The Laundry List

Recently I caught up with a friend I haven't spoken to in a while. It's been a busy year or two for each of us, and I felt a catch in my throat at her simple, "What's been going on?" question.

What hasn't gone on? Ardent list-maker that I am, the inventory is easy enough to trot out:

1. Had Mary Brooks.
2. Almost lost Mary Brooks.
3. Almost lost my mind.
4. Finally came back to life nine months later.
5. Ran the Walt Disney World half marathon for charity and, decidedly un-pregnant, rode every rollercoaster on the property. Thanked God hourly for the chance to start fresh. 
6. Found out I was expecting. (Surprise! And sorry for those loop-de-loops, baby.)
7. Lost our baby at 15 weeks. Had surgery. Stayed in bed for approximately a century.
7. Got, as we gallows humor-types like to say, re-pregnant.
8. Thought I was losing that baby.
9. Hospitalized more than once. On sporadic bed rest. Alternately terrified and in denial.
10. Unexpectedly delivered our son six weeks early.
11. Endured a one-week NICU stay.
12. Survived a sinus infection/ear infection/mastitis combo.
13. Thought that was the worst we'd handle this year.
14. Back at the Children's Hospital with a preemie and his fractured skull.*
15. Earned ourselves a three-day vacation right where we fought for MB two years before.
16. Nearly re-lost my mind.
17. Ran out of the hospital and swore we'd burn it down before we set foot there again.
18. Came back with a baby who wasn't gaining weight. 
19. Fielded daily questions as to why our newborn was "insanely small." (Y'all, please don't do that to a girl. No one's baby is insanely anything, besides cute.)
20. Brought in a team of experts: a pediatrician, lactation consultants, occupational therapists, a hospital-grade scale and one manic mama.
21. Took a deep breath. Began to enjoy what is, in truth, a beautiful, blessed life. And a sweet peanut who may just be getting the hang of this weight gain thing.

Amidst all that, we felt called to have Bradley leave his job* of nine years; it was slowly sucking the life out of our family and our marriage - the last thing we needed after MB's ordeal. Bradley's quitting was a tremendously brave act of obedience, one that both humbled and scared the pants off a planner like me. At every point, despite the stresses we encountered, our family saw absolute confirmation it was the right decision.

One side business and eighteen months(!) of a job search later, Bradley began a new full-time position just before Chapman was hospitalized. The pressure, waiting, healing, constant change - it was heavy and unrelenting. We were refined by fire once again, and no matter how I tried to look at it through a lens of faith and God's will, there were many nights I just wanted to opt out, to be passed over, to fast forward to the easy part.

When you write it all out, that laundry list looks like a lot. (Maybe I've outlined a fabulous memoir in these bulletpoints?) I wonder, as people have often asked, how we did it. In each moment, though, you don't philosophize or quit - you can't. The only option is to push on through.

You laugh with your husband the morning of your D&C, you shuttle yourself (and your milk supply) from home to NICU and back again, you remind yourself in the Children's Hospital that "this isn't that" and your son isn't fighting for his life - even if you're fighting for your sanity. You thank God for good sleep, sweet babies and a family who drops everything for you.

You feel the promise of the Gospel and know without a doubt that the Holy Spirit's presence in you is why you're still vertical, still putting one foot in front of the other.

You wonder if you've gone through this particular whirlwind to carry other people who are fielding harder, even more painful fights. You wish you never knew about any of this and desperately want your white-picket-fence, never-had-a-panic-attack, "perfect" life back.

You want your "what's new?" laundry list to be first movies, snow days, pigtails, park trips, holding hands, post-bath snuggles and birthdays. Your story is partly that, but the heart of the matter is a whole lot more.

And when someone asks what you've been up to these last two years, you don't know how to tell her you're not the girl you were before.

"Two babies, six dozen new gray hairs and an extra-large SUV. That's what we've been up to."

(What else can you say?)

When you hang up, you ask God to use this laundry list of chaos, this hard-fought battle, this big, ugly scar on an otherwise-smooth history for His purpose. And you know, more deeply than you've ever known anything, that He's in this with you.

What comes after this laundry list, Lord? (And, not to prove I haven't really learned my lesson, but can this season be finished? Please? I'd hate to see Bradley arrested for arson, and I'm pretty sure he's serious about burning that building down.)

*These are stories for another day. Promise.

A Birthday and a ReBirthday

Just over a month ago, our valentine turned one year old. And, as I did with Mac, I looked back and wondered how twelve months had rushed past me in an (insanely emotional hurricane of a) blur.


Unlike my first go-round, however, I didn't cry in the days leading up to her big moment. I felt relief, almost - something telling me I could stop holding my breath and start putting those months behind me.

It will no longer be the "first" Valentine's Day, sunny spring afternoon or otherwise notable happening, but the days ahead will be the first I remember. The first that really count.

A fashion show in her last "baby" days.

This year, my darling girl's second, is a fresh start. She's growing fast, becoming a tiny girl instead of a squishy, happy-to-snuggle bundle of baby. She's a whole new creature. 

Valentine's Day mornings, 2012 and 2013

We're inexpressibly thankful for our little valentine and for the friends and family who came to celebrate her! (We kept it sweet, intimate and extra small because, while mama adjusted beautifully, B was not keen on a big ole party. Denialville, party of one.)


Throwing together a party the weekend after Valentine's Day is easy as pie. Toss up a few pink and red decorations, lay out a table of food and another (even larger!) one of sweets and voila: a lovefest.

This beauty tasted even better than she looked!

We had a few desserts leftover for small group that Sunday...

Our best attempt.

She refused to eat a bite! How is she mine?

The best gift for every occasion!

While her birthday a party, we counted down to her ReBirthday with mixed emotions - and we didn't want to gloss over it.

Twenty days after her birthday, March 5, marked a year since Mary Brooks' surgery. I anticipated a flood of emotions, of difficult flashbacks - but they never came. From dawn to dusk that day I rode a wave of gratitude with every memory, every attempt at recalling those hours, every text message I reread that I never remembered writing in the first place.

It was an out of body experience, replaying the day in third person, feeling only a down-to-my-bones kind of thankfulness. After an excruciatingly long season of heartache, it was miraculous to feel just the upside of things - to see what the girl living that experience last year couldn't yet know.

What a difference a year makes.

It was a joy - an absolute privilege - turning a day marked by devastation into one centered on counting every last little (and big) blessing in our lives. It was an occasion that deserved cupcakes if ever there was one!

Mac and I ventured over to our favorite bakery just before a monsoon kicked off downtown that evening. We had no raincoats or umbrellas (mom fail), so I found a fleece of Bradley's and put it over his head as I whisked him down the sidewalk.

Mac couldn't stand the idea I'd get wet in his place, so he kept tossing the fleece over my face; I nearly ran into a brick wall with a forty pounder on my hip as a result.

We couldn't stop laughing, and the pair of us arrived home soaked to the bone, with four delicious cupcakes safe and dry in their box. I hope I never forget that little excursion with Mary Brooks' big brother; it epitomizes the utter giddiness I felt all day long.

After the birthday cake boycott at her party, I didn't anticipate Mary Brooks' reaction to her ReBirthday cupcake:

Her enthusiasm brought me back to Mac's very first cupcake, and it was just one more way March 5 felt more like an actual birthday than some medical anniversary. I hope we always celebrate it so whole-heartedly! (And with cupcakes, obviously...)

Mary Brooks' surgery gave her a new lease on life; medically it was considered a "near miss" with an uncertain outcome. We praise God with every breath that our story has a happy ending, and that all four of us have healed from the experience.

Thanks for celebrating with us, y'all!

Day 3: Every Ounce

This morning Mary Brooks went to the doctor to be weighed. Two weeks ago, at seven months old, she had fallen off the growth chart and her weight gain was slow, almost stagnant. 

After hanging around twelve pounds all summer, MB had gained just two ounces from August to September; we were disappointed. It was puzzling, even troubling. She is a great eater and we'd confirmed the volume of milk she gets each day is more than sufficient. So what did this mean? How could we fix it?

As her mom, and the source of her nutrition, I felt pressure, frustration, heartache. I hate dealing with the reality of what happened earlier this year; I like to pretend Mary Brooks has floated through her life without a care.

The stakes felt high. Babies with intestinal malrotation sometimes see long-term issues with weight gain or nutritional absorption after surgery, but to that point it had seemed Mary Brooks was going to avoid such issues.

We hoped she'd continue to thrive without intervention; for a number of reasons, I was eager to continue breastfeeding her exclusively. I nursed Mac his first year and didn't want to introduce formula to MB's already-manhandled insides unless we were certain it was necessary.

I wasn't ready to quit nursing. It felt wrong to give up breastfeeding when we could do it; so many other moms can't but desperately want to.

I consulted Mary Brooks' pediatrician, her surgeon, a nurse, two lactation consultants and a pediatric dietician. I sat on other moms' couches and clogged up their inboxes with questions. I listened to my gut, no pun intended.

MB is happy, strong, exceeding her developmental milestones, smiling constantly. I just knew she was well and didn't need anything to make her grow but time. Having set a date to follow up, we had just fourteen days to see a difference before things escalated.

And boy did we work hard these last two weeks.

I've been fighting off the same nasty sinus infection for a month, and nursing has kept me from the 'good' drugs. Besides popping thrice-daily antibiotics, getting steroid shots and hacking like the Marlboro Man, my top priority has been fattening up Mary Brooks.

Extra feedings, longer mealtimes, fattier additions (avocados galore!) to her homemade baby food - we did it all. Her nutrition was my full-time job, and despite her medical history and the unlikelihood of success, we saw a little miracle. A greatly appreciated little miracle.

Terrified that another two weeks without significant gains would mean a dire diagnosis or a series of tests, I plopped MB onto the scale this morning, naked as the day she was born.

The verdict? About 19 ounces gained in two weeks. The largest, fastest gain since her surgery. She's back on the growth charts at a whopping 2.35%. So, so very proud of our little bundle!

We're thankful for every ounce of you, Mary Brooks. May you remember this when you're 16 and "just want to lose three pounds." Your health is all we care about; your cuteness is secondary. And, for what it's worth, we happen to think you're physically perfect, scar and all.

Thank you, Lord, for insides that work and a baby who's growing!

*This post is day 3 in my 31 Days of What Matters.

What You Need to Know

If you read nothing else I've ever written, please read this.

You could save a child's life by knowing one simple fact: green is NOT normal. 

 If an infant has any amount of green or green-tinged vomit, call a doctor immediately.

Do not ignore a nagging, panicked feeling that something isn't right. Do not feel sheepish to contact an on-call physician after hours.

Do not be persuaded, as we were, that anything from "orange to green" is normal, particularly in a newborn. It isn't normal; it's bile.

A doctor told me last week she wishes parents would presume any bile at all in a newborn indicates intestinal malrotation until proven otherwise.

One in 500 infants is born with this congenital birth defect, more than those who have Down syndrome or a cleft lip or palate. Even so, most of us have never heard of it, and even medical professionals can be unfamiliar with its signs and symptoms.

Up to half of those affected present symptoms at birth; others can live a month, a year or most of their lives without the life-threatening volvulus (twist) that makes the defect apparent.

See malrotated and properly positioned intestines here

It is the volvulus, not necessarily the malrotation itself, that is so deadly. It cuts off blood flow to the bowels, killing the tissue while making it impossible for nutrition to pass.

The initial presentation of a newborn with volvulus of the midgut may be bilious vomiting ...  Malrotation with midgut volvulus is a true surgical emergency in the newborn. Delay in operation may result in catastrophic loss of a large portion of the small bowel. In patients with severe midgut volvulus, the entire midgut is necrotic and the child cannot survive. 
(Source)

Mary Brooks had only one purely green incident in four days of symptoms; it was minimal but unquestionably bilious.

The remainder of her sickness, even as it dwindled due to lack of milk consumption, was the color of watered-down orange juice, sometimes with an acidic, greenish tint. Just one fully green spot, however, sent surgeons into a tizzy days later; I wish we'd known its significance.

That our daughter survived long enough to be diagnosed, the surgeon told us, is miraculous. That she needed no portion of her bowels resected was downright inexplicable to him. Even so, a positive outcome was uncertain due to her age, weight loss, dehydration and the length of time it took her bowels to 'wake up.'

While we don't know if or how she'll be affected long-term, we're thankful she has been spared a colostomy bag, short gut syndrome, a GI port and a variety of other ongoing issues babies with malrotation can grapple with after a volvulus.

We praise God for her healing. Sometimes I wish the events leading up to her diagnosis had gone differently, but what matters is she's here. We want every other baby born with intestinal malrotation to survive, too, to grow up healthy and unscathed.

I pray that our story can motivate one doubting parent to seek medical help, unafraid of seeming overly cautious or "crazy." I hope you never have to recall these facts, that no one in your life is touched by it. All the same, please tuck them into the back of your mind.

The bottom line: Green vomit is not normal. A newborn drawing up his legs, having a tense or guarded belly, vomiting for days on end - all this signals trouble.

For malrotation, as with any illness, your best defense is to become informed, trust your instincts and know your baby - then act on that knowledge as needed. When in doubt, call a doctor. Better yet, just show up.

Please share this with your friends and loved ones, and contact your child's physician if you have any concerns at all.

If you're a parent whose child has experienced malrotation and volvulus, don't hesitate to reach out to me.

For more on MB's experience, read about her arrival, emergency, diagnosis, surgery, hospital stay, recovery and discharge.

The Road Home

If you are new to our story, you can catch up here:
MB's Arrival
Emergency
Her Sickness & Diagnosis
Her Surgery
The Longest Week
Hitting a Wall, Rounding a Corner

By Sunday morning Mary Brooks had been in the hospital seven days.

I left to visit a despondent Mac, who'd woken up hourly in the night screaming. I couldn't drive fast enough between the places that held pieces of my heart. The comforts of home were lost on me but the hospital was torturous, too; there was nowhere I felt fully at ease.

Each of our children legitimately needed me, and I finally understood I needed them just as much. In the same place. Suddenly what had been stressful to me - a pile of unfolded laundry, a loud toddler, a needy newborn, a messy house - seemed absolutely picturesque. I wanted our life back.

In the hospital I could pretend that nothing else existed outside our 10x10 piece of the universe, but leaving the sterile, scrubbed and fluorescent peds floor made it clear: life is carrying on. People are going about their daily routines, blissfully unaware. Life-or-death situations playing out for hundreds of families within the hospital's walls, but someone on Facebook is still complaining about lukewarm Starbucks or standstill traffic. How many times had I been that person before?

I tried to blend into those 'normal' people as best I could and took Mac out for pancakes that morning. Carbs cure everything. Since he wasn't old enough to determine his love language, we just used mine: breakfast foods.

(True story: If I'm ever a bit blue, a nap, sweet tea or a fresh stack of pancakes are the best gifts you could give me. All three and I'm ready to face about anything.)

I'm puffy-eyed and smiling like a loon; he is not won over by my mania.

Mac looked like a forty-pound giant compared to his teeny-tiny sister, but he wasn't yet two and a half years old. He still needed the security and schedule of his old life, as did we all. Each day we were gone he seemed more and more baby-like, and we just didn't have much of ourselves to give him.

Unsurprisingly, Mac wasn't cheered by my steely perma-grin or coos over his every forlorn expression. I was forcing myself to project Pollyanna-level happiness to our lovesick boy, but he didn't want kisses. Like me, he just wanted his family back together. It was enough to put me off pancakes.

Added to that was my knowing Mary Brooks was taking her first ounces of milk just miles away. Any signs of GI tract trouble and we'd be in for a longer stay and significantly larger problems. The surgeons wouldn't spell out much besides that, and trying maniacally to engage Mac in everyday conversation kept my mind off those crucial ounces.

MB kept every bit down, so I left Mac wailing at our house post-pancakes and floored it to the hospital. The relief in her room was palpable, but the echo of her brother falling to pieces in his too-quiet bedroom rang in my ears.

A friend came to visit bearing sweet tea while Bradley ran home briefly, and I marveled at the simple mom things (swaddles, schedules, sleeping) we discussed. It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts I'd been wading through all week.

Then, after nine full days without a full meal, Mary Brooks was able to nurse again. No measuring, no bottles. I rejoiced at the ease and simplicity of that moment - the answer to more than a few fervent prayers. She took back to breastfeeding seamlessly, and thus I sidestepped every contingency plan I'd prepared. She snuggled into my arms and I felt equally calm and exultant. Finally feeding her was heaven for the both of us, for different reasons.

I promised never to groan about such a privilege, no matter how constant feedings felt or how 'busy' I was with other things when she needed to eat. Unlike many other commitments in my lifetime, I've held to that one.

After Bradley returned, we decided to attend an elder-led prayer service our church holds once or twice a year.  We'd always wanted to make it, but had never been able to do so; it's the one service without childcare offered. It seems ironic now, finally having the ability to leave our children, but for such an unexpected, unhappy reason. Nevertheless, we had more than enough to pray about, and we desired the company and comfort of other believers.

My mom stayed at our house with Mac and my dad came to sit with Mary Brooks. In all the days since her surgery, MB had never been without her parents; we took turns leaving. We felt it was worth the hour apart and tore ourselves away.

Mary Brooks' wires had gotten fewer by the day, so her Grandpa was overjoyed to hold her for the first time since she became sick. We left him, after a jumble of bottle-related instructions, staring googly-eyed at our little bean, calm and quiet for the first time in days. (Food has that effect on MB, a girl after my own heart.)

Pulling into the church parking lot, B and I both fought the urge to run, to hightail it back and pretend we'd never left. Surely everyone expecting us would have understood.

Just being near the church brought a lot to the surface, things there's no time to feel in the hubbub and heartache of a hospital room. (And heaven knows I'm far better prepared for an onslaught of emotion than my even-keeled husband.)

Opening the doors to the lobby, I took one deep breath, effectively gasping for air, and we followed a small group friend to the row saved for us. I pulled a box of tissues out of my purse and waved it about, attempting gallows humor. Turns out"laughter through tears" isn't just my favorite emotion - it's a beloved crutch.

What Bradley and I experienced in that time reflected exactly where we were. Torn down, shattered and still crumbling. Raw. Real. It was unlike any other hour of worship in my life.

I'd heard the phrase "come alongside" before, but I'd never lived it. We shuffled into that service of our own strength, but were both physically and emotionally supported by friends experiencing this week with us. We weren't the only ones broken, and that sense of being bound together overtook us.

I looked around, making eye contact and smiling weakly. I felt utterly empty inside. It amazed me, as our pastors talked about the many struggles and hurts in our congregation, to think that mine wasn't the only pain in the room. If I could just get through this, I thought, nothing could ever hurt again. It was delusional, but life seemed problem-less, even idyllic, outside of hospital halls. As we all know, that isn't true.

Our small group stayed for a bit of worship, then walked hand-in-hand outside the sanctuary. I'm crying, four months later, as I write this. I have never been so carried. So absolutely held up. We were gathered around, arms around one another - a kind of intimacy that typically makes me uncomfortable.

I'm a hug-and-runner. Let's get "close" and then retreat back to our quiet, private lives. Let's pretend like we let it all hang out but really hold the ugly bits back, the worst parts, the stuff best kept behind closed doors.

There were no doors that night. There were no reservations and no boundaries. I wept, truly wept, in public for the first time in my life. I didn't cover my face or turn my back. I only stopped to hear the prayers of our beloved friends crying as they spoke our daughter's name to her Creator.

I have known since their births that others were praying for our children; I've comprehended that intellectually without question. Hearing our child's name wept aloud as I stood, propped up against friend upon friend, brought home meaning of 'community' like no impassioned sermon ever could, though. I wasn't just in community; I was surviving because of it.

And then a minor miracle: I prayed in public. Aloud. Sobbing and hiccuping and shaking tidal waves of tears off of my face as I spoke. Not worrying about syntax or the "right"' things to say or if people thought I was "Christian" enough or if they saw right through me. The fears of two decades were drowned out by my need for community with other believers. Please don't make me walk through this alone. We can't do this, not for one single second, by ourselves.

I asked God to hold me together. I praised Him for keeping our girl alive and for the people who were taking care of her that very minute. I told Him I had prayed so passionately for a baby, that I knew she was the baby I had prayed for. That I hadn't wanted a miracle baby, just a normal, nothing-more-to-it story. I didn't want to be in this situation. I wanted OUT of it. There's nothing pretty about that sentiment, but I felt far more connected to Him then than when I have prayed with pretty platitudes.

I listened to people pray for needs I hadn't even anticipated myself. For our families, for Mac's tender heart, for our marriage, for Mary Brooks as she grew, that she'd learn her story and come to know the Lord at a young age because of it. That we would be drawn closer together and closer to God through this, and that we would ALL be healed.

Bradley and I have never experienced a sweeter time with other believers than when we were at our worst. As our group wrapped up its prayers, our internal alarm clocks were screeching. We said our goodbyes and left service both emptied out and filled up; it was equally cathartic and replenishing, exactly what we needed.

We called my mom and heard Mac crying in the background, begging for his dad and asking not to go to sleep. I dropped B off at home and rushed back to Mary Brooks before the new shift of nurses arrived.

I found Dad singing to Mary Brooks, rocking back and forth with his face just by her ear. I was told later he'd asked the nurses if they wanted to "look" at MB when he unwrapped her for a diaper change. Thinking he was worried about her incision or her wires, they assured him they didn't need to check a thing - she wouldn't be harmed by him. My dad said, "Oh, I know that. I meant - isn't she beautiful? Don't you want to look at her?"

Nurses relayed that story several times, as they'd never seen a grandfather left in charge of a patient's care. I love that my dad was the exception to that rule; it sums up his approach to (grand)parenting perfectly.

After Dad left, the three of us were spent. B caught a catnap snuggling with Mary Brooks and we took turns lying next to her in the crib, something we'd just found out we could do. It was the closest thing to cozy I could imagine in that room.

We had a relatively easy night; B even left for a bit Monday morning to check in at the office. Word had come in around dawn that, maybe just maybe, today would be the day. I couldn't bring myself to speak the words aloud, but I could have run the Boston Marathon on adrenaline alone.

Nurses and doctors filtered in and out; our surgeon went off call and an unfamiliar face checked in. Phone calls were made, messages exchanged and charts reviewed. A friend brought Chick-fil-A and I could barely swallow it for the butterflies in my stomach.

Mary Brooks was eating and calm, so no matter what the call was I knew I could survive another day. That had been our game plan all along - survive another day and don't look beyond it. Finally that tactic felt doable.

Our nurse pushed a few slow-to-respond residents for answers while I started packing, folding, sorting and pacing.

When the official word came in, our bags were already at the door. A nurse boxed up the "traveling dairy" she claimed I'd produced while MB was there. The only way to transport our things was a little red wagon, so B stacked it high and we got out of there so quickly I'm sure it was illegal.

All those days, all that waiting and praying and breath-holding. Then the elusive call comes down and we're just...gone?

I stopped to snap a picture of our room and hurried out before they thought better of things and readmitted us. It felt like pulling off a bank heist.

Homeward bound

Every time I'd played this moment out in my head, I fought back tears. I anticipated tears. A theatrical, heart-rending scene and some joyful hot-stepping out to our car. It wasn't that way at all.

We rode down the elevator in ecstatic silence, Mary Brooks sleeping in my arms. Bradley pulled the car around and before I knew it we were walking into our house, Mac's exclamations wafting over us like a chorus of angels.

My mom stayed to let us get a delicious nap, and then we were awake and alone, diving headlong into long-awaited "normal" life.

First up was a visit to the after-hours pediatrician to address an eye infection that seemed more pitiful-looking by the minute. What was a slightly puffy eye in her hospital crib became so swollen it couldn't open by suppertime. 

After that, and the ensuing pharmacy trip, we were home for days, doing only the bare minimum and surviving the home hurdles (yes, Anne, problems do exist outside of hospital walls) that kept coming our way.

Back to the doctor we go.

(A nurse told us before we were discharged that it could have been a side effect of having her eyes taped shut during surgery. The parents in us winced instinctively. We were blindsided by the thought of our girl on the table, anesthetized and strapped down, being cut open with her sweet, sad eyes taped closed. It was an image I fought for days. The surgery saved her life, but I'd have slept better without that last detail.)

For a while it was pure survival mode, just the meeting of basic physical needs and setting aside anything more challenging.

None of it mattered, though. We slipped under our own covers and slept (in little snippets) as though we were on a cloud. Our family, all four of us, lived under one messy, loud, disorganized roof. Praise God. Nothing had ever felt better.

March 12 began the rest of our recovery, the piecing back together of things. It was tougher than I'd anticipated, but I can handle just about anything in my own home. Mac and Mary Brooks both went through a great deal in the coming weeks, which I hope to record here for posterity's sake.

The miracle in the story is in more than Mary Brooks' healing. It's in me and Bradley, in our hearts and in the absolute change we have seen in our lives. In the way we saw the body of Christ come together and live out the Gospel before us. In the understanding of our real purpose here. In the power of being Jesus' hands and feet (or ears and shoulders) for troubled friends. In the lives of others who were affected by our experience and, Lord willing, in the spreading of awareness about intestinal malrotation.

I plan to talk soon about the practical ways we were helped and the best advice I can give to friends and families seeking to support loved ones during a crisis. That's one of the most tangible, immediate rewards of walking through this fire - learning what we can do when a family is in a similarly difficult time.

Later today I'll publish a brief (yes, I can do brief!) post touching on the signs and symptoms of MB's dangerous condition - what to know about it. The more medical professionals I speak with, the clearer it becomes that intestinal malrotation is unfamiliar to many even within their field.

That's devastating, because malrotation is deadly without surgical treatment, and it affects one in 500 newborns. It's a silent killer, and I am overcome by the desire to help other families avoid such heartbreak.

I am thankful every moment that our daughter survived, and am so grateful that you have graciously allowed me to record her story here. It's not over yet. Praise God - it's just beginning.

In Repair

I've taken an unintentional month-long break - not for lack of things to say, but because I keep thinking of what our mamas told us in the first grade: If you don't have anything nice to say...
What I have to say isn't unkind or even untoward, but it isn't the motivational reading or guilt-free cupcake recipes we coo over on Pinterest. (Though I have found a Greek yogurt cupcake worth chatting about - stay tuned!)

Instead my thoughts and words, like the rest of me, are wrapped up in the slow work of recovery.

This afternoon I got my third steroid shot in six weeks; at this rate I'll be the Incredible Hulk by Labor Day!

Steroid shots are to 'open' me up. Not quite sure what that means specifically, but so far, so good. Nursing means I can't take some of the 'good drugs' for sinus and ear infections, which I'm rocking for the second time in a month, so I'll take what I can get. Add in some breastfeeding-related symptoms (and another steroid shot for a $exy batch of stress-induced hives earlier this month) and I'm a ball of good times.

Or should I say a balding good time. The baby bald spots are back with a vengeance; ponytails make it uber-obvious, so this is my only cute off-day option.

Thankfully the balding came for a purpose: this gal. Totally worth the carpet of dark hairs on my hardwoods.

Wearing her sleep sack but SO not ready for naptme.

Mary Brooks turned five months old on July 14. She is an angelic, rolling, giggling ball of sweetness from the moment she's awake until we grudgingly put her to bed. She is an exceedingly happy baby, lovely in every way. I honestly could spread her on a biscuit and just eat her up, this bean of mine.


She's also tiny. Itsy-bitsy-tee-tiny and gaining weight very slowly. For the most part, praise God, there are no health concerns. There are, however, lingering questions about her growth, size and occasional digestive tract-related symptoms that could be side effects of her surgery.

 
The last six weeks have included many a call to the surgeon, pediatrician and lactation consultants' offices. And about a million lost minutes of sleep. Gone is Anne-the-champion-sleeper of old. Gone is Anne-the-girl-she-used-to-be anyhow, so I suppose it makes sense.

(If you'd told me this time last year that my daughter would sleep through the night at five or six weeks but I'd still be sporting dark circles of my own doing, I'd have questioned your sanity. I've come to realize why people say, "When you lie awake at night..."  It never quite clicked because I never did lie awake. My head hit the pillow and I slid off into dreamland. Blissful.

There's a lot of time in the midnight hours for contemplation and prayer. If you'd like me to include you in those prayers, please send me an email. The Lord has put several friends on my heart during that time, and always for good reason. I'm happy to lift you up in those moments, and I'm finding God is using these times, undereye bags and all, to draw me closer to Him.)

As far as Mary Brooks goes, I remind myself that a happy baby is a healthy baby. If only there were percentages and growth curves for happiness! I tell myself that, as before, I'll know if something is wrong. 

Her cries, rare as they are, still stop in my tracks, though. On some level I picture her in a white metal hospital crib every time she makes a noise of a certain pitch - yesterday it was a squeal and some practice 'talking.'

Those one-off cries send my pulse skyrocketing, put my guard up and have me hanging around MB like a hair band groupie, which amuses her to no end. She thinks the stare-down is part of a really fun game involving the two of us and Sophie the Giraffe, so clearly I'm the only one here with a panic problem.

Macky and Mary Brooks remain utterly besotted with one another, beginning what I hope will be a lifelong friendship. It's a joy to see. Mac has taken to calling her "my Mary Brooksie," which the rest of us have picked up.

My dynamic duo accompanies me everywhere this summer, so the baby Bjorn has earned its keep for a second go-round.

On July 4th I (yes, I!) whipped up four dozen muffins, wrote the world's longest thank you note and brought the whole Yankee Doodle family down to the hospital.

Stepping back onto the peds floor was a big moment for B; he hadn't been back since she was discharged, while I had visited friends whose daughter stayed doors away from our old stomping grounds.

Heading back to the peds floor.

I've also paid several visits to the lactation consultants in the same building, so the smells and sights of the hospital don't knock me off my feet as much as they once did. No more flashbacks, just an odd sense of comfort in being back.

I brought before and after pictures so our nurses would recognize the beaming, tubeless girl in our arms.

Before and after: March and July

We were happy to see a few familiar faces and I hope the gesture expressed one iota of our indebtedness to their tremendous care. Plus, anyone working on America's birthday deserves a few delicious carbs, don't you think?

If I sound like a broken record (treading water, recovering, worrying, waiting, praying, grateful, tired...) or it seems as though our life revolves around 'what happened' (our euphemism of choice) in March, you're probably right. I'm working on it, I promise.

There are a few heavy external stresses on us as a family, things I will be able to share shortly, that have monopolized whatever brain cells aren't kid-focused lately. It's been a battle to stay or try to stay joyful in some of the tougher days, to be candid. Some days I don't win.

Thankfully I feel the tide turning, but I've decided my best path is to be gentle with myself, as easy as I am with everyone else.

Time, rest and grace are the only prescription I know for picking up the pieces and resuming the new life ahead of us. If it's not mandatory or life-giving, I'm trying to take a break from it and tone down the 'do everything' desire so many of us have.

In short, we're all recovering - Mary Brooks from the surgery that saved her life, me from the trauma that came with being a helpless bystander, and  Mac from the slightly lesser indignity of wearing too-small tighty whities (read: potty training perma-wedgie) earlier this summer.

Adventures in Potty Training, size 4T

In my defense, the train-themed briefs had been in a drawer since last fall. How was I to know he'd need a 4T before he'd want to wear them? We're still a little stuck on the, er, more difficult half of the process, but hooray for being mostly done with diapers!

I hope to finish MB's story (the miraculous part has yet to be told) and carry on with chatting about normal, non-medical things.

I plan to reveal a big change, an upcoming challenge, a leap of faith and the many ways God has shown His hand in every facet of this wild year.

I hope to share what I've learned about helping others, how my heart has been broken for hurting families and what we can all do to be of immediate, effective use to those in our community. It's a concrete lesson I'm thrilled to be figuring out as a result of our own unexpected, unavoidable crisis.

Thank you for checking in on us, friends, and for always being here. xoxo

Ob-la-di

Life goes on.

Cupcake face - he gets it from his mama.

Two months after we brought Mary Brooks home (again), life is going on. Cupcakes and crying and collective fits of giggles are going on.

Some days moments I feel like I'm treading water, but for the most part I am soaking in what our new normal looks like: grateful, messy, mindful, sweet and a little crazy.

Date night at Zac Brown. Watch out, world!

And also covered in hair - mine, Blue's and Mary Brooks'. The dark hair just keeps on a-fallin'. Two of the three of us are practically balding at this point; the other is just shedding his winter coat. I think we're about to see Baby Bangs: Part Deux, so get excited for that little sequel.

Mac wraps up school this week, taking a much-needed three-month hiatus from the rigorous academic schedule that is preschool. He has learned so much and grown by leaps and bounds this year; it breaks my heart to look back at the "first day" pics from last fall.

Two-thirds eyeball, one-third cheek. Love her.

But time marches on even if my brain still thinks it's mid-February. (The temperatures are sweltering and Labor Day-like, which you'd imagine would remind me it's no longer winter, but alas...)

Mary Brooks is cooing and smiling so infectiously that I morph into an unrecognizable caricature of myself when she beams in my general direction. Bon Jovi must have been watching his newborn grin when he scribbled his "shot through the heart" line, because this little bean sure knows how to get to us.

This fool is plum crazy.

(Actually, I'm playing the rest of that song in my head and I'm quite confident he wrote it about someone decidedly NOT a newborn.)

In feeling a lot more like myself, my brain has returned to its usual deep pursuits: celebrity gossip, mindless internet browsing and avoiding chores like a pro. Case in point: I've watched this trailer for the upcoming Great Gatsby remake more than a few times. How will we wait 'til Christmas to see it on the big screen?

I am currently working on a proposal that has me like:



My ability to laugh at myself has emerged unscathed, and I've found middle school humor never goes out of style. B doesn't share my enthusiasm for the Tumblrs that share these images, but I could amuse myself for hours there. Hello, procrastination!

And Kate Middleton FTW is back en force, too, which makes me giddy.

In other news, we had a little celebration last Saturday to thank some of the friends who took such wonderful care of us, both near and from afar, when MB was in the hospital. We have a few more of these to throw, as the number of people who carried us through that time couldn't fit into our house and onto our patio at once, much less find room to eat barbecue.

And we really want time to thank every last friend, hug them and make non-hospital-based conversation. To truly, fully transition back into post-trauma life.

I was so 'busy' hosting last Saturday that I took no pictures. Not a SINGLE one. It's a crying shame! Thankfully our friend Erin took one and posted it on her blog today.

My best bloggers: Lyndsey, Megan and Erin

We're hosting our small group early next month (I believe the date I quoted in an email to everyone was the @th, further proof I've "done lost my mind") and I promise to take pictures then. I want to remember all of this, for our sake and for Mary Brooks'.



This is the first song we heard after returning to church with a healed MB a while back. Tell me that's a coincidence; it's my life mantra. I'm okay, but I'm not okay. More than anything, I am not the same.

I still can't sing it without choking up, but this version is on constant repeat nonetheless chez Smith.

I have so much to tell you and a lot of news to share in the coming week or two. Once I get into a summer groove, I hope to be posting regularly and reminding myself through these written words that I'm still me. Different, but still me. And although I'd take back what happened in a heartbeat, I wouldn't change how we've grown.

It hurt like all my thousands of words could never say. And it still hurts.

But we're here, breathing and happy. May I never stop singing His praises for it. We've been called to tell this story and to live out our lives in a way that puts this pain to good use. I can't wait to tell you what that looks like and ask you for help in doing it!

Thank you for being here, sweet friends. xoxo

Rounding a Corner

In an effort to get this out of my head, I'll pick up where I left off. It wasn't the best place.

By Thursday evening Mary Brooks had been sick for nearly a week and in the hospital four days. She was on post-op day three but surgeons had little to tell us - we were in limbo. There was little progress; there was a lot of crying.

Thursday, as you know, was rock bottom. I was utterly beside myself, desperate for something to change.

At this point Mary Brooks hadn't eaten for a third of her life. She cried on and off with an empty, helpless moan; the sound was like shards of glass. Our go to means of comforting her were made impossible by the machines she was hooked up to with an intimidating number of tiny wires.

The nurses encouraged us to hold her, and we were able to in short, infrequent stretches, but there was nothing natural about it. We weren't snuggling her as much as awkwardly placing her in our arms as we sat unmoving, speaking softly and rearranging our bodies with the utmost care.

With every effort a wire came unlodged, a tube became occluded, an alarm screeched with a pitch that could wake the dead. (And did, if you consider the number of times those sounds wrested me from the coma I called 'rest' each evening on my makeshift cot.)

She'd had two bad nights in a row; we were up eight or nine times an hour during the midnight to 5am stretch we reserved for sleep. I'd say Bradley caught about thirty minutes of sleep that night in insanely short bits and "eight and a half hour Anne" didn't get much more. You could say we were running on empty, but the truth is we weren't running at all.

The week before the surgery, less than 48 hours before her first symptom, I snapped this:

Two weeks post-partum, I was blissful. I reveled in the quiet sweetness of our expanded family.

I look back at that period as a golden haze, the two weeks between when we brought her home from the hospital and when she became ill. It wasn't what I expected from my first few days as a mom of two. The Lord blessed us with a tremendously peaceful, recuperative time that strengthened me to walk straight into the wall that was March.

What does one look like after she's walked into that fiery, what-on-Earth-happened-to-our-life wall? Something like this:

Yes, this is me. Showering in a tiny stall, lying wet-headed under a stiff sheet on a faux bed next to my daughter's cage of a hospital crib, fighting tears at every moment I wasn't staring dull-eyed at the digital read-out of some beeping machine.

I normally wouldn't post such a horrendously unflattering shot of myself, but I know no better way to illustrate my point. Only six days separate these two shots, and a whole lifetime.

Sadly, I had attempted to fix myself up. I took the elevator, applying lip gloss and wiping my eyes by the mirror on its ceiling on my way to the mom & baby hall. Three weeks earlier we'd been doors away, giddy as schoolchildren over our own newborn.

The friends we ran into while MB was on the surgical table had delivered their darling boy, and I got to meet him not nine hours afterward. Five more friends came in while I was there, a virtual tailgate of some of our favorite folks.

I smiled, cooed, listened, laughed and briefly answered their questions about Mary Brooks with, "Thank you so much. She's going to be fine."

I didn't know that; I didn't feel that. But I couldn't imagine welcoming a new life in one second and spilling my guts in the other. That newborn deserved a room full of happiness.

(And he deserved better than a pale-faced, puffy-eyed, panic-stricken Anne holding his tiny, swaddled self. Bless his heart. It's a wonder I didn't scare him to pieces.)

By Thursday, worn out from faking it and exhausted from the weight of waiting, I collapsed. That night was another tough one, and Friday morning Bradley asked me to go home and nap while the doctors rounded. I didn't want to miss a word the surgeons might say, but I could barely comprehend the words coming out of my husband's mouth; I would be of no use to an M.D. in my state.

I drove home, hugged Mac and headed toward the twin bed in Mary Brooks' nursery. I searched her room for a blanket, a onesie, anything that smelled like her - but there was nothing. She'd been so sick all weekend that anything within three feet of her had been washed.

I crawled in bed, clutching a blanket she'd never used, and pulled the covers over my head. I missed eight phone calls in the next two hours with the phone just inches from my face; I slept harder than I ever had and woke up just as hard, wondering what I'd missed and how long I'd been gone.

My best friend had driven up from Atlanta that morning and was with Bradley as the doctors rounded. She translated their med-speak for me, arranged for another friend to bring Chick-fil-A meals to my house and we had a little girls' lunch, plus Mac. It was perfect.

I drove back to the hospital ready to push every car off the road, seeing each as an obstacle between me and my girl. I had never left her that long, especially not there.

Walking in and seeing our bundled-up little bean gave me a surge of happiness and genuine excitement I hadn't had all week. There she was! Those hours were just the break I needed to regain a few much-needed brain cells.

While we didn't get game-changing news about Mary Brooks that day, I felt so bolstered by a little rest and non-medical conversation that I knew I'd be able to hang on.

The doctors' main focus at that point was seeing MB's bowels "wake up." Her urine output was still low, but she was having both gas and dirty diapers (no small feat for a baby whose intestines have been manhandled), so we weren't sure what to think.

The tube pumping liquids up from her stomach was being monitored every four hours, its output measured and recorded for the doctors. I held my breath six times a day as the nurses measured in ccs whether Mary Brooks' GI tract was holding its own.

Every time it dipped, I rejoiced. Overall, though, we were never given a number to hit, a goal for getting that dreaded tube out and allowing MB to have her first nutrition in a week.

One resident let it slip that day that Mary Brooks' tube output was three times what they hoped to see. I was gutted. Three times too high after four days? Were we going to be here forever?

MB had unexpectedly (and providentially) sidestepped the devastating complications doctors anticipated from her surgery, given the time that elapsed between her first symptom and the surgery. Sadly, that didn't guarantee smooth sailing afterward.

If she wasn't able to decrease that tube output significantly, and fast, we'd be entering a new territory of 'what ifs.' What ifs so big that the surgeons wouldn't even spell them out for us, likely knowing that MB had a mother who could take a kernel of fear and run with it.

In my daily email updates, the tube output was my major prayer request. I didn't miss many meals that week, thanks to kind friends and nursing mom meal trays, but I knew our girl had to be hungry and suffering greatly from the intestinal "rest" she got with no IV nutrition or milk.

Every day I told myself this would be the day, but in truth I had no idea when the tube would come up. I thought pinning my hopes to a particular number would be encouraging, something to work toward. Then that resident absent-mindedly revealed that we were so far off the mark no hoping would be involved. Just prayer.

With a few more days before her treatment would change course, and not in a positive way, I finally had numbers to crunch. Scary numbers. A goal I felt we could never meet. So we prayed. Our hearts stopped as the nurses poured out her tube contents, and we saw slight improvement but knew her output was still twice what it should be.

In the hours and days after the surgery, most of Mary Brooks' pain was from the incision and the general shock of things. Much like us, she wasn't quite sure what was happening or where she was.

After that initial discomfort wore off, her hunger really set in and a host of new concerns popped up. She was doing fairly well, but not wonderfully. Looking stable, but not pushing ahead. Her sleep habits were spotty, and she spent her waking times alternately sucking furiously on her pacifier and choking on her tube.

I'll never forget the sound that came out of her mouth when the tube moved in ways it shouldn't have; she would wince and open her lips, sounding like a vacuum cleaner was within. The tube needed regular adjustment to work properly, and the suction made her feel like she couldn't catch her breath, it seemed.

Friday had been an easier day, but the facts and our situation were unchanged. My grandmother and her husband came up to visit, and my in-laws took a break from watching Mac to see their granddaughter. That night Bradley went home to eat dinner and put Mac down. The day both crawled and flew by.

That night, after a difficult day for her, I expected Mary Brooks to be up crying again. In a tiny miracle, she wasn't. She rested. We rested. We woke up before dawn confused - what time was it? was she ok? how had the nurses come in to check her hourly without waking us, those nighttime ninjas?

Sunday we were finally filled in that you can nap with your baby! 

Crib sides drop and you can actually snuggle these sweet patients!! 

How is this not standard 'welcome to your room' info?

There's nothing pleasant about waking up on the peds floor, but that morning was the happiest we'd had yet. And the best part was the report we got from our nurse - MB's tube output had dropped big time. The difference was HUGE.

Can you imagine that I, the queen of all worriers, caught a few hours' shut-eye and the world kept spinning? And, most inconceivably, our situation improved without my being awake to force it to happen? Color me surprised - I don't in fact run the universe. And I've never been more pleased.

Residents popped in and out early that morning, all very positive about the progress but reticent about next steps. Our surgeon came in and, in the span of thirty seconds, gave us the best gift (sorry, care package givers) we'd seen all week: an order to clamp the tube and, if no complications arose, take it out later that day.

I texted everyone I knew. I praised God and had visions of Mary Brooks eating up a feast of Pedialyte and milk that weekend. I very nearly peed my pants with excitement. PROGRESS!

The tube was clamped at 8:00 am, and Mary Brooks was to wait four more hours before the tube came out altogether. So long as there was no vomiting, she was golden. The anxiety and anticipation was more than I could handle; I'm so glad I had a reason not to watch the clock.

I put on my toddler mom hat and left to take Mac to a bouncy house birthday party, filled with joyous children and their casually chatting parents. I was a zombie-eyed, phone-checking, jumpy mess of a mother, but I was there. And Mac, having been through the wringer as much as anyone that week, stuck out like a sore thumb, too. Fun as such shindigs are for preschoolers, we just weren't in celebratory moods.

At noon our girl was tube-free. I returned a crying Mac to our home and flew, sniffling myself, back to MB's bedside. I found our girl resting and at peace. Hallelujah.

I peppered the nurses with questions and, once a surgeon was tracked down, finally got an answer: If no issues came up Saturday night, Mary Brooks could have clear liquids on Sunday, ten full days after her last real meal. Praise God.

Once the good news started, the week-that-would-never-end seemed to pick up a bit. Grandparents came and went, quiet moments were tolerable (not punctuated by suction and screaming) and we saw that we might not reside in room 6507 forever.

Saturday was another relatively easy night. We probably got five hours of sleep total, which is about as much as you can ask for under such circumstances. Sunday dawned to what had become our routine: Anne awake to pump, quick shower, hospital breakfast tray (the only standard issue meal I could stomach), med students, residents, a lactation consultant and, whenever they could get in, a surgeon rounding.

Our surgeon surprised us by coming in early. Super early. I was still pumping under a blanket, it was so early. He asked if I was ready to give her some milk and skip the clear fluids. Uh-hunh. Did I have any milk available? " Like what I'm making right now?" He'd had no idea.

There was genuine laughter, a joke about a tip jar (from me, mind you, as punchy as exhaustion makes me) and a confirmation that, yes, this was happening.

I had to get away and take care of Mac (another story for another day), so the Lord again spared me from the anxiety of waiting after those first two bottles. Would she vomit and get the tube placed right back in? Would there be signs of further GI tract troubles?

Happiest baby ever - milk coma from 1oz.

Mary Brooks got half an ounce first, then two hours later an ounce, then two hours later, when this anxious mama returned, she was able to nurse. And boy did she. Ten days apart and she acted as though it was any other meal on any other day.

Lactation consultants had filtered in and out for days mulling over how we could make breastfeeding work if she couldn't nurse after all this time apart. How to keep my supply up and avoid giving formula to a baby who needed the simplest, most basic forms of nutrition after her trauma. I was so concerned about how this worked and....it just did. Bless her famished little heart.

Someone asked how I was that night and when my "I'm well, thank you" rolled reflexively off my tongue, it was true for the first time in a while. I knew that no matter how long we had left, we'd be okay. We were getting there, wherever there was in the scheme of the healing process. Home was a heartbeat away.