How I Got Tank the Triceratops (I take "dictation")

that blog was good.  did you
make a good pradikson?

 The Dictator and the Anarchist watched an Arthur episode yesterday that was all about blogs.  The Dictator--already a prolific writer--was highly interested and asked if I could help her write a blog.  I thought we'd better start with a guest entry on this blog before she jumps into taking over the blogosphere.  She wanted to type the whole thing herself, but as you may be aware, I'm simply not patient enough for that.  So I took dictation.  The caption underneath the picture, however, was all her typing.  Enjoy.

I went to the mall.  And...I got a snack before going to get it.

Um, I got to go to the toy store and pick out a toy.  At first I couldn't pick which one.  Which one will you think I would choose?  Will you think I would choose Tank, Morris, or Ned?  I picked Tank the triceratops.  He's from Dinosaur Train.  His frill is big and it gets stuck in everything.  My mom paid for it with credit card debt.  And that's how I got Tank.

Aftershock: A Postlude, Part I (Can you have more than one part in a postlude? I can!)

So the trauma is ended, the Anarchist is born and released from the caring arms of the NICU and all is back to usual in Mortlandia (which sounds cooler than "Morton Land," I've decided).

Well, not exactly usual.  It turns out that even traumatic experiences that end well have lasting effects...on every member of the household...for a long time...like, maybe, forever.

The Bureaucrat:

After meeting this little miraculous bundle of
anarchy, nothing else mattered as much to the
Bureaucrat.  Aww...he was just a baby, here!
(As was she)

The Bureaucrat had the unpleasant position of attempting to continue life-as-usual at work during the whole prematurity crisis, all the while juggling a hospitalized wife (and then, baby) and a displaced toddler.  Not so fun.  But he handled it beautifully.  I'm sure he dealt with a lot on a deep, psychological level, but as the Bureaucrat is a cool customer with little show of emotion, I'm not going to venture a guess at all the emotional turmoil raging deep below the surface.  I'll just tell you what I noticed.

To be blunt, the Bureaucrat became somewhat less worried about money.  This is a big deal.  The Bureaucrat has always been obsessively worried about money.  Most likely this is because we are dirt poor and he is very responsible (I never worry because I operate under the misapprehension that money grows on trees).  But the poor Bureaucrat used to worry to excess.  Now he just seems to worry an appropriate amount.  Maybe things have been put into perspective?   (Alternatively, this is entirely unrelated and he just gave up caring because we're so poor it's absolutely futile to even attempt to do anything about it.  Maybe he's already resigned himself to our living in our parents' basements...)


The Fat Assassin:

At first, the effects on the Fat Assassin went unnoticed.  This is probably because she has always been extra-neurotic, even for a cat.  But we soon discovered that the Fat Assassin had developed trust issues.  For about three years after the birth of the Anarchist, the Fat Assassin became decidedly uncuddly.  Not that anyone ever dared cuddle her in the first place (she's a biter), but she had--in her earlier days with us--often climbed on our laps, chests, beds, laptop keyboards, important documents in order to cuddle us.  During the whole Anarchist fiasco, she was often left alone until very late at night when the Bureaucrat would stumble into the house and she would get to curl up next to him for a few hours and assure herself that people still existed.  Then the Anarchist came home, surrounded by plastic tubing essential to her very life and breath, and the Fat Assassin (who had a propensity to gnaw on said plastic tubing) was kicked out of any interesting area of the house.

The Fat Assassin keeps her distance.  Humans will just
break your heart, anyway.  (One of these days we're going to
discover her journal of angsty cat poetry from this period).

Cue trust issues:  humans aren't to be counted on to be present; when humans are present they bring with them tasty tubing and then deny tasty tubing to sweet kitties; sweet kitties are apparently no longer welcome in the vicinity of nice-smelling babies or tasty tubing; no one loves sweet kitties; sweet kitties might as well turn aloof/vicious/or throw sweet kitteny selves off of cliffs; sweet kitties aren't feeling particularly suicidal and (sigh) no one would even notice sweet kitteny absence anyway; sweet kitty chooses aloof/vicious, but remains very much alive.

Thus, a three year period of uncuddliness ensued.  Just recently, we have been accosted by excessive displays of affection from the Fat Assassin.  It appears she's getting her snuggle back.  It takes a while to process trauma, and even cats aren't immune.  Luckily, even felines can overcome.

The Dictator

Many people speculate that the reason our Dictator is, much like our pet, so neurotic, is that she was semi-separated from both her parents for a period of time at a very young age (whereas it is theorized that the Fat Assassin's initial neuroses stem from her lack of lady parts).  While I don't disagree that witnessing your mother wailing, "Please, God, no!  Don't take my baby!" in the middle of the night and then vanishing into the mist for three months might potentially trigger some sort of deep emotional scarring, I also wish to point out that there was never a point at which the Dictator wasn't neurotic.  Recall, she came out of the womb skittish and suspicious.  She trusted no one.  She still doesn't.  This is not because of some sort of traumatic separation, but because she's utterly convinced that she is the only competent creature in the universe and that everyone else is going--to sound utterly British--to muck everything up.  She doesn't trust me to make her sandwich correctly, for heaven's sake!  What all this preemie business did do was create a completely justifiable situation in which not to trust.  Now we can point to those traumatic three months and say, "she's been through a lot," whenever teachers/friends/neighbors/perfect strangers raise their eyebrows at her dictatorial behavior.  Little do they know!

The Dictator returns to her room (or, kingdom) after a three
month sojourn to the place of the grandparents.  She now
attempts to reestablish authority over her plush subjects.

 *****

Now, these souls have been through quite a bit.  I won't deny them that.  But let's be honest.  I am a whole lot more screwed up than any of them.  Mind you, this is not because I somehow have suffered more (there are many perfectly sane people who have been through far worse trauma than I), but because I have frail nerves...like a mother from a Jane Austen novel.  The Anarchist, too, has experienced several lasting effects of all this because she is the actual preemie in the situation.  She is completely justified in having been impacted to such a degree...me, not so much.  But what can you do?

I will delve further into the psychological depths of the Anarchist and myself (lucky you) next time.  Until then, should you encounter an obese and overly-affectionate cat with a tendency to bite, or a kindergartener who insists upon overseeing your every move as you make her lunch/shop for your own clothing/get her sister dressed, cut them some slack.  They've been through a lot.

Part VI: Bad Summer Camp

On the day we packed up our little bundle of anarchy and left the NICU for good, I felt a sudden rush of emptiness in my chest.  I lingered at the empty crib, even though the Anarchist--who had taken the car seat challenge twice before being allowed this moment--was wearing real clothes and was securely fastened in her car seat.*  I kept sniffing the air, which smelled of new born baby, medical supplies, and my beloved hospital soap.  I closed my eyes and took in the no-longer-terrifying, but actually-somehow-comforting sound of the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors.  I forced myself onto the elevator and past the first floor gift shop where a nice Labor and Delivery nurse had once taken me for a walk/wheelchair ride some four months before.  I passed the coffee stand where, on my own first day of freedom three months ago, I had purchased a large frozen mocha to sip as I ran outside and spun in circles rejoicing in the fresh air and the fact that my legs still worked.

This is me feigning joy at leaving my little haven.
This is the Anarchist looking like an angry pirate.

But on this day, I had no desire to run outside and spin.  Everyone told me that this would be the happiest day of all.  I would be so happy to finally go home and be with my baby, the way it was supposed to be.  But I wasn't happy.  I was terrified.  But more than that, I was sad.  I was experiencing the trauma of separation, not from a child--as I had expected--but from my little NICU family, from the smells and sounds that I now associated with my baby, from my new normal.  The cheerful nurse and my very favorite respiratory technician, whom I adored, smiled as they helped us pack anarchy-in-a-car-seat into the back of our car.  I made a deliberate effort to smile...and then burst into tears.  All the way home, I planned my new career as a NICU nurse.  I had to get back in!

See?  She doesn't want to go home either!

Even before the Anarchist's unlikely and phenomenal birth, the Bureaucrat and I had decided that the whole experience was something like bad summer camp.  Allow me to explain.  If you've ever been to summer camp for an extended period of time, you'll know how easy it is to form intense bonds with unlikely people in a short period of time.  When I went to Interlochen for a couple of weeks in high school, for example, we all hugged and cried and swore we could not live without each other on the last day of camp.  Being in the hospital was kind of like that.  The nurses and doctors--who poked and prodded my belly, denied me meals, brought me extra cake and juice when I was sad, told me things that made me cry, did things that cheered me up--were kind of like the camp counselors who wake you up (cruelly) for a frigid polar bear swim at six in the morning, but who you still love anyway and feel like you will die without when you leave.  It was a similar phenomenon in the NICU, but of course the nurses were the Anarchist's counselors; and instead of polar bear swims, it was spinal taps, feeding tubes shoved down noses, and needles jammed into miniscule baby veins.  Sigh...I still miss those days.

Back when things were really bad, they wouldn't let us touch her...

...then we were allowed to semi-touch her...

...and then she got big enough for silly hats, and it was all
uphill from there!

Shortly after the Anarchist graduated from a
baby crate to a real, big-preemie crib. 
She got a certificate and everything!

The Anarchist opens her eyes for the first time, catches sight of
her adorably ridiculous hat in the reflection of the Bureaucrat's eyes,
instantly becomes an Anarchist in protest.

The strange thing was that what started as an awkward experience turned into something beautiful.  At first, we were told how much our baby needed our presence, and then warned not to touch her.  We heard loud beeping, saw doctors panicking and nurses running, and then were told that it was normal.  Being a NICU parent took a lot of getting used to, especially for someone who is afraid of intruding...even on her own baby.  But things began to turn.  We watched some of the most high-risk babies go through ridiculous amounts and come out all the stronger.  We met little friends who seemed to be going through exactly what we were going through.  We may have even arranged a marriage between the Anarchist and the lovely little guy next door, although I doubt it's legally binding.  I finally got to hold her tiny little body, feed her (an area in which, according to the lactation consultant, I was impressively skilled**), dress her in real clothes and watch her as she committed acts of anarchy.***   The NICU even arranged for special crafts and pizza nights for the parents, so that we could connect with one another and stop feeling so isolated.  We made friends with the nurses, other moms and dads, and even the doctors.  Our children were given matching, silly, fluffy hats to wear so that we could laugh at them instead of cry about them.  There was a sense of fear, but also a sense of community.  So yeah...bad summer camp.

Random acts of anarchy.

The Dictator visits the Anarchist in
the NICU.

 And I didn't want to leave it.  I didn't want to leave Trendy Baby and her caretakers who badgered the nurses and decorated her crib in zebra stripes.  I didn't want to leave The Baby Next Door, the Anarchist's love interest who had a neato mobile and friendly parents.  I didn't want to leave the nurse who shared my exact--not so favorable--sentiments about the new pope.  I didn't want to leave the nurse who realized that the Anarchist loved music and played soft lullabies in her crib to put her to sleep.  I didn't want to leave the receptionist who always gave the Dictator stickers when she came to visit, or the nurse who gave her tiny preemie diapers and bottles to play with, or the respiratory therapist who was basically one of the all-around greatest people I've ever met.  Nope.  I would have turned the car around and gone straight back.  But I wasn't driving.  

So we went home.  And it turns out that, even though I pride myself in being a pretty mediocre mother, the Anarchist thrived.  She started smiling, laughing, snuggling, and of course, screaming.  She developed a sense of humor and started singing.  She learned to crawl, walk, and--most recently--run and jump.  She threw all the books off the shelves in the public library, escaped church by crawling under rows and rows of seats, attacked strangers with love and friendliness, made up songs about "dirty poop," and basically became an all-around delightful little anarchist.  Truth be told, despite the fact that the NICU gave her the very best start possible where she received immeasurable care and support, maybe coming home was the best thing for her...even if it meant I had to leave bad summer camp.

Note that the oxygen tubing is not actually entering her nose.
Instead, she is using it as a teether.  She mastered this trick
during her days in the NICU.

* Yes, they make preemies take a car seat challenge before they allow them to leave the NICU.  The challenge consists of a fully-ripened preemie sitting, for minutes on end, in an uprightish position in a car seat.  If their vitals don't spike they get the go-ahead to pack their tiny onesies and go.  If not, they are sentenced to several more days of chillin' in the NICU.  Is it wrong that I was glad when the Anarchist failed her first challenge?

** Thanks to the Dictator refusing to wean--right until the moment I was admitted to the hospital--I had lots of practice.  If it hadn't been for this unfortunate turn of events, I would be one of those moms still suckling my kindergartener.  And let's face it...in my heart, I am not that mom.  Mostly I'm just a pushover.  


*** Preemie acts of anarchy include, but are not limited to: turning head to right when NICU staff expressly wants head turned to left, yanking out feeding tube/oxygen tubing/etc., pulling of c-pap (i.e., wind tunnel mask) in record time, and screaming like banshee when meals are not forthcoming (I could hear her scream straight through the walls of the NICU and into the hallway...she was the only preemie I ever heard do that).

Part V: An Anarchist is Born

Before the Dictator was born, I had religiously watched A Baby Story, knowing that this would adequately prepare me for the reality of childbirth.  All those calm, unruffled women, relaxing in kiddie pools in their living rooms until--with a gentle sigh--they release their infants into the world, really showed me what to expect from the birth experience.  So, of course, I was thoroughly prepared when I had to be induced two weeks after the Dictator's due date, labor (hard) for hours on end, ask for an epidural, and be informed that I wasn't even dialated yet.  "How about some morphine?"  I'm ashamed to say that I took it, and spent a great deal of time drooling, rocking while thinking I was having clear, profound conversation with the Bureaucrat and the Labor and Delivery Nurse.


So when the time came to deliver the Anarchist, I had a healthy and realistic understanding of the pain and suffering involved in bringing a small person into the world.  The truth was, I actually welcomed the idea of suffering during childbirth.  I was still mostly certain my baby would not make it, and I had a feeling that the pain might provide needed catharsis and expiation of some vague, unwarranted guilt that I had been carrying around inside me since I was admitted to the hospital those three months ago.  Or maybe I just welcomed another opportunity for morphine.  It does have addictive properties, right?

This helpless looking preemie unleashed a scream to
rival all screams, earning herself the NICU nickname of
Mad Baby Morton. 

Of course, I wasn't going to have the opportunity for morphine or a natural childbirth this time.  I was a little concerned about a c-section, but the nice ladies on TV made it seem so painless and simple, and my few friends that had c-sections said that they thought they were a breeze.  Somewhat reassured, I entered the OR with only slight trepidation.  I had never had major surgery before, but surely it couldn't be all that  bad, right?  And I didn't have to watch.  And I'd get an epidural.  I had just managed to calm myself with these reassuring thoughts when I was promptly strapped to the table by restraints.  I had not counted on this.  Images of X-Files alien abductions filled my head.  The Calm Doctor's calmness was suddenly insulting.

A nice anesthesiologist hovered over me, promising me that it shouldn't hurt, but that it might feel just a bit funny.  Then, I imagine, because of course I couldn't see, the alien--I mean, doctor--got to work on the drawing and quartering.  I swear I could feel him tugging on my intestines.  This was not the feeling of a "bit funny."  This was torture.

I knew, almost immediately, what I had to do.  I would kick the doctor as hard as I could, break free from the restraints, flee the hospital and have the baby naturally in a back alley.  Perfectly reasonable.  Immediately, I set about implementing my plan.  I pulled back my leg with all the strength I could muster, unleashed a kick of epic proportions...and realized that I could no longer feel my legs.  Oh yeah--the epidural.

The Bureaucrat, sensing my insanity, promised me that everything was just fine.  My internal organs weren't all splayed out on the operating table.  No one had actually sought to weave an elaborate tapestry out of my intestines. Very reassuring.  I continued to struggle.  I grew delirious.  I plotted revenge on anyone who had ever told me that c-sections were easy.  And then I heard a brief, but stunningly beautiful sound: the enraged, bloodcurdling scream of an infant.  The infant was saying, "MY LUNGS WORK!!!"  This was clearly not my infant.

These are the feet of a beautiful baby girl.  These are not the
feet of a beautiful baby alien or a beautiful baby boy.

"Congratulations," said Calm Doctor, calmly.  "It's a beautiful baby girl."  The screaming infant who was not mine was spirited away by a group of mysterious people in scrubs (the NICU staff).  "I have a what?" I asked, deliriously.  No one answered.  "He's beautiful," said the anesthesiologist.  "Wait...it's a boy?"  I asked, confused and drooling.  Finally, someone confirmed that I had given birth to a girl.  "Is it alive?" I wanted to know.  "Didn't you hear her screaming?" asked the Bureaucrat.  No.  No I didn't.  Our baby can't scream.  Our baby's lungs don't work.  Our baby will be dead within the week, if it lasts that long.  That was not our baby screaming.  Our baby can't do that.

I must have been quite a mess at this point, because someone suggested putting me "under a little deeper." Now, not only was I rendered immobile, but I was also unable to speak, reckon time, or think like a human being who is not doing heavy drugs.  The room was spinning.  At least, the sounds in the room were spinning.  They were the sounds of the nurse, the Calm Doctor the anesthesiologist, and the resident all speaking in turn, all saying the same thing over, and over, and over again.  It was nightmarish.  I panicked.  I tried to scream, but nothing came out.  Cue more panic.  I tried to thrash around, but I couldn't move.  Increased panic.  Finally, in a flash of brilliance, I moved my fingers enough to flick off the heart monitors that were clamped on my thumbs.  I heard alarms, and the nurse say, "Do you think something's wrong?" to which the Calm Doctor responded, "I think it's just panic."  Just panic?!!  Just panic?!!  I'll show you!  I never  panic!  At which point I "showed" them by whimpering pitifully for my "mommy" and vomiting spaghetti all over the poor resident.

For at least two years after this day, I actively sought to reconcile the gaping chasm that I felt between the frail, helpless, and ultimately hopeless being I had carried for seven months and the screaming, feisty little Anarchist whose id bracelets all bore my last name.  It wasn't easy.  It took everything in me not to, upon spotting Calm Doctor in the park one summer, grab him by shirt and demand to know if my lungless fetus had somehow been switched at birth for this hardy little thing.

After a long while, I came to accept that this preschooler was, in fact, that fetus.  I had just misunderstood who she was all along.  The Anarchist is a survivor, and she's been screaming at me ever since, just to remind me. 

That helpless fetus(-sized baby)

This feisty preschooler

Happy Birthday, dear Anarchist.  Happy Birthday to You.

Part IV: A Calm Labor

On May 7th, 2007, my simple little hospital life was disrupted for good.  I woke up that morning still tenuously pregnant with a small person I had--for about the past three months--refused to fall any further in love with.  I was dedicated to this small person, willing to die for this small person, but I was not attached to it, could not really bond with it.  This person had no in utero nicknames, like those I had given the Dictator; I had yet to joke about this person, dream about its future, choose a name for it.  I couldn't.  It would have killed me, and by proxy, the baby.  My strategy was to remain calm.

The day progressed in the same exact monotonous fashion as every day before: sleep in until breakfast tray is cold, nibble cold breakfast, scan baby for heart tones (by myself, I was a pro at that point), stay in bed to be sure to catch cafeteria folk and place order for the day (it was Monday, spaghetti night), wait until cleaning lady had come and gone so as not to throw her off her rhythm by being in the shower (that really seemed to throw them for a loop), watch a bit of inane television, jump in shower, go back to bed and read or sleep.

I did get a visitor later that afternoon.  My brother-in-law, whom we will call the Librarian, came to visit and we had a pleasant chat about books.  I felt some cramping, but that wasn't unusual and I rode out the pain like the trooper I had become.  Occasionally, I would be forced to stop mid-sentence to white knuckle grip the bed rails, grit my teeth, bite my lip and attempt to breathe through the pain, but I took it in stride.  Eventually, I asked for a heating pad.  It helped.  I continued with my visit.

The Librarian with a bitty Anarchist. 
Spoiler Alert: the Anarchist made it and is very much alive
and creating untold anarchy today.

The nurse that came in to check on me was only mildly concerned.  "It's just cramps," I reassured her.  She checked with a resident who suggested that maybe I not eat my dinner, just in case.  I dutifully, but begrudgingly, set my spaghetti aside and continued to chat with the Librarian.  The nurse returned shortly, to let me know that the residents thought it would be okay if I ate after all.  I wolfed down the plate of spaghetti, a bread stick, broccoli, and dessert (probably cake).  Shortly thereafter, the nurse came back in looking a touch more concerned than last time (uh oh!).  "I was on the phone with your doctor because the lady down the hall is about to deliver twins.  I mentioned that you were having cramps and he asked if they were bad.  I said you were gripping the railing and biting your lip and he said, 'That's never good.  I'll come and check on her when I come in to deliver the twins.'"

True, the phrase "that's never good" entered the conversation, but it was all rather nonchalant.  False alarms had happened before.  Doctors popped in to check now and then, some more nervously than others, but nothing ever came of it.  This baby I was so detached from was not forcing its presence on anyone.

Anyway, Calm Doctor arrived, calmly, a while later and did all the doctory things in an exceedingly calm way.  I, also, was exceedingly calm.  Allowing your emotions to die will do that for you.  "We might transfer you to the perinatal unit, just to be on the safe side," he said calmly.  "You might want to call your husband to let him know where you're heading."  No problem.  I calmly said goodbye to the Librarian (who had unwittingly witnessed his sister-in-law in labor), calmly packed my things, calmly allowed myself to be hooked up to IV fluids, not-so-calmly got tangled in my IV tube/stand/hospital gown in the bathroom, fake-calmly returned to my room, and climbed back in bed to await the calm, and not-at-all alarming transfer to perinatal.  Calm.  So calm.

When Calm Doctor returned, there was something less calm in his demeanor.  Call it worry.  I know, I know, do calm people even get that?  He said, still calmly, "Is there any way you can get a hold of your husband right now?"  "He's in a school board meeting, " I calmly (naively) replied.  "You might want to call him right now.  See how fast he can get here."  WHAT?!  (That was a calm "WHAT?!" by the way). 


So I called the Bureaucrat, he came, they shoved him into scrubs and a funny hat, I apologized profusely for interrupting Calm Doctor's calm evening of calmly delivering twins and then going to bed, a bunch of medical things happened that I no longer remember the names for, and then it was time...time to deliver the baby that I had never allowed myself to believe was real.  I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for our safety, put on a brave, smiling face, cracked an inappropriate joke and said the only thing one can say at times like these:  "Do I have time to run to the bathroom?"

This request caused much deliberation.  It was finally decided to give the poor pregnant lady her last request.  Wise move.  I took a minute in the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror and convince myself that I was real, and also to readjust my surgical cap thing, which was entirely unflattering.  Then, acting as calm as possible (i.e., not calm), I let myself be wheeled down the hall to the OR.  My second to last thought as I left was, "Boy, am I ever going to miss my little room and all my nurses!"  My last thought was, "I wish we got cable at home. If I live, how am I going to watch What Not to Wear without it?"

Part III: Waiting (or, Everything I Need to Know, I Learned on Bed Rest)

The Dictator visits and eats her usual Saltine snack. 
I had a bed full of cracker crumbs, and I
liked it that way.

The next part of the story, the part after I figured out that there might be no Anarchist, involves mostly waiting.  About two-and-a-half to three months of waiting to be exact.  Or, in hospital time, three days.  Hospital time is a new and nifty method of time measurement I learned while in the hospital.  It turns out, that when a nurse or doctor tells you that they will return in 15 minutes, and don't return for the better part of a day, they are not doing it to snub you, neglect you, or even because they have forgotten about you.  In fact, the reason that your doctor or nurse has not courteously returned anywhere near the 15 minutes they estimated, is because they are operating on a different plane of existence, and on this plane of existence everything runs on hospital time.  After a few weeks of feeling utterly helpless and neglected every time this happened, the Bureaucrat and I came to the stunning realization that if you take the amount of time your caregiver tells  you and figure about an hour for each minute, you will be roughly accurate in predicting your caregiver's actual time of arrival.  Once you have figured this out, you can translate, and then everything will make perfect sense.  It was life changing, really.

I learned a lot of other amazingly life changing lessons while on bed rest/in the hospital.  I know you're dying for me to recount them to you.  Man, you're an attentive audience!  In no particular order:

1)  Needles are not as bad as they look. 

I used to faint whenever I had blood drawn.  I am frail of constitution like that.  But after several nurses played many rounds of "Stab the Pregnant Lady 17-25 times in her Diving and Surprisingly Resistant Veins Until You Maybe Have Some Luck But Then it Pops Out Again and There's Blood Spatter Everywhere Like Something Out of a Horror Movie," I developed an ability to endure anything involving needles.  Now, whenever I go to the doctor's and a nurse apologetically says that she has to draw blood, I look at her with a delighted gleam in my eyes.  Bring it!

2) Showing Vulnerability (crying like a toddler)=Orange Cream Cake

I regret to inform you that this lesson does not hold true in real life.  But in hospital land, on the rare occasion that seeing one more needle actually does cause you to have a rare emotional meltdown, the nice nurses and technicians will bribe you...with orange cream cake...with all the orange cream cake they can pilfer from various dinner trays on the floor.  I think I might have had seven pieces.  Really, I should have tried having meltdowns a whole lot sooner. 

3)  Thinner is not always better.

This could also be titled: "What Not to Say to a Woman Facing a High-Risk Pregnancy."  When I went into the hospital the first time, it was discovered that I had lost about eight pounds (i.e. the water weight that would have been delightful to have still had, given that it provided her with a way to breathe).  Of course, my doctors were--rightfully--concerned.  At one point, they even insisted I have weigh-ins like they do on Biggest Loser.  If I didn't weigh enough, they would look very concerned.  Some of the nurses, on the other hand, would feel it necessary to make such comments as, "Oh my god, you are SO skinny!  I hate you!  I wish I had been that skinny when I was pregnant!  How do you manage to stay so thin?!"  Oh, gosh, I don't know...maybe because I'm languishing with infection and uterine rupture, all the fluids that help my baby breathe are mysteriously missing so that she's forced to face-plant in mere millimeters of fluid, and I haven't had any non-hospital food in weeks?!  Maybe you could try that with your next pregnancy!  It's worked wonders for me! 

Oh my gosh, I was so SKINNY!  I HATE me!
How did I EVER manage to stay so thin?!

4)  Medical tape makes an excellent alternative to wax, bleach, or laser treatments.

The first time a nurse attempted to yank off the tape from my IV so that I could take a shower--commenting, "Wow!  You're furry!"--and it cleanly removed an entire patch of arm hair, I knew I had found a winner.  

5)  Medical residents get all the worst jobs.

From a patient's perspective, the residents in the Labor and Delivery Unit have a job description that is as follows:

Wake patient for 6 am abdominal prod.
Deliberate nervously over whether or not to alert attending physician (who is at home sleeping) about seemingly dangerous problem (which will turn out to be nothing) at 3 am.
Inform super-hungry patients that they are not allowed to eat tonight "just in case."
Hold vomit pan for emergency c-section patient who just ate a hearty spaghetti dinner.  Regret not having advised said patient not to eat tonight "just in case."

6)  When attempting to entertain an anxious toddler in a hospital room, spinny stools and saltines go a long way.

The poor Dictator only got to visit me a few times during the duration of my stay.  The first time, she was so glad that I still existed that she plastered herself to me and could not be pried loose (it was mutual).  The next time, she got antsy, so I fed her pieces of tomato and saltines from my lunch tray and let her spin on the doctor's spinny stool.  This created a ritual for the next couple of times she came to visit.  I still miss that ritual.

7)  What Not to Wear

I couldn't allow myself to have deep emotions, or I would have been done for.  This being the case, my sole form of entertainment was What Not to Wear marathons on TLC.  I now officially know how to mix prints, why I should wear heels on all occasions, and why a little jacket that nips in at the waist can make all the difference.  Thanks, high risk pregnancy, for giving me the opportunity to focus on fashion!

8)  Sleeping drug-induced hallucinations are not as funny as they seem.

Okay, so I thought that it was an amusing anecdote when I told a nurse that the previous night I had dreamed that the entire hospital was on fire and had actually left my bed and attempted to put out flames with my sheets.  How was I to know that the news would soon spread to panicked doctors who would wonder if my next dream might cause me to open the window, go out on the roof, and act out the plot of an entire action movie (you know, the kind that take place on the roof?).  Good thing I didn't tell them about that hallucination!

9)  How to pick the person you want to have cut you open.

They don't actually let you pick, by the way.  But you can hope, right?  Every single one of my doctors was competent, compassionate and all-around amazing.  That being said, there were certain doctors I hoped would not be on call when the moment of delivery came.  Crying Doctor, for example, would shower me with her empathy for feelings I hadn't even allowed myself to experience yet.  Also, she might cry into my open womb, and I think that could cause an infection.  Another doctor, one I really looked forward to having on rounds, was Sleepless Doctor.  Sleepless Doctor seemed supremely competent, was the epitome of sensitivity, and also proved to be an excellent listener and advocate for his patients.  Unfortunately, he made the mistake of making an offhand comment to me about how he occasionally took just a sliver of a sleeping pill (literally) because he was an insomniac.  And even with the pills, he often only got two or three hours of sleep a night.  Not something you want to hear from your potential surgeon.  Luckily, I was spared a sleepless doctor or a crying one for the actual surgery, but I was gifted with both of these doctors during the rest of my care.

10)    People have such a capacity for kindness.

Nurses who bought me special snacks to cheer me up, patient care techs who brought in their own dvds for me to borrow, doctors who told me how they thought of how hard it must be for me (thought of it even when they were not at work), cleaning ladies who insisted that I get the best service possible, cafeteria workers who made me smile and feel loved every time they took my order for the day...these people are what got me safely through the ordeal, still feeling like a human being.  If they hadn't been this kind and caring, I guarantee that I would not have held out as long as I did.  I am thankful every day that I was given such amazing care and reminded that most people are really wonderful, and compassionate, and a blessing to have around.  (Eww...mushy.  But true.)

The Dictator stayed with my parents during this ordeal. 
They're willingness to help to such a great extent is another
reason I was able to make it through. 

Part II: An(ti)nunciation

Mary got an angel and "do not be afraid," and I'm pretty sure that, a short time after, her cousin sang her a pretty song and other fetuses jumped up and down with joy.  "Hooray!  You're going to have a baby!"  Like that.

About one month pregnant with the future
Anarchist.  Don't I look young and innocent?
Also, I miss that headband.  I had entirely
forgotten about that headband.  I wonder
what happened to it.

I got (5 months into a normal pregnancy) obstetricians, ultrasounds, and the news that I should drive immediately to the hospital so that I could deliver a baby with absolutely no chance of survival.  "I'm afraid it's so early, there's nothing we can do," the compassionate doctor announced through tears.  "You're not going to have a baby."  Let it be done to me according to your will.  An anti miracle.

Of course, Mary probably didn't fall down a flight of stairs 15 weeks into pregnancy, so maybe I should stop drawing parallels (also, I'm not a blessed virgin, further problematizing the comparison).  I had caught myself by grasping the railing and sliding down (what I had thought was) gracefully most of the way.  I hadn't thought anything of it at the time.  Even at the big five month ultrasound, when the technician searched forever, went away, came back, went away again, and vaguely said something about "not enough fluid to image the fetus," it never occurred to me that anything was amiss (except that maybe the baby was a hermaphrodite and the technician didn't have the balls--pun intended--to tell me to my face).  At the follow-up appointment at my OB's office, however, the doctor found absolutely no fluid surrounding the soon-to-be-Anarchist at all.  Maybe the fall was responsible for the rupture.  I don't know.  All I know was that my mother drove me to the hospital where I staggered, shivering, into a hospital gown and hospital bed, and waited, trembling, for the doctor to come in and "discuss my options."  

The first doctor--the one at the office--I have since dubbed the Crying Doctor.  Her empathy continued throughout my stay at the hospital and always reassured me that the people entrusted with my health/safety truly did care.  She did, however, have a propensity to make me cry.  Not as cool.  Her polar opposite, whom we will call "Calm Doctor," was the one who "discussed my options" with me.  Thank goodness.  I was distraught enough as it was, and his cool, gentle, detached manner helped me to emotionally stabilize enough to think.   

Our happy little pre-Anarchist family.

As it turned out, the word "options" was a bit of a misnomer.  I couldn't actually abort the baby (which I wouldn't have done anyway), as it was Catholic hospital.  I could either try to reinject fluid back into the uterus, in hopes that it would repair itself (a long shot), or I could...actually, I'm not even remembering what the other option was...something to do with assisted miscarriage.  Anyway, it didn't feel like options, and I remember a lengthy, probably delirious discussion of the difference between ethics and morality while trying to explain my non-decision to Calm Doctor.  I'm sure he came away from the whole experience feeling terribly enlightened.

Forever after (until the Anarchist was actually born), I was plagued with the idea that I might have made the wrong "decision" in my moment of delirium.  What if the baby was born, but suffered so much brain/lung/organ damage (or lack of development) that s/he led a short, painful, vegetative existence in the hospital before we were forced to pull the plug?  What if the Dictator was forced to be separated from me for such a long time that she acted out of the psychic trauma for the rest of her life, potentially becoming a serial killer, or worse, a corporate middle manager?  What if everyone laughed at the way I looked in my hospital gown?  What if I was forcing something that was never meant to be?  What if I was not equipped to be an adequate mother to someone who would--no doubt--have brain damage?  And on and on.

The Dictator shortly before all this crazy business went down.
She had no idea what was about to hit her.  Or maybe she did.
That would explain the face.

Long story short(ish) for now:  The fluid came back; the rupture repaired itself for about a day; I got violently ill and vomited on my nurse and the Bureaucrat; I was sent home.  The fluid didn't hold and I had to be readmitted about six hours after returning home (talk about childhood trauma for the Dictator!). I spent two more weeks in the hospital, was discharged for two more weeks on bed-rest until I reached viability. I returned to the hospital at 23 weeks gestation and remained there in hopes that the Anarchist would eventually be born with semi-working lungs.

The memories are most vivid surrounding the time I found out that I would not have a baby.  Indelibly etched in my mind are the sounds of the Calm Doctor's voice, the look on Crying Doctor's face, the feel of the nice lady in the waiting room trying to comfort me as I almost fainted, every bump on the road on the way to the hospital, the multiple needle jabs as the poor nurses attempted to put in my IV, the horrid taste of anti-nausea medicine, and the look on the Dictator's face as I left almost as soon as I had returned. A "do not be afraid" might have been nice right about then.  But you know what?  It wouldn't have been terribly sensitive or realistic.  Also, I think they reserve Gabriel for blessed virgins and the like.

Don't worry, the story gets better...funny even.  Because I did have the baby, and it turns out that she's hilarious.  Also, between the an(ti)nunciation and her birth, I developed a well-honed sense of humor as a coping mechanism.  I bet the Virgin Mary never got to do that.

The Anarchist Comes (clumsily, tenaciously, loudly) Into the World: an epic tragicomedy

Our little miracle.

As I type this, I am holding the Anarchist on my lap.  She is scrawling her name all over everything with a highlighter she has stolen from the Bureaucrat's supply and demanding--loudly--that I stop what I am doing and type her name repeatedly all over the blog/or start playing Petville on Facebook.  She is becoming increasingly whiny.  I am considering tossing  her out the (first story) window.  "To the curb!" as we say in our (ever so loving) family. 

Of course, I would never do such a thing.  The Bureaucrat would have a fit if I removed the window screens.  And of course, the neighbors might start to wonder.  Also, the Anarchist is our little miracle.  And you don't toss miracles out of windows...even gently.

In about a week, we celebrate the miracle that is the birth of the Anarchist.  While every birth is, without question, a miracle, the Anarchist's birth is a different kind of miracle because it's the kind of miracle that looked, for a very long time, like it was going to be the opposite of a miracle.  It's the kind of miracle you struggle towards, doubt the possibility of, resign yourself to the lack of, and simultaneously have enough faith to behave as if it might just happen.  This miracle involved 6 am abdominal poking/prodding, sleeping pill-induced hallucinations, hospital jello cups, excessive watching of What Not to Wear on tiny hospital television screens, feeding tubes and spinal taps.  It was a strange miracle, not glowing and awesome and all-in-an-instant miraculous, but difficult, uncomfortable, drawn out and crammed with as much doubt as hope.  And it smelled like hospital.

Even now when I wash my hands at a doctor's office and smell the distinctive hospital soap, I'm hit with vivid flashbacks and get a little misty-eyed.  It looks like this: semi-normal looking mother of two helps children wash hands in pediatrician's office bathroom, lifts hands to face, breathes deeply, commences weeping. Alright, having written that, I'm starting to realize how crazy that must come off to a casual bystander.  I have to remember to stop sniffing my hands.

If any of this seems cryptic to you, it's probably because I haven't actually explained that the Anarchist was a preemie.  She was born three months early, after I had spent three months in the hospital holding very, very still and attempting to maintain a perfectly static and neutral emotional state so as not to agitate her tiny, fetal self.  If I had realized how resilient that tiny, fetal personality was, I might have allowed myself to get up and use the bathroom more frequently.  She probably could have withstood the turbulence.

Her tiny, fetal self.

Anyway, in honor of the Anarchist's super-miraculous, super-dramatic entry into the world four years ago Saturday, I am going to inundate you with her story.  Oh yes, friends, this is just the first installment in an epic miniseries celebrating my Anarchist.  Don't worry, no one will force you to read it.  But I feel the need to document it for posterity, so that when she grows up to be a famous geneticist/ballerina/rock star/race car driver/anarchist, it's already set down for her biographers.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go sniff some hospital soap.  I need inspiration for Part II.