I've been waiting for this day for almost 16 months. We are the change. And we will prove it in November. And on January 20, 2009, as President Obama is sworn into office, I will cry with pride, hope and a fervent belief that all things are possible. If we want them to be.
UPDATED: Senator Barack Obama will give his nomination acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention on August 28th, the 45th Anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech. (The August 28th date was set some time before Senator Obama declared his candidacy.)
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At 2:35 pm this past Wednesday, the Tribble was born. Lovely labor (yes, I just said "lovely"), easy delivery (yes, I just said "easy") - all in all, a picture-perfect experience (and we have them - the pictures, that is). One-hundred and eighty degrees from my experience with Max, which was painful, hard and excruciating. With my first-born, I couldn't sit without benefit of a donut for more than 11 weeks. With son number 2, I was up and walking around ably almost immediately.
But as we all know, Tribbles are trouble, and my Tribble is no different. While his entry into the world was easy, the first 48 hours of his life were the most difficult of our lives.
With an Apgar of 9, eyes wide and alert, he seemed just as perfect as my labor and delivery. They laid him on my chest and we stared at each other for a bit - well, I stared and he screamed. (I think it's safe to say that he was very pissed off to be on the outside, where it was cold and much too bright.) I immediately breastfed him and all seemed right with the world. After some mother-son bonding time, they whisked him off to the nursery for his first bath and the weigh-in.
He came back to my room a little while later, wrapped papoose-style. I unwound him and put him back to the breast: no dice. He was only interested in sleeping, but now he was making this odd little singing/grunting noise. With the rapid eye movement under his closed lids, I thought he was dreaming - maybe reliving the birth, a not-so enjoyable experience on his end of the transaction. An alert postpartum nurse, though, spoke up - this was not a sound he should be making - and took him back to the nursery for a second check.
They brought him back to me again fairly quickly - they'd given his lungs another listen and they sounded clear. His color was good, and he wasn't singing/grunting in the nursery. But of course, like that quirky car that you take to the shop over and over again, he started singing/grunting again almost as soon as he was back in my arms. So off to the nursery again for a more thorough check and a looksie by the NICU charge nurse. Just. in. case.
And it was a damn good thing. A heel prick to check the oxygen saturation in his blood showed less than optimum numbers - for you health care professionals out there, it was in the 70s. Not good. He was taken to the NICU immediately.
We followed as soon as they would let us. When we arrived, the neonatalogist gave us the gist of what was happening: despite how he looked on the outside, he was a very sick little boy. They wouldn't be able to give us a prognosis for at least 48 hours - and the doctor had seen cases like this go bad very quickly. His size wasn't helping either. Did I mention that he was 8 pounds, 13 ounces? Apparently bigger wasn't better since his lungs needed to work harder. The diagnosis was either TTN or pneumonia, and only time, chest x-rays and blood cultures would make the case.
The next two days were hell. This entire pregnancy, I was scared witless that I would lose Tribble while he was inside. It never occurred to me that something would happen when he got outside. Hooked up to monitors, IVs and a nasal cannula pushing oxygen into his lungs, he was a scary sight. My husband and I did alot of praying and begging to whatever powers that be. In between trying not to throw-up from the fear.
Friday morning we finally heard the words we needed to hear: he was out of the woods. They still didn't know (and still don't know) what the underlying problem was, but he was slowly, very slowly improving rather than worsening, and that was the best sign that he was beating whatever it was. Now, almost a week later, the monitors are still there, but all the tubes are gone and we're waiting for the order that will allow us to bring him home.
Thank G*d.
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He's not here yet. Am beginning to think this is foreshadowing of a similar experience we'll have 20 or so years from now, when we're trying to evict him from the damn house already gently encourage him to move out into the big, wide world. Perhaps a crowbar and some vaseline would be of some assistance here, hmm?
He's due on Monday. If he's still a no-show as of Wednesday, I'm booked that morning for an induction. Or, as I like to call it, the "don't make me come in there" procedure.
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My apologies for worrying some of you - not my intent, although that was the effect. I'm simply overwhelmed, drowning and crushed in other areas of my life right now and something needed to suffer. Blogging (both reading and writing) was an easy victim.
I hope to post again at some point, but who knows.
For those of you who posted comments or wrote to me personally, thank you for caring.
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At least that's what I thought several times over the past 5 years, when Max had a nasty head cold and needed some relief. The medications give specific dosage instructions for ages 2 to 6. My pediatrician would also tell me how much was safe when Max was under 2.
Apparently, none of them are safe. I could have killed my child following the exact instructions on the bottle. Or listening to my doctor. It makes me want to scream, and cry, and thank G-d that the worst that could have happened, didn't. Because I can't imagine my life without my beautiful child. And the thought that I could have been the cause of his death, makes me want to throw up.
Thanks, FDA. Thanks for not doing your fucking job.
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August 13, 2005
June 1, 2006
December 21, 2006
All loved, all missed. And forever in my heart.
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Just back from the London trip. Tired. Will write more when I can string words together into a coherent sentence. And when I recover from 19 hours of travel. Whee.
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