How My Life Looks These Days

Since Tikva was born, Dave and I have worn a purple bracelet that gets us into the ICN because we are Tikva's parents.
It used to be dark purple and said Adam-Spinrad on it, but the name has worn off and the color is fading.
When Hunter left UCSF to go home, his mom's bracelet was completely white.
I look forward to the day when Tikva comes home and we can take off our bracelets.

I officially completely dislike the sound of beeping.
There are so many monitors in the ICN, keeping tabs on everything that goes on in the bodies of these little babies.
They are so important, and some days their sounds blend into the background.
Other days the incessant beeping totally puts me over the edge.
Sometime last week - I think it was Friday - I had one of those days.
The beeps on Tikva's monitors were non-stop and at one point it felt like every single monitor went off at the same time.
Tikva kept setting something off and needed a lot of help getting her breathing back on track.
I was completely drained that night, and couldn't stop crying - I slept like a log, interrupted only by my middle of the night pumping session.

It's been almost 3 weeks since Tikva was born, and I have become a veteran of the ICN.
The machines no longer intimidate me; instead I know what each of them does, what each of their numbers means.
I know most of the nurses, and Tikva has a few who care for her most of the time.
I have a few nurses who are my favorites, and the list of sweet angels who care for and see the bright light in our girl keeps growing.
Allyson, Elaine, Robin, Jane, Crissie, Jennifer, Quendy, Carmen... they make it easier to leave when it's time to go home.

I also know most of the doctors, and we've developed mutually respectful relationships over the past 3 weeks.
They've told us they admire the way we are going through this, our presence, the calm and hope and faith we bring to this experience, the positivity we hold and how good that is for our daughter.
They explain things clearly and invite our participation and input.
They care deeply about Tikva and the other babies in the ICN, and are incredibly committed to their work.
And since we invite optimism, they seem to allow themselves to feel excitement about her progress.

I pump my milk 5 times in a 24 hour period, freezing 5-6 bottles of milk each day.
For the next 4 weeks, Tikva is on a special formula that has a different kind of fat in it, because there is a leak in her lympathic system that is causing some fat to get into her chest.
So until that heals, she can't have Mama's milk.
But she will, so I am keeping the milk flowing by continuing to pump, and saving it for when she is ready.
Today a mom came by and I gave her 10 bottles of milk for her son, who needs more than she has.
That felt good.

The first day the doctor told me that Tikva would have to stop getting my milk for a while until the leak heals, I got incredibly sad.
I felt so much grief about not being able to nurse my child, and not being able to give her some of the (thankfully) abundant milk I am producing.
I felt frustrated at having to get my milk out with a plastic flange and a pumping machine.
I felt sad knowing that there is so much milk just sitting there, and that it would have to sit there and continue collecting for another month.
For the first time in three weeks, I let myself grieve this small loss.
I was also allowing myself to grieve the loss of a normal beginning for my Baby Girl.

My hormones are changing very obviously from pregnant to not pregnant.
Right now they're hanging out somewhere in the middle, which is a weird place.
Some days I am incredibly emotional and can't stop getting teary.
Other days I feel capable and manage to get things done like pick up clothes and sweep the kitchen floor.
I wake up every night completely sweaty and I have to put a towel over my bottom sheet before returning to bed after my 3 AM pumping session.
Dave's mom and aunt keep telling me to wait until I hit menopause...
I am looking forward to getting to acupuncture soon to help rebalance everything and give my body some well-needed nurturing.

My belly is almost completely gone, which is exactly what happened about a month after Dahlia was born.
Breastfeeding (or pumping) is for me a pretty guaranteed way of taking off pregnancy weight.
I continue to eat a lot, though, because I'd like to actually keep some of my pregnancy weight on.
But I'm not sure if my body will let me - I just have the kind of body that doesn't like to keep weight on, even if I actually feel better 10-15 pounds heavier than I have been for many years.
(I know, I know... cry me a river.)

Here's something curious: I kind of miss my pregnant belly.
It feels like ages since I've had a flat tummy, even if it's been just 9 months.
And my pregnant belly with Tikva was so huge from all the extra amniotic fluid, and my last trimester was so highly monitored, I really felt so totally pregnant.
Now I look in the mirror and it feels really strange to see my almost flat belly attached to my body.
I think there's a part of me that misses having Tikva inside me.
I feel that the most on the harder days - the days when the beeps go off a lot on her monitors, when her chest needs to be suctioned a lot - and I just want to take her back inside me and do it all for her again.

Just 2 weeks ago tomorrow, Tikva had her surgery.
Today, the tape was removed from her scar and all of the stitches have dissolved.
It's incredible how fast her little body heals; I'm pretty sure that within a year the scar will be barely visible.
The little nub fell off her belly button and her belly button is shaped like a spiral - super cute.
The soft hair on her scalp is growing back from where it was shaved for all those IVs a few weeks ago.

Today I spoke with the very young father of a little girl named J. Ann who just arrived in the ICN yesterday by medical transport.
She was born by emergency C-section at 30 weeks, and given a very bleak prognosis.
Mom was being transported to join J. Ann and her dad tonight, so until then he was all alone.
He looked so scared, so overwhelmed, and I talked to him for a long time.
I tried to demystify the ICN a little, assure him that all the intimidating machines are helping his little girl.
He told me the people in his church are praying for her, and that the hospital chaplain came by last night to baptize J. Ann.
I felt comforted to know that he has his faith to hold him, and I promised him that prayer is incredibly powerful.
I felt like such an old-timer talking to him, remembering how much scarier it all felt just 3 weeks ago.
Time really does more differently in that ICN...
Please join me in praying for J. Ann and her family.