently the risk of seizure is too high if I get excited about the game. Since I am not an 'excited about hockey' kind of person I'm listening to the game on David's iPhone. Boston just scored a second goal. I sent David out. Hopefully he's found a bar and some food that's better than the muffins he's been living off for the past 48 hours.

I still have a nurse with me. I'm not used to sharing my space 24 hours a day and especially not with a nurse and especially not in a hospital room where neither of us are allowed to leave. Funny though, they've been my saviours. Some are quiet and we just sit together. Others talk about what's going on outside my hospital room doors, I get to hear about the delivery down the hall, the weather, what's going on in the news. And with others we share our lives, our deepest regrets and our hopes for the future. There is something strange about being forced to sitting beside someone you don't know. Our anonymity creating a platform to share details of our lives that I'm sure some of our dearest friends are unaware of. By the end of the 12 hour shift I would hardly call them a stranger - we've laughed together, cried together and will probably never see each other again.

I haven't put a lot of thought into what tomorrow may bring. I have a weird sense of calm, but I'm nervous as hell too. It's out of my hands though, and that's a good thing really. Now we're back on that roller coaster except now I'm in the front seat with my and my baby's health at risk and David's riding in the back getting whipped from side to side and we hit corner after corner. Tomorrow, hold on cause we're going for the loop-de-loops. You know the ones that go upside down and when you get off the ride you have the feeling that the world doesn't face the same way anymore.

I've been convinced since early in the pregnancy that there's a little boy growing inside me, but now one day away from finding out I am having doubts. Maybe it's a girl. A strong little girl. The little life we found out about on the eve of Christmas. The life that will make the stars seem a little closer and teach us what life is really about. As if we need a lesson.

June 15 - 31 weeks 5 days

First day of holidays. What a place to be. I didn't sleep much last night. Could have been the two IV lines inserted uncomfortably, one in the back of my hand, one just above my wrist in my arm. Or it could have been the compression stalkings hiked up to my inner thighs, or my face swelling swelling swelling and making me breathe out my mouth instead of my nose. Or maybe it was the blood pressure cuff inflating automatically every 15 minutes, or the taking of my vital signs every hour. Or perhaps it was the screams of women delivering normal healthy full term babies echoing through the halls keeping me awake. Ok, no fooling it was really the thought of delivering a two or three pound baby that might not be able to breathe on it's own that kept me from sleep.

David solidly asleep on the pull out chair beside me made me feel better. It's hard not to think back two years to when he was in the hospital bed and I was the one sleeping on the pull out chair. At 4 am I got up and David jolted awake beside me. It's so nice not to be alone. I did miss Leuk snoring beside me in his usual spot - his body sprawled across is huge Costco dog bed, his head always missing the bed and coming to rest of the hardwood and hidden carefully under the bed, as if this made him invisible to the world, the hiding of his head. If only it was that easy.

The doctor stopped by in the morning, my blood counts had stabilized, my blood pressure slightly lower most likely due in part to the blood pressure mediation they gave me last night, and also probably due to being trapped in a dark room with no stimulation and not being allowed to move.

My face already a bit smaller.

She explained that she thought we could wait another 24 hours before inducing labour, as long as things stayed the same. I apparently passed the induction test the night before where they pump my up with some petocin or something and wait for contractions to start. They kept asking me if I felt anything, needing 10 good contractions to call the test a success. The nurse seemed to be able to pick up these so called contractions on the monitor - I overheard them say they doubled the dose - but really, in my opinion and I didn't feel a thing. My body has no intention of going into labour - even with medication. That's what I think. Anyway apparently baby's heartbeat was unfazed by the contraction test, which means the doctor thinks he/she will tolerate a 'regular' delivery.

So another 24 hours means I get another shot of steroids which will help the baby's lungs develop. I guess this is all I can ask for right now.

Tammy and Don came by this morning. I feel like crap but was happy to see them. Mom and Dad were geared and ready to come down to but I sent Tammy home with the message. There would be no baby today.

June 13 - 31 weeks 4 days

I am trapped in a room. It's 8:30 pm. The walls are painted pink, the furniture blue, yet the room feels far from cheery. The paint seems old and greying. There are no windows, the only source of light a dim fluorescent in the corner. It seems like it should flicker but it doesn't. The air is recycled, stale and too warm. I feel greasy and uncomfortable. A monitor encircles my stomach, around my back. A heartbeat echos through the room, not mine, but my baby's. The monitor registers it strong and unwavering. My clothes have been exchanged for a hospital gown, making me look like I should be sicker than I feel. A scratchy over-bleached hospital blanket covers my legs. A swollen ankle and foot protrude at the end of the slightly too short bed. I look down and wonder if that foot can really be mine. I flex my ankle and my toes but they hardly move. The swelling is getting worse. My skin seems stretched to the breaking point and I've started to lose feeling in my feet, my nerves collapsing  under the pressure of the fluid building up in my body. My parents are there. We wait for David. He's crawling through Vancouver traffic, truck loaded with everything he could pack in 15 minutes. The dog and the cat included. He's hoping to make it here before his baby is born.

Four hours ago I was in a helicopter, being airlifted from Nanaimo General Hospital to Royal Columbian. As we soared across Georgia Straight towards the mainland, the helicopter flying what seemed to be mere meters above the ocean's surface, the pilots searching for orcas. 

This all happened fast. Yesterday morning I woke up feeling pretty rough. Hard to explain exactly, just an overwhelming feeling of something wrong. I rolled out of bed and into the bathroom two steps away. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror as I passed by on the way to the shower, thought 'oh shit', did an about face and carefully lowered myself back into bed. I layed there quietly for a few minutes then pulled myself back up and headed for the shower. Hoping, hoping, hoping that showers make everything better.

My feet pounded as the blood rushed down into them as I stood. I shifted my weight from one to the other and back again wondering how my feet could still be so swollen after a full nights sleep. I cut my shower short, wrapped a big towel around myself and returned to the bedroom where I sat perched on the edge of the bed. I began to sob. The tears flowing freely down my face, bent forward, my head near my knees, shuddering and heaving with each sob. Even though pregnant, this outburst was unusual. David rolled slowly out of a deep sleep. "What's going on?" "My face" I reply. My tongue seemed to big for my mouth, the words came out in a muffle. "I think some thing's wrong". David looks at my face in shock, "Whoa, emergency?" "I'm not sure" I reply.

I layed down in bed for while. Told David I was feeling better, decided to go to work. I felt horrible, but figured it would get better as the day progressed. I hadn't been feeling well in the morning throughout most of my pregnancy anyway, so figured it just must be getting worse as I approached my due date - still a painfully long two months away.

By the time I got to work I didn't feel any better. I dragged my swollen legs down the hall and tried to put on a smile. As people commented on my face and asked me if I was okay an eerie feeling came over me. I shuddered at the thought - I wasn't going to be able to make it two more months if I felt like this everyday. Everyone seemed nonchalant about it though, I got a bunch of similar comments along the lines of "Swelling is normal in pregnancy", "It happens to all of us"... I kept smiling but inside I couldn't shake the feeling that this was more that typical pregnancy swelling.

I called the medical clinic to see if I could see a doctor. The receptionist kindly advised me that there were no more same-day appointments available. That's ok I thought, I'll be fine till tomorrow. And as I left work that afternoon I couldn't help but notice the smell of burning toast in the air, wondering if it was in my head, or if someone really had burnt toast in the lunchroom nearby. Suddenly I couldn't get the word pre-eclasmpsia out of my head and I promised myself that tomorrow at work I would finish cleaning off my desk, just in case the doctor decided to put me on bedrest.

I knew there was an afternoon emergency medical clinic but I opted to skip it telling myself that if I started to complain now, the last two months would last forever. I'd feel better when I got home. And I did. I layed on the couch and David told me to stay there. He made dinner. The evening was uneventful.

I went to bed. Fell asleep immediately. I woke up at 4 am, not with the usual urge to pee. Instead it felt like my dinner was sitting somewhere near my heart. I gasped for a few breaths, drank a glass of water and went back to bed. At 6 I woke up again. This time I was really awake. An intense pain in my upper abdomen stabbing me with every breath. Thinking I just slept weird I got up and headed toward the kitchen. The pain got worse. I was now clutching at my ribs. Holding them in to try and stop the pain. I paced back and forth. Living room-kitchen-hallway waiting for the pain to subside. I lasted about 4 minutes before waking up David. "I think we have to go to the hospital." "What, why? What's going on?" I have this pain. David sits up in bed. "Your face is swollen again too". "And my feet" I say, "I think they are going to explode". I take my blood pressure on the monitor we borrowed only a day before. It's high. Too high. David starts asking me questions as I pace back to the kitchen... "Do you have this ____, what about this ____". I turn and return to the bedroom, he's on his iPhone googling symptoms. I answer yes to all of his inquiries.  I repeat, "I think we have to go to the hospital" as I lie back down in bed. David says "Now?". "I'm not sure" I say, "I have this meeting. Maybe I could go to the doctor in a few hours". I know that David has meetings too. I look at the clock. It shines 6:11. I'm not going to make it to 8:30 when the clinic opens. "Let me think" I say. I call the nurse line - 811. I answer yes to all their questions as well, except for the one that asks "Can you feel a head or a foot protruding from your vagina?" I laughed and for a second forgot about the pain. "Oh," she says, "I have to ask that one, I didn't mean to alarm you". "Well," I reply, "I'm pretty sure if I felt a foot that would have been my first complaint". She stifled a giggle.

And this was the nurse's recommendation. Very professionally delivered. "Please proceed to the nearest emergency room in the next 30 to 45 minutes." "Hmmm, that's what I thought I replied."

I got off the phone and kiddingly told David that we should have listened to everyone that told us to have our hospital bag waiting by the door. "Let's go to the hospital" I said. "Now?" "Yep. Now." "Except," I said, "you can have a shower first, I'm not going to die in the next 10 minutes". So David showered, then we dropped a bag in the middle of the floor of the bedroom and proceeded to take turns throwing things into it. Toothbrush, flip flops, a book. "We don't need much" I say. "You can come home and get stuff for me if you have to but I'm pretty sure they'll just put me on bedrest or something, we'll probably only be there for an hour. You'll probably still make you meetings."

Or not. Fast forward to the hospital. I was seen immediately, bloodwork was ordered, baby heartbeat monitor was strapped across my stomach. I fought fought fought the urge to vomit and lost the battle. As we waited for the bloodwork results the nurse gave David the ok to escape across the street to get the last of his post-transplant vaccines. And of course, as soon as David left, a doctor appeared. He was the prenatal specialist in Nanaimo. And I didn't even have time to think about what that meant before he approached my bed, looked me straight in the eye, sat down beside me and grabbed my hand. My instinct was to pull back, the thought of a stranger holding my hand seemed far from comforting. I didn't have a choice though, he had a good grip. I felt the blood rush out of my face. 'Shit,' I thought, 'this is going to be bad news'.

And so he started. "There are three things that can happen when you have high blood pressure and are pregnant."

1) Pregnancy induced hypertension (PIH) - since your blood pressure was normal for the initial part of your pregnancy and is high now, I am confident that you have that.
2) Pre-eclampsia - looking at the swelling in your feet, legs and face, combined with a blood pressure reading that is elevated above a 'safe' level, I am confident you have that.
3) HELLP - Your blood results indicate your liver enzymes are elevated and your platelets are low. So, unfortunately you have that too."

And then he asked again the due date. "August 12, yes, I am sure". He was quick with his response. "So that means we have to get you to a higher trauma level facility. If you were 32 weeks I would deliver you now, but you are 31 weeks 4 days, and we can't take the risk here."

Today, what you crazy? I though to myself. He must have picked up on my disbelief. He explained that the placenta was triggering an immune response in my body. My body was filling up with toxins and my kidneys and liver couldn't keep up anymore. My pregnancy was killing me. I took a deep breath, I fought back the tears, and asked. "What if I say no?" "Then you and your baby will die." One more deep breath. And the question I was most scared to ask, "If I deliver today, you will save me, but will the baby die?" His answer, reassuring. He quoted a 95% survival rate. I couldn't help but think for  a second that with our luck we would be that 5%. I swallowed that fear. "Ok then. Where am I going?"

And so the next hour was whirlwind. A shot of steroids to help the baby's lungs develop. David home to pack. A phone call to my parents. A second IV. A drug called magnesium sulphate. A helicopter ride. A pink and blue hospital room.



Holy moley - I had no idea my face was that big!



Last minutes

I think this is really well done. I cried though.

Thanks to everyone that loves their dog enough to show it.

Dancing dog

Leuk has a long way to go...
He would look pretty in a skirt though.

Sunday photo

Helleborus aka Lenten Rose

We saw the sun today. And ripped appart the kitchen. Or further ripped apart the kitchen anyway. We now have a fridge in the dining room, food in tupperware boxes scattered throughout the house and cupboards outside under tarps. If all goes well, we'll install our new tile floor next week. So much for a weekend of relaxation. But having a functional kitchen sounds pretty nice. I think we pulled the wall down and started the kitchen reno over a year ago... so it's about time. It only took us about 5 months to choose the tile, so it seems a bit crazy to think that we can actually install the tile in a few days. We'll see.

Making a bit of progress on the cherry blossoms. I found one that had 'hatched' I think our tree is struggling. David thinks it's just hidden from the morning sun. He's the tree expert...