The scope.

The story continues.....
The GI specialist recommended getting a scope (camera down the throat and into the belly) so she could really see what was going on inside.  See if the problem was the esophagus, the gut, the intestines....
I scheduled the appointment for one week later.  Within the hour I was questioning the decision.  I read alot.  Researched alot.  Asked my dad a boat load of questions.  Asked the doctor a boat load more.  By evening I had decided to cancel the appointment.  The anxiety was too much.  I didn't want to risk his life for the sake of sleep.  I've gotten used to this.  We're functioning.  We're safe.  That night, Carter projectile puked.  Everywhere.  Fire hose puke.  Strong and long distance.  Carpet, blankets, bed, walls, me, him, bathroom, mirror.....e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e....  A "shout" from God or coincidence??  That's the problem with me.  I get answers and I still second-guess.  So God sometimes has to do multiple shouts.  He's very patient with me.
I kept the appointment.  A few days later I was questioning again.  And that night Carter puked.  Again.   This time I did a little better job containing and managed to keep it on 2 blankets and 2 pillows.  Gross, I know.  I have to add here that he hasn't been throwing up.  Since he quit spitting up around 7ish months, he'd only thrown up a few times. (Because puking around here is as common as sneezing it didn't phase us much).
As we drove home from Las Vegas (a post for another day), I had plenty of time to think.  And prioritize.  And worry.  And plan.  And still thought maybe we wouldn't go through with it.  Because there was a chance he wouldn't wake up.  Or the doctor would make a mistake.  Or the anesthesiologist would give him too much gas. Or........he'd die.  Yes, it's extreme, but possible.  And the thought crossed my mind more than once.  And it was too painful to even think about.
The scope was scheduled for 1pm.  No food after midnight (including milk).  I had asked if we could do first thing in the morning so I wouldn't have to starve him so long but my doctor said she didn't do those in the morning.  At 4pm the day before, I got a call from Primary Children's Hospital.  They changed the schedule so we'd be first thing.  I questioned the girl knowing my doctor had said it wasn't possible.  She got a little snippy with me and said to be there at 6:30am.  Procedure was at 8.  And yes, she was sure.
That night Carter puked.  Again.  3rd time in 1 week.  Thank you, God, for shouting at me.  He knows me.  I know He knows me.
We pulled Carter out of bed at 5:40am.  My always-ready-to-help mom came down to stay with the girls and get them off to school.  We checked in at 6:30.  Did the rounds of weight, height, temperature, etc.  Changed him into his cute hospital jammies and were sent to the pre-op waiting room.  It was 7:30.  30 minutes to go.
7:50am the nurse came out to meet us.  She gave me my bio-hazard looking suit to put on so I could stay with Carter until he fell asleep.  The anesthesiologist came next.  He was apparently "the best".  Thank you, God.  I asked a few more questions.  Expressed a few more concerns.  He did his best to re-assure a very worried mom.
8:00 rolls around.  No doctor.  8:15.  Still waiting.  8:30 I question the nurses.  "Does she even know we're here?"  They re-assured.  8:45, nothing.  And then I saw the nurses in the hall.  With that "look" on their face.  Drawing straws who had to come talk to me.  And then came the anesthesiologist.  "I have some news.  Doctor H. isn't coming until 1pm.  No one told her the schedule was changed."  Um, I'm sorry, what?  She's not coming?  We've been here for 3 hours.  Waiting.  And now we get to wait for 4 more?  Really?  Are you sure?
Now let us pause.  Because I had a choice to make.  I could be mad, and let them know.  I could throw a fit.  I could demand to know whose fault it was.  All of which would probably be justified.  But minutes before this happened, I watched a mother of a boy who was probably 10.  He was handicapped.  Not sure the severity, but he didn't speak, just grunted.  And he was terrified to be there.  And by the time it was his turn, he was dry-heaving (didn't have anything in his stomach to throw-up) from nervousness.  And I watched his mom.  His brave mom.  Who stoically did what she had to do to help her son in that moment.  And when it was time for him to go, he was surrounded by 7 or 8 staff members, 2 of which picked him up and carried him to the room screaming where they obviously had to pin him down to get him to sleep.
We were in Primary children's hospital.  A hospital where the sickest of sick kids go to be seen. Where kids have cancer.  And kids die.  Every day.  Every hour.
This was the perspective.
The nurses were apologizing.  And apologizing.  And you could tell they felt so bad.  It wasn't their fault.  Didn't really matter whose fault it was.  Because in perspective, having to wait 4 more hours was really not a big deal.  These people were about to take the life of my baby into their hands.  I needed them calm.  I needed them clear-headed.  I needed them to love us and to take the best care they could of Carter.
No. Big. Deal.
I talked them out of some jello and apple juice so I didn't feel like he was completely starving and we left to hang out at my sister-in-laws to kill the time (thanks again Holly).
Carter was a champ.  Could not have been better.  He took a nap on the way back to the hospital and was happy as could be by the time we got back.  Probably a little divine intervention here.  :)
This time, the doctor was there.  Yea.
I put my biohazard suit back on and went with Carter to the room.  For future reference, this was probably a bad idea.  I had to pin down his arms while the anesthesiologist smothered him with the mask.  He screamed.  And tried to get away.  It was ugly for about 30 seconds.  And then his whole body went limp and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.  Not the last vision I wanted before I left the room.
"Give him a big kiss" the doctor said.
"Whoa buddy--don't say that like this is the last time I'll see him.  You be careful.  All of you.  Take care of my baby."
They laughed.
I left.
And then we waited.  Nervously.  Anxiously waited.
Things went faster than I expected and they called me back (you can only have one parent with the child as they're waking up) before he was awake.  The nurse said it had been 10 minutes and no movement.  Not abnormal.  But still kind of freaky as the mom.  I started rubbing his head and back and talking to him.
"Time to wake up buddy."
5 minutes later his eyes popped open. And he. was. MAD.  Really mad.  Screaming mad.
He was confused, he hurt, and he wanted out.  I held him.  And sang to him.  And bounced him.  I know how to do "mad Carter".  Then the nurse pumped in some pain meds through his IV and he settled down.  I gave him some juice, and hummed to him until he fell asleep.  Sound asleep.
The doctor came and talked to me.  Everything looked "visually normal".  A good thing.  We certainly don't want anything major to be wrong.  A quick fix would be nice.
They moved us to the second room of recovery where Mike was allowed to come back and see him.  Carter loves his daddy and woke up enough to reach for him.
We're now waiting on lab results for the bazillion things she tested him for.  We should know more in a few days.
Overall it was a very interesting experience.  And I didn't realize how hard it was until it was over.  And I felt like I'd been hit by a bus.  It's not something I'd like to do again.  Ever.
We're still not sleeping great around here, but we're alive.  And during the day, Carter is hilarious.  He's my buddy.  Happy.  Playful.  Full of energy.  His spirit is way too big for his little itty bitty body.
But compared to what could be wrong, what we could have to deal with, this really is no big deal.  We're doing just fine.  :)  Really.  Just fine.

The story. All in one place.

I have conversations with God.  Trying to explain to him how I work (as if he doesn't already know).  But I've been taught God speaks to us in "whispers".  Turns out I don't really hear whispers.  Well, not true, I hear lots of whispers not all of which could come from God.  I worry.  A lot.  And make up scenarios in my head.  And then panic.  And don't know what to do.  So I told God--if you're going to give me an answer to a prayer, an important prayer, a life-changing situation, I need.you.to.SHOUT.
I had this conversation with God when deciding if we should get Carter scoped to discover a problem.

Let me rewind.  We've had a pretty rough year.  For more reasons than Carter.  But it started when he was born (not because he was born--love you Carter).
So here's a somewhat abbreviated version of the story (bits and pieces of which have already been blogged) so I can have it all in one place.

I went into labor with Carter on a Friday afternoon.  2 1/2 weeks early.  I'd never gone into labor on my own before.  I didn't know what it was supposed to feel like.  Contractions were 2-3 minutes apart.  Friday night we went to the hospital.  They kept me for 2 hours and sent me home.  I didn't sleep Friday night.  I was having contractions people.  you don't sleep through contractions.  Saturday night we went back to the hospital.  I didn't have a magical "at home birth plan" and wasn't real hip on that idea.  They ran an IV because Carter's heart rate kept dropping.  They kept me for about 3 hours and sent me home with a morphine/phenergren "cocktail".  The morphine was supposed to stop contractions since they didn't think it was "real" labor.  Mike nearly carried me into the house.  I slept for 15 hours.  Woke up Sunday morning.  Contractions still going strong.  I had been calling my doctor all weekend but it's a weekend.  He wasn't on call.
Monday morning I was waiting in my doctor's lounge when the doors opened.  I wasn't going home.  I was crazy.  Don't mess.  Turns out doctor's can't induce you 2 weeks early unless there's a medical reason.  So I took matters into my own hands and drove my blood pressure up.  It may not be scientific, but it worked.
I told my doctor I wasn't leaving without a baby.  A baby OUT of my belly.  He was wise and didn't try to send me home.
Monday afternoon, Carter was born.  Without a name.
I was officially in labor for four days.  FOUR DAYS.
He was born 4 days before Christmas.  Phew.

A day after Christmas we got his 3rd test for Bilirubin.  It was "dangerously high".  We got the phone call on our way home from the clinic.  I cried the whole way home.  Minutes after we got home, a man arrived with a Bilirubin bed.  He was to be on it for at least 2 days.  All day.  All night.  We could only take him off to feed him.  It was brutal.  You don't tell a new, highly emotional mom, she can't hold her baby.

Carter was a typical baby for the first 2 weeks.  Slept, pooped, and ate.  And ate.  And ate.

At 2 weeks everything changed.  He started fussing.  All day.  He spit up.  All the time.  Everywhere.  And from 6ish at night until midnight or 1 he cried.  And screamed.  And screamed.  This continued for the next 4 1/2 months.  Fussy all day.  Screaming all evening.  Every. Day.  We tried everything.  Any suggestion we could get from friends, other mothers, doctors, nurses, the internet.....we tried everything.  Nothing worked.  Nothing calmed him down.  Nothing made him feel better.  So I just held him.  And hugged him. And rocked him.  And bounced him.  And cried a whole lot with him.  Because that's all I could do.  I was his mom.  It was my job to make him feel better.  And I couldn't.  Pretty brutal.

Around 5 months the screaming got less and less, but he still woke up in the night crying.  In pain.  For unknown reasons.  He had what we thought was reflux and a lot of gas.  Still spitting up alot.  Still pretty unhappy.

At 7 months he seemed to get a little better.  But by 9 months, he wasn't gaining weight.  And still pretty fussy.  And still waking up 5 to 6 times a night.

In the midst of all this, there were lots of other things going on.  I was suffering from post-partum depression.  I had post-partum with Jaida, but not like this.  This was different.  This was dark.  This was miserable.  Physically and emotionally painful.  And I did everything in my power to hide it.  Because I'm "happy", I'm "strong", I'm "even".  I didn't need help, and it would go away.  Soon (or so I thought).  It was embarrassing, really.  That's how I felt.  And I thought I did a pretty good job hiding how I really felt.  It was a dark day when I woke up and decided I would never be a photographer again, I would never get the things I wanted in life, I was a horrible mother, I was a bad wife, I was nothing that God intended me to be.  Dark, dark days.  It lasted about a year.
I can talk about it now because it's over.  And the monster of depression is gone.  I had no control.  No matter how hard I tried, I was powerless against how I felt.  And it was scary.  But to be honest I'm grateful, because I survived it.  And now I understand.  And can have compassion for others.  And I'm a stronger person than I was a year ago.

We were also faced with the reality of Mike being in the real estate industry.  And a possible career change, a job offer, and some tough, tough decisions we had to make.  Decisions that would completely change the course of our lives.

And.  Jaida started first grade.  Something harder for both of us than I ever expected.  More for Jaida than I thought.  And we discovered a lot about her I didn't realize the depth of.  Lots of anxiety.  And uncertainty.  And a lot of pleading prayers for God to help us parent her.  Because we had no idea what to do.  I didn't know how to help her.  Or to help us as a family.  I read a lot of parenting books.  Sought advice from my ever wise mother and some God-sent friends.  Still a lot of things we're working on.  And figuring out.  Poor first born children.  We really have no idea what we're doing as parents as they grow and move to each new phase of life.  It's amazing any of them turn out okay.  :)

And then there was Mya.  Lost in the shuffle.  So much guilt about Mya.  Because she wasn't getting the attention she needed.  The attention she deserved.  And I was guilt-ridden about it.  But didn't know how to make things change.  Because Carter demanded so much.  And what he didn't take, Jaida did.  And Mya was left with, well, nothing (at least that's how I felt).

At Carter's 1 year appointment he had only gained 1 pound and still having hard, hard nights.  We went to an allergist.  No allergies but a slight reaction to wheat.  Recommendation to take him off wheat and dairy for a week.  Take a look through your pantry and try to find something to feed a 1 year old with no wheat or dairy.  On top of that, I was nursing, so I had to go off wheat and dairy too.  Not gonna happen.  So I decided to stop nursing cold turkey.  Very, very bad decision.  It was one of the most painful weeks of my life.  Nothing hurts quite like rock hard very sensitive boobs.  I still cringe thinking about it.  One week off wheat (a very hard week) and no change.
We were then sent to a gastro-intestinal specialist.  She tried 2 different courses of medicine for allergies in the belly and for a possible yeast infection in the intestines.  Neither changed anything.
She then recommended doing a scope so she could get in and take a look around to see what was going on.
It's a hard decision to get an optional procedure that puts your childs life at risk.  Anesthesia for a 1 year old is scary.  So scary.

The appointment was scheduled for 1 day after we would get back from a trip to Vegas for a photography convention (a weekend that literally changed my life)........

Story to be continued.  The scope was quite an experience.  Stay tuned....

All things Halloween.

Halloween.  Carmel apples.  Spooky houses.  Costumes.  Parades.  Parties.  Trick or Treating.  Good times. 4 months ago.  I never really got a good photo of all of them.  Not sure how that happened.  When I realized it, I tried to get them to dress up again.  It was a no go.  Jaida's school made them take their costumes off after the parade, then put them back on for parties later in the day.  Jaida wouldn't put hers back on.  And I made sure the school knew I thought that was the stupidest thing I'd ever heard (yes, I told them so).  It's Halloween.  Let the kids have a little fun.  I'm not terribly concerned with the quality of education on a holiday.  It's a fun day people.  And Mya was NOT Ariel.  She was a mermaid.  And was quick to correct anyone who said otherwise.  In case you can't tell, Jaida was a "hippie girl" and Carter was a skateboarder.  We're pretty creative around here.

Posterity.

Mike, ALL his siblings, and ALL the grandkids in ONE picture.  It's a Christmas miracle.  And I'm pretty sure I should win an award for getting Jen to smile.  And whoever talked her into being in the picture deserves an even bigger award.

Hee Haw Farms.

Mya's preschool class went on a field trip to Hee Haw Farms.  I try to go on all my kids preschool field trips so they don't get kidnapped (because preschool field trips are complete chaos).  And yes, I'm serious.  And I love to watch them with their classmates.  The most alarming part of this trip was they let the kids IN the pen with the animals.  Just open the door and shove them in.  I'm moderately terrified of things with wings so when I saw the geese and wild turkeys I had my reservations.  But I was armed with my soccer leg if I needed to launch one when it got too close.  Carter desperately wanted to touch the pigs.  Not gonna happen.  Na.sty.

Crazy Hair Day.

It was crazy hair day at J's school.  It was not crazy hair day at Mya's.  What one does, so does the other.  And Mya had no problem going to preschool with pink and purple hair.  And neither did I.  Live it up.