Skipping Town

Greta Whittemore Littell born by C-section October 27, 2011 6 lbs., 9 oz., 20 inches long

View from my room 36 weeks, 5 days 36 weeks, 6 days (day before C-section) Visit from Lucia (Tuesday) Visit from Lucia (Sunday) Visit from Lucia (Sunday)--Lucia is dipping a coffee stir into the cream cheese from a bagel and licking it off. Hospital fun!

In fifteen hours, we’ll be meeting our new little one; by this time tomorrow, I’ll be recovering from surgery and—I hope—nursing a tiny, shocked newborn. By this time tomorrow I’ll be off the antepartum floor and onto the floor where babies are crying and new parents are happy. I can’t wait. The baby seems excited, as though she knows something’s about to happen. She’s been more active than usual, flipping around determinedly; her heartrate tracings during today’s non-stress test were filled with dramatic peaks. The nurse monitoring me said my baby always has the best tracings—“shows up all the other babies” were her words. Eager as I am to have this pregnancy over and done with, part of me does feel sad that this baby is missing out on three weeks in the womb. But all this was not up to me. She can take it up with the placenta. By this weekend, I’ll be home. The very idea of it fills me with relief and calm, even though nothing about my homecoming is going to be calm. I’ve never had a

First, my C-section has returned to its originally scheduled date of October 27, 7:30am. I am disappointed, but since my time slot on the 26th was at 4pm, I’m reminding myself this is a difference of just 15 hours. Time has slowed down considerably now that the end is in sight. For me, anyway. Andrew is running around like crazy, trying to get all the last-minute baby-coming-home details taken care of. But here in the hospital, my days are inching by. The problem is that I have left Forks: the world of the Twilight books. Terrible as they were, they were utterly absorbing, and I enjoyed both reading them and texting amusing-to-me academic-essay topics to Molly (“Bella is willing to become a vampire but not a wife. Discuss in the context of gender roles and the Facebook generation.” “Neither Edward nor Aro can read Bella’s thoughts. Discuss what this implies about the efficacy of prayer.”) But now I have finished books one, two, and three, and the final book is swimming in the postal sy

Astute readers will notice that we’ve skipped a day in the countdown. This is not a mistake—my C-section has been moved up one day, to Wednesday, October 26, which means my hospital adventure will come to an end one day sooner. The change has nothing to do with anything medical; just my doctor shifting around her schedule. (And she assured me there was nothing problematic about my already-large baby.) So the end is truly in sight. I am more ready than ever to get home. Lucia has a cold, and I want to be there for sick-baby snuggling; she visited today and spent most of the time just sitting on my lap, playing with her Minnie Mouse, not even venturing closer to our other visitors, a friend and her two-and-a-half-month-old baby. And I’m ready to get off the 14th floor—Antepartum—where my condition, though technically high-risk, pales in comparison to what I’ve been hearing about the other women. I haven’t had a Big Bleed, I’m otherwise healthy, and the health and well-being of my baby ha

Here I am, on hospital bedrest—with nothing but time to write my monthly COMMENTARY. As I read this month’s issue, lots of things jumped out at me, perhaps because I was an unusually captive audience. Let’s get to it. Trouble, once again, from the cover—another celebrity-with-baby, this time Bethenny something or other, a reality TV person, with her baby. This issue also featured an interview with Gwen Stefani; a page detailing how you, dear reader, and your child can dress like Ellen Pompeo and hers; and an article by an NBA player about being a good dad. The interviews were particularly egregious. I have no idea if Bethenny or Gwen are actually vapid and senseless in their real lives, but these interviews did not do anything to make me think otherwise. Take, for instance, Gwen’s comment on her fashion troubles: “I’ve always been attracted to Japanese kids’ clothes, but they’re so hard to shop for—the websites are always in Japanese!” COMMENTARY: Seriously, world: Why can’t everyone j

I had an ultrasound today to check the baby’s size, and I was stunned: she is currently an estimated 7 pounds 2 ounces. If I were carrying this baby to term, does this mean she’d be a gigantic baby? At first I was relieved that she definitely won’t be a tiny preemie when she’s born; but later in the day the high-risk doctor who checked in said size really won’t make a difference in whether her lungs will be okay. I’ve learned to take these statements calmly. When I talk to my doctor or the doctors in her group, they all are much more certain that all will be well; I think the high-risk doctors just have a more…high-risk view of things. But I am anxious to ask my own doctor if I need to be concerned about my new baby’s surprising chubbiness. Lucia, though far from chubby, has reached a milestone: she’s surpassed the tenth percentile for weight! Andrew took her to her two-year checkup today, and she weighs 23 pounds, putting her in the twelfth percentile. She’s in the fifty-second percen

If you calculate my remaining hospital time in a generous way—not counting today or the day of my C-section—then there are nine days left of this maddening in-betweenness. In nine days, we will have another baby—and even though there are three more nights of recovery after that, it will be different from this waiting period, this state of quasi-life. Nine days till we can finally meet this new little one and make our grand entrance once again into sleepless, chaotic, all-encompassing Newborn Land. Two boxes of newborn-size diapers arrived last week, giving Andrew a little jolt—those diapers are unbelievably tiny. He brought some to me in my hospital bag, and they look like something we should be putting on Lucia’s stuffed animals. Today I asked my doctor whether there was any chance of making it to 38 weeks if I didn’t have a Big Bleed; she said she would never allow a patient with CPP to go beyond 37 weeks. I have no desire to stay an extra minute in the hospital, but of course I want

To my great relief, all signs are pointing to the happy possibility that Lucia will not be scarred for life by this extended separation (or by her delayed birthday celebration). So I thought I would devote a post to how brave and flexible she’s proven to be over the past few weeks. I expected her visits here to be wary, tearful affairs, but they have proven to be anything but. I usually hear her saying “Hi! Hi!” before she even comes into the room, and she eagerly hugs me hello—then heads straight for the huge bag of books, coloring books, and markers we keep here. She generally sits right down in my lap for a reading of our favorite hospital book, Kitten’s Winter. She has a set of little medicine-dosage cups she always plays with for a few minutes, and she generally indulges in many, many snacks—usually a bagel and/or muffin that Andrew and Mom get on their way over. On the days when I don’t have a roommate, she loves to run around the room-dividing curtain, hiding and then reappearin

Yesterday, Andrew and Mom took Lucia on a long walk to Prospect Park and had some good playing time in the Long Meadow. Here are some pictures from the day of her (secret) second birthday.

Dearest Little One, I can’t believe that we are apart on your second birthday. It is wrong, and terrible, and though you don’t understand the particular terribleness, I do. You are home with Daddy and Grandma, while I am in the hospital, staying still and safe and quiet to make sure your little sister has as much time to cook as possible. Much as I want to rush her along, I know she needs just a little more time. Someday you’ll understand this. Because I am here, and you are home, on your second birthday, your father and I have made a decision: to pretend today is not your birthday. Imagining you opening your gifts in a hospital room, or having cupcakes and singing “Happy Birthday” without me at home, is unfathomable, heartbreaking. And so we are going to wait until I am home to celebrate. We will give you your gifts, and get balloons, and make cupcakes, and sing “Happy Birthday,” in two weeks’ time, when this separation is finally over. I have to trust that you will have no idea of th

Here on the hospital’s antepartum floor, there’s no talk of natural labor, or water breaking, or going into labor, or anything at all not having to do with a C-section. The precise timing of these C-sections is a regular topic of discussion among the high-risk doctors, who, I’ve gathered, regularly meet to discuss the case of each woman on the floor. My doctor stopped in this morning and told me there had been some discussion over whether my C-section should still happen at 37 weeks or should be pushed up to 36. The consensus was that as long as I’m in-house, we should hold out as long as possible (up to 37 weeks); if something happens, they can always just section me. “Section” me. This is the lingo in the world of complicated pregnancies, a bizarre and somewhat violent-sounding verb that makes what’s happening sound a lot more aggressive than the alternative, “do a C-section” or “have a C-section.” “We’ll section you”—it sounds like something Solomon would propose. A C-section is a n

Ha. “Finally, time to read!” is one of those things I always assumed I’d feel if I were placed on bedrest. It seems logical. I have nothing to do—every single hour of my day is free, and I’m not allowed to move anywhere but within this room. Reading seems the logical—the glorious!—way to pass the time. The problem is that I cannot concentrate. At all. And everything I do manage to read, I hate. I can’t get into anything, can’t lose myself in books like I’ve always been able to, in pretty much any other circumstance. Long plane rides. Long airport waits. Long waits for anything. Subway rides. Long spells when Lucia was born and napping long infant naps in my lap. But here, at the hospital—it’s not working. I’m away from home, away from my husband and child, and though I’m not exactly thinking about anything else, my mind is so scattered that I simply cannot remember what’s happened from the top of the page to the bottom. I have some things to try. I’m awaiting an Amazon order with two P

A happy follow-up: Andrew unexpectedly returned tonight, bearing dinner made by Mom and a chocolate milkshake. And so the day ends pleasantly. Seventeen days to go.

Today was not a good day. Andrew, Lucia, and Mom came to visit, which was both great and awful, because seeing Lucia just makes me frantically want to go home. I was so miserable after her departure that my pulse went up enough to alarm the nurse, who advised me that getting so upset was not beneficial to me or the baby. Not good. Then, on a day when Andrew brought breakfast but I had no outside (edible) food coming to me for either lunch or dinner, the selections were the following: a hamburger for lunch (completely inedible, so unappetizing I had to cover it up on the dish) and a chicken breast dry enough to be a scouring sponge for dinner (75% inedible—I had to eat something). Not good. I was weighed this morning, and I’m teetering on the edge of a New Frontier: 149 pounds. Not good. (Actually, in truth, this is neither good nor bad, since that’s only 29 pounds total so far. It just shocked me.) Then, this afternoon, I had an eensy bit of spotting; however, on a floor where bedbound

This morning, at 6:00, I was woken from a sound sleep with this greeting: “Good morning! I need to draw your blood.” Lovely. I asked her to draw it from my hand; she agreed, and stabbed me painfully, but then said she was sorry but she had to stop because the vein “blew up” and she didn’t get enough blood. So then I had to have it in my arm. And my hand, six hours later, is still sore. A pretty much fantastic way to start this Sunday. The sky wasn’t even light yet. It’s been a week, and I’m tired of being here. I feel like being here is pointless. Nothing has happened since Sunday, my non-stress tests all come out fine, and other than some uterus “irritability,” which I’m assured is normal, I’ve been as fine as I would have been had I never bothered to come in last week at all. Meanwhile, my new roommate with marginal previa has been bleeding constantly for the past twelve hours, and timing regular contractions—she should definitely be here. Me, I’m not so sure. But every time I ask a

Yesterday, Mom and Lucia found themselves entangled in a grand, frantic adventure. In the morning, they went to a music class, and when it was time to leave, Mom realized that Lucia’s beloved plush Elmo was gone. Since Bibi isn’t permitted to leave the house, Lucia’s regular traveling companions are Elmo and her pink corduroy Cat; “Cat Elmo,” she says whenever we’re preparing to go anywhere, and she hurries to find them. “Cat Elmo.” She goes nowhere without them. And now Elmo was gone, naptime was approaching, and disaster loomed. On the advice of someone in the class, Mom checked out a toystore on 7th Avenue; they did not have the right size Elmo. After she called me to report on the loss, I called all the other Park Slope toystores and finally found one that claimed to have Elmos in all sizes—of course, this was a store about fifteen blocks away. I told Mom to go back home, put the stroller inside, wait on the stoop, and then get into the car I was going to call for her. In the backg

Last picture of just us three?

Here I am early on the fateful day of my hospital admission, cavorting happily in a pumpkin patch. Little did I know where I'd end up later that night.

So I think this new little one might just be the athletic daughter Andrew is hoping for. Each morning when I go for my non-stress test, whichever nurse is watching the heartbeat has just one comment: Your baby is so active! Yesterday, each time she moved (which was pretty much all the time), her heartbeat went up to 200; she was described as getting “overexcited.” Today wasn’t quite as dramatic, but it was still high, into the 180s. They’ve been keeping me on the monitors a few extra minutes to make sure the baby gets back to a normal baseline (around 150-160), which she always does. I really imagine this baby coming into the world with bright, curious eyes and kicking, excited feet, ready to squirm out of my arms and start exploring. She just has to quiet down a bit for the weekend. Andrew left today for Florida for Katherine’s wedding, and having the baby while he’s away seems like a pretty ridiculous prospect. So for the next two days, my goal is modest: keep calm, stay still, drink

Here are the happier things I’m reminding myself of now that I’m facing a three-week hospital stay. First, we’re lucky to have health insurance; one thing I’m not worrying about right now is how we’ll pay for everything. I can’t imagine coming here, tests flying right and left, and dreading the bills to come. Second, we’re lucky I’m already 34 weeks along; the baby is doing well and though extra cooking time will be best, she will be okay if she decides she’s had enough of the womb. And third, we’re lucky Mom could come to stay with us and take care of Lucia. No amount of motherly pride wants Lucia to be miserable in my absence, and “Gra’s” appearance yesterday thrilled Lucia. A nurse told me she’s heard suddenly hospital-bound women trying to hire nannies over the phone, so we’re lucky that Lucia is in such good hands. All of this is good and bright. But it’s still hard to be here, not because it’s boring and tedious—it is, but I have lots of things to do—but because it is just comple

That’s right: This is my fifth day in the hospital. This week has been more than a little surreal. After our lovely pumpkin-picking day on Sunday, and a relaxing, normal evening, I found myself talking to Andrew on the couch one minute and frantically calling my doctor the next. By 10:00pm, I was at the hospital; later that night, I was admitted. And it looks like I am here to stay until the baby is born, which will be on October 27—37 weeks—as scheduled, or the minute I have any other bleeding, which could be anytime. Though we had high hopes that our planned ultrasound on Monday would show a miraculous migration of the placenta, this was not the case. I still had the ultrasound on Monday, but I was wheeled down in a wheelchair, wearing a hospital gown; and the scan still showed complete placenta previa. Sunday and Monday nights, I got steroid shots to bulk up the baby’s lung development in case she was born sooner rather than later. But since Sunday, I’ve been fine—no contractions, n

With fall suddenly in the air, Sunday morning Andrew, Lucia, and I set out for some good autumnal fun—pumpkin patch, livestock, apple festival—at a farm in…Long Island. It wasn’t exactly a rural setting, but really, with a toddler, this was all the farm we needed. Lucia seemed at home as soon as we arrived, rushing up to each animal pen to greet the animals, often in their own language: “Hi, geese! Honk honk!” “Hi, chickens! Bock bock bock!” When we reached the pick-your-own pumpkin patch (a bit of a misnomer, since the pumpkins had already been freed from their vines and were waiting, artfully arranged in the field, for camera-wielding parents like us), Lucia was beyond excited. She immediately selected a tiny gourd-pumpkin and then rushed around, climbing over pumpkins, sitting on pumpkins, attempting to pick up large pumpkins, smiling happily when she succeeded in lifting smaller pumpkins. Nearby, some medium-sized pumpkins were strewn around a grassy field, and for a while we were

I just had to take some pictures the other day of Lucia’s extreme joy and excitement over her snack: a bowl of Honey Graham Bunnies.