This past week has reminded me that I need to take a more
active role in keeping this space updated. If not only for own mental health,
than for those seeking comfort in the words of someone who is walking the same
path they are. Last week was a perfect reminder of this, a reminder I have
desperately needed.
I received two beautiful messages, from two different women,
both with worries and concerns for the new men in their lives. I was able to
meet up for coffee with one of the new mom’s, and while my children made it
hard to even form a sentence, it was wonderful to meet her and share stories. I’ve
had these conversations over and over, always re-telling the story of Addy’s
arrival and the events following, and everything we’ve done to ensure her
success and happiness since then. I’ve given advice about seeking out physical
and occupational therapy, about how to deal with the stares and questions from
onlookers and naturally curious children, always promoting and singing the praises
of The Lucky Fin Project as a sort of sanctuary for new parents seeking a
community. And while I always feel a
kinship with other parents of children with limb differences and friendships
are born instantaneously, this week was different. This week, I met Amy.
Amy’s message left me teary eyed with my heart exploding. I
wanted nothing more than to jump in the car and drive to St. Louis to wrap this
new mama in my arms and tell her everything would be okay. Amy is where I was
almost two and half years ago, still wrestling with and struggling with her new
reality. Neither of us were aware that the child we had been carrying and
protecting for nine long months was about to be born missing the lower part of
their right arm and hand. It was devastating. It still is. Sometimes, daily.
Amy is the first new mom I’ve spoken with who’s story so
closely resembles my own it is eerily comforting. To know that I was not the
only one in shock, blaming myself for what happed to Addy, being so completely
consumed by devastation that I was unable to truly celebrate her arrival. Just
like Emily Perl Kingsley’s poem, we were expecting to get off the plane in
Italy, and we landed in Holland. It takes some getting used to, and Holland is
beautiful…but it’s not Italy, not by a long shot.
Most days, Addy’s limb difference floats to the back of my
mind, not even a blip on the radar. Other days, we have an encounter with
someone, or she says something, and I find myself dwelling on things I cannot
change, and it hurts. It hurts to the core. I have been an open book when it
comes to the struggles I have faced with Addy’s limb difference in the hopes
that other parents and families that take this journey know they are not alone,
and that their feelings are both understandable and completely normal. It’s a rollercoaster with highs and lows, and
sometimes I fall right off the damn rollercoaster and into a hole of deep
depression and can’t seem to climb back out no matter how hard I try. Two weeks
ago, I almost fell into that hole again…and I can still feel the muscle strain
from trying to claw my way back out.
After dealing with mind numbing pain and some rather
interesting gastrointestinal pyrotechnics for close to a month, the day finally
came to have my gall bladder removed. It was full of gall stones, and making
life pretty miserable…and I wanted it out as soon as humanly possible. My
husband and I arrived at the hospital and I donned the ever so flattering open
backed hospital gown and super sexy knee high socks, complete with calf cuffs
to keep me from getting a blood clot. I was looking good, and feeling ready,
and slightly nervous. After everything I went through during Addy’s delivery, I
am no longer comfortable in a hospital. I didn’t know that being back in a
scratchy hospital gown preparing for surgery would rock me as hard as it did. I
kept my composure as best I could, chatting with the nurse about books, and
cracking jokes with my husband and amazing best friend who showed up to surprise
me and show her support. I spoke with my anesthesiologist, the doctor visited,
and it was almost time to go. Everything was fine until the surgical team came
in to get me, and I began to crack. I was shaking and having a hard time
keeping my breathing even. I took deep breaths, and tried to keep the tears
from rolling down my cheeks. At this point, the nurse was unaware of everything
I had endured the last time I was in a hospital being wheeled into surgery. My
husband looked at me with his knowing eyes, knowing all the things I was
feeling, and tried to comfort me as best he could. He kissed me and told me he
would be waiting when I got out, and they wheeled me down the hall.
We got into the operating room and moved onto the table.
They laid me down, strapped my arms down…just like they did during the
c-section. They put the oxygen on me, and told me they were going to give me
the medicine to put me to sleep, and I welcomed escaping into oblivion, knowing
when I woke up, it would all be over and I would be able to go home soon. Boy
was I wrong.
Emergence agitation or delirium is “a known phenomenon in
the post anesthesia period”, according to the ‘American Association of Nurse
Anesthetists’. Patients experience flashbacks to traumatic events, often
placing them back in the moment of witnessing a severe injury or even a death.
The underlying cause is not definitely understood, but studies within US Army
hospitals suggest that patients who suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder
(PTSD) are at a higher percentage of patients who suffer with emergence
agitation or delirium at a rate of almost 20%. I’m explaining all of this
because I woke up from surgery gasping for air, having a full blown panic
attack. I was thrown back to July 22, 2013…the day Addy was born. I was in it.
I was crying, I was hurting, and I was mourning all over again.
The nurse that
was taking care of me couldn’t figure out what was happening, and I was in no
condition to communicate with her. Assuming I was in extreme pain, she
administered more pain medication, making it even harder for me to figure out what
was going on. Once I finally calmed down enough to try and talk to the nurse, I
explained. I told her about Addy. I told her I was given a possible diagnosis
of PTSD by a therapist this summer. I told her I was so sorry…over and over and over.
Looking back, I don’t think I was apologizing to her at all, although I must
have been a giant pain in the ass to deal with. I think I was apologizing to
Addy, maybe to myself. Maybe out of shame for the feelings I was
having. I was embarrassed. I was falling back into that hole that I had worked
so hard to stay out of.
I don’t bring up this PTSD diagnosis lightly, and I haven’t
mentioned it before on the blog because I honestly didn’t think it was possible. My husband
is in the Military; he has seen war zones and unimaginable atrocities that
humans inflict on each other. He’s watched his friends come home changed, or
not come home at all. So how is it that I am the one facing a PTSD diagnosis? Not possible. Two weeks ago, gasping for air and clutching my nonexistent
pregnant belly, reliving my trauma, being in that moment again unable to
separate reality from memory…I very quickly realized that PTSD is now part of
my new reality, and I am working towards accepting that. This new
terrain is something I will learn to navigate. I think finally accepting it is
a huge first step, and sharing within this space is a second huge step.
I am an open book. This space has been therapeutic for me,
and knowing that my words are being read by new mothers and comforting them
through their journey is amazing. I am honored to be looked at as a source of
information and comfort within the limb different community. Messages like the
ones I received last week are why I started this blog in the first place. Amy’s
words have played through my head all week, I needed them more than she knows.
I know we will keep in touch, and hopefully plan a trip to laugh, cry, and
drink wine together while we share stories of the arrival of our little Holland
tour guides. Addy was given to me for a reason, and I believe this is it…to
help new mama’s catch their bearings as they begin their journey.
Welcome to Holland friends, it’s not Italy…but it’s
absolutely beautiful, and the greatest adventure you’ll ever have.
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| Could he be any sweeter? Addy is in love already! |
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| Welcome to Holland, I'll be your tour guide. |
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