3-D Ultrasound accompanied by a long, long post

I really, really meant to post Boston pictures but it’s just been one of those weeks I pray I will never have to repeat. If you want a few pics, you can see them here and here. I really will try to get some up later, or at the very least posted to Flickr, because there are some fun ones. I titled this post the week from hell, because it was — full of doctor’s appointments, a 3-d ultrasound, possible hearing loss and other exciting snippets.

And now for the synopsis of my week:
Day 1: Monday. The day began with my personal viewing of Abuela, since I missed the funeral. That was emotional for me but she looked very beautiful in the rosebud pink dress she’s been planning to wear to her funeral for the past 20 years. It still fit. (Marti’s family is chronically thin and beautiful) It was a tough day. I spent it half grieving over abuela and half worrying about Benjamin, because when we woke up that morning, he couldn’t hear us, at least not without our shouting.

For the past few months, he’s been constantly asking us “What” or “What’d you say?” to the point where we wanted to scream. We thought it was one of two things: either it was one of those “Why” phases or it was something he’d picked up at school because his preschool teacher is losing her hearing. In fact, sometimes he would talk very, very loudly and we would tell him over and over to use a “quiet voice,” also attributing this to his hard-of-hearing teacher. Well, we realized Monday morning that this was not it and that he really couldn’t hear us and probably had been struggling for some time — at least three months. I felt sick. We called his doctor and they scheduled him for a hearing test that afternoon. We took him in and my heart sank as we could hear the beeps that he sometimes couldn’t hear. The nurse’s face confirmed my suspicion: the test had not gone well.

The doctor examined him afterward and said he had a massive ear infection, to which I responded: again? She began flipping back…an infection in November, December, February and now March. No symptoms. Progressively stronger antibiotics. Clearly he hasn’t actually been getting over his infections at all, and now he may have some hearing loss as a result. But we usually only caught the ear infections because of something else — in February, he complained that his tummy hurt, and lo and behold it was an ear infection. Either November or December was a regular check-up. It makes me ill to think this is something that is — or was — completely preventable. But with no symptoms — not even irritability — how were we to know? The only symptom was this tendency to say, “What?” a lot, and that came and went (probably with increase/decrease in the fluid in his ears). I feel horribly responsible. (side note: I guess I left a cliffhanger here. Ben has been referred to a specialist and will probably get tubes put in his ears. Once that happens and his ears have a chance to drain and heal, we will know if his hearing loss is permanent).

Day 2: Tuesday. I have a regular check-up at my ob-gyn, and the nurse practitioner, when I ask for the names of some good plastic surgeons for Maya’s cleft, says, “Why?” I gaze at her in astonishment. “Because I’m due in 7 weeks?” I reply. “Oh, this sort of problem (she refused to say “cleft” or even “hairlip”) doesn’t usually get fixed for 9-12 months.” I knew she was wrong — insane, even — but I still went home and curled up in the fetal position until Marti found me and forced me to go to work. Nine to twelve months? My baby’s entire babyhood with a facial disfigurement? I am still resisting the urge to stab this NP with a rusty steak knife. Oh, and did I mention that she told me “clients with this sort of problem usually go out of state, to California or Washington”? Meaning, I suppose, that not one of the bizillion plastic surgeons in Arizona is capable of a routine pediatric cranio-facial surgery?

I went to work for a few hours and then left for my 3-d ultrasound, an event we’ve been waiting for for some time. I must say that the doctor and the ultrasound tech were really excellent — no “this kind of problem” nonsense but real information about the baby and what was going on. What we saw, if you can see in the pictures below, was a cleft that ran almost dead center straight up to the nose. The cleft is slightly to the left but more centered than I expected; it is also larger and longer than I expected.

If you look closely, particularly at the very first and second pictures, you can see the cleft. Also, the last picture shows the cleft from the side. (The thing next to her face in the first two pictures is, in fact, a tiny little foot).

These pictures were supposed to make me feel better, but actually it made me feel much, much worse. I suppose on some level I was hoping this would all go away or magically heal or be so minor it was laughable, but what I saw was a real, live birth defect and my baby’s face — with a deformity. I tried to hold it together for the last few hours of work but I don’t actually remember much about the last hour or so. I was cracking up.

Day 3: Wednesday. I was nearing a state of exhaustion by this day, since I had traveled all day until 10:30 p.m. on Sunday (including the stress of the airlines accidentally cancelling all my flights and having to get everything fixed and put on a later flight) and then had two extremely traumatic days after that. I also woke up with swollen lymph nodes and the beginning of an ear infection. I barely made it through 6 hours or work and left the last hour and a half when my time on desk was over. I went home, laid down, and went to sleep at 6 p.m. I slept until 3 a.m. and woke to back contractions. I sat in the easy chair we just got from Abuela two weeks ago and reclined. Bless her, it was what I needed. It eased my back enough I could sleep a few more hours.

Day 4: Thursday. Otherwise known as the day of contractions, because I kept having them. Real, painful, hard contractions. My co-workers started to get suspicious and kept suggesting I might call my doctor, a recommendation I ignored. I stopped at the store after work to pick up a few groceries and barely made it home, my contractions were so strong. I couldn’t eat or cook but laid down and was asleep by 8 p.m. Luckily, the contractions stopped in the night, but really, at this point, I was so depressed I was suicidal. Marti and I discussed the possibility of counseling to get me through this, something we are still considering.

Day 5: Friday. I finally broke down and started taking antibiotics for my ear infection. By this time my boss was really concerned and asked me if I wanted to start taking maternity leave — now. I said no. She told me I looked deathly pale, and when I looked in the restroom mirror, I knew she was right. She and my co-worker murmured together and then she called her supervisor down. I knew they were discussing me and whether or not to make me take time off, but honestly, right now I think if I didn’t have work to distract me I would be a danger to myself. She came in during my lunch hour and told me that it was fine if I needed to go home, but I refused. She suggested I go to part-time work and said I could take all the time I needed to get through this, and that it wasn’t worth it to stick it out if I was going to be miserable. I didn’t know how to tell her that the misery had nothing to do with my job, or even that it was my last lifeline. I just tried not break down and after lunch I went and laid down, mainly to satisfy everyone. It actually made me feel a lot better, just 20 minutes lying down. And so I made it through the full day.

Last night we went to Ice Age 2, which was the best part of my week. It made me laugh and we all got to pretend to be normal for a few hours. Afterwards we met Marti’s aunt for dinner and talked about Abuela and how much we miss her. It was good therapy.

Today is Saturday. I came in a little late to work, also to allay my supervisor’s fears that I am pushing myself too hard (she wanted me to take the day off). At lunch, I brought in “the big guns” so to speak — I called my best friend Carrie. Carrie and I have been friends since time began, otherwise known as 1985. We have been friends for 21 years now, which is 70% of our lifetimes. Carrie knows me better than anyone else on the planet, which means she knows how truly rotten I am and how mean I can be, but she still loves me. If I ever meet God, I expect Carrie’s face to be a part of that picture. When Marti and I were first married, he used to joke that we needed a dedicated hotline — a red phone — that would link straight to Carrie, because whenever I got worried or stressed I would call her and just talking to her would make me feel calm and act reasonable. I secretly think Marti wanted her to live in a special room in our apartment for this reason.

So at lunch I called Carrie, who was properly outraged at my nurse practitioner (she’s an OB nurse) and she’s hopefully going to fly in for the birth “to make sure I have an advocate.” I can’t explain my relief that she is coming. I already feel like, “Okay, this is getting fixed” and that I don’t need to curl up in the fetal position anymore. Carrie is one of those people that make people do exactly what she wants them to do, without the person ever knowing any better or even realizing they are doing something against their will. She is the opposite of me. I can make people refuse to do what they were planning to do anyway, just to spite me. I have that gift.

So Carrie is coming and that makes everything alright for the time being. My ears popped at work today and icky stuff drained out, making me feel much better. I no longer feel suicidal. Marti and I went shopping after work and bought needless things like bath mats and baby toys, which was also incredibly refreshing. Sometimes the most commonplace things can be so amazingly therapeutic. I guess it’s been a hell week and Prozac may definitely be in my future, but at least the week is over and next week is a fresh slate. Tomorrow is another day. –M