Oliver

I'm a mess. It's been a month and I'm a huge sobbing mess. And if I don't write this I may never blog again, because this post simply has to come first.

On February 10, 2010, at around 2:15 in the afternoon, my firstborn son came into the world. He lived a few moments, and then his special spirit left his tiny body—just under a pound and just over ten inches. And because he lived, Tim gave him a name and a blessing. We named him Oliver Michael Gordon. Oliver is after the Green Arrow, and Michael is after his uncle and his grandfather on my side.

But before he entered the world, he was in the world in my womb with his brother. I know he was there in both spirit and body because in his tiny life's end he became our family's little hero, and he saved his brother's life.

Weeks after my water broke, after I'd met Dr. P, the high-risk obstetrician, I started bleeding. It was the third or fourth time doctors looked at me hopelessly and sent me home to wait for whatever happened next. My babies were still alive and well, but my body would not contain them much longer. I had kept them longer than anyone expected past a membrane rupture (water breaking), but at any moment I could go into labor and lose my sons, whom I had loved and waited for my whole life so far.

As the barrier between my babies and the world they couldn't yet survive grew shorter and shorter, my doctor told me our only chance at survival for even one of our sons would be to deliver our poor waterless baby and try to keep the remaining baby in for as much longer as possible (called a Delayed Interval Delivery, or DID). But Baby B, our little PPROM boy with no water left around him, was way at the top of my uterus, and Baby A, with his full bag of water, had his head blocking the exit. He had been protecting his brother with the support of his own water bag and his larger body sitting over my diminishing cervix.

I was torn between the horrible hope that Baby B would move down so his brother would have a shot at life if I went into labor, and the thread of possibility that I could somehow hold them both in. Part of me understood that even if I could, Baby B moving down would give A a better shot at life if he could stay in even a little longer than his brother if they were both born after viability. But there were weeks left to cross.

I cried and cried over the horrible thought of losing one son to save the other, comforted only by the thought that it wasn't my choice. It was out of my hands and in God's. And in Baby B's. And over the next week, where I had felt only tiny movements before from my struggling son, I had the sensation of him wiggling in his tiny smooshed spot, and over the next days he moved more than ever. And at some point I remember knowing that Baby B would leave us, but Baby A would stay. Facing that thought hurt like Hell, but not as badly as saying goodbye when the time came.

February 8 was a Monday, and I went to see Dr. P for another ultrasound. My sweet little Baby B had somehow fought his way down, and with his little feet he had pushed past his brother's head and taken his place as the first to go. And though I knew it was God's will that this baby should come first, I also knew it was Baby B's choice.

I was scared to death when I left that the baby might just fall out, but Dr. P convinced me I'd have time to get to the hospital. That night I started contracting, and Tuesday morning I was in labor and headed to the hospital.

The doctors did an amniocentesis to make sure A was not infected, since he couldn't stay in if he was. The markers were borderline, but Dr. P was willing to try the procedure. I asked him if he would push Baby A back in if he started coming out too, and Dr. P said yes. And after that, a labor that hadn't been progressing much for about a day took less than an hour to go from "Let's see what happens after my meeting," to "Time to deliver!"

It hurt. There must have been six pairs of hands between my legs, but there had also been a skilled anesthesiologist at my side since the wee hours of the morning. Once little Baby B was born, they sedated me until the procedure was complete. Dr. P worked a complete miracle. He managed to get Baby B out and keep Baby A in while stitching me closed from being almost fully dilated. At one point, under the influence of all those drugs, I apparently told Dr. P he was like God. In truth, I'm sure God was guiding his hands to save my baby and keep me pregnant.

But there was Oliver, as we had finally agreed to call him. By the time everything was over, I knew he was gone. I had felt his precious body leave me, and Tim had seen him wiggle in those small moments of freedom he had before he died. When I got into recovery, they brought us his miniature body to see and hold. It is one of the two most perfect and beautiful things I have ever seen.

His feet were swollen from the brave steps he took to save his brother. His hand sat over his heart with five perfect little fingers. He had Tim's nose and my mouth. His hair was bleach white and too young for color. In many ways, he took after his father. And in my eyes, he was the most wonderful thing to ever enter the world. And he was gone before I ever met him face to face.

I will always mourn that he isn't with us. That I don't get to raise him right now. The life he won't live. That his brother will not meet him until we are reunited in Heaven. But I rejoice that he waits for us there. And he has family with him. And I am honored and blessed beyond imagination that he came to us. That I am his mother, and Tim is his father. That my baby boy has a little savior who will one day smile and laugh when they meet, remembering a distant past where they shared a too-small room and did their darnedest to keep each other alive.

I will always cry over that last moment I held him and the pictures a charitable organization took of our little family when it was finally the three of us. I will always miss him. I will love him forever and ever. And maybe someday, I won't be in so much pain every time I think of my firstborn son. But today it has been only a month.

And I am a mess.

Things, Etc.

I'm going to be brief.

I have 6mm of cervix left—maybe a week's worth at the rate I've been progressing. Baby B has managed to get a foot down below Baby A, so my doctor is fairly sure that when I go into labor, we will have a shot at a delayed-interval delivery, meaning our boys would have different birthdays, and Baby A would likely be a lot healthier than if we delivered them both early. The complication is that labor could begin basically whenever. We need it to hold off for at least 11 more days for Baby B to be viable. Any way to stop labor is contraindicated in my situation, so we basically need another miracle. And that's totally possible.

Now on to more exciting things!

We're in the middle of buying a house. Once all of our loan paperwork is processed, we're basically ready to close on March 5 or so. I'm falling more and more in love with this house. It's a cute 3-bedroom, 2-bath ranch with vaulted ceilings throughout. The third bedroom/office is in the front of the house off of the living room, and will make a great computer/playroom area since the boys will be sharing a room.

The kitchen is enormous. We'll buy all new appliances and basically never want for cabinet/eating/hangout space. I'm excited to change out the hardware on the cabinets and find a way to comfortably fill all that space.

Of course, the biggest deal to me is that we'll finally have a master bathroom! It's lovely and has a vanity space where I can sit and do my makeup. We'll tile the whole thing and put in radiant heat so our toes don't freeze off in winter, and it'll be ready for us to move in in no time at all.

While I won't get to go home there until both babies are safely delivered, once I can move in, I'll be able to enjoy a nice bath in the soaking tub, pick out my preferred decor, arrange the furniture the way I want it (or at least ask Tim to do it), and do something other than lie in bed playing idiotic Facebook games for hours on end and falling asleep anytime I out a show on.

I hope decorating, organizing, and watching spring bloom in our cute backyard will keep me distracted during the babies' inevitable NICU stay . . . which may start as soon as 11 days from now.

The Long Scary Version

So after a short walk and a long wheelchair ride through St. Luke's, and then back through St. Luke's the other way, I made it to the ultrasound area and started an hour-long—and very gloopy—series of pokes and prods and measurements, during which a dollop of ultrasound gel found its way onto the bottom of my sock, even though my feet were both hidden beneath a sheet and a small table during the whole procedure. I would not be shocked if an entire bottle of the stuff followed me home one day, only to spread its stickiness and stink onto every article of clothing I own.

There's bad news. Baby B doesn't appear to have much fluid at all. He's squished good and a bit crumpled, and his odds aren't fabulous for making it, even if I can keep these brothers in. But that's not the point.

There's good news. Because we've got twins in there, Baby A's fluid acts as a bit of leeway for Baby B to stretch his lungs. Baby B's odds are better than if he were alone. And happy news, we can decorate the nursery a little differently now that we've found that second set of man parts. As it turns out, Baby B is a boy.

I still hold great hopes for Baby B. If he's as strong as his father and as stubborn as his mother, his odds are better than expected. We can hope that with his brother's protection and the prayers of friends and family across the nation, he will live. We have faith for his safety, whatever the will of God is.

And we do have excellent care. Dr. P up at St. Luke's will see me in a week to keep an eye on my cervix (if you're cringing at the word, just stop reading now), to make sure it doesn't thin out. If it does, they'll do a cerclage. I looked up what that is, and frankly, the least disturbing way to say it is that they will sew my uterus shut. The whole thing sounds completely unpleasant. At least I'd be under anesthesia when they did it. But that's for next week, if I need it.

And if I make it a full four weeks, they'll measure the babies again and I'll talk with a neonatologist about what may be next. We'll have a lot more difficult questions to answer along with our difficult realities to face and difficult odds to swallow.

There is hope for our little struggling baby, and for his slightly larger brother. They'll both need strength and miracles to survive. We already know that's possible. What's left to us is the work of prayer—and the acceptance, on my part, of wheelchair rides and continued room service. And patience with the waiting and seeing that has already gone by faster than we can turn our heads.

Hands of God

But I'm forgetting something important. Maybe there is some mystical point at which children become ours. And maybe it is simply God's providence that decides whether we get there or not. Or with everything in God's power, especially his precious babies, I imagine it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine he treats these things on a case-by-case basis.

In any event, it is up to me to trust that God will grant motherhood in his own time, in his own way. And however it happens, fairness and justice beyond my understanding will be perfect anyway.

When?

In a high risk situation like mine, it's hard not to contemplate all of the options. And when you're a believer in a special kind of afterlife, like I am, it's easy for what seemed like a simple eternity to turn into a place full of questions—the type nobody claims to know the answers to. And the answers are suddenly the most important thing in the world.

When am I a mom? And I mean that in a literal sense: when do I have my daughter and son? It's a crucial part of my belief system that children born to my husband and I will be our children even after our deaths and into the eternities. And any child who dies young is innocent and goes to heaven. If I go there, that's where I can meet them. But what counts as born?

Am I just growing little bodies who will get spirits when they come out hearts beating? Or breathing? Or at what point do they get spirits to whom I am the earthly mother? They could come out of me alive but doomed to die at any point. Would they never have tiny spirits in those bodies? Or would they come just for those brief moments, even if they can't take a breath and won't receive medical attention? If they live only seconds?

And what if they die before they make the exit? Is that what decides if they were ever alive at all? And does it make a difference whether it happens at 20 weeks or 35? Or 12?

Or does it have more to do with what I do? Do I earn my motherhood badge? Or do I only get it if I somehow carry these babies to viability and deliver them alive? At what point do I earn the privilege of meeting them in heaven?

If I can't have children now, there will be opportunities for children in the next life, when God makes everything perfect and my body will conceive and bear children as easily as anyone else's. But it is these two whom I have loved. In all my vomiting spells and late nights up with the queasies and moments I have waited quietly for them to kick me and desperate times I have prayed for their safety, I have loved these children.

If they die before they're born, is it in the afterlife as if they never existed? Is it just the potential for souls that I have loved?

But then, what about the tiny bundles of cells that never stick, or die before they can? What happens when a new creature comes into being at the successful fertilization of an egg, but isn't even noticed before it leaves? Or the ones that do stick, but stay for only a few days before they die? So many of these go unnoticed—could they all be our children that we don't know we have? What sense does that make? And if they aren't our children when they're a hopeless bundle of cells, when do they become our children? It seems like it should be at the moment of conception (whenever you consider that to be) or at the moment baby takes a breath.

If I beg hard enough can it be sometime in between? Can heaven be neither full of children we never knew we had nor empty of those we tried so hard to deliver alive into the world? And if it can, when is that miracle moment when these bodies I carry become children I will love throughout eternity? And does it make any sense for a child to be or not be based on whether they will be mourned?

None of it makes sense to me. I trust that everything will be just and fair in heaven. And I suppose now I can know for sure that my understanding of just and fair falls as short of enough as Earth falls short of heaven. And where some women will always call their miscarried children their angels in heaven, I will walk feeling like that tiny bird in P.D. Eastman's iconic book, but asking a far stranger question: Am I your mother?

Carbs

They make my mouth taste like a tide pool at low tide on an unfortunately hot and sunny day. Except not quite as good. In fact, I imagine between the salt and the minerals in the rocks and the little creatures living in there, it probably has a decent sushi-ish taste that would be quite an improvement on the post-graham-cracker funk I've got going on in here.

It is Colorado's fundamental problem that there are no nearby tide pools for me to lick.

But I do appreciate the delightful concentrations of Adventists and Presbyterians who run hospitals here. All my doctors seem religious in a very friendly way, and I've really never enjoyed hospitals so much. The Adventist hospitals in Parker and Littleton have been unmatched in their medical services. I had to spend only five or so minutes at a Littleton Adventist shot clinic to get my H1N1 vaccine, and Parker Adventist has been fabulous through several ER visits.

And Monday, I get to go up to Presbyterian St. Luke's in Denver to see a high-risk pregnancy specialist who works at the best NICU at which you can deliver in the western US. So GO PROTESTANTS! My hat is off to you and the fabulous services you offer.

And what I'm hoping your finest can tell me is how my kiddos are faring in that regularly ultrasounded belly of mine. Seriously, I don't know that I'll ever get the residue of ultrasound gel off of me. The stuff dries on my skin while the ultrasound is still in progress, and by the time it's over all the napkins in the world can't scrub the stuff off. It peels itchily off of the parts of my abdomen I can no longer see without a flashlight and a mirror, and I just have to hope it's coming off in the reduced-soap showers I'm required to take. Apparently soap, like so many other things, is an infection risk.

Typical.

But with Dr. G's office equipment, the visual has been tentatively encouraging. Goofuth is still low on juice, but it doesn't look too terrible. And while Gallant regularly flashes any interested doctor with his mini-man parts, Goofuth appears to be man-part free. Nothing is certain, especially in some of those grainy pictures, but all bets are on Gallant having a sister. Judging by their earlier ultrasound behavior (from when they had equal fluid surrounding them), they're essentially miniatures of Tim and me: one restless girl with a severe case of the wiggles, and one patient boy with a tendency toward quiet. Or so I'd assume based on Gallant's having stuck his head firmly in the placenta at the furthest end from his sister, and Goofuth's enthusiastic squishing of my guts.

We're two days away from three weeks past membrane rupture, and three days away from the 20-week mark at which doctors will administer labor-postponing drugs if I start contracting. It is very much a miracle that we've made it this far, and I can't thank you enough for your prayers and thoughts on our behalf. I really believe that it's because of your efforts that God has preserved our precious little babies so far. It has taken lots of power to keep the kids safe this long, and that's the power called down from heaven by prayer. So thank you, and thank God for the countless blessings that add up to two live fetuses still in the womb.

Video Games are Good

So I guess there is a portion of society that thinks video games are evil. And I'd also guess that they think so because of the way some people die from video game addictions, or how some kids have no real social lives and instead play VGs all the time, or it could be the school shootings that get blamed on VG violence. Okay, so these people might have a point.

But saying VGs is evil for these reasons is like saying food is evil because people get fat and die eating it. My giant, bacony Five Guys burger (I couldn't type that without salivating) could be compared to, say, World of Warcraft. I really enjoy it, but I don't have it all the time. If I had Five Guys or WOW all the time, I'd die from it eventually. And like WOW is designed by psychologists to be addictive, many fast food chains employ chemical flavorings designed to make you crave their food. The thing is, eating fast food every now and then can be a part of a healthy diet. I argue that video games of all types can be part of a healthy recreational diet.

Violence? Social lives? Yeah, we all know those kids were screwed up before their N64 showed up under the Christmas tree. People blame video games for being a drug-like "escape from reality." I doubt anyone has had a drug trip that pushed them into a fantasy that they were the muscle for a fascist-style dictator in a socialist community where their penultimate authority allows them to not only fully allocate all resources, but also destroy anything and salvage its every component for use in whatever other structure they see fit. Or that they can wield ancient weapons and ride exotic creatures as they hunt down the enemies that threaten whichever community hires them as mercenary.

In fact, those fantasies sound a lot more like those brought on by another media substance occasionally considered evil: books. For readers, who often sequester themselves to finish entire series they find exciting, the interactions they have with words on a page penetrate to affect the psyche as much as any video game, and for most readers, more. Of course there are massive differences between VG and book interactions, but none of those makes video games evil.

So if I've finally assuaged those of you with some religious anti-VG feelings, maybe I can get a little relief from those of you who look at me funny when I mention my xbox games or WOW toons. I'm going to go kick some more Keflings on my 360.