An unexpected diagnosis

We had a pretty crazy birth with our firstborn (see the first part of that series here), and I went back and forth with our current pregnancy about whether I wanted to have another C-section or not. After doing quite a bit of research, we felt like it was safer to opt for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).

However, we went for a consultation this week that didn't end quite as expected. Although I knew most of what the doctor said, she mentioned that in our ultrasound that day it showed the baby has a velamentous cord insertion --- meaning that the umbilical cord actually doesn't reach the placenta, and the blood vessels then travel to the placenta unprotected. She said that could mean they could become compressed during labor and restrict blood and oxygen flow to the baby.

I just nodded my head as she talked, trying to absorb in my pregnancy-fogged brain what she was saying. It didn't mean we couldn't try for a VBAC. It was just up to us.

My mind fought against this news. Mainly because I had my heart set on a natural birth this time. We want more kids and having a natural birth would mean we wouldn't be limited by how many C-sections I've had. I don't want to not be able to lift up our daughter after surgery, because I don't want her to feel left out and like baby is getting special treatment. I had a horrible recovery last time, and I don't want to go through that again.

I fought back tears a bit as Nate and I talked through what the doctor had said.

Really, there is no answer right now. I have weekly appointments to check on the baby until it's due, and that should answer what the best thing is to do. However, with my already higher risk birth, adding this complication that can double the chance of stillbirth makes it seem like a C-section is on the table pretty firmly again.

We know that God is in control, and we certainly are not. If our pregnancies have taught us anything, it's that we really have no control in this whole process. I'm glad we have a God we can rely on when we can't do anything in the interim. When I was able to process a little bit and talk with my husband, we talked about how the most important thing is to get this baby here safely, and our future children are in the hands of God. If he plans a C-section for us now, then that may be our answer for how many children we are to have. We just need to figure out what the safest arrival for our baby will be right now.

As I started to research velamentous cord insertion, I ran across the statistic that about 33 percent of first trimester miscarriages have this issue and 26 percent of second trimester miscarriages. That made me think, maybe it's a miracle that our baby is alive and thriving with this condition. It could have ended differently. We had first trimester bleeding, diagnosed as a rather large subchorionic hematoma, that frightened us after our previous miscarriage (I wrote about that here). Instead of looking at this latest diagnosis as another scary proclamation, I need to look at it with gratefulness that God has sustained our little man through something that claims the lives of many growing little ones.

Plus, once VCI is diagnosed, it seems like it's not too scary and just needs extra monitoring. Without diagnosis and monitoring, it can be much riskier. Maybe the desire to have a VBAC was God's will to have an extra ultrasound and reveal this condition that allows us to make wiser decisions for the safety of our baby. Maybe if we hadn't uncovered this condition it would have led to something more serious during birth.

So today, I'm going to choose to be grateful. I'm grateful that our little man is growing well despite this abnormality, that he's a good size, that he's active, that he's alive. I'm grateful that we know exactly what's going on with him. I'm grateful that we're able to have doctor appointments to uncover issues such as this. I'm grateful I'm not in control but God is.

Good-bye Noveske; we love you

 We put down our sweet dog on Monday, and I've been trying to process that loss the past couple of days. Last night, it seemed like the only way I could get out what I was thinking and feeling was writing a letter to our daughter --- so I thought I would share it.

Dear baby girl,

I sit here crying and holding a disgusting cat stuffed animal that our bulldog, Noveske, held in her mouth while she slept so many nights, and I'm search for meaning as I cry out to God to help with the pain I feel in my heart. So I decided to write you a letter for the inevitable time that you will also experience the loss of a beloved pet.

You won't remember Noveske, which is sad, because she was the best dog ever --- your dad's and my first baby, which means she was spoiled rotten. Although stubborn as a mule, she had a heart of gold. She tenderly put up with a pet rat we brought into the family and patiently accepted the pokes and topples from you as a baby and even you playing with her food while she was trying to eat when you were a toddler. I already miss her scent and breathed in her dog bed smell and thought how I'd never again smell her paws that smelled exactly like Doritos.

She got congestive heart failure, and she went downhill quickly. I didn't see all the signs of failure, because I still saw my baby --- honestly, I've beaten myself up a bit for not being more patient with her because I thought she was just being a punk when now I realize her body was just starting to fail her. The day we put her down, there are a few moments I wish I could change. I would go inside and lay by her while she napped right before the vet came --- even though company came by and I had been cuddling with her all day, and I'm sure she really wanted that nap. I would clarify with the vet that your dad and I were switching places so they didn't rush so fast and she was left alone for 20 seconds with them while I took you outside and Dad took his place by her. But you know what? It's over. So, whatever happens with your beloved pet in those last moments --- let it go. It's over. It isn't right to relive the details and what could have been different. Process them, feel them, and then let them go.

Don't get rid of everything immediately. Did I think I'd go get her gross stuffed animal to smell and cuddle? No. But I did. Give yourself some time, even if you need to put it out of sight for a bit.

Talk about what you're feeling. I tend to stay quiet, especially with grief. But talking about our decision to put Novie down and why has helped me be confident in our decision, even amidst the grief.

It's OK to be sad, for as long as you need to. You're such a tough kid. When I was crying, you looked at your dad and wondered why. You were too young to understand, but Dad said, "She's sad. It's OK to be sad."

Look for the good God is working. Novie's impending death helped keep my mind off the due date of a baby we lost to miscarriage. You have a cold that has helped keep my mind from constantly being on Novie.

Let the sorrow help others. I hope I have empathy for those who lose a pet now. This has also reminded me to pray for those who have lost more than a pet, for people we know who are walking into a room and expecting to see a husband or wife there instead of a dog. We are blessed our human family is intact.

Remember the good times and the little things --- the feeling of Novie's soft, squishy neck that I buried my face in when I told her good-bye; her fat, stubby tail that only wagged when she really meant it; the feeling of her heavy body draped across me when she cuddled; her smooshy face that sometimes looked like she melted into the blankets; the time Dad had to come pick us up on a walk because she couldn't go any farther; her dry, cat-like tongue. What do you remember about your pet? Tell someone. Write it down.

Know there is a time for everything. "...a time to be born and a time to die...a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance." (Ecclesiastes 3:2a&4)

Get out of the house. Don't just sit around. Get out and do something. We went bowling, got burgers and ate ice cream. We smiled, and it took our minds off the grief and made nice memories to look back on that day.

Know that I'm here. I've been through this sorrow, and I'm so sorry that you're experiencing grief, and I wish I could fix it for you. But I'm here -- for a hug or just to listen. I love you so so much, and I'm so so sorry for your loss.

It will get better.

I love you,

Mama