“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” ― Lao Tzu

Tuesday, July 9th started off like most of the Tuesdays have started over the span of your pregnancy. Maybe the one difference, at least, initially is that I was first to leave the house to go take care of a few things at Commonwealth early in the morning. That meant you were home tending to ms. nora grace, getting her breakfast and relaxing with her as she loves to do in the a.m.’s. the nice thing was I was able to stop back home and see you before you went off to treatment and see Nora before I went off to work at 3C’s. 

We hung out as a family for 30 minutes or so and then I departed. I asked if you could text me with the update once you got settled in the triage room, they ordered your meds, and most importantly, they heard baby’s heartbeat. 

Your text came to me at about 11am stating that you were late arriving and on top of that, triage was jammed. Not a huge deal, as by now, we know it now takes about 4 hours total for the infusion itself and that still gives you some time to get home and take Nora to swimming…her Tuesday activity.

At 12:15, the day’s course changed dramatically. You were now in a room, on the monitor, medicine dripping but you were contracting. Gulp. Contracting. At 32 weeks, 6 days. This just got very real, very scary, very quickly. Although the initial call from you to me was calm, the next couple were hardly that. With me in Lemont and you in a triage room at Northwestern, I knew what was coming. Fear. Concern. Worry. Tears. And rightfully so. I hopped in the car and headed down to be with you. A 25 minute drive felt like it took 6 hours. I parked and located your room in Triage. There you were. Gritting your teeth and stepping up to the plate once again for our to be born daughter. You had calmed a bit by the time I saw you but I still saw the worry in your eyes. 

As the drip finished up and the contractions continued to come and go, we did our best to not worry too much about what lie ahead. Until another check of your cervix dictated that maybe we should. A slight change in the cervix meant that labor and subsequent delivery could be coming. F#$k. Really?

So many things came to mind about how this could end up. The triage nurse talked to MFM and they suggested further observation. That meant I’d be leaving and heading home to get Nora Grace and take her to swimming. You insisted that she be kept to some normalcy whenever possible. And this was one of those times. By the time I got to the car in the parking garage, I was a crying fool myself. I couldn’t and wouldn’t let NGM see me like that, as to not cause concern for her. You called your parents to come down and to swimming we went.

Checking in with you periodically, made the lump in my throat get bigger by the minute. If my mind wandered, tears followed. Soon after our return from swimming, your parents arrived. Always there when we need them…and this year we’ve needed them a ton. I pulled it together as to not let them know how worried I was. I kissed Nora good bye and your dad drove me to the hospital with a small collection of your things.

To say the next 16 hours was an exhaustive blur would be a vast understatement. Doctors, residents, tests, cervical exams, falling heart beat, tears, silence, monitors, changing rooms, waiting, talk of steroids, possible delivery, c-sections, survival rates for pre term babies and more. As I sit here and try and figure out a way to best capture the evening and early morning, I realize I can’t. Maybe my mind didn’t want to store those memories or maybe I was too numb to the process…as once again I was merely watching on the sidelines, as I was with our sweet Gavin, while you fought like a prized fighter backed into his own corner. That same fighter finds a way to get off the ropes, jabbing, pushing back, getting to the center of the ring and lives to see another round. Or in our case, our next round is our pending trip to Michigan. Something that has been on our calendar for more than 9 months and it’s been circled on your calendar for just as long. Kind of our calm before the possible pending storm. For if we can get to and beyond Beach House, we are in good shape, and so is baby. And that’s our goal on this trip.

By now, I’ve used most superlatives available to me to describe how amazing you’ve been through this process and on this journey. Maybe lost in all of this is how much I love you. But I do. A ton.

To recap this day. 27 hours and some scary and surreal moments later, we left the hospital. Some deep breathes. On to Beach House. Fingers crossed.

 

 

What’s that sound? Just the month of June flying by…

June 4th, 11th, 17th and 25th. I’m not sure what is more impressive…the absolute toughness you have shown during these treatments or the fact that you basically are training the nurses on a weekly basis as to how the protocol works. June brought some familiar faces in regards to the nurses in Triage, but it also saw me missing the last two treatment sessions. I had every intention of being with you for every treatment as a small showing of my support and commitment to you and more importantly, our family. Unfortunately, in order to spend more time as a family on the weekends, my schedule shifted to more weekday responsibilities at the restaurant.

With or without me there, you haven’t missed a beat. Continuing to get up early, pack a lunch and head off to your home away from home…well home away from Noble and home. Getting poked, prodded and monitored all while having your patience tested, having to deal with spotty internet, getting work done for school, having to unplug to get to the restroom…all with needles in the most precarious of positions. And I know you do it all for one reason with no complaints. Just as when you dug to the deepest levels of toughness I’v e ever seen for the gargantuan needle/fluid extraction with Gavin, gritting your teeth because you felt doing that procedure was the only way you felt you could help him.

And now, with this treatment, your courage continues in seeing to it that our daughter arrives in our world with the best cards dealt to her, regardless of what you have to do to make it happen. Awe inspiring.

In the words of Nora Grace when she hurts herself and she recites the line we’ve told her over and over again…”I’m tough because I’m a Metz”. Whether you’re a Gergits or a Metz doesn’t matter, one thing is clear. When it comes to our children, you’re tough as hell.

8 weeks out and counting.

peek a boo.

May 28th. Another big day as we continue to travel down the road of our third pregnancy. The weeks continue to pass us by with this week bringing us another ultrasound. It’s hard(actually, impossible) not to think back to week 26 through week 30 of the last pregnancy, at least for me. As we know all too well, those weeks were filled with such emotion…hope, sadness, fear, happiness, anxiety, calm, chaos and the unthinkable. This time around, we’re seemingly in better shape, at least of what we are aware of and with how you are feeling.

With the good report at the 20 week ultrasound long out of view in the rearview mirror, the 26 week ultrasound came up quick. 5 treatments have been administered since and not much else has presented in the way of  complications. Michelle is once again our ultrasound technician and she is relaxed and calm as she was last time. We head into the room and I pretend to be able to contribute to your idle chit chat with Michelle(which I know calms you down and eases your mind) but I fail as I have only one thing on my mind. Seeing our developing daughter appear on the flat screen monitor next to the bed. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve worried about the presence of fluid in the wrong spots.

Michelle readies her machine once again and liberally applies the jelly to your belly. A few deep breathes, subtle eye contact between us and off we go. A few moments pass and then it happens…we get a beautiful profile view of our daughter to be. We both notice how her profile, roundness of her cranium and development of her little nose reminds us of our Nora and Gavin. A lump swells in my throat the size of a Titleist golf ball and tears swell in my eyes. Thankfully, the room is dimly lit and I casually wipe a run away tear and swallow continuously with intent to banish the lump.

All measurements look great and fluid levels are normal. Although, not all is ideal on this particular visit inside the womb. It appears that baby is breach and in the pike position, essentially folded in half. Although it’s of no real concern as baby still has plenty of room(and time) to move around and turn back to the normal position, it makes for a few funny jokes and the inevitable “she could be a pain in the butt” down the line joke.

With our mood lightened, we get handed the black and white images of our daughter and continue on to meet with a member of the MFM team that is shepherding us on the journey.

Even though the image is in two dimensions and merely a silhouette of what she’ll really look like, i can already tell she is going to be a beauty and little does she know but she already owns considerable real estate in our hearts. 

Onward we go.

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” ― Ernest Hemingway

May 7th, 14th and 21st. The first three “Treatment Tuesdays” in May went very well. Your health, as well as baby’s, have been good. No crippling side effects. No major setbacks. Nada. Zilch. Sure, there have been some minor hiccups along the way but no road worth traveling is bump free. And by bumps, I mean minor inconveniences like it taking a little longer then expected to get a room, or the medicine was slow arriving or one of the nurses put the needle in a bad spot in your arm, etc. These are things that you barely flinch at these days. Some of the toughest moments/decisions we have dealt with over these past three weeks while at the hospital might very well have been what we are going to get for lunch that day.

Jokes aside, I think we are both a bit surprised how well it is going. At least, that is what it feels like. It feels like things are going really well. With the baby truly viable after 24 weeks, and with that, the need for nurses to constantly monitor her heart during all of the subsequent treatments, it’s hard not to get excited. Sure, we’ve seen pictures on the UltraSounds and have heard quick checks of her heartbeat before and after treatments, but spending 6 hours in a room listening to the pitter patter of her heartbeat, makes it that much more real.

After spending the first 25 weeks of this pregnancy with my guard up in a way I normally don’t do, I’m ready to take the guard down a bit and allow myself to dip more than one toe in the proverbial pregnancy pool, and by doing that, I am getting really excited about our new arrival. Don’t get me wrong, I have been excited ever since your pregnancy test revealed all signs point to a pregnancy but I’ve been apprehensive, tempered, cautious….worried, if you will. Not a card I usually like to play or even acknowledge. Gavin changed my world forever. For the better. And unfortunately, for some things, for the worse. The birth, short life and passing of our Gavin showed me just how precious life really is. 

14 to go. 

 

16th. 23rd. 30th.

The Tuesdays in April have fallen off the calendar faster then Nora Grace eating a handful of m & m’s. With the treatments coming at you weekly, it seems almost to be a “normal” part of our life now. One of the benefits of having the restaurant is me being able to sit here with you for some, if not all, of the treatment time. And by this point, it’s clear you don’t need me here to talk you down from nerves or discuss the side effects of the treatment like in the beginning, but you just like the comforting support that I can provide from merely being in the same room as you. I get it. And I love it, too. And I’m glad I am able to be here with you, counting the CC’s left on the drip, wishing and hoping that our daughter is growing strong and healthy inside your belly and of course, running to get lunch for us.

This journey we are on has been good in so many ways. Giving us pause to really cherish our time with each other, with Nora and hopefully with what is to come as a family of four. With each passing day, my heart beats a little quicker when I think of sitting in one of these recovery rooms, holding our new arrival tight in my arms and thinking of where we’ve been to get to that point. 

The day of being able to feel my second daughter’s heart beat against mine can’t come soon enough. 

status quo.

April 9th. The Day after the big 20 week appointment and ultrasound and things are well, good. Treatments are getting a little easier and quicker. The baby girl in your belly is growing as expected. And you, well, you continue to amaze. You weren’t kidding when you said you were ready for what “we” signed up for. The strength and courage you show are without words. I pride myself on being on the tough side when it comes to pain, doctors, injury and the like but I sit in quiet amazement with what and how you are handling this.

On this Tuesday, we go about our business like another day at the office. Get in. Get set up. Get some work done. Get lunch. Get some more work done. Finish up. And head home. 

19 to go. 

what, me, nervous? yes.

April 8th. The day has been circled on my calendar since a few weeks back. It was not only the day after I returned from my annual Golf Trip but it was the day where we would find out how things were progressing with baby, find out gender and to also see if we saw any of what we saw with Gavin…the stupid black fluid that wreaked havoc on our son both in utero and in his short time in our world. It was at this very same appointment(20 weeks) with our second pregnancy that what was to be a normal check up was our first clue as to how sick our son was.

As we checked in with the receptionist in the MFM practice, my heart seemed to beat faster than normal. Even with a few deep breaths and sips of water, I still couldn’t calm down. You seemed to be doing better than me, at least on the outside.

We were told to have a seat and wait for the UltraSound technician to come get us. After a brief 10 minute wait, a woman called our name, “Metz, Ellen?”Yep. That’s us. She introduced herself as Michelle and we followed her down a seemingly endless hallway. I pulled you a little closer to me and again, whisper that regardless of what happens here, we’ll deal with it and we’ll be ok. 

After your quick stop in to the bathroom, you hop up on the table and I take a seat. We ask Michelle if she has any background as to our story. She replies with a short no. As the scanning gel is rubbed onto your tummy, we take turns bringing Michelle up to speed as to why we’re here, and even manage to talk about my health setbacks. Like all other UltraSound techs, she is not a doctor and is not able to discuss what she see’s on the scans. I once again talk to my inner self and ask it to calm down and relax. Remind myself that we have already had the worst outcome.

Michelle continues to scan your belly as me and you make small chit chat to somehow distract us from what is on the screen. After hearing our story, Michelle mentions that we need to be thrown a bone in life and as I thought about it, I agreed. That’d be nice. She also asks if we want to know gender, which we do.

As Michelle progressed from the head down to the chest area on baby, I knew that I’d be able to spot any bit of trouble in regards to fluid, quickly. The room grew more silent than it already was. Some clicks of the keyboard. The hum of the machine. As Michelle zoomed in near the heart, I saw the little pulsing that indicates the heartbeat. A zoom back out revealed mostly white tissue on the monitor. White tissue! No black abyss as fluid is represented on UltraSound. At the very least, with what I think I didn’t see, baby is not presenting fluid like Gavin did. And although fluid being present is merely one possible indicator of a problem and does not ensure a normal rest of the pregnancy by any stretch, at this very moment I take plenty of solcae in the fact that we see no fluid. Michelle carries about her business and we share musings about life.

At a certain point when Michelle gets near the mid section of baby, she is able to reveal gender. With a few more scans and looks, Michelle tells us that we will be having a girl! We are elated…as Nora Grace will be as well. Nora only thought we could have a girl, as she said she already has a brother and “he’s in heaven” she reminds us. I get choked up with a flurry of emotion…I’m both thrilled of the sweetness of another little girl to steal my heart, but additionally, a little sad as I thought a boy would give me another shot at doing all of the things fathers do with sons. Most importantly, I am choked up at the thought of another little person coming into our world and joining our family.

About 45 minutes pass in total and Michelle places the wand back in its holster. She asks us if we want a few pictures to take home, and we do. She mentions that the doctor needs to see the scans and she’ll go get them to him. But before she leaves the room, in kind of an innocent off the record moment, she stares at us both and lets us know everything looks great. Perfect even. Even though she can’t really say that. She did. After a few minutes the doctor confirms Michelle’s assessment…perfect so far.

Perfect indeed. Maybe this is life’s bone that Michelle spoke of. Only time will tell. And until that time, we’ll keep on going. Forward my love. Forward.

 

Happy birthday to you?

Happy 35th Birthday, my love. Sure, some birthdays are more memorable than others but seldom are birthdays spent in the hospital. Treatment number 3. In yet another weird sort of irony, you’ll be spending the day in the hospital receiving the IV that hopefully ensures that we’ll be celebrating many birthdays of someone else…our third child.

We wake up as a family before you head off to the hospital to get checked in. Nora expresses her happiness/birthday wishes and seems really intent on us getting a cake to celebrate your special day. Yet another daily reminder of just how sweet, caring and loving our Nora Grace is. Once again, she’s managed to touch us both this morning and gently remind us why you are going through what you are. Besides the desire to have two children as we planned years ago, we absolutely want Nora to have a sibling. She’ll make an unbelievable big sister to the wee one in your belly. And at the end of the day, when you have a sibling, you’ll always have a friend…no matter what.

You get down to the hospital and text me saying how crowded Triage is. I stop by Sweet Mandy B’s for birthday cupcakes and park myself at Starbucks waiting for the call.

My phone vibrates and your text message reveals that Triage is too busy and that we’ll be heading up to a post-partum room. Room 966 to be exact. What a nice birthday surprise! A room with a view. We get settled in the room at 10:50am.

To say the process of getting set up is quick would be like saying wolverines make good house pets. It is a slow, arduous process between getting new nurses up to speed with the protocol, IV started, medicine ordered, etc. Brianne is our nurse today and she has been good, solid. She’s no Mary but still good.

Three nurses will attempt to do your IV and the first one gets it. Bingo baby. Although it won’t be for another hour that the drugs will be ready. Apparently the pharmacy delivers via Pony Express.

The 600cc of liquid gold arrives, is placed on the IV stand and we’re off. With your lucky green socks on, you settle into the glider chair. I settle into my upright chair. We enjoy the view, talk about a myriad of topics, and enjoy the view some more. One added benefit to the treatment is it gives us a definitive time to pause from life without distraction and connect on a very different level. And that’s a good thing.

45 minutes in and I’m off to get our requisite turkey sandwiches and a diet coke for you. With each passing hour, the infusion amount diminishes. 4:00pm brings a shift change with the nurses and we meet a few more…Diane and Jan.

As 5pm approaches, it’s time for me to pack up and hit the road to get home to Miss Nora Grace. You’ll be on your own for a few more hours yet. But without the cold lingering, you’re doing well.

I get home and gather Nora and we call you on the phone. I use the speaker option which Nora absolutely loves. She can’t wait for you to get home. Me and Nora play, take a bath, jump on the bed and read a few books all in an effort to pass the time until you get home. Nora wants you home, as do I. I can’t help but be a little nervous about how you’ll feel, as with the last treatment, you felt great up until the point you left the hospital.

7:30 and you’re just about home. Nora greets you at the back door. More importantly, you’re feeling great, still. We gather around the table once more, I dim the lights, grab a cupcake, place a candle on it and we sing Happy Birthday to you…as a family. It’s a magical moment that makes this day special.

Our bedtime ritual goes as it always does with you slipping on your comfies, all of us laying on Nora’s bed and reading books. I’ll read the books tonight as you relax and rub Nora Grace. As the last words are read, you pull the covers up over yourself and our lovely daughter. I turn off the lights, give you both a kiss and head back downstairs.

With another treatment day checked off the calendar and you experiencing little side effects on this day, I realize that yes, it is a happy birthday for you. Sweet dreams my love, sweet dreams.

Number Two.

Tuesday, March 12th brings us the second visit of the approximately 23 visits we’ll need to complete the IVIG treatments. A gray overcast day greets us as we make our way to triage, separately, this time around. 

We’ve been shuffled back to coach class, as the rest of the IVIG treatments will take place in the bunker-like triage rooms versus the high-floor, rooms with a view in labor and delivery. 

By the time I arrive, you have already just begun the drip and are feeling good and are optimistic about the outcome, seeing as the first session went fairly well. Nancy is your nurse and she is loud, laughs like Fran Drescher and doesn’t have quite the same tact as Mary form L & D. That’s ok. We’ll make due. After all, we are here to cross another treatment off the calendar and move on. Nothing more, nothing less. 

With not the same level of stop-ins/interruptions by the nurses(or doctors for that matter) we have time to chat, reflect some more on our lives, finances, etc. and of course, we discuss the little wonder that is our Nora Grace. Sometimes we find ourselves having to pinch each other as to make sure we realize we are not dreaming about just how wonderful and special she really is.

The hours pass by and with that, the drip whittles down. I make my run for turkey sandwiches(something tells me this will become routine) and we share yet another romantic meal on a sterilized metal, rolling hospital tray. 5:00pm comes soon enough and with how well you’re doing, we decide it’s best that I head home to relieve Cherie and make Nora dinner, etc. 

You’ll be home soon enough and we’ll relax as a family. Easy breezy. Let’s move on. Or not.

Once I leave, that noggin’ of yours starts to waver. The worry. The concern. The what if’s. Plus, the side effects rare their ugly heads. Your cold doesn’t help the situation either. By the time you get home, you’re a shivering, exhausted, achey, scared, feverish mother/wife and it’s kind of scary. I do my best pep talk to get you back to good, but that’s not enough on this day. The cold coupled with the treatment has you feeling awful. 

You get yourself upstairs and I assure Nora that you’re okay. I handle bed time with ng and  for now, you handle yourself. The fever keeps coming. 101, 102….geezus. I come to check on you only to find you in tears and on the phone with the answering service of our doctor. 

The concern, beside your health, is the effects this fever might have on baby. The doctor provides some calm advice and we try and make it through the night. But it’s not that easy.

Fever, chills and now a rapid heartbeat make for some nervous minutes and hours and does little for our desire to sleep. I feel you tossing and turning, that’s only because I am not sleeping either, knowing you are fighting this beast both mentally and physically. 

Around 2am, it seems as if things settle down a bit, you rest your weary eyes. Thankfully. Hell of a battle today. The head ache will linger for a few more days yet but that is expected. However, the return of the worry and the unknown about the subsequent treatments and what they’ll bring stays with us. 

Yes, as we expected, this is going to be one hell of a ride.