(It has taken me almost around two weeks to write this post and several days to finally publish it. So forgive me if it seems trivial in the light of recent events.)
God is good. Lets just get that straight. There is no question in my mind that God is Good all the time no matter what struggles we endure.
In case you are wondering, Percocet makes blogging difficult. It muddles my brain, makes me groggy, and I forget what the heck I was going to say! Friends tell me some of my emails make no sense. I am not sure that being nonsensical is entirely abnormal for me. :) But, let's backtrack and we'll come back to the Percocet in a minute. I'm not always good about talking about the rough stuff of life on here--so you get it all in one post!
|This is Nana (my mom).|
Mid January, my mom went in for elective knee surgery. Her knees had been bothering her for awhile and she couldn't do a lot of things she enjoyed. The knee surgery went just fine but she had complications from the pain medication she was on--ended up aspirating her dinner, had to be intubated because she wasn't breathing and it turned into chaos from there: days on a ventilator, pneumonia, kidney failure, heart issues, so forth and so on. Seven days in the ICU and another two weeks in Intensive Rehab. Thankfully, everything ended up just fine and she is doing well now but that was a whole ball of stress for awhile! Late nights in the hospital, sending my kids off to other relatives, leaving my husband to manage evenings alone, and being very, very pregnant.
Then, along comes Caroline. While one of her namesakes still recovered in the hospital, she came into the world quite peacefully. Beautiful and perfect. (A little sadness because her Nana was still in Intensive Rehab and couldn't meet her.) All was well until her one-week checkup and she still hadn't gained weight. Not an ounce. Then again, at her two-week...still no gain. All of my previous children came out, overcame any breastfeeding hurdles they had and met their birth weight by their one week checkup and go on to become quite the roly poly babies they should be. Not Caroline. Thus, the flurry of blood tests, doctors appointments, meetings with lactation consultants began. Not to mention the now instituted "triple-feed": nurse, pump, supplement with a bottle. All to my chagrin. So, yes, by one month she finally had gained back to her birth weight with the determination that she just isn't good at milk transfer. In essence, she sucks at sucking. And, to my continued heartbreak--she is mostly a formula baby. I just really hate washing and keeping track of bottles. Now, twelve weeks later, we have a system (sorta) and I try to maintain the breastfeeding bond if for no other reason that it is comforting to both of us.
My mother always says things come in threes. If two things break, there is gonna be a third. And so, it did. Ten weeks after Caroline was born, I had gallbladder surgery. (Enter Percocet stage left--and trust me, I took as little of it as possible). To be fair, I had a gallbladder attack before she was born (literally the night before my OB apt where I pushed back my induction because my mom was still in the ICU). Only I couldn't be for sure that it was that. Then, nothing for several weeks until I had several attacks in a row. Rather than wait until I was in so much pain I ended up in the ER with an emergency gallbladder removal, I scheduled the procedure and survived on pretzels and jellybeans in the interim. I was petrified to eat anything with fat in it for fear that it would trigger another attack.
Only, the procedure itself wasn't exactly smooth. It took 3 hours for what should have been a 45 minute surgery. 5 incisions laprascopicly which should have been only 4. An MRI the next day to see if the duct was clear because the surgeon couldn't be sure (it was, thankfully, or that would have meant another surgery). A trip to the ER 4 days later because I thought I was going to die. Literally. I'm not one to freak out but the only explanation for what I was feeling (after numerous tests) was that I was having a panic attack. And now, two weeks later, I am still in pain. Just surgery pain and it is getting better everyday.
So, yes, life is good. God is good. The blessing through all of this is that I feel so very loved. I don't mean that selfishly and I would never wish this again (or on anyone else!). Because I will admit that at times I have fallen into despair over the humiliation of it all. It has been stressful with the amount of time my husband has had to take off work. But, so many have been so kind. Family members have helped out in numerous ways. So much so that I couldn't even begin to thank them. We have been covered in prayer for the last 3 months by family, friends, even people we don't really know. That means a lot to me. Our homeschool community has jumped in to bring meals, drive kids to events, send teenagers to help around the house (these teens are just awesome, I have to say). There has been an outpouring of pure love that has sustained my family and kept us from falling apart. And that love can only come from God.
So, I'd like a little peace and quiet around here. Would that be too much to ask, lol? :) I'm ready to have some fun. I'm thinking a vacation somewhere warm sounds nice. Maybe after the county fair....