Lately, Jonathan has been enjoying reading Mercer Mayer's The New Baby, and when we talk about the baby, he'll pat my midsection and give it a kiss. (Hopefully such loving gestures will continue after the baby arrives.) But, somewhat surprisingly, he hasn't mentioned anything about Garrett or "baby brother" when we talk about the baby. It'll be interesting to see how he processes everything as the due date approaches, and what he'll think of the baby coming home and staying home this time.
Since Jonathan and I both see Sharon Riester, and he was due for his two-year well-baby visit the same time I was due for my second prenatal appointment, we rolled our checkups into one. He had accompanied me for most of my prenatal appointments with Garrett, so it wasn't entirely new to him. And I told him before hand that Sharon would put a wand on my tummy to listen to the baby's heart beat. When Chris got home from work later that day, Jonathan told him that he got two stickers at the clinic, a tractor and Thomas the Tank Engine. And then he told Chris he got to "listen to my baby." I thought it was sweet that he'd refer to the baby as his baby.
While we were eating dinner the next night, I encouraged Jonathan to eat his pasta to fill up his tummy. He stretched back and lifted his shirt to pat his belly and said, "My baby in the tummy." I tried to explain that little boys don't have babies in their tummies. Only mommies have babies in their tummies. But he was adamant that he had a baby in his tummy, too. Then he took a spoonful of applesauce and tried to feed it to his bellybutton.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
May 22 - Big News
I've been thinking about a few lines from John Mayer's song "Wheel" lately:
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time
You will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again
With that, Chris and I are happy to share that we are expecting another addition to our family in late November or early December. The due date is Dec. 7, but since it'll be another planned C-section, this munchkin will most likely be born some time the week before that.
Having been thoroughly assured that Garrett's condition was a rare (approximately 1 in 3 million), unexplainable, but nonhereditary thing, we have no reason to think this little blessing will be anything other than perfectly healthy. Of course, another baby could never replace Garrett ... When he passed away, though, we not only had the grief of losing a child, but we also were sent reeling by how far our plans and dreams for a family had been knocked off course. As parents, I don't think we'll ever fully get over losing him, but it feels good to take a step toward getting our vision for a family back on track. And, honestly, I'm thankful that the timing of this little one's arrival will offset some of the rough memories of last Thanksgiving and Christmas.
So here's to a joyous holiday season, a house filled with baby sounds and burp cloths, early sibling affection and rivalry, and nights of sleep sacrificed for diaper changes and snuggles. This year, we'll actually get a Christmas tree and pull out all our decorations. And if we're really on top of things, maybe we'll even send out cards wishing everyone a happy New Year.
And if you never stop when you wave goodbye
You just might find if you give it time
You will wave hello again
You just might wave hello again
With that, Chris and I are happy to share that we are expecting another addition to our family in late November or early December. The due date is Dec. 7, but since it'll be another planned C-section, this munchkin will most likely be born some time the week before that.
Having been thoroughly assured that Garrett's condition was a rare (approximately 1 in 3 million), unexplainable, but nonhereditary thing, we have no reason to think this little blessing will be anything other than perfectly healthy. Of course, another baby could never replace Garrett ... When he passed away, though, we not only had the grief of losing a child, but we also were sent reeling by how far our plans and dreams for a family had been knocked off course. As parents, I don't think we'll ever fully get over losing him, but it feels good to take a step toward getting our vision for a family back on track. And, honestly, I'm thankful that the timing of this little one's arrival will offset some of the rough memories of last Thanksgiving and Christmas.
So here's to a joyous holiday season, a house filled with baby sounds and burp cloths, early sibling affection and rivalry, and nights of sleep sacrificed for diaper changes and snuggles. This year, we'll actually get a Christmas tree and pull out all our decorations. And if we're really on top of things, maybe we'll even send out cards wishing everyone a happy New Year.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
May 20 - Happy Birthday Jonathan!
Last Saturday, May 15, was Jonathan's second birthday. A couple weeks earlier, I told him that he had a birthday coming up and we'd have a party for him with cake and presents, but he was more interested in hearing who all would be at the party. I'd name all the family members I thought would likely make it, and his smile would grow bigger and bigger. Every day after that, he'd recite to us who all would be coming to his birthday party.
With thanks to my sister-in-law, Pam, for lending me her cake decorating set and letting me try out her great cake and frosting recipes, I made a fairly decent Blue's Clues birthday cake, if I do say so myself. And it survived untouched almost until we sang Happy Birthday. But, sure enough, our little guy got close enough to give it a little poke. (You'll notice the "a" in "Birthday" is a bit disfigured. That's rather minor, though.)
Jonathan was so interested in playing with all of his visitors, though, he didn't want to be interrupted to have cake and ice cream or open presents. I guess he has his priorities in order. Below you can see his somewhat listless expression of, "Ah, man, I'd rather be out running around ..." Thankfully, it was a beautiful day and he got to ride his trike and chase after his cousins to his heart's content after opening presents.
Happy birthday, Jonathan! We're so proud of the little man you're growing into. Soon enough, you'll be graduating and moving on to conquer the world, and we'll wonder what ever happened to the full-cheeked boy with darling dimples we used to rock to sleep. Until then, though, we'll cherish each day we get to give you great, big bear hugs and good-morning kisses, listen to you sing Miss Mary Mack and Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and play hide-and-seek with you in your ducky towel.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
May 8 - Mushroom Hunting
I'm a little late in posting this, but better late than never, I guess.
Last weekend, we went for a hike down in the valley with a few of Chris' brothers. The proclaimed reason was to search for morel mushrooms, but I was more interested in just walking around and seeing what was new. We go down every spring, and sometimes enough mushrooms are found to fill grocery bags, but I'm never the one to find them.
Personally, I'm more interested in seeing how the usually-dry creek bed has transformed with the season's snow melt, and looking for unusual rocks exposed there. Unfortunately, plenty of dirt has been washed into the creek bed over the past couple of years, so now the rocks are mostly buried and grown over with weeds.
For Jonathan's part, he was content picking flowers (er, "flowers" ... as they were mostly dandelions) and jumping off fallen trees.
Tom was the first to find some good-sized morels (below). Chris found some more later. We followed the dry creek bed almost to the property line and decided to head back -- although we'd lost track of Chris by that point. He had been encouraged by his initial find, and was on a mission to find more mushrooms.
Jerry had taken a different path on the way down, and found a calf that must have just been born that morning. Apparently, a cow will often hide her newborn in the bushes and take off for a bit. I'm sure the cow wouldn't be happy to see us around her calf when she returned, but she wasn't anywhere in sight, so we let Jonathan take a look. He said he wanted to give the baby cow a hug. I didn't let him get quite that affectionate, but the calf wasn't moving around much, so I let him pet it a little.
It's a long, steep walk back up the bluff side, but Jonathan was lucky enough to have three uncles to alternate between for rides on their shoulders. Chris showed up not long after we reached the top. We didn't hit the jackpot like we have in years past (not yet, anyway), but there was enough to sauté and enjoy with dinner.
Last weekend, we went for a hike down in the valley with a few of Chris' brothers. The proclaimed reason was to search for morel mushrooms, but I was more interested in just walking around and seeing what was new. We go down every spring, and sometimes enough mushrooms are found to fill grocery bags, but I'm never the one to find them.
Personally, I'm more interested in seeing how the usually-dry creek bed has transformed with the season's snow melt, and looking for unusual rocks exposed there. Unfortunately, plenty of dirt has been washed into the creek bed over the past couple of years, so now the rocks are mostly buried and grown over with weeds.
For Jonathan's part, he was content picking flowers (er, "flowers" ... as they were mostly dandelions) and jumping off fallen trees.
Tom was the first to find some good-sized morels (below). Chris found some more later. We followed the dry creek bed almost to the property line and decided to head back -- although we'd lost track of Chris by that point. He had been encouraged by his initial find, and was on a mission to find more mushrooms.
Jerry had taken a different path on the way down, and found a calf that must have just been born that morning. Apparently, a cow will often hide her newborn in the bushes and take off for a bit. I'm sure the cow wouldn't be happy to see us around her calf when she returned, but she wasn't anywhere in sight, so we let Jonathan take a look. He said he wanted to give the baby cow a hug. I didn't let him get quite that affectionate, but the calf wasn't moving around much, so I let him pet it a little.
It's a long, steep walk back up the bluff side, but Jonathan was lucky enough to have three uncles to alternate between for rides on their shoulders. Chris showed up not long after we reached the top. We didn't hit the jackpot like we have in years past (not yet, anyway), but there was enough to sauté and enjoy with dinner.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Apr. 16 - Filling in Some Gaps - Part II
I know it's been a while since I posted Part I, and people have probably forgotten that there would eventually be a second entry about the complications after Garrett's third treatment. I actually even considered letting Part II go, since it's been so long, but for the last week or so, when I've had trouble sleeping, my mind would usually wander back to Garrett's last day with us. Then I'd get up, check my email, see what was new on Facebook, catch up on some blogs, and maybe play a few games of solitaire to clear my mind so I could go back to bed. Now I'm convinced that routine is going to continue until I finally finish Part II here.
This hasn't been a post I've looked forward to writing, as I don't really feel like I can do justice to Garrett's final hours. But those thoughts are demanding some form of expression, and I don't imagine I'll get a good night's sleep until they've made their way out somewhere.
So Part I left off with Chris and me learning that Garrett was in serious trouble because the bleeding in his brain was proving difficult to get under control. I don't remember how long we stood in his room while doctors came and went, adjusting the drainage bag from his shunt and commenting on how it just wasn't flowing, before the decision was made that he'd need another shunt to let more fluid out. Someone called for ultrasound equipment, but it didn't show up for ... I don't know. It had to have been close to an hour. During that time, we twice overheard a doctor ask a nurse whether the equipment was coming, and she'd explain that the ultrasound staff were told it was needed stat. Doesn't "stat" mean something like "right now." Did the ultrasound folks not know it meant "right now"?
Before that, though, when we were just beginning to digest the gravity of Garrett's condition, Dr. Lanzino came back to Garrett's room, and spoke with us just as calmly as he had before. That's when I realized that his tone and facial expressions weren't reliable signs for me to read as a gauge for Garrett's progress. It wasn't that he was being passive, and he wasn't misleading us with false hope by any means. But we had seen Dr. Wetjen wear his grim outlook when he initially told us about Garrett's condition. And after Garrett's first procedure, we listened to the stress and relief practically drip from Dr. Cloft's words as he told us of its success. But looking back, Dr. Lanzino's demeanor seemed pretty consistent throughout our encounters. I guess we hadn't heard from him much during the most challenging times, though, so what differences might exist between, "Hey, things are looking good," and "Oh my, this is alarming," were lost on me. Maybe they were just subtle enough that I didn't notice them with the positive expectations I probably projected onto the situation.
So it wasn't until he returned to Garrett's room and told us ... I honestly don't even remember what he told us. He used full sentences. There was an adequate number of words. But all I retained is that he used the term "brain melt," and that's when what hope I was still holding onto evaporated in an instant.
When Chris and I first learned what condition was threatening our son and tried to learn everything we could online, we had come across that term in one couple's story. Their daughter had a vein of Galen malformation, and apparently the pressure from it grew so intense that it actually liquefied the brain matter surrounding it. That little girl didn't make it. But is it any wonder? How is a person supposed to survive when her brain has begun to melt.
My son's brain was melting! What kind of quality of life could he possibly have now? Even if they turned things around that moment, what abilities would he have left? Would he be able to talk? Would he be able to eat? Would he have control of his body? Would he even be able to comprehend what was going on around him?
We had been worried about how he'd be affected from his initial heart failure and the "instrumentation" in his brain, but now this? Every day would be a struggle for him. Every day he would suffer. And every day Chris and I would ache for him the way our parents surely ache for us now with our pain at having lost him. The last thing I wanted was for Garrett to go on to live a nightmarish life. He had been through enough in the few weeks he'd been with us. He didn't need decades of torment. At that moment, my prayer changed from, "Lord, please pull Garrett through this," to, "Lord, either restore Garrett completely, or take him now."
So when they said another shunt would be needed, it felt like a technicality -- just going through the motions. When the equipment wasn't coming as quickly as it should have, I wasn't panicking, but was oddly annoyed. I actually thought, "Now what if this was serious? What if this was life or death for my baby, and those folks are lolly-gagging?" But I wasn't convinced it was life or death. It seemed like Garrett was lost already. The medical staff were sincere in their continuing efforts to save him, but part of me wondered at what point they would stop and just let him go.
So when Dr. Arteaga approached us and said, "I hate having to ask this question at such a difficult time, but we need to know. If Garrett's heart stops beating, do you want us to try to get it going again?" I immediately said, "No." She looked from me to Chris and said, "Well you two can take some time to talk about it." But Chris shook his head and said, "No," too.
If I had room for anything other than despair at that point, I would have felt like a heel for not waiting for his input. But we've had conversations before about whether we would want to continue living if we had to rely on life support or if our quality of life had diminished to a given degree. So while we had never talked about this scenario specifically, I had no doubt he felt the same as I did about letting Garrett go. I suspect, like me, he believed we already were.
At this point, we were frequently hearing his heartbeat being described as "labile," and I wondered how long it would bounce between the 60s and 140s before it finally gave out. I think Dr. Arteaga then asked us whether we wanted to stay in the room while the second shunt was placed. The equipment wasn't there yet, but would be arriving soon. She said if we were okay with the commotion and the high-stress situation, we could stay there, or we could wait outside if we preferred. At least I remember getting that option at some point, although I'm not entirely sure it was for this. I think it was ...
Either way, some reason compelled us to go out to the waiting room. My mom was there, and I told her it wasn't looking good, but I couldn't find words to quantify how bad it was. In that type of situation, you're like a black hole: information and observations come in, but not much of anything manages to get out. I don't remember whether we were called back to his room, or if we just felt antsy and wanted an update, but after a while we made our way back into the PICU and found the curtain to his room still closed and a crowd of people around the door.
Throughout the afternoon, we often heard two lines of sympathetic refrain. As things looked worse, doctors frequently asked if there was anyone we wanted them to call. Other staff would ask if they could get us anything. We heard it again when we approached the group around Garrett's room. A woman asked if she could get us something -- maybe some water? No. "Would you like to have a seat? There's a chair right over there. And a stool right next to it." No.
It seemed "no" was the only word we could muster, and I wonder whether it was less an answer to their questions and more an obligatory utterance acknowledging that we had been addressed. They heard the nos as a response to their inquiries, but with the turn Garrett had taken, it felt more like the overwhelming objection to the unavoidable tragedy we were about to hit head on. Can we call someone? No. Get you some water? No. Would you like a seat? No. No, no, no, no. NO! This can't be happening!
The second shunt was in place, and Dr. Arteaga asked us to speak to Garrett to see how he responded. There was no response. It was hard to know whether to stay there or go back to the waiting area. We didn't really need to be either place. We couldn't help him there, but part of me wasn't ready to go back to sit with my mom. When you're so devoid of hope, you can feel a little conflicted about being around someone who still expects things could turn out well. I didn't fault Mom for her optimism. She just didn't know how terribly things were progressing.
So when Dr. Wetjen asked again if there was anyone we wanted him to talk to, I told him my mom was in the waiting area, and she should probably know what was happening. By then, Chris' sister Dawn had arrived, too. We all went in "the quiet room" in the PICU, and Dr. Wetjen explained what had happened to Garrett. He said they weren't getting any signs of brain life, and although he was given some medicine before his surgery to essentially keep him paralyzed during the procedure, they thought enough of that would have worn off by now that they'd see something. But because it takes 24 hours to fully leave the system, they couldn't officially declare him brain dead yet. Garrett's eyes weren't dilating when checked, though, and Dr. Wetgen said he's never seen a patient come back from that degree of brain damage.
Things were a blur again after that. I think my mom was able to go back to Garrett's room and pray for him. Soon enough, Chris and I were called back there because Garrett's heart was beating more erratically and they didn't expect him to hold on much longer. Dr. Wetjen had mentioned that some parents find comfort in these circumstances by allowing their babies to be organ donors. I asked what would be involved in that, but the staff explained that with his inadequate perfusion, he wouldn't be a candidate. His heart just wasn't getting enough oxygen to his organs, so they wouldn't be in good enough condition for donation.
They told us that they could keep giving him medicine to try to help his heart (essentially to try waiting until enough time had passed for him to be officially declared brain dead), or if we wanted, we could remove all the devices and let the end come naturally. My mind had already been made up, but this time I turned to Chris for his answer. He shook his head and tearfully whispered, "Just let him go." I simply nodded my agreement.
They said we could hold him again once they detached him from everything, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. He was being ripped away from us. Wouldn't it hurt that much more to have him in my arms again? But I think it's assumed that that's what parents do, and thankfully there was a small, rational part of me that knew I would regret it if I didn't.
I asked if he would be in pain, or if he'd be gasping for air. The nurse explained that he'd be relaxed and would be given another dose of Fentanyl to make sure he was comfortable.
So they pulled the glider over and I got situated with a pillow and blankets on my lap. This routine had been such a joyous event the last time he was taken off the ventilator -- when I was looking forward to embracing and nursing him again. But now his body was still on the pillow. They had pulled a blue cap around his head to cover the shunts and blood. Mom brought a blue and brown blanket, which we draped over him. I rested my hand on his chest, barely able to make out an occasional heartbeat. I thought it would only be a couple minutes before he slipped away, but it seemed to last a lot longer than that.
I stroked his slender fingers and thought about how they would never grasp a baseball or push a toy car around with his older brother. His face was slack now, and as I looked at his smooth forehead, I wondered whether the classic Rossing furrow would have been more prominent as he got older. He was a beautiful baby, but we wouldn't get to see the handsome man he'd grow into, or what traits he'd have from either Chris or myself.
I think the medical staff left so we could have some private time with him. I think my mom was able to stay, though, and Dawn might have been there, too. I don't really remember, though. It seemed like the world suddenly shrunk to encompass just me, Chris and our baby boy. Eventually, someone came back in to check his heart. He was gone.
The child life specialist had told us earlier that she could get paper and ink to make keepsakes of Garrett's hand and foot prints. She could also make plaster molds of his hands and feet if we'd like. Once again, I wasn't so sure I wanted to. He was gone. Wouldn't having those things around just keep the gaping wound in our hearts open longer?
But as much as I didn't want to right then, part of me could see how I might cherish those years down the road. So we went ahead and gently pressed his hands and feet into the ink pads and then onto the paper. The child life specialist poured the plaster into cups and carefully created his molds.
I asked one of the nurses what we do now. She told us to take the time that we needed. No one would be rushing us out of there, but we didn't need to stay, either. We could leave whenever we were prepared to go. I reiterated, "But what do we do?" nodding toward Garrett. We came to Saint Marys expecting to take a healthy little boy home with us once he recovered. Now I had a lifeless baby in my arms. What happens now? What do you do with the body?
She started telling us what to expect with the funeral home, and my mom made some calls to look into that. You don't expect to have to make those considerations at our age -- especially regarding the remains of your child. We made the bare minimum decisions we had to that night -- choosing a funeral home and deciding to have Garrett cremated.
I called a few family members to let them know Garrett didn't make it, but we let others pass the news on from there. A lot of Chris' family from Lake City wanted to come out, and although we told them we didn't know how much longer we'd be there, they felt they had to come. I didn't think I wanted anyone else there, but once they arrived, I was glad they came.
The nurses managed to remove the shunts and clean Garrett up, so he was wrapped in his blanket, the cap still pulled around his ears, and back in his bed before everyone got there. He still had some faint color in his face, so if you didn't know better, you'd half expect him to begin moving at any moment.
But he wouldn't move again. We left the hospital empty handed and defeated.
That pretty much brings us up to the post from the day after. It's hard to believe it's been over four months since we've said goodbye to out little Garrett.
This hasn't been a post I've looked forward to writing, as I don't really feel like I can do justice to Garrett's final hours. But those thoughts are demanding some form of expression, and I don't imagine I'll get a good night's sleep until they've made their way out somewhere.
So Part I left off with Chris and me learning that Garrett was in serious trouble because the bleeding in his brain was proving difficult to get under control. I don't remember how long we stood in his room while doctors came and went, adjusting the drainage bag from his shunt and commenting on how it just wasn't flowing, before the decision was made that he'd need another shunt to let more fluid out. Someone called for ultrasound equipment, but it didn't show up for ... I don't know. It had to have been close to an hour. During that time, we twice overheard a doctor ask a nurse whether the equipment was coming, and she'd explain that the ultrasound staff were told it was needed stat. Doesn't "stat" mean something like "right now." Did the ultrasound folks not know it meant "right now"?
Before that, though, when we were just beginning to digest the gravity of Garrett's condition, Dr. Lanzino came back to Garrett's room, and spoke with us just as calmly as he had before. That's when I realized that his tone and facial expressions weren't reliable signs for me to read as a gauge for Garrett's progress. It wasn't that he was being passive, and he wasn't misleading us with false hope by any means. But we had seen Dr. Wetjen wear his grim outlook when he initially told us about Garrett's condition. And after Garrett's first procedure, we listened to the stress and relief practically drip from Dr. Cloft's words as he told us of its success. But looking back, Dr. Lanzino's demeanor seemed pretty consistent throughout our encounters. I guess we hadn't heard from him much during the most challenging times, though, so what differences might exist between, "Hey, things are looking good," and "Oh my, this is alarming," were lost on me. Maybe they were just subtle enough that I didn't notice them with the positive expectations I probably projected onto the situation.
So it wasn't until he returned to Garrett's room and told us ... I honestly don't even remember what he told us. He used full sentences. There was an adequate number of words. But all I retained is that he used the term "brain melt," and that's when what hope I was still holding onto evaporated in an instant.
When Chris and I first learned what condition was threatening our son and tried to learn everything we could online, we had come across that term in one couple's story. Their daughter had a vein of Galen malformation, and apparently the pressure from it grew so intense that it actually liquefied the brain matter surrounding it. That little girl didn't make it. But is it any wonder? How is a person supposed to survive when her brain has begun to melt.
My son's brain was melting! What kind of quality of life could he possibly have now? Even if they turned things around that moment, what abilities would he have left? Would he be able to talk? Would he be able to eat? Would he have control of his body? Would he even be able to comprehend what was going on around him?
We had been worried about how he'd be affected from his initial heart failure and the "instrumentation" in his brain, but now this? Every day would be a struggle for him. Every day he would suffer. And every day Chris and I would ache for him the way our parents surely ache for us now with our pain at having lost him. The last thing I wanted was for Garrett to go on to live a nightmarish life. He had been through enough in the few weeks he'd been with us. He didn't need decades of torment. At that moment, my prayer changed from, "Lord, please pull Garrett through this," to, "Lord, either restore Garrett completely, or take him now."
So when they said another shunt would be needed, it felt like a technicality -- just going through the motions. When the equipment wasn't coming as quickly as it should have, I wasn't panicking, but was oddly annoyed. I actually thought, "Now what if this was serious? What if this was life or death for my baby, and those folks are lolly-gagging?" But I wasn't convinced it was life or death. It seemed like Garrett was lost already. The medical staff were sincere in their continuing efforts to save him, but part of me wondered at what point they would stop and just let him go.
So when Dr. Arteaga approached us and said, "I hate having to ask this question at such a difficult time, but we need to know. If Garrett's heart stops beating, do you want us to try to get it going again?" I immediately said, "No." She looked from me to Chris and said, "Well you two can take some time to talk about it." But Chris shook his head and said, "No," too.
If I had room for anything other than despair at that point, I would have felt like a heel for not waiting for his input. But we've had conversations before about whether we would want to continue living if we had to rely on life support or if our quality of life had diminished to a given degree. So while we had never talked about this scenario specifically, I had no doubt he felt the same as I did about letting Garrett go. I suspect, like me, he believed we already were.
At this point, we were frequently hearing his heartbeat being described as "labile," and I wondered how long it would bounce between the 60s and 140s before it finally gave out. I think Dr. Arteaga then asked us whether we wanted to stay in the room while the second shunt was placed. The equipment wasn't there yet, but would be arriving soon. She said if we were okay with the commotion and the high-stress situation, we could stay there, or we could wait outside if we preferred. At least I remember getting that option at some point, although I'm not entirely sure it was for this. I think it was ...
Either way, some reason compelled us to go out to the waiting room. My mom was there, and I told her it wasn't looking good, but I couldn't find words to quantify how bad it was. In that type of situation, you're like a black hole: information and observations come in, but not much of anything manages to get out. I don't remember whether we were called back to his room, or if we just felt antsy and wanted an update, but after a while we made our way back into the PICU and found the curtain to his room still closed and a crowd of people around the door.
Throughout the afternoon, we often heard two lines of sympathetic refrain. As things looked worse, doctors frequently asked if there was anyone we wanted them to call. Other staff would ask if they could get us anything. We heard it again when we approached the group around Garrett's room. A woman asked if she could get us something -- maybe some water? No. "Would you like to have a seat? There's a chair right over there. And a stool right next to it." No.
It seemed "no" was the only word we could muster, and I wonder whether it was less an answer to their questions and more an obligatory utterance acknowledging that we had been addressed. They heard the nos as a response to their inquiries, but with the turn Garrett had taken, it felt more like the overwhelming objection to the unavoidable tragedy we were about to hit head on. Can we call someone? No. Get you some water? No. Would you like a seat? No. No, no, no, no. NO! This can't be happening!
The second shunt was in place, and Dr. Arteaga asked us to speak to Garrett to see how he responded. There was no response. It was hard to know whether to stay there or go back to the waiting area. We didn't really need to be either place. We couldn't help him there, but part of me wasn't ready to go back to sit with my mom. When you're so devoid of hope, you can feel a little conflicted about being around someone who still expects things could turn out well. I didn't fault Mom for her optimism. She just didn't know how terribly things were progressing.
So when Dr. Wetjen asked again if there was anyone we wanted him to talk to, I told him my mom was in the waiting area, and she should probably know what was happening. By then, Chris' sister Dawn had arrived, too. We all went in "the quiet room" in the PICU, and Dr. Wetjen explained what had happened to Garrett. He said they weren't getting any signs of brain life, and although he was given some medicine before his surgery to essentially keep him paralyzed during the procedure, they thought enough of that would have worn off by now that they'd see something. But because it takes 24 hours to fully leave the system, they couldn't officially declare him brain dead yet. Garrett's eyes weren't dilating when checked, though, and Dr. Wetgen said he's never seen a patient come back from that degree of brain damage.
Things were a blur again after that. I think my mom was able to go back to Garrett's room and pray for him. Soon enough, Chris and I were called back there because Garrett's heart was beating more erratically and they didn't expect him to hold on much longer. Dr. Wetjen had mentioned that some parents find comfort in these circumstances by allowing their babies to be organ donors. I asked what would be involved in that, but the staff explained that with his inadequate perfusion, he wouldn't be a candidate. His heart just wasn't getting enough oxygen to his organs, so they wouldn't be in good enough condition for donation.
They told us that they could keep giving him medicine to try to help his heart (essentially to try waiting until enough time had passed for him to be officially declared brain dead), or if we wanted, we could remove all the devices and let the end come naturally. My mind had already been made up, but this time I turned to Chris for his answer. He shook his head and tearfully whispered, "Just let him go." I simply nodded my agreement.
They said we could hold him again once they detached him from everything, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. He was being ripped away from us. Wouldn't it hurt that much more to have him in my arms again? But I think it's assumed that that's what parents do, and thankfully there was a small, rational part of me that knew I would regret it if I didn't.
I asked if he would be in pain, or if he'd be gasping for air. The nurse explained that he'd be relaxed and would be given another dose of Fentanyl to make sure he was comfortable.
So they pulled the glider over and I got situated with a pillow and blankets on my lap. This routine had been such a joyous event the last time he was taken off the ventilator -- when I was looking forward to embracing and nursing him again. But now his body was still on the pillow. They had pulled a blue cap around his head to cover the shunts and blood. Mom brought a blue and brown blanket, which we draped over him. I rested my hand on his chest, barely able to make out an occasional heartbeat. I thought it would only be a couple minutes before he slipped away, but it seemed to last a lot longer than that.
I stroked his slender fingers and thought about how they would never grasp a baseball or push a toy car around with his older brother. His face was slack now, and as I looked at his smooth forehead, I wondered whether the classic Rossing furrow would have been more prominent as he got older. He was a beautiful baby, but we wouldn't get to see the handsome man he'd grow into, or what traits he'd have from either Chris or myself.
I think the medical staff left so we could have some private time with him. I think my mom was able to stay, though, and Dawn might have been there, too. I don't really remember, though. It seemed like the world suddenly shrunk to encompass just me, Chris and our baby boy. Eventually, someone came back in to check his heart. He was gone.
The child life specialist had told us earlier that she could get paper and ink to make keepsakes of Garrett's hand and foot prints. She could also make plaster molds of his hands and feet if we'd like. Once again, I wasn't so sure I wanted to. He was gone. Wouldn't having those things around just keep the gaping wound in our hearts open longer?
But as much as I didn't want to right then, part of me could see how I might cherish those years down the road. So we went ahead and gently pressed his hands and feet into the ink pads and then onto the paper. The child life specialist poured the plaster into cups and carefully created his molds.
I asked one of the nurses what we do now. She told us to take the time that we needed. No one would be rushing us out of there, but we didn't need to stay, either. We could leave whenever we were prepared to go. I reiterated, "But what do we do?" nodding toward Garrett. We came to Saint Marys expecting to take a healthy little boy home with us once he recovered. Now I had a lifeless baby in my arms. What happens now? What do you do with the body?
She started telling us what to expect with the funeral home, and my mom made some calls to look into that. You don't expect to have to make those considerations at our age -- especially regarding the remains of your child. We made the bare minimum decisions we had to that night -- choosing a funeral home and deciding to have Garrett cremated.
I called a few family members to let them know Garrett didn't make it, but we let others pass the news on from there. A lot of Chris' family from Lake City wanted to come out, and although we told them we didn't know how much longer we'd be there, they felt they had to come. I didn't think I wanted anyone else there, but once they arrived, I was glad they came.
The nurses managed to remove the shunts and clean Garrett up, so he was wrapped in his blanket, the cap still pulled around his ears, and back in his bed before everyone got there. He still had some faint color in his face, so if you didn't know better, you'd half expect him to begin moving at any moment.
But he wouldn't move again. We left the hospital empty handed and defeated.
That pretty much brings us up to the post from the day after. It's hard to believe it's been over four months since we've said goodbye to out little Garrett.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Mar. 27 - Mothers' Milk Bank
I was tempted not to write about this, but my sister convinced me to go ahead. Anyone whose stomach might turn at the words "mother's milk," "nursing," or "lactation" might want to skip reading this post. But, with my female audience in mind, here goes.
When I returned to work after my maternity leave with Jonathan, I'd make a trip to the Sieben's lactation room twice a day to ensure Jonathan had bottles for daycare. I always hated pumping. It was such an inconvenience, interrupting the work day and requiring me to haul my tubes, cones, valves and bottles around. And the tediousness of the constant cleaning. Ugh.
The lactation room itself was cold with bright, harsh lights and a teal, vinyl-covered recliner (which makes me sure the folks designing the rooms are a bunch of men, because the logistics of reclining while pumping just do not work out) next to a table that was far too small to fit both a clunky tan phone and one of the magazines from a nearby rack. It didn't help matters that you could hear every conversation held in the adjacent corridor, or that the room was in such high demand that, even though we scheduled our time on the sign-up sheet, inevitably there would be one or two attempts from some stranger to enter the room when the poor soul inside (often me) was feeling most exposed.
One day, someone left a copy of O Magazine in the room with a note inviting other mothers to read the article "One Woman's Mission to Save Babies," about a 37-year-old woman, Lynn Page, who gave birth to triplets at 23 weeks. Two of her babies died within 24 hours, but she pumped freezers full of breast milk as she waited for her surviving daughter, Reese, to be well enough to leave the hospital. Reese lived for six and a half months, and Lynn had only been able to hold her a couple dozen times. When I read how Reese had died in Lynn's arms, with Lynn's husband Chris by her side, I wondered what the chances were that she would die just then. Well, now I know. The medical staff can see when the end is coming, so they let parents hold their child one final time to say goodbye.
I sobbed over Lynn's story. I couldn't imagine having to suffer that kind of loss. (Nobody can. That's what Chris and I keep hearing now, too.) But unwilling to let all that precious milk go to waste, she contacted WakeMed Mothers' Milk Bank in North Carolina, an organization that processes donated milk to be given to other premature infants or patients with conditions for which breast milk has been found to be beneficial. Although WakeMed would arrange for shipment, Lynn and Chris felt compelled to deliver it themselves, as it felt like they were handing over their connection to Reese. After reading their story, my heart ached for Lynn and I felt all the more thankful for my healthy Jonathan at home.
Our first day in the PICU with Garrett, the nurses set me up with a pumping kit and showed me where the breastfeeding room was. I thought it was odd that this room was called a breastfeeding room, whereas every other room with a chair, sink and pump on the Mayo campus was apparently called a lactation room. If a mom was breastfeeding in the PICU, you'd think she'd do it in her baby's room. But anyway ...
The nurse who was showing me the room, and where to find the containers and labels, told me the pump was "the Cadillac of breast pumps." Apparently, your typical consumer pump does the job for expressing enough milk while you're at work, but the hospital-grade ones are more powerful to enable a mother to keep her supply steady when she can't actually nurse her baby for an extended period of time. She was right. My milk hadn't even come in yet when we arrived at the PICU, but the pump did just what it was supposed to do and by the time Garrett could nurse again, I wound up having too much and needing to pump for my own sake then.
But when I was first handed the packaged tubes and cones, I wasn't particularly looking forward to pumping, and I certainly didn't realize I'd be doing it for days and days. I remembered Lynn when I set myself up in the breastfeeding room and thought, "Thank goodness that's not my story. Thank God my Garrett is getting better. I'm pumping now to make sure I have milk when he's ready to eat again, but he's not going to need this. He'll be nursing, after all."
In contrast to the lactation room in Siebens, this one was like my personal oasis. It had soft, dimmed light and was noticeably warmer than the rest of the PICU floor. Instead of a recliner, it had a glider that let you rock to the whir-whir-whir of the pump. There were a number of times that room welcomed my tears as I agonized over whether Garrett would make it through his first procedure, or thought about the torture he endured in the ER. I didn't necessarily go there expecting to melt down, but when you're constantly around other people, I suppose it's only natural for your emotions to finally bubble up when you've found some privacy.
At other times, though, being able to lock out the equipment and beeping monitors of the PICU, settling into the glider and thinking about how well Garrett was doing, I actually found it to be quite relaxing. I nearly fell asleep on a few occasions. In fact, I'm fairly certain I did fall asleep once, as I woke up just in time to discover my two nine-ounce bottles were nearly overflowing.
In the beginning, the nurses stressed how important it would be to pump every two to three hours to keep my supply up while Garrett was intubated. More than one nurse made a point of asking, "When was the last time you pumped? The cardiologist should be in in 15 minutes. It'd be a good time to pump once he leaves. You really need to keep your supply up. You'd be amazed at how fast he'll go through the milk once he can take it."
At first I felt guilty for letting the time lapse to four or five hours, but I remembered how, when I was pumping for Jonathan, I could skip a session and still express nearly two-sessions worth at the next one, so I suspected my body would produce what it would produce, regardless of the frequency of my pumping intervals. And I was right. Sometimes I'd go six, seven, even eight hours without pumping, and still managed just fine. At this point, it wasn't a matter of not wanting to pump, but with juggling doctors, visitors, and Garrett's test, it was always a struggle to find time.
The nurses quite checking on how faithfully I was pumping when I had filled an entire shelf with 2.5-ounce containers in the PICU freezer. In fact, one nurse seemed particularly surprised when she was helping me pack up to move with Garrett to the general floor. She had brought a large plastic bag for the breast milk and asked which ones in the freezer were mine. I said all of them, but she still checked the name on each container before placing it in the bag.
About six containers in, she said, "Oh my goodness." Then another ten or so containers went by and she gave a more emphatic, "Oh my goodness!" and added, "You know, I think you'd be safe to pump and dump now if you wanted to." That made me wonder whether she had children, or if she nursed or ever had to pump herself. I wouldn't think someone who had to pump herself would consider dumping the milk out if there's a way to keep it for later use -- and Saint Marys has the system down for pumping and storing the milk. If I'm going to take the time to pump, there's no way I'm dumping that "liquid gold" out.
When we finally discharged from Saint Marys with instructions to give Garrett formula-fortified bottles, I was glad to have a significant stash established already. But he really didn't go through that much before he passed away, and I had nearly 200 ounces left over. That's a far cry from the 56 gallons Lynn Page pumped, but with so much effort feeling like ... not a waste exactly ... but feeling unfruitful, I wanted to donate the milk so that some baby somewhere might benefit.
When Garrett died, the nurses asked what they could do for us, if there was a funeral home they should call or if we wanted our pastor to come to the hospital. I wasn't sure what to do about that yet, but I asked them if they knew where I could donate the breast milk. I don't think any of them had heard of such a thing, but they did some research and found an organization, although whoever they spoke to said I'd have to be persistent when I called to get them to take it. That seemed odd. It shouldn't be work to give that kind of gift.
So I later searched online, and after reaching a couple dead ends, eventually got in contact with Indiana Mothers' Milk Bank. I filled out an initial questionnaire and was approved as a donor. After completing some additional forms and having blood drawn and sent to their lab, I received a pre-paid UPS box, however I needed to find some dry ice to keep the milk cold en route.
It took a lot longer than I expected to finally get everything in place to send the milk off, though. (But don't worry. Expressed milk can be stored for up to a year in a chest or upright freezer, so it wasn't in any danger of going bad just yet.) It was probably a couple weeks before I got in touch with Indiana Mother's Milk Bank, and then a week or so before the paperwork and instructions for the blood draw got to me. The first box they sent never arrived, so they had to send another one. And then it was at least two weeks before I finally tracked down dry ice at Mississippi Welder's. (Who would have guessed it'd be sold there?) Then I had to wait for a Monday morning when I could coordinate coming to Rochester, buying the dry ice and getting to UPS right when they opened at 8 a.m.so that there wouldn't be any delays in shipping.
So finally, finally, on Monday, March 15th, just over three months after Garrett passed away, I brought the box into UPS. The man behind the counter asked what it was. I'm sure that's just a standard question they're required to ask, but I felt a little awkward saying, "Um ... expressed milk?" He said, "Okay. That's all I needed to know." And that was that.
Mine wasn't the emotional endeavor Lynn's was. I didn't feel much of anything walking out of UPS, except slight embarrassment over having to tell some unsuspecting guy that he was holding a hefty box of my breast milk. Oh well.
So now Lynn's story is my story, too. I didn't want it to be. I didn't even consider it would be until Garrett's final moments. But, as they say, it is what it is. Hopefully some babies somewhere will be helped by it.
When I returned to work after my maternity leave with Jonathan, I'd make a trip to the Sieben's lactation room twice a day to ensure Jonathan had bottles for daycare. I always hated pumping. It was such an inconvenience, interrupting the work day and requiring me to haul my tubes, cones, valves and bottles around. And the tediousness of the constant cleaning. Ugh.
The lactation room itself was cold with bright, harsh lights and a teal, vinyl-covered recliner (which makes me sure the folks designing the rooms are a bunch of men, because the logistics of reclining while pumping just do not work out) next to a table that was far too small to fit both a clunky tan phone and one of the magazines from a nearby rack. It didn't help matters that you could hear every conversation held in the adjacent corridor, or that the room was in such high demand that, even though we scheduled our time on the sign-up sheet, inevitably there would be one or two attempts from some stranger to enter the room when the poor soul inside (often me) was feeling most exposed.
One day, someone left a copy of O Magazine in the room with a note inviting other mothers to read the article "One Woman's Mission to Save Babies," about a 37-year-old woman, Lynn Page, who gave birth to triplets at 23 weeks. Two of her babies died within 24 hours, but she pumped freezers full of breast milk as she waited for her surviving daughter, Reese, to be well enough to leave the hospital. Reese lived for six and a half months, and Lynn had only been able to hold her a couple dozen times. When I read how Reese had died in Lynn's arms, with Lynn's husband Chris by her side, I wondered what the chances were that she would die just then. Well, now I know. The medical staff can see when the end is coming, so they let parents hold their child one final time to say goodbye.
I sobbed over Lynn's story. I couldn't imagine having to suffer that kind of loss. (Nobody can. That's what Chris and I keep hearing now, too.) But unwilling to let all that precious milk go to waste, she contacted WakeMed Mothers' Milk Bank in North Carolina, an organization that processes donated milk to be given to other premature infants or patients with conditions for which breast milk has been found to be beneficial. Although WakeMed would arrange for shipment, Lynn and Chris felt compelled to deliver it themselves, as it felt like they were handing over their connection to Reese. After reading their story, my heart ached for Lynn and I felt all the more thankful for my healthy Jonathan at home.
Our first day in the PICU with Garrett, the nurses set me up with a pumping kit and showed me where the breastfeeding room was. I thought it was odd that this room was called a breastfeeding room, whereas every other room with a chair, sink and pump on the Mayo campus was apparently called a lactation room. If a mom was breastfeeding in the PICU, you'd think she'd do it in her baby's room. But anyway ...
The nurse who was showing me the room, and where to find the containers and labels, told me the pump was "the Cadillac of breast pumps." Apparently, your typical consumer pump does the job for expressing enough milk while you're at work, but the hospital-grade ones are more powerful to enable a mother to keep her supply steady when she can't actually nurse her baby for an extended period of time. She was right. My milk hadn't even come in yet when we arrived at the PICU, but the pump did just what it was supposed to do and by the time Garrett could nurse again, I wound up having too much and needing to pump for my own sake then.
But when I was first handed the packaged tubes and cones, I wasn't particularly looking forward to pumping, and I certainly didn't realize I'd be doing it for days and days. I remembered Lynn when I set myself up in the breastfeeding room and thought, "Thank goodness that's not my story. Thank God my Garrett is getting better. I'm pumping now to make sure I have milk when he's ready to eat again, but he's not going to need this. He'll be nursing, after all."
In contrast to the lactation room in Siebens, this one was like my personal oasis. It had soft, dimmed light and was noticeably warmer than the rest of the PICU floor. Instead of a recliner, it had a glider that let you rock to the whir-whir-whir of the pump. There were a number of times that room welcomed my tears as I agonized over whether Garrett would make it through his first procedure, or thought about the torture he endured in the ER. I didn't necessarily go there expecting to melt down, but when you're constantly around other people, I suppose it's only natural for your emotions to finally bubble up when you've found some privacy.
At other times, though, being able to lock out the equipment and beeping monitors of the PICU, settling into the glider and thinking about how well Garrett was doing, I actually found it to be quite relaxing. I nearly fell asleep on a few occasions. In fact, I'm fairly certain I did fall asleep once, as I woke up just in time to discover my two nine-ounce bottles were nearly overflowing.
In the beginning, the nurses stressed how important it would be to pump every two to three hours to keep my supply up while Garrett was intubated. More than one nurse made a point of asking, "When was the last time you pumped? The cardiologist should be in in 15 minutes. It'd be a good time to pump once he leaves. You really need to keep your supply up. You'd be amazed at how fast he'll go through the milk once he can take it."
At first I felt guilty for letting the time lapse to four or five hours, but I remembered how, when I was pumping for Jonathan, I could skip a session and still express nearly two-sessions worth at the next one, so I suspected my body would produce what it would produce, regardless of the frequency of my pumping intervals. And I was right. Sometimes I'd go six, seven, even eight hours without pumping, and still managed just fine. At this point, it wasn't a matter of not wanting to pump, but with juggling doctors, visitors, and Garrett's test, it was always a struggle to find time.
The nurses quite checking on how faithfully I was pumping when I had filled an entire shelf with 2.5-ounce containers in the PICU freezer. In fact, one nurse seemed particularly surprised when she was helping me pack up to move with Garrett to the general floor. She had brought a large plastic bag for the breast milk and asked which ones in the freezer were mine. I said all of them, but she still checked the name on each container before placing it in the bag.
About six containers in, she said, "Oh my goodness." Then another ten or so containers went by and she gave a more emphatic, "Oh my goodness!" and added, "You know, I think you'd be safe to pump and dump now if you wanted to." That made me wonder whether she had children, or if she nursed or ever had to pump herself. I wouldn't think someone who had to pump herself would consider dumping the milk out if there's a way to keep it for later use -- and Saint Marys has the system down for pumping and storing the milk. If I'm going to take the time to pump, there's no way I'm dumping that "liquid gold" out.
When we finally discharged from Saint Marys with instructions to give Garrett formula-fortified bottles, I was glad to have a significant stash established already. But he really didn't go through that much before he passed away, and I had nearly 200 ounces left over. That's a far cry from the 56 gallons Lynn Page pumped, but with so much effort feeling like ... not a waste exactly ... but feeling unfruitful, I wanted to donate the milk so that some baby somewhere might benefit.
When Garrett died, the nurses asked what they could do for us, if there was a funeral home they should call or if we wanted our pastor to come to the hospital. I wasn't sure what to do about that yet, but I asked them if they knew where I could donate the breast milk. I don't think any of them had heard of such a thing, but they did some research and found an organization, although whoever they spoke to said I'd have to be persistent when I called to get them to take it. That seemed odd. It shouldn't be work to give that kind of gift.
So I later searched online, and after reaching a couple dead ends, eventually got in contact with Indiana Mothers' Milk Bank. I filled out an initial questionnaire and was approved as a donor. After completing some additional forms and having blood drawn and sent to their lab, I received a pre-paid UPS box, however I needed to find some dry ice to keep the milk cold en route.
It took a lot longer than I expected to finally get everything in place to send the milk off, though. (But don't worry. Expressed milk can be stored for up to a year in a chest or upright freezer, so it wasn't in any danger of going bad just yet.) It was probably a couple weeks before I got in touch with Indiana Mother's Milk Bank, and then a week or so before the paperwork and instructions for the blood draw got to me. The first box they sent never arrived, so they had to send another one. And then it was at least two weeks before I finally tracked down dry ice at Mississippi Welder's. (Who would have guessed it'd be sold there?) Then I had to wait for a Monday morning when I could coordinate coming to Rochester, buying the dry ice and getting to UPS right when they opened at 8 a.m.so that there wouldn't be any delays in shipping.
So finally, finally, on Monday, March 15th, just over three months after Garrett passed away, I brought the box into UPS. The man behind the counter asked what it was. I'm sure that's just a standard question they're required to ask, but I felt a little awkward saying, "Um ... expressed milk?" He said, "Okay. That's all I needed to know." And that was that.
Mine wasn't the emotional endeavor Lynn's was. I didn't feel much of anything walking out of UPS, except slight embarrassment over having to tell some unsuspecting guy that he was holding a hefty box of my breast milk. Oh well.
So now Lynn's story is my story, too. I didn't want it to be. I didn't even consider it would be until Garrett's final moments. But, as they say, it is what it is. Hopefully some babies somewhere will be helped by it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Mar. 16 - Jonathan
Jonathan woke up with a fever at 2:30 this morning. Thankfully it wasn't one of those Holy smoke, should we take him in? fevers, but to underscore how poorly he was feeling, he threw up all over himself, his blankets, his puppy, and me. In case I missed it, he told me, "Mommy, spill!" We were sitting on the rocking chair when it happened, though, and I guess it's easier to toss clothes and blankets in the wash than clean up suede and carpet. And considering the only thing in his stomach was the cup of water he had just chugged, it could have been worse.
It was an hour before he'd go back to bed, and then he was up every couple hours after that kind of complaining through the monitor. I checked on him once and pulled the covers he kicked off back around him. The next time he woke, he realized his puppy was missing and hollered, "Mom, puppy. Mommy, PUPPY!" The little brown pup was dry enough by then (having gone through the wash with everything else), so I gave it to him and he went right back to sleep. I was surprised he didn't need any more cuddles until he was up for the day around 9 a.m. He seems to be feeling a little better now, although he had an unusually screamy, whiny, red-faced meltdown when I changed his diaper before his nap.
Last Saturday we brought him to Christ Community Church in Rochester. That's where we would usually go before we moved out to the country. We've been having trouble making up our minds between First Lutheran in Lake City and Christ Community, but lately have felt kind of drawn back to CCC, even with the drive. Maybe part of it is expecting to see some familiar faces. We had gone the weekend before, and although I didn't expect Jonathan would want to be away from us, I asked him if he'd rather sit with Mom and Dad or play with the kids and toys. I tried to make it as clear as I could that playing with the kids would mean being without us, and he kept saying, "Kids! Toys!" and seemed very excited by the idea.
When we handed him off to the the lady coordinating the "lambs" room, though, a look of sheer horror swept across his face. I instinctively took a couple steps toward him, preparing to grab him back, but she assured me he'd be fine and whisked him off to the playroom. It was refreshing to be able to sit through a service and give it our undivided attention, but when we returned to pick up Jonathan, we learned that he had quite a hard time. Not hard enough to have his number flashed in the sanctuary to prompt one of us to go get him, but a tough time nonetheless.
So when we went last Saturday, I had to remind him again and again that he'd stay with us this time. "All done kids." He did fairly well and clapped along through the worship songs. When it was time to sit after greeting those around us, though, he thought that was the end, waved toward the front of the sanctuary and said, "Bye, church!" I half expected him to add, "See you later, alligator!" I told him we weren't leaving yet, and he behaved pretty well until about twenty minutes into the sermon. I tried to keep him busy with raisins (with a few chocolate-covered raisins mixed in), but then he kept saying, "Candy!" when he was ready for another one. Oh, good grief.
Chris ended up taking him out to the lobby, and once Chris thought he'd stay quiet, they came back. But as soon as Jonathan saw me, he pointed and exclaimed, "Mommy right there!" So I ended up keeping him company walking around the halls for the remainder of the service. Oh well. All in all, I'd say he did pretty well. We'll see how long he lasts next time.
It was an hour before he'd go back to bed, and then he was up every couple hours after that kind of complaining through the monitor. I checked on him once and pulled the covers he kicked off back around him. The next time he woke, he realized his puppy was missing and hollered, "Mom, puppy. Mommy, PUPPY!" The little brown pup was dry enough by then (having gone through the wash with everything else), so I gave it to him and he went right back to sleep. I was surprised he didn't need any more cuddles until he was up for the day around 9 a.m. He seems to be feeling a little better now, although he had an unusually screamy, whiny, red-faced meltdown when I changed his diaper before his nap.
Last Saturday we brought him to Christ Community Church in Rochester. That's where we would usually go before we moved out to the country. We've been having trouble making up our minds between First Lutheran in Lake City and Christ Community, but lately have felt kind of drawn back to CCC, even with the drive. Maybe part of it is expecting to see some familiar faces. We had gone the weekend before, and although I didn't expect Jonathan would want to be away from us, I asked him if he'd rather sit with Mom and Dad or play with the kids and toys. I tried to make it as clear as I could that playing with the kids would mean being without us, and he kept saying, "Kids! Toys!" and seemed very excited by the idea.
When we handed him off to the the lady coordinating the "lambs" room, though, a look of sheer horror swept across his face. I instinctively took a couple steps toward him, preparing to grab him back, but she assured me he'd be fine and whisked him off to the playroom. It was refreshing to be able to sit through a service and give it our undivided attention, but when we returned to pick up Jonathan, we learned that he had quite a hard time. Not hard enough to have his number flashed in the sanctuary to prompt one of us to go get him, but a tough time nonetheless.
So when we went last Saturday, I had to remind him again and again that he'd stay with us this time. "All done kids." He did fairly well and clapped along through the worship songs. When it was time to sit after greeting those around us, though, he thought that was the end, waved toward the front of the sanctuary and said, "Bye, church!" I half expected him to add, "See you later, alligator!" I told him we weren't leaving yet, and he behaved pretty well until about twenty minutes into the sermon. I tried to keep him busy with raisins (with a few chocolate-covered raisins mixed in), but then he kept saying, "Candy!" when he was ready for another one. Oh, good grief.
Chris ended up taking him out to the lobby, and once Chris thought he'd stay quiet, they came back. But as soon as Jonathan saw me, he pointed and exclaimed, "Mommy right there!" So I ended up keeping him company walking around the halls for the remainder of the service. Oh well. All in all, I'd say he did pretty well. We'll see how long he lasts next time.
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