2014: i love you, goodbye

Dear 2014,

I have such mixed emotions about you and feel we have had a love/hate relationship these last 365 days. You began with such promise and high hopes.  In early February, we celebrated the beautiful first year of Harlow's life.  A candy themed birthday party seemed only appropriate, as she has brought so much sweetness to our everyday life. I still couldn't thank everyone for sharing in her special day, without choking up.   I'm not sure if or when I'll ever be able to speak about my daughter without getting emotional. It's a strength and a weakness. We watched as Harlow began to gain confidence and the ability to pull up on furniture and walk along side of things. After struggling for years to become a family, everything was finally the way I had always dreamt it to be. 

Apparently you had other plans for us.  On my dad's birthday, the April Fool's joke that unfolded was more than we could have handled or imagined. Harlow went into septic shock from the flu and strep throat and nearly died.  We spent 5 weeks in the hospital, not knowing if we would walk out with our family of 3 in tact or as a man and woman in mourning.   Thank God it wasn't the latter. You scarred my heart and eyes with what I felt and saw. I held my breath as I insanely stared at my baby's breathing monitor, trying to will her to take her own oxygen in and not depend on a machine.  I learned to sleep to the rhythm of beeping from life supporting systems and nurses moving about.  I sang to my child while surgeons stripped her delicate legs of their skin. I found comfort in clinging to my husband in a twin bed at the hospital.  I learned to pray harder and deeper than I knew possible.  I was shaken to my core and scared to death of what my year and entire life would end up being.   We were robbed of the Spring months and all the optimism the new blooms usually mean to me.  You left wounds to heal in my soul and all over my baby girl. 

 But you let us keep her. You showed me real fear and anguish, but from that nightmare, you also opened my eyes to something more precious than I can ever fully describe.  I witnessed the good in people and true, raw beauty and love. My ears heard some of the most powerful prayers ever said, all in the name of Harlow. I was touched emotionally and physically from family and friends, to mere acquaintances and strangers. I made connections and lifelong relationships with nurses and doctors. I learned the importance of patience and waiting on things we value most. 

I watched in awe as my baby learned to walk, without a portion of one heel. I played with my family in the sand and experienced the beach through my daughter's giggles and squeals. 

Then you took Frank.  And I was so angry.  Why would you put us through so much in such a short time?  Why wouldn't you give us a freaking break?!  

You were kind to many and cruel to others. 

 

You gave people I adore happiness, success, love and babies and yet you took them away from others. You ripped life from us and gave it back. You lifted my spirits higher than they've ever been and drug me down to the darkest depths.  I was hopeful. I was hopeless. I lost my faith. My faith was strengthened. I worked hard. I slacked off. I was angry. I was thankful. I was cursed. I was blessed. I was lost. I was found. 

   I'm ready to say goodbye to you.   I thank you for keeping me whole. For keeping me humble. For letting me remain a mommy.   For weakening and strengthening my faith and marriage. For showing me I can make it through and still smile back at you. I hate moving forward without our Frankles, but have to.  He is the only thing I hate leaving behind with you.  I fear you. I love you.  I appreciate you. I will not miss you. I needed you.  But now you and I must part ways.  Goodbye 2014.  Please tell 2015 to continue to beautify all things in my life and be kind to us all.  

Bah Bye....

Things that could disappear forever and I'd be totally cool:

1.  Acronyms.  All of them!  No exceptions. No "well, this one is okay".   I mean it.  Are we so busy that we can't spell out the actual words or phrase? Are our phone bills charging for every single letter we type, so we are just being financially savvy?  Or is it a mix between trying to hip and laziness?  Either way, I would love for all the "LOLs, IDKs, SMHs, TIAs, LMAOs" and all the others that I'm positive I don't know what they actually mean, to vanish into thin air.   My sister is a literature teacher for 7/8 grade.  She receives papers that contain acronyms, explanation points at the end of EVERY sentence, and wait for it...smiley faces.  I fear that the younger generations will be illiterate, due to all of this.  My daughter is a part of the "younger" generation. What if she only speaks to me in acronyms?  It'll be a huge language barrier. FML.  (I kid, I kid).

2.  Smocked clothing for babies/toddlers/anyone.  I know this look is very popular amongst the Southern states.  I was born in Berkeley, so my parents probably dressed me in bell bottoms and fringe vests....but I will happily take that.  I guess I just don't get all the rage around everything smocked and monogrammed. Is it precious to have some things with your baby's initials on it?  Sure. I admittedly have at least one blanket and a couple of head wraps with "Harlow" or "HTJ" on them.  I am just confused by those wanting to sew it on EVERYTHING!   When Harlow was about 5 months old, I bought a smocked 4th of July dress. I had a weak moment.  It happens to the best of us. Of course she looked adorable in it, but I think she could wear a burlap sack well. Looking back at pictures of that holiday, although she was clearly dressed for the occasion, I'm puzzled as to why I wanted that for her in the first place.  I'm not Southern or preppy. I swear I'm not some judgmental asshole, so please find the humor in this and don't get offended. I have friends who only dress their kids in smocked outfits.  It's not like I hate them. (The children not the outfits). Maybe it's just an overwhelming look for me, personally. To each their own.  I dress my daughter in mostly gray and black and buy lots of her stuff from the boys' section. I'm sure some people don't particularly like her wardrobe.  Perhaps it's more of the boys in those John John overall/apron things that make my skin itch.  And there is one for every season, holiday, and sport. Nothing says, " I love the NFL" quite like a baby blue John John with footballs sewn on it.   But as I said before, to each their own. At least now you know what NOT to buy Harlow for her birthday. 

3. Ebola.  I know, I know. You're probably just as sick of hearing that word as I am. Is it rare?  Yes. Is it scary? Of course. Do we wish it had never been brought into the United States, specifically Dallas?  No doubt about it. However, I guarantee that with the exception of those who think vaccinations are the devil, if an Ebola vaccine came out tomorrow, nearly everyone would get it.  However, there ARE vaccines available for other sicknesses...like the flu and people have no interest in getting them. People don't seem to understand how dangerous and life threatening the Flu can really be. Someone made a joke that more people have been married to Kim Kardashian than have died from Ebola in the U.S.  I rest my case.  Take precautions, wash your hands...but please don't go buy a hazmat suit.  Hey Ebola, thanks for the panic.  You may now exit stage left. 

4.  Selfies.  I'm sure I'll get a lot of hell over this one, but it's just got to be said. Enough already.  Especially the ones with you in your car.  Although I'm proud of you for wearing your seatbelt, I'm miffed by all the duck faced, personal phone pictures that are taken and posted on the daily. Maybe I'm just unlucky, but I have never felt obligated to snap a picture of myself while driving. I'm just not that hot.  Unless I'm sending a photo to a friend to show her my new hairdo or the fact that I chipped my tooth, I just don't understand. 

5.  People that don't wave when you let them into your lane in traffic.

6.  People that don't thank you for holding the door open for them. 

7. People that jaywalk and then take their sweet ass time.  

8. Terms like "bestie" "whatevs" "obvs" etc.   

9.  People who lack elevator etiquette. It's an unsaid rule that you allow people to exit the elevator before you try to get in.

10.  On that note, people who must push the elevator button after its clearly lit up. I don't make it a habit of just standing in front of the elevator and guessing when it will finally come down to me. 

11.  Ungrateful people. I feel I have always be thankful and well aware of the many blessings in my life. Those who feel they are simply entitled to everything, make me sad. 

12.  Being rude to waitstaff, nurses, clerks, basically anyone who is helping you. How you treat someone says so much about your character. 

13.  The traffic and construction on 635.

14. April 1st and the 7-8 weeks or more that followed. 

15.  People that don't put their shopping cart back. It's not that far. 

16.  Overly loud phone talkers. Not everyone needs or wants to hear about how your date last night sucked. 

To be continued. Please add on to this list with me. 

Just A Dream

I swear that at some point, my posts will go back to being the random, funny ones they used to be...but for now, I just write whatever pops into my head.  I feel lots has been weighing heavy on my mind as of late.

Through the wonderful world of Facebook, I was introduced to a book.  You know those creepy, stalker type ads that suddenly show up on the side of your Facebook page?  Clearly we are being monitored, as the second I buy tampons, I receive ads about Essure or Midol. This particular ad caught my interest, as it was about a book a mother wrote, regarding the loss of her child.  The title is, "Rare Bird" and for some reason,  I felt drawn to read it.  Now I know I am fortunate and did not lose my child, but that didn't take away the strong urge I had to buy it and peruse it's pages.

Once it arrived, I quickly began reading it. As expected, it was loaded with religious information and yet contained so much raw emotion and real ness. I haven't even finished it yet, but I instantly felt a connection with this woman and her story.

Then the dreams started.  For several weeks now, I have had several similar dreams at night.  Some at nearly faded memories of our time in the hospital, but there is one in particular that has been scaring the hell out of me.   In this dream, all the days and time since we were discharged from the hospital on May 8th, up until today, have been a dream.  I've made it all up.  I have simply imagined what our life would look like and how the next few months would have played out.  In this dream, Harlow did not beat the odds. I wake up and none do these past 6 months has really happened. I'm still in the hospital and the news of her passing is still fresh and intense.

I hate this dream.  I hate it because it scares the living shit out of me.  It makes the alternative and possible outcomes too real for me. It makes me feel guilty for thinking I am allowed to be relieved that my daughter dying was just a dream, when so many other parents cannot wake up from their nightmares. It makes me question why I was spared such tragedy, but not for one second willing to give it back.

I'm not sure if I'm entitled to feel some sort of PTSD from the whole Harlow deal.  So many others have faced far worse and never admit to their suffering.  Who am I to think that what I am now experiencing deserves such a strong aftermath diagnosis?!  Maybe what is happening. To me is simply the grief seeping out.  Finally.

Last night, Blake and I made the very unwise decision to watch the movie, "Fault In Our Stars."   WARNING:  if you are having a crappy year, do NOT watch this!  If you are having a fantastic year, do NOT watch this.   The story is based on a teenage girl who is dying from cancer.  Not at all my situation, I know, but so many parts of the movie touched too close to home. The mother crying, saying how if her daughter died, she wouldn't be a mother anymore.  Gulp.  I said those same words in the hospital and felt the same feeling.  Different circumstances, but the same fear and anguish of that possibility. Again, I am not putting myself in the same category as those who have lost their child.  I don't want to. The days and weeks of uncertainty were plenty for me and although we got off easy, it was enough to make me fully aware of the consequences.

Harlow has been taking steps on her own. Not full on walking yet, but every day she is getting more confident.  Some days she will try over and over again. Other days, she doesn't even entertain the idea. But it's progress. I'm so sorry for all those parents out there who never get to witness the aftermath.  Who never get to relish in the second chance.  Who never get to wake up from the reoccurring nightmare of  losing a child. Is my life a dream life?  No way. But I am humbled, afraid and very thankful that when my sleep shakes me to my core, I get to wake up and realize, it was just a dream.

Sit. Shake. High Five. Stay. I Needed You To Stay.

You died on a Friday.  So did a huge part of your dad and I. It was a part reserved for you and all of the youthful, carefree times we shared. I finally pinpointed that  that is what you resemble to me. To us. Youth and no worries.  Days spent in California. Hiking and cooler weather. Bliss and no major responsibilities. The beach and you.

 For so very long you were the center of our world. You were our new beginning.  We had a puppy prior to you, but he was stolen so early on.  We waited and took our time debating if we were ready for another bulldog. You fell into our lap and instantly made things better.  You ruined all of our furniture and constantly peed on our DVD collection, but we didn't care. You had my engagement ring tied around a bow on your neck. I remember Blake saying, " Frank you're not doing your job" as you were  licking me and not showcasing the ring. You were our save the date picture and our ring bearer at our wedding. Dressed up with angel wings. We tied homemade dog treats to the aisle chairs, to encourage you along. 

When we made the move back home to Dallas, it took it's toll on you. Your allergies acted up. The major temperature change and life in a new place. With no hiking. No beach. Plenty of worries and responsibilities. But you stayed constant. Always entertaining us. Always making us laugh. Always. 

When we struggled for 3 years trying to get pregnant, you would always sense my sadness and come rest your head on me. I knew you hurt too.  When we finally were pregnant, I put a t shirt on you that said," I'm finally going to be a big brother" and that's how we told dad the big news.  You rested on my growing belly and helped me read up on what to expect.  Dad took some maternity pictures of me and you were in them too. You were always such a staple in our lives and we wanted to always include you.  

When we adopted Gus, you were less than pleased.  I know you had difficulty adjusting to someone new being in our home and we tried to ease that time.  Gus was and is still a handful. He came from a bad place and wasn't always kind to you. I'm so sorry for that.  I hope you eventually became okay with his presence and weren't unhappy.  

When we brought your new baby sister home from the hospital, I researched how best to introduce you to her. I walked in first and greeted you and then dad brought Harlow in.  You never seemed to mind or not mind her, so I assumed you were okay.  I apologize for kicking you out of our bed.  I know you loved sleeping in dad's armpit and I hated messing up your routine to better fit Harlow's.  

As you grew older, you seemed less bothered by stuff and more into relaxing and being comfortable.  It always made us giggle how put out you acted when we would force you to get exercise or take you to the dog park. 

Things changed and life happened. I know I didn't spend enough time with you.  Between work, Harlow etc, you kept getting pushed down the line. I loved you all the same but feel so bad that maybe you weren't shown enough.  

The hardest part for me to face is thinking I didn't kiss you goodbye before we left on a Florida vacation.   I was rushed packing, getting your sister ready, and getting myself ready.  I can't recall for sure, but I think I just walked out the door without even acknowledging you. That is what is killing me.  You stood by and were chosen over so often the last year and even though you were probably stressed that we were leaving, I was too caught up to hug you bye.  

Had I only known, Frank.  I took for granted that you would always be there.  That you were always loyal. That you were struggling to adapt to all the changes.  That you were there for all of my important moments and I lacked on my end. Getting that call to say on our last night of vacation, that you had died, will forever haunt me.  Having to go tell dad and saying the words out loud. It still stings so bad.  We cried all night. Knowing we weren't there for you in your final moments.  Cried the whole plane ride home and had to race to get home, compose ourselves enough to bundle your lifeless body up in a blanket, and give you the proper goodbye you so deserved.  We took you to a place where they will let us forever have a part of you. Dad wept as he fixed you up so I could see you.  As I walked up to your body, my heart felt like it would stop. You were no longer there. You were already in another place. Hopefully you are on a beautiful beach, with a frisbee. Full of energy and life. Enjoying yourself but patiently waiting for us to join you.  You weren't on that table, but I was.  I cried and told you what a good boy you were. I told you how very sorry I was for sometimes neglecting you and for being absent when you needed me most.  I rubbed your ears the way you always loved.  I hope you heard me and felt me. 

Bubba, I have been so torn apart these last few days. I can't even go to the dog food for Gus without feeling my stomach ache.  I cannot walk through the dog alley at the store without tearing up. I miss you.  I know it will get easier and we will always tell stories of your amazing life and companionship but I just wish you were still here.  I wasn't ready to say goodbye to you.  I dreamt of Harlow forcing you to play dress up. You would have hated it but bared it.  I'm so so sorry Poops that your last days were spent with us gone. We will forever feel that pain. I hope you are happy and full of life.  I hope you forgive us.  I hope you will be waiting for us one day.  You are and were my first baby and I love you so much.  

You mastered sit, shake and high five. We never really concurred stay.  Oh how badly I wish I could have made you stay.   

August 9, 2014 was a horrific day for our family.  Just when we were becoming whole again, a very important part of our family was taken away.  

I want you back my sweet Frankles. 

Loudness Of Your Stare

As the near loss of my daughter turns another page on my calendar; life has begun to feel somewhat normal again. There are still doctor appointments to attend and although we have FINALLY shed that last cast, we have moved on to silicone therapy on her scarring. Her latest accessories come in the form of thick, knee high, athletic socks.  Blake and I laughed, as before, when people would see Harlow with her wound dressings and cast, they would instantly show us pity, or smile at us. Now, people simply think we have no style whatsoever and think it's chic or cute to clothe our baby girl in a dress and tube socks. Oh well. I'll take it any day of the week. Means we are still moving forward.  

As the dust settles on a horrific time in our lives, routines reinstate and days pass with little to no fumbles. It's funny how you naturally adjust to new schedules and additional daily tasks.  Add it on to my to do list.  It will get done. 

It's nice to have the questions, puzzled looks and obvious whispering...lessen.  It used to tear me to shreds to have strangers glare at my baby. I could feel their stares. I could sometimes feel their invisible fingers pointing at me, as if to blame me for what they imagined must have happened to my child.  It was almost like I could hear them watching and assuming I neglected my daughter and her casts were because she broke both of her legs.  That guilt that they placed upon me, cut like a knife.  

Maybe I place blame on myself, for the scars that Harlow will forever have to bare. You always want your children to have it better than you did and in that sense, maybe I have let her down.  I will never know what it's like to grow up with skin grafts on the back on my calves.  I'll never know how it feels to walk with half of a heel.  And I hate that. It makes me sick to my stomach to know that is her burden to carry. 

But I did everything I could to keep her safe and healthy.  She is my greatest joy and the best thing that I've ever had...protecting her is all I think about. Septic shock is nothing I could have prepared for.  No one could.

Scars heal and slowly fade. She won't remember any of the trauma she experienced.  I pray that walking comes easily for her and that with the help of physical therapy, she can learn to be mobile, with no pain. As those concerns ring in my head, new questions arise. 

How is this little 17 month old so strong? How will these new scars affect her?   And the most important one....how would I live my life without this precious blessing that I have been given?  

Doctor Mom. Doctor Faith. Doctor Love. Dr. Sue

I know that with every dressing change, every appointment and every bath I give Harlow with a watertight bag on her leg, that time is slowly passing and with that, the memories of April1st through May 8th, will eventually become blurry. There are parts of that hospital stay that I will happily wave goodbye to, but there are other aspects and certainly people, who I want to embed in my memory for life.
When you're pregnant you spend so much time trying to play by the rules. Eat healthy and well balanced meals.  Take your prenatal vitamins. Don't kill yourself with strenuous exercise. Go to all of your doctor appointments.  And the list goes on and on.  You do the best you can to create a safe environment for your future child.
Then when that precious baby finally arrives, you spend so much time trying to play by a whole new set of rules. You over analyze the smallest details and aim to be that "perfect" parent daily. Make sure the baby gets the best nutrition possible (except for those exhausting days where you pop mac and cheese in the microwave and hope no one finds out).  Make sure the baby is in line with his or her milestones and that you are providing enough stimulation for them. Make sure they feel loved. Every. Single. Day. And of course there is that pesky task of keeping them safe from harm and sickness. And when something does go wrong or should I say when life happens and your baby does get a sniffle or an ear ache, who you choose to take over for you is so very important. When mommy's kisses won't make it all better, you need a pediatrician to come in and make everything okay again.
There have been so many days when I feel I have failed Harlow at keeping her safe and healthy.  You see, my daughter Harlow, who was merely 15 months old at the time, became very ill, very quickly. And my living nightmare rapidly followed.
I believe in vaccinating my children. Whether you do or not isn't the point of this story.  The reason I say this is because I feel I did everything the correct way, regarding Harlow's health. She received the Flu vaccine and was an extremely vivacious and healthy baby.  Until she wasn't.  Long story short...my daughter contracted the Flu A and then a secondary opportunist infection jumped on board too.  There was nothing I could have done to prevent this.  I'm slowly making myself accept and believe that.  You can't wrap your kids up in a bubble. They have to get out and get dirty and scrap their knees.  Of course I would be right there to kiss those knees, wash them off and apply Hello Kitty bandaids to them, but again, I'm getting off track.

The night my daughter was rushed into the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, I watched as my whole world slowly turned to black. In the first several hours Harlow's mortality expectancy was 85%. Eighty Five Percent!! Family and friends fled to the hospital to be by our side and cover us in love and support.  Many of those faces bring me joy and instant comfort, but none of them could answer my questions or relieve my heart from breaking. 

In the hours that continued, I felt like I was in a horrific movie.  This couldn't be my life.  The baby I wanted for years and was finally given through IVF, wasn't being taken from me. It was as if I was frozen and the world was still going on without me. I couldn't comprehend half of what the specialists were telling me.  I would catch words here and there, but as soon as they would say "it's minute to minute on whether she survives" I blocked them out. My ears couldn't take tht kind of information. My heart wouldn't. 

Dr Sue Hubbard called my husband and I as soon as she caught word of Harlow's situation. It's amazing that feeling you have when you know someone is concerned for your child and wants to personally get in touch with you.  Unfortunately the last thing on my mind was my phone, so her calls went unanswered. The next thing I know,  in walks my pediatrician.  I assumed she was making rounds.  She wasn't. She wasn't even working that day. She came up to the hospital to check on her patient. And to check on us. 

I could feel the air rip from her chest when she laid eyes on my baby girl. Harlow had gone into septic shock. She was swollen from head to toe, covered in a rash and had every tube and iv imaginable attached to her frail body. Although Dr Sue is a professional and has to emotionally stay strong during these times, I could see her eyes glaze over. When she looked at me, her gaze was water filled and I knew she knew how bad it truly was. She hugged me and my husband and instantly became our support system. 

From that moment on, she became a face I needed to see, so that I could allow myself one second to take a break from my grief. 

Whether it was after workouts on her days off or making a pit stop in to visit us after a grueling workday; she was there. Keeping our faith when we were letting it go.  Hugging me when I thought I couldn't stand the thought of being touched; but so needed to be. In those weeks of horror, my daughter's pediatrician became my everything. 

She became a mother to me. (Even though we all know she's far too young for that role). She picked me up when I was down. She constantly got onto me when I wasn't eating or sleeping. She shared in my pure amazement and joy as Harlow miraculously began to improve. She was there for Harlow. And me. 

Pediatricians don't have to do all of that. Her role is to care for my child and this wasn't her specialty, dealing with life threatening septic shock. She didn't have to visit us almost daily. She didn't have to call us from her cell phone, while out of town at a wedding. She didn't have to bring us snacks and goodies. She didn't have to believe that Harlow would get better. She didn't have to wrap us up in her own prayers. She didn't have to. But she did. 

I love her for that.

Shedding The Excess

It's been 41 days since we brought Harlow back home from the hospital. It's odd to think that I used to love the month of April. Not just because it's my birthday month, but it means spring is here. Everything is colorful and blooming.  The weather is patio worthy and slowly all the heavy winter apparel is packed away. A fresh start. Strangely April has come to resemble something different all together for me. It's the start of a nightmare. The beginning of an undesired journey. A membership opening to a club that I never wished to be a part of. 

I spent the entire month of April watching my daughter's petals turn brown and fall off. I watched her once sparkly aura turn to black. I watched my entire meaning for living, fading away.  

Please don't think I'm not aware that April is also the month that Harlow slowly began to improve.  I know that her health began rebuilding in this month as well, but April still has a dark shadow hovering over it, in my mind.

 But now, she's home. 

Yesterday we had another follow up appointment with her surgeon to see how her heel was doing.  To see if that 6th procedure could finally be her last for many years to come. 

And it was. All of it.  The heel, graft and skin flap all looked healthy, pink and healing. As the doctor removed her wound vac, I nearly choked up.  For what seems like forever, she has had one or two cords attached to her legs.  I've had the luxury of lugging around the satchel and machine, all the while becoming an expert on how not to trip over the cords, close them in car doors, make sure the machine is always charged etc.  As the doc packed it all away...I felt a sense of relief release. Harlow felt it too.  One less accessory. We usually LOVE adding a ton of accessories, but after this whole ordeal, we also appreciate the minimalist approach. 

She began with so many cords, tubes, machines and ivs hanging from her frail body.  I loved the nurses who knew how much it meant to me to see another machine taken away. Another tube disconnected.  Clearing the way to my beautiful baby girl.  

Harlow went from being the sickest baby in the PICU to being the happiest baby everywhere.  She knows that she is no longer tied down with a wound vac. She knows she is free to crawl all over this world.  We still have the back of a cast and ace bandage on her right foot, so she's not able to walk yet.  But what a relieving process to slowly shed the excess. To slowly get back to where we were supposed to already be. 

I'm thankful for her life. I'm thankful for all the machines, tubes and cords. They helped save her precious life.  But...I'm so happy to leave them behind...

April Showers Bring May Flowers.  I believe that. Those horrible April storms, allowed my daughter to reblossom in May.