Trying Again: Pregnancy Fears and Anxiety After A Loss

            A funny thing happened when I finally decided to slow down, remove Parker from preschool, and learn the fine art of how to be a wife and mother. I relaxed. Really  r-e-l-a-x-e-d. And so did Parker and Chris.

           

            Parker finally stopped asking all of those morbid, rapid-fire questions regarding my health, his health made a miraculous improvement, and Chris seemed to like being home more because edginess and anxiety no longer reigned supreme in the house. The family atmosphere meter registered somewhere between happiness and contentment, all of the time. And, to Parker, all was finally right with the world. He had his mom’s full attention and we spent hours sprawled on his bedroom floor overseeing the function of an extensive Lego airport.

           

            We even started taking a three-day vacation every month, and launched our family’s love of train travel by riding the Amtrak rails to Santa Barbara one weekend. We felt like a thriving family again.

           

            And I got the first inkling that my emotional and spiritual healing had made progress when the question of trying again to have another child started rattling around my brain.

           

            Should I, could I, would I? How does Chris feel? Would Chris even want to try? Is he finally ready to discuss it?

           

            It turned out that Chris had healed a lot emotionally and spiritually, too, because he was finally able to discuss it. When I asked him how he felt about it, he said he was interested, and ready to try again.

           

            “Well, do you remember what you said to me when I was lying in bed with Victoria, receiving treatment for my severe morning sickness?” I asked him tenuously.

           

            Chris blinked in response.

           

            “You said to me, ‘I don’t know about you, but if something happens to this pregnancy, I’m not going to want to go through this again.’”

           

            Chris blinked again, then nodded slowly. “I do.”

           

            “Are you positive you want to try again, then?” I nudged. “Absolutely sure? Because I’m not going to even attempt to have another baby if I’m going to be a single parent again, with you working on getting some other business venture off the ground, while I’m going through a possibly tenuous pregnancy, raising Parker pretty much on my own, and holding everything together around here. It’s not fair to Parker or me; and I won’t do it. It cost us way too much last time.”

           

            My words were greeted with a moment of thick silence before Chris responded. “I

know. And I’m ready, and I’ll be here. We should try again.”

           

            “Even in spite of the high possibility of my having another placenta previa?” I didn’t have to tack on the line, “I might die this time, you know. Are you ready to confront that possibility?” although I knew both of us were thinking the same thing.

           

            He took a deep breath as I tried to read his eyes. 

           

            “I’m ready. We should try.”

           

            We sealed our pact with a hug and kiss. And once again I went to the Lord on my knees.

           

            “God, am I in Your will, here? Are we in Your will? I want Your will to be done, not mine. I’m prepared to give everything up to You.” Then I sneaked in a request for a smooth, uneventful, easy and enjoyable pregnancy, like Parker’s had been. Yet even as I asked for all of that, I knew in my heart that if I weren’t granted those pleasures, God would see me through it. He would not forsake me, in either a difficult pregnancy—or another loss.

           

            Saying those things in prayer were altogether different from outwardly displaying the peace and confidence those confident words implied. When Chris and I actually put our words into action, I rapidly liquefied into a jelly-like human amoeba.

           

            The abdominal pain, from which I suffered since my pregnancy with Victoria, increased. I started suffering what seemed like heart palpitations and rapid heart rate episodes accompanied by an annoying fainting sensation. Gall bladder attacks emerged as inescapable post-meal assaults. The doctors tested me for thyroid disturbances, gallstones, heart problems, scar tissue and aortic aneurysms. I received a thorough scouring over by an ultrasound technician, donated blood for analysis, wore a heart monitor for twenty-four hours, and had one of those lovely lower gastrointestinal enemas scheduled so they could take a digestive system peak.

           

            Meanwhile, during this three-month medical marathon, Chris and I attempted to verify our fertility during the monthly opportunity window. And that became an emotional, physical and spiritual burden. With each unsuccessful attempt, my heart plummeted and depression crept in like dark, persistent clouds smothering our hopes—until the next month’s opportunity window flipped over on the hormonal calendar, and we psyched ourselves up to try again.

           

            While we kept the home fires lit, the medical test results rolled in. All but one returned with a “normal” judgment. The abnormal blood test showed an increased potassium level, which may have been the culprit behind my heart palpitations. The highly scientific diagnosis: Cut down on the vast quantities of bananas and banana bread I consumed.

           

            In my anxiety, I’d driven my body into another steady state of constant panic and fear, and the stress had triggered a variety of illnesses. My bodily systems were in overdrive, unable to equilibrate and function properly; unable to maintain what physiologists and doctors call homeostasis—the happy status quo the body loves to maintain, for all systems to function properly.

           

            While unenthusiastically awaiting my lower GI enema test, it became evident to me during the first week of August of 1994, that I might be pregnant. With glee, I canceled the test—not allowed in pregnant women due to the body-assaulting radiation—and nibbled my lip until the magic time arrived to perform a pregnancy test. Being the impatient type, I headed to the store to purchase one of those over-the-counter, do-it-yourself models. (Back then, those pink line, “yes,” blue line, “no” wands had just become readily available in the grocery stores, and most women still sojourned to the doctor to provide their mid-stream-only test sample and fork over their co-payments to have the test read by a nurse. With only two to three weeks having transpired since possible conception, I suspected the results were likely to be inaccurate, or false, chucking my emotions right back in the depression basket.

           

            After pacing the bathroom floor for the prescribed waiting time, I closed my eyes, sucked in some air and then peeked apprehensively at the indicator.

           

            I blinked. Then I readjusted my vision and squinted at the wand protruding from my clenched hand, which was shaking spastically in front of my peering eyeballs.

           

            Pink lines.

           

            Positive pink lines!

           

            A firestorm of emotions ripped through me. Elation. Fear. Apprehension. Ambivalence. Yet thrill out-muscled the others and emerged the victor. Giddiness stretched my lips into an ear-to-ear smile and vision-clouding tears dribbled down my cheeks. I kneeled on the bathroom tile and choked out, “Thank you, God! Thank you…”

           

            Then my analytic mind kicked into gear. “Better get official test results from Dr. Landry before telling Chris,” I mumbled to myself. “Their high-tech equipment will provide a firm diagnosis.”

           

            I bounced, light-hearted through the day and managed to keep my secret through the night. The following morning, I waited on edge for Chris to leave the house and then called Dr. Landry’s office. Thankfully, they ushered me into an appointment that afternoon. After filling their cup, re-screwing the lid and gingerly setting it into the prescribed lab tray, I returned to the waiting room to jiggle my legs in anticipation of a verdict. Finally, the smiling nurse poked her head around the waiting room door corner and escorted me to Dr. Landry’s officer, where he sat immersed in some charts.

           

            Dr. Landry looked up, invited me to sit down, offered grinning “Congratulations,” instructed me to buy seasickness bands for the impending morning sickness and wrote out a prescription for pre-natal vitamins. Then he sent me home, “to relax.”

           

            Relax!? How would that happen? I  o-o-z-e-d euphoria and made mental plans to surprise Chris with the news Saturday night, when we had a scheduled date to celebrate our eleventh wedding anniversary. That was three days away. I’d have to keep my secret stuffed away until then and avoid donning the affectation of a Cheshire cat.

           

            What will he say, I wondered. Will he be excited? Stunned? Self-satisfied?

           

            I didn’t know what the future held, but, for that sweet, adrenaline-infused moment, I was going to soak myself in the supreme joy of knowing God was taking us down this road—one more time.

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NEXT WEEK: Fleeting joy and broken hearts…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Missing the Signs of Stress and Anxiety in My Pre-School Child: Part 2

(For those of you just joining us, the first part of this particular child anxiety and stress story started with my last post, so make sure you read that one first!)

           

            Despite prayer and plenty of self-talk, my mother worry gene remained engaged in high-alert as Parker (now four years old) and I prepared for the sleep apnea study at the Children’s Hospital in San Diego, where he’d be embellished with sensors from head to toes. On a beautiful Thursday evening, he and I made the forty-five minute drive to the new hospital. Chris met us there after work for the introduction and to give a brief, “’at a boy” pep talk to Parker. Then he went home to bed. I would remain with Parker for the eight-hour test.

           

            The twinkling stars on the ceiling of the hospital’s lobby might have mesmerized Parker for a brief moment, but they didn’t do much to smooth my raw edges. Even Parker seemed unconvinced; the suspicious look engraved on his face told me that even he knew the pretty façade had to be a mantle for mysterious, frightening things awaiting him in the inner sanctums.   

           

            After Parker was entertained with an in-house video and mandatory repertoire of mommy-and-son bedtime tunes, I retired to what the hospital had generously described as a cot, (actually more a minimally reclining, padding-free chair), and eyeballed my son dressed in his miniature hospital jammies and the monitors for nearly eight hours. A technician observed the incoming data while filming his movements from the adjacent room. This night, someone else got to be the notebook-keeper.

           

            In the middle of this procedure, Parker coughed and choked, beautifully reproducing his worrisome symptoms, then realized—in horror—that he’d soaked the bed. I don’t need to describe the scene for you to imagine the challenge of unhooking the leads and escorting a tearful little boy into the cold, sterile atmosphere of a hospital bathroom to change his clothes, soothe his broken spirit and then reattach him for the remainder of the test.

           

            To coax him back to sleep, I joined him in bed, lulling him with more songs and caresses. I also gave him the nasal allergy medications his pediatrician had prescribed while awaiting the diagnosis. I didn’t give it to him at the onset, because I wanted them to see exactly what happened without medication influencing the results.

           

            The songs or caresses scored, because—thankfully— he returned to a comfortable sleep. Until four o’clock in the morning when the technician announced the test over. No languishing around the room. No allowing Parker to finish his sweet dreams. We were ushered around quickly to pack our bags, dress and vacate. The hospital register was ringing, and the insurance company had punched a pre-set time clock. Any extra seconds would be out-of-pocket ones. I thought I heard the distinctive sound of a door being slammed behind us as we left. Luckily we moved fast enough not to be bounced by it.

           

            For a treat, I took Parker, and the obligatory stuffed bear the hospital had given him, out to breakfast. He wasn’t particularly interested in sharing the Grand Slam meal I selected, but I needed the coffee for the toothpicks-in-the-eyes, hour drive home. Finally, we ascended the I-15 on-ramp amidst a beautiful California sunrise. The test was complete. Now the waiting came began.

           

            But that sunrise signaled such hope and promise that fear finally escaped me. Another glorious morning had begun.

           

            We all needed the hope it represented.

*****************************************

            The results arrived soon after, along with a visit to the pulmonary specialist who pronounced Parker to be just fine, and who said my son probably had mucous draining into his throat as the result of allergies, causing him to gag and sit up to clear his airway. The treatment seemed relatively simple: a continuation of nasal sprays and an admonition to be on the alert for those things that irritated his sinuses, including the grass he relished rolling around on.

           

            My worry gene hadn’t yet relaxed to normal, so I took the cautious route and kept him in our bedroom. It took more than a year of successful treatment, and my continual, assessing watch, to finally be satisfied that Parker would truly be safe in his own room at night—without me.

             

            Along with the physical problems, though, Parker started exhibiting insecurity and separation anxiety whenever I left him at preschool or at home with Chris.

           

            It began eleven months after Victoria’s death, that he started resisting my leaving him at the preschool he’d been attending two to three mornings a week since he was two. He would ask often, and nervously, where I was going. Did I have to go to the doctor? Would I be okay? Would I come back to get him? He always reiterated strongly, but without tears, that he was concerned about me and wanted to be with me. That he did not want me left alone.

           

            One evening, when I returned home after shopping—and well after Parker had gone to bed—Chris told me Parker had questioned him repeatedly during my absence about where I was going and if I’d return. Over and over he questioned Chris about whether I was bleeding again, and if I needed to go to the hospital. It suddenly became apparent to Chris and me that our young son was suffering from stress, fear and anxiety. Problems we hadn’t really considered possible in such a small child.

           

            Repeated verbal assurances from us didn’t alleviate Parker’s anxiety. We couldn’t reason it out him. He needed some concrete action, some life changes.

           

            And it was Parker who initiated them.

           

            He stopped outside the preschool door one morning, turned to look into my eyes with all of the seriousness of an earnest four-year-old, and announced with a sigh of resignation and apparent fatigue, “Mom, I need a vacation.”

             

            I chomped my lip and stifled a snicker. He no longer wanted to attend preschool. Maybe he never did really want to attend, I thought. What was clear now, though, was that he wanted to be with me, all of the time. And he was expressing it in the most diplomatic, constructive, effective way he knew how.

           

            I kneeled to his eye level and donned my most serious expression.

           

            How long of a vacation do you think you need?” I asked him, combatting another smile.

           

            “Oh…about five months,” he responded with a tilt of his blond head accented with a shrug and flip of his hands. Careful. Don’t laugh at him, Andrea! I chastised myself.

           

            “Okay,” I agreed. “Beginning next month, you may go on vacation!” His blue eyes glittered. Relief saturated his face and body. He stood up taller, satisfied. Hopeful.

           

            His idea of a vacation was to pile in the car and escape to unknown, exciting places, so his spirits were a bit dampened when informed that he wouldn’t be going anywhere special; that his vacation, for the most part, would be spent at home. Even in his disappointment, he appeared immensely relieved that his sojourn to preschool would soon be curtailed, and he would be alone with me throughout the day—for the next five months.

           

            When he quit preschool, his relentless questions about my health continued for several weeks, then stopped. He suddenly seemed so secure and content—as long as we were together, and I was taking care of him. Until that time, I hadn’t fully appreciated how much he needed me.

           

            In the midst of his emerging independence and controlled veneer, I had failed to remember just how young, vulnerable and fragile he was. I had been profoundly mistaken: He wasn’t really “my little man” at all, as I often called him.

           

            He was a vulnerable little boy—hovering somewhere between toddler and child—only moments in time beyond infancy. Still defenseless and reliant.

           

            The realization hit me like a face slap. Remorse bruised my heart.

           

            So, in April of 1994, exactly one year after his baby sister’s death, Parker and I started concentrating again on that tender, mother-son, parent-child relationship. We played, we laughed, we hugged. We laid firm foundation blocks of security.

           

            We worked seriously on love and priceless family relationships.

           

            And I was reminded how children usually spell love. T-i-m-e.

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NEXT WEEK: Was it now time to start thinking seriously about trying again to have another child? Could we, should we try? When—how—would we know?

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

For those of you interested in what recent studies show regarding stress in children—from pregnancy through childhood—read this valuable article, "How Parents' Stress Can Hurt a Child, From the Inside Out," by Alice G. Walton.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/alicegwalton/2012/07/25/how-parents-stress-can-hurt-a-child-from-the-
inside-out/

And here's a great post from Meg Villanueva discussing steps to conquer fear. Join her on her blog: Pebbles Along the Path
Pebbles Along the Path: Fear and worry: Subdue and Conquer

             

Missing the Signs of Stress and Anxiety in My Preschool Child

         I ought to have recognized it. Having experienced my first physical breakdown at the age of 13, the unmistakable warning signs should have triggered a screaming brain alarm between my ears. Maybe I was just too wrapped up in my own pain to see beyond the protective hedge I’d encased around my heart and mind to be able to recognize Parker’s suffering, the daily unraveling of his normally happy constitution.

           

            Sleep apnea symptoms were first on his breakdown list. On several occasions during his daytime naps, he appeared to stop breathing, then gagged and choked to get it jump-started again. Often, he’d wake up crying and scared from these episodes, like he’d just awakened from a hideous nightmare. Other times he’d cough several times and then quickly return to sleep. Thankfully, I was present during the first event, and made sure he napped within my eyesight from then on—in my bed—so I could watch and count his breathing. Then I moved his little red toddler bed back into our bedroom so I could hear him more clearly at night.

           

            After a lengthy discussion with her, his pediatrician recommended a preliminary sleep study analysis. The challenge: getting a four-year-old connected to electrodes and breath-measuring machinery, then having him remain in deep sleep long enough to obtain valid data.

           

            So, one Friday night, a respiratory therapist arrived at our home with the necessary bells and whistles, lines, leads, and monitors to hook Parker up, plug him in, and instruct Chris and me in the use of the machinery. For the second time in eighteen months, we were receiving yet another crash course in home therapy and medical telemetry. After several attempts at trying to keep Parker calm and quiet, and from angrily plucking and yanking sensors from his nose and body, we eventually succeeded in getting him to sleep.

           

            Finally, all seemed well, and the therapist departed, after promising to return in the morning to gather the equipment, review the data, and forward the information to our physician and pulmonary specialist. But within minutes of his departure, the first brain-shattering alarm sounded. Our hearts slammed in our chests as Chris groped frantically for the override switch to kill the sound. But every time Chris flipped the switch back to “ON,” the alarm wailed again.

           

            After a speedy machinery assessment, we figured out that Parker’s heart rate was dropping below the monitor’s set threshold. After reaching the therapist on his phone, we learned how to set a lower threshold and restart the measurement. Through all this commotion, Parker slept soundly, without interruption, sprawled like a pint-size skydiver on our king-size bed. That didn’t really surprise us; he never awakened for any of our house-rattling, Southern California earthquakes either.

           

            Then, several minutes into the new threshold setting, the eardrum-slaughtering EEEEEEEEEE!!!! screeched again. Chris ejected himself from the bed like a rock slung from a catapult and then mumbled several incoherent words. He raked his fingers through his hair while stabbing at the phone buttons to call the therapist again to have him okay another setting adjustment. “But,” the therapist warned, “any lower than that, and I’ll need to return to your house, and we won’t be able to conduct the test.” We re-set, murmured prayers, and then repositioned ourselves for the night: Chris flat on his back in bed, me sitting cross-legged on the floor, propped against the wall, regulation notebook at the ready to scribble mandatory log entries. Every time Parker twitched, sniffled, squirmed, toe-wiggled or breathed, I had to make a note of it. How we were going to ensure that he slept on his back—the mandatory position—I wasn’t sure, but I dimmed the lights, settled in on the floor, and kept my eyes glued to the digital data illuminated on the monitor screen.

             

            Just how and why I was relegated the task of staying up all night, I don’t know. Maybe that job just gets automatically invoked under the Mother moniker. Anyway, up I stayed, A-L-L     N-I-G-H-T      L-O-NG, with the entertaining nocturnal crickets, to take those hallowed notes. Mercifully, we managed to accumulate enough information for a proper evaluation. At daybreak, it took Parker nanoseconds to disengage his airway and toe sensors, his chubby fingers peeling and yanking. I helped his effort by gently removing the EKG pads crammed together on his modest chest. Both of us were relieved to discard the wire and sticky-pad arsenal.

           

            But it wasn’t long before the analyzing specialist informed our pediatrician that further studies were necessary; and this time, “further studies” meant an in-hospital sleep apnea monitoring evaluation followed by an appointment with a pediatric pulmonary specialist.

           

            Like a detonated combustion engine, my mother’s worry gene jerked from zero-to-sixty in five seconds, and the question-that-wouldn’t-die rattled around my brain like a mental pinball against the cranial bumpers:

           

            “God, when will this path of sorrow ever end…?”

           

            Little did I realize that He was using my hurting son to pull my focus away from me.

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NEXT WEEK: The next test: Sleep apnea testing up-close and personal…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

PS Tomorrow’s my birthday! Thank you, Lord, for yet another year, to tell another story about You and your everlasting goodness!