Doctor, Doctor

When you wake up in the morning, you don't get dressed based on whether or not you're going to be in the ER hours later.  (Or maybe you do.  Do you?  Can we be real life friends, we have so much in common already.)

You get dressed based on what's happening that day.  Walking the dog?  Tank top and Wal-Mart shorts.  Meeting at your kid's school in the afternoon?  Capri pants with that cute tangerine shirt that buttons up the front. 

So on a regular Tuesday, I wake up and pull on my favorite sleeveless peasant dress.  It's blue, kind of oddly tiered in segments like those dresses you find at candle shops.  The ones that reek of frankincense and perhaps a skoshe of myrrh.  

I have errands to run, dogs to walk, and dinner to make.  One too many things in public to get away with neon shorts all day.

By 6pm, I am in the ER with Abby. 

Abby who comes off the bus with hives.  If you have children, you know this is not a rare or special thing.  Kids come down with the craziest symptoms that have you googling with one hand and stirring taco meat with the other.  

My parenting alarm doesn't sound until her upper lip swells up.  She is suddenly and drastically a tiny Marge Simpson.  Yes, it is adorable but logically speaking, I worry it will be her tongue to poof next.  In my way of thinking, we have seconds to get her to a doctor before her airway is completely closed in.  I ask Andy to drive Abby and me to the ER.  Because, you know, I need my hands free to perform CPR or flail wildly at will.  Either, or.

It's crucial to let you know I pull back my hair and mop it down reeeeallly well on my head when I'm nervous.  So, by this hour, every oily molecule living near or on my hands is now ground deeply into my skull.  I'm shiny from tip to (pony)tail.  Now I am donning the kind of thing that is neither attractive or particularly successful.  My bangs are dangling in my eyes like spider legs. Something on me smells like tacos.  

We all make it to the door, register, and are seen within minutes.  Nobody's freaking out.  Abby's lip is stable albeit very Aflac like.  Things are going so well, Andy and Grayson take off to make the rest of his baseball practice.  That's when things happen.  And man, it could've been great.  If only I had showered.

Scene 1 - Nurse Enters Room

Nurse:  I'm going to ask you to drink this, Honey.  It will help with the itching and the swelling.

Me:  Steroid?

Nurse:  Yes.

Me:  Are we ok?

Nurse:  The doctor will be in shortly.  Yes, I think so.

Abby:  Can we go now?  We've been here FOREVER.

Me:  Hang on, Baby.  The doctor needs to look at you first.

Scene 2 - Doctor, Doctor

Doctor:  Well, Hello.  Abigail is it, or do you prefer to be called something else?

Inside my Head Me:  Oh No.  You're beautiful.  

Abby:  Abby.  I like. To be called. Abby. 

Inside My Head Me:  Be nice to my future boyfriend, Honey.  He's only trying to get to know you before we ride into the sunset on his yacht.

Doctor:  Then I shall call you Abigail.

Abby: I LIKE TO BE CALLED ABBY!

Real Me, finally making eye contact:  She really doesn't like the name Abigail.  I can't help you there.

Doctor, taking a dramatic stage pause, looking directly at me:  You're not from around here, are you?

Inside my Head Me:  Holy crap.  Is this happening?

Real Me:  No, I'm not.  How could you tell?  My accent?

Abby:  CAN WE GO NOW MOM?

Doctor:  No, it's more like your lack of any accent from anywhere, it's fascinating.  I've never heard anyone with a non-accent like yours.

Inside My Head Me:  He just called me fascinating. - rifling through purse like a drug addict - Where are my cough drops?  Dammit, Grayson ate my last piece of gum, didn't he?  That little...

Doctor:  Where are you from?

Inside My Head Me:  I am from Roma, Italia.  It is the city of love.

Real Me:  Oh, me?  I'm from the suburbs of DC.

Abby:  Mom, seriously.  I'm missing Teen Titans.  

Real Me:  I only let them watch an hour of TV per day, tops.

Inside My Head Me:  I should've said we don't even HAVE a TV.

Doctor:  Them?  You have other children?

Inside My Head Me:  Yes, but I can farm them out.  Would you prefer we just start anew?

Abby: G-R-A-Y-S-O-N

Doctor:  Well, I think you're going to be ok, Abigail.  I have an Abigail too and she's four.  She doesn't like to be called Abigail either.  

Inside My Head Me:  Oh thank you Lord for letting him have children, too.  Now I can keep mine.

Abby:  Does she like Hello Kitty?

Doctor:  Yes.  Very much.  Do you want a Hello Kitty band-aid?  I'll see what I can do.  I'll be right back with your discharge papers.  

Me:  Ok, I'll be waiting.  Umm, WE'll be waiting.  We'll be here.  Ok.  

Scene 3 - The Breakup

Doctor:  So, I couldn't find Miss Abigail a Hello Kitty band-aid but my nurse will be in with a pink one, ok?  You two take good care and come back if anything else comes up.

Inside My Head Me:  I am feeling a little faint.  See you in fifteen.

Abby:  Ok, we can go now?

Doctor:  Yes, you can go after the nurse gives you your prescriptions and your pink band-aid.

Abby:  And a purple one?

Inside My Head Me:  Oh my, I'm wearing flip-flops, this just keeps getting better.

Doctor:  AND a purple one.

Inside My Head:   I will always love you.

Real Me:  Thanks, Doc, take care!

Married Me:  HONEY, you should've SEEN this doctor.  No joke, he was from freaking Grey's Anatomy.  It was so annoying because I am just not in the mood for all of that tonight. 

Andy:  You're just saying that because you're mad at me for being late.

Me:  Heh.  No, I'm really not.  Believe me, I wish none of this happened.  Do I smell like tacos?

Feverish Time

Abby's fever is hovering between 101.7 and 103.5.  I've already texted a trusted mom friend asking which number do we hit before DEFCON ice cube bath.  We agreed 104 is the number.  104.5 is grabbing car keys and screaming directives to the dog sitter.

My Ninjas (in-laws) are here visiting and I have no idea how to keep an arsenal of preschool germs from entering their immune system.  I'm protecting mine well with gin from a second Tom Collins.

There's a fan Andy brought in to our room (sickbay) that is both keeping Abby cool and me hard of hearing. This white noise brings me back to teenage years.  My brother, Eric, sleeping in 'til noon after a late night at the restaurant.  It was never less than 64 degrees near his bed so I'd curl up on the futon, snuggling close the afghan with diamond holes in it.  Sometimes I'd get in a whole episode of Saved By the Bell before he ever stirred.  Then his feet would wiggle Hello.

Sadie's on high alert with Abby's fever.  She stays close by which is typical when things go awry in our house.  As if her presence alone will bring strength to some invisible structure only she sees adding up.  She's right.  Love molecules do accrue when she's near.

She's a walking shield of healing.

Lately, I've wanted to sit with time instead of curse its passing.  There's no sure-fire way but stillness comes close to damming the steady flow of minutes.


Abby's calling for me, calling for "Mama" and when I'm with her she thanks me so profusely it's bordering on hallucinations.  "You're the best, Mama.  Please no more wet cloths on my shoulders, it's so, so hot.  Thank you for taking good care of me, Mama.  Will it hurt when all these colors break?  What did you say, Mama?"

Nothing, Baby.  Close your eyes and try to sleep.  The fever calms when you are resting.  

Not Morning Sickness

I write all of my posts with the knowledge that I'm writing more for me than for anyone else.  That's on purpose.  It keeps me focused and is comfortable for me to live small that way. 

This post, however, is entirely different.  I want people to read this one.  I need people to read this one.  Share it, Retweet it, copy and paste it, whatever you want, but please give it to someone you know might need it because you might be that person's salvation.  If what we do here helps one person realize they are not crazy, weak, or a medical mystery, then we have done a freaking stellar job.  Everybody wins.   
 
This post is long because it's important I get the details right.  Lives depend on it.   A mother's, a baby's, or both.

Since the news of Kate Middleton's difficult pregnancy broke, I can't stop thinking about her.  Not just because this lovely woman is sick but because I know how she is suffering.  I know because I had Hyperemesis Gravidarum and it was absolute torture.    

        
~ Not until 6 weeks in with my second pregnancy did I think something was really wrong.  I remembered feeling this awful with Grayson but now, so early on, I could not keep anything down. I was averaging 15 upchucks per morning while my friends talked of throwing up 15 times per pregnancy.  

I asked my OB if she thought this was Hyperemesis Gravidarum, what my mother had while pregnant with my little brother.  I knew about it because of what my mom endured (without proper diagnoses or treatment) and because I researched words like "hyper hormonal," and “more than morning sickness," like it was my job.  It was all I could think about while the nausea amped up and the vomiting responded to nothing, not even the Zofran.

Meanwhile, the numbers on the scale kept ticking down.

Any bite of food or sip of liquid triggered a fight response in my body.  My stomach had its own personal bouncer who ejected all contents out if its club at whatever cost. 

By 8 weeks, the cost was jaundice, debilitating nausea, extreme weakness, fainting spells, and hypersalivation.  I had a spit cup.  A disgusting addition during American Idol night with my friend.  She pretended it didn't gross her out.  I pretended I was able to concentrate on the singing.
 

 

"Yep, this is pretty standard extreme morning sickness," my doctor would say, making me feel like a huge crybaby even though I knew that was the last descriptor my friends or family would use to describe me.

I maintained something was wrong for weeks, but doctors advised “Preggo Pops” and seasick wristbands in lieu of further evaluation.   My nurses recommended nail salons.   

I did not demand more.  


Despite growing sicker by the hour, I tried it all:  pedicures, ginger candy, chewing gum, Saltines, seasick wristbands.  Standing in line at CVS to pick up the Zofran that didn't work became a nightmare. I could smell everything's toxic insides.  One whiff of L'Oreal and I was hurling into my purse like I hadn't been home from Mardi Gras yet.  Most days I could hardly stand the scent of my own skin.  My world was on fire and every surrounding thing burned like hell.  

When nothing alleviated my illness, I tried the unorthodox route:  pressure points, meditation, hypnotherapy, crystals, and praying to a God I wasn't sure existed.  

It was no use, I was a Failed Pregnant Superhero able to spot exit signs in the blink of an eye.  The Caped Uterus, Iron Womb-an, The Incredible Hurlk


My poor husband spent more time outside in the cold cooking his own dinners on the grill. I would watch him eat.  I would study my husband enjoying his dinner trying to figure out how he kept his down, like we were both pregnant.

My sweet friends looked at me sideways, wondering what to say.  I'm sure it appeared I'd morphed into Scarlett O'Hara overnight.  Oh my, how my poor tendah feet need a rest.  I didn't return calls, could not finish books for Book Club, and wouldn't host Silpada parties.  I felt as though I lived under a death cloud of nausea and vomiting at all times.  I was shackled to my bathroom, under house arrest.
 
At the 12 week mark, when doctors promised my "morning sickness" would magically disappear, things only got worse.  There was no more sleeping through the nausea.  I lost 25 lbs, and had become a disturbing shade of scallion.   Twizzlers and ice cubes were the only two things on the menu.

   

This didn't feel like a pregnancy.  This felt like a parasitic invasion.  Not sure how much longer I or the baby could make it in starvation mode, I made one last trip to my doctor. 

“Your bladder's completely empty,” she said pressing her magic wand hard onto my organs. “Your stomach is too.  How long have you been like this?” Her eyebrows as high as they could go. 

“Since the beginning,” I answered. "Like I've been telling you all along," I thought.  Within minutes I was hospitalized, hooked up to IVs and feeling like I landed in a Sandal's resort.  

 A new doctor diagnosed it:  It was exactly what I had suspected all along.

 Hyperemesis Gravidarum. 

"Is it serious?"  I asked from my imaginary hammock.  

"Yes, it is," said the no-shit new OB. "Hyperemesis Gravidarum is making you very sick.  It is intractable nausea, vomiting, and dehydration which gets you here because of malnutrition or other complications.   

"Other complications?  Is my baby ok?"

"Yes, but I'm glad you're here because if left without treatment, well...HG can result in maternal and fetal death.."

Whoa...I'm glad I'm here too, brother.  This mess is no joke.  
 
Validating news for me came when I read the pamphlet.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is a condition so rare it affects 0.5-2.0% of the pregnant population.  It is hormonal poisoning that acts like a 24-hour stomach bug lasting 6,048 hours instead.  A nine month long siege of poisoning.

HA.  I wasn't a crybaby afterall.  And my poor mom hadn’t been a delicate one either.  Quite the opposite, really.  We could both rest on our laurels that we fought this beast off until salvation arrived.  Lactated ringers for Mom, and a PICC line surgically implanted into my arm for me. 

A visiting nurse walked my husband and me through what to do with my PICC line once, then she drove away.  We sat across from each other, dazed, and unsure of how legal this operation really could be.  I was a teacher.  He, an Aviation Logistics Officer.  We fumbled at first - with gloves, sterile needles, syringes, and flushing my line with heparin but eventually we felt like two interns on Grey's Anatomy.  Only fewer visits to the broom closet.

 

 

My PICC line was three feet long, snaked through a good vein, and rested right above my heart. This tiny tube angel allowed nutrients to directly enter through my bloodstream.   

 

It kept me and my baby alive while correcting the chemical and metabolic damage that had already been done.  My tube angel would stay with me for the rest of the pregnancy so I could go back home to my family.

Many women with HG can't go home.  Once diagnosed, they remain in their hospital bed, attached to tubes, and illness for months on end.

 

 

We named my IV pole Ghostrider as it followed us everywhere.  Our two-year-old became an expert at lifting tubing over his head for story time.  Our kitchen looked like a hospital triage but felt like hope.  Once nutrients and fluids came through a bag, I became less frantic about the nausea.  Food was still largely a non-option but over the next five months, life began to pick up speed...and weight.

At 8 months pregnant, I finally discovered I could eat a burrito and keep it down.

So I ate them all.

25 pounds of them.

Just when I was really getting my feed bag strapped on for good, the big day arrived.  Our baby was ready to show up with gusto. 

Abigail Kate entered the scene a fast and furious three hours after my first contraction.  The nurse placed her in my arms and I was met with a penetrating gaze that drove chills to my heart.

Her little determined face and those serious eyes...how could I have not known?  All those months of nose holding, IV pole dragging, pregnancy hating, HG cursing...Abby Kate was working just as hard from the inside to stay as I was working on the outside to keep her.  We were anything but fragile.

“Thank you," I whisper to her,  "Thank you for being a warrior.  Just like your mama and your grandma.  I'm so proud of you, Baby Girl.  Now you go rest while Mommy gets a tubal."

Post Note:
Please refer anyone possibly suffering from the misnomer "extreme morning sickness" to this website:
Help HER - Hyperemesis Education Research

And if you think I might have been stretching the truth, please read this woman's account of her experience with HG.  or ask my husband. 

Hyperemesis Gravidarum:  Is NOT morning sickness.  It is intractable nausea, vomiting, and dehydration resulting in malnutrition and serious complications and imbalances.     Hyperemesis Gravidarum can result in maternal and fetal death..

The literature existing now is very clear.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is very serious and often misdiagnosed as severe morning sickness.  If ignored, HG often results in depression or termination of fetus, as a life saving measure for the mother.  If left untreated, both mother and baby are at risk of losing their lives.

Hyperemesis Gravidarum is a condition so rare it affects 0.5-2.0% of the pregnant population.  But it does affect.  And 0.5-2.0%...still a person makes.    

Hyperemesis Gravidarum takes a toll on your mental state as well as your physical state.  For me, Hyperemesis Gravidarum was letting my two-year-old watch an endless loop of Winnie the Pooh while I quietly pounded my fists on my thighs so he wouldn't hear me sobbing.  (I still can't hear the Pooh theme song without dry heaving.)  HG was being scared, alone, and fighting for two lives.  It was feeling crazy because nobody seems to believe any pregnant woman can be that sick.  They can't understand.  You are their 0.5%.  Comparing HG to morning sickness is like comparing anorexia to a common cold.  One could kill you, the other one just needs Gatorade.

HG is nothing new; it has been around for hundreds of years.  Author, Charlotte Bronte died in 1855 at four months pregnant with complications from Hyperemesis Gravidarum.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is still so obscure it doesn't even show up on Word’s spell check.

While the social media iron is hot on this topic, let's bring this horrendous beast out into the open.  Only then will it lose its power.  Hyperemesis Gravidarum is treatable, often manageable, and survivable if diagnosed in time.  There are tests doctors can do to determine unhealthy hormone levels.  DEMAND them, do NOT worry about looking impolite, sensitive, or weak.  None of that matters when you start to to rapidly deteriorate from dehydration and other imbalances, when it is too late to reverse the negative slide.

Help me educate our friends, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and children about Hyperemesis Gravidarum before one more mother or one more baby unnecessarily loses their fight.

Water Balloons and Hammocks

We knew something was up when Abby regressed into not having a "thing to wear" while her wardrobe is filled with the softest clothes this side of the Delaware River.

Andy thought of taking her temperature before I did.

103.9

Aha.  Why don't I ever think of that first?

We Tylenol'ed her right away and felt confident she would be feeling better in 20 minutes.

I took myself straight to Giant for chicken soup ingredients, frosting for a doll party Abby insisted on having, and TP.  Three hours later (Someone got carried away reading labels.), I came back home to find Abby's fever was worse, not better.

Andy was buzzing back and forth talking about emergency rooms and cold baths.  Poor man.  He lives with so much stress on his shoulders all the time and this surprise fever was not on his syllabus.  His motherboard short-circuited so I put grocery bags in his hand to calm him down.  Food and organizing the pantry is his happy place.

Even with Tylenol, Abby's fever sky rocketed above 104.  Thankfully, a kind nurse on the phone squeezed us in as the last appointment for the day.

Abby's doctor couldn't have been better.  She took one look at Abby glossy eyes and flaming throat and called it. "Strep."  She was so sure in fact, that she wrote out a prescription for amoxi before we went to the lab downstairs.

Minutes after Abby and the tech tussled, the strep test came back positive.  Thank goodness, an actual diagnosis; something we can work with.  Not a mysterious ailment bringing with it a fever connected to nothing.  I will take strep any day of any week.

But poor kid, she really did have a rough day yesterday between body aches, chills, and generally feeling like hell.  I knew she was hurting when she shunned a Strawberry Shortcake marathon for her own bed and closed shades.



Grayson watched TV most of the day because Andy was stuck outlining historical wars in the study and I couldn't spin the nurse plate and the 5 yo boy plate just then.

By the time I was finished sponging down Abby's scalding hot body, it was near 4pm.

"Can we have a water balloon fight, Mommy?"

Seriously, kid?  I'll have you know I want to curl up on that there couch you've been camped out on all day to close my eyes and dream of rocking in a hammock over fields of barley.

"A water balloon fight.  Okay, yes. Go get your shoes on."

With that, I forced myself to ignore the great desire so sleep and we had ourselves a grand time.

 Granted, the water hose was not the fastest method but it got the job done.

 Which gave Grayson plenty of time to practice his I-Will-Crush-You-Like-A-Samurai faces

 This one kind of had me nervous.

 "I won't throw these at you, Mom!"

 "I will LAUNCH them at you like the scary ball of boy angst that I am!!"

 Ahhh, the One-legged death toss!!

 He even had the dogs running.

 But look who came outside with us later on for a quick visit?  

She didn't last very long but it was good to see her upright again.

I guess sometimes a water balloon fight really is much better than a boring old hammock anyway.