Dear Nehemiah

Dear Nehemiah,

The day you were born was a day that will stay in my mind forever vivid and forever blurry all at the same time.
You made your grand entrance on your own time; That's a character trait that I believe will transcend beyond your infant years. You will not be hurried. You will not be slowed down. You came the way and the time that you wanted to, bar all efforts of doctors and nurses and nature. You felt ready to come, and ready we all became, too. Your ambitious spirit was noted when you decided to come into the world four weeks earlier than expected. Your calm and patient side was also noted when Pitocin nor my walking blocks around the hospital grounds were going to hurry you out.
The day you were born was a day that held insurmountable joy and peace and fulfillment, all wrapped up in the tiny package that was you. I have never felt feelings like I did when I first heard your cry and held your tiny self; I didn't know it was possible to feel so much love at one time. I didn't know that a 5 pound, 15 ounce bundle of squirming and squeaking could so suddenly become my whole world. I have never felt as close and as in love with your daddy as I did the moment I held a complete synthesis of him and I, which was you. You were and you are perfect.
The day you were born was my first taste of God's unchanging and undeserved love that he has for us. It's cliche to say that there's no love that compares to the love you feel for your children; it's said often because it's true. You: in your quiet cooing, limp and tired dreaming sleep, have done nothing but simply exist to merit any love from anyone. And yet, existing is all that you've needed to do to capture the entirety of my heart. There's nothing that you could have done or could ever do to make me love you more, or love you less. It's an amazing love. It's Agape love. It must be something like the love our Heavenly Father feels for us.
The day you were born was a game-changing, life-altering, eye-opening, meaning-realizing pinpoint in time. You have instilled a new worth in me and in your daddy. Our lives are forever changed and forever better because of you.

I love you, and all that you are, and all that you mean,
more than words can say.
M

Nehemiah: 1 | Jaundice: 0

We had Nehemiah's first doctor's appointment yesterday [read, September 10]. While I had noted that my little half-white half-brown mini was looking slightly more yellow than a nice shade of beige, I didn't realize that I should have been more concerned than I was. Our appointment was to the point; doctor checked his height, weight, eyes, nose. Then came the talk about his lemon-esque skin tone. The doctor's concern was obvious just by his naked-eye observations. He ordered us to get a blood test to check his Bilirubin levels and confirm his suspicion that Miah's jaundice had increased exponentially. We were told to be expecting a call within a few hours with results and a game plan. While we waited, Nehemiah took his first trip to Club FM. (If you don't know what club FM is, you must not live in Astoria/Warrenton and fall within the 16-30 age group.)  Will and I ordered our favorite burgers from The Wet Dog for pick up. We called around town in search of a breast pump. After three hours of dilly-dallying and time-wasting, we got the call that said Miah would need to be admitted and be put in the "bilibed", a UV-lit bed that works to reduce his jaundice. I cried. Will worked swiftly and systematically; I can always count on him to be the one with a level head. Our burgers got soggy and lonely sitting at The Wet Dog waiting to be picked up. Woops.

Had I gotten my way, we would have gone back to the hospital where Nehemiah was born for treatment. However, his Pediatrician is in Astoria, and would have no patient privilege in Seaside. So this is me, trying not to count the strikes against this hospital. We were "greeted" by a woman overly adorned with distasteful piercings and an udder lack of bedside manor, and her partner Gloria Gum-chewer. Words like responsible, clean, friendly, organized, prompt, etcetera failed to come-to when grappling for words to describe the experience. Strike one. We were placed into a room that one of the nurses lovingly deemed as "the closet room". I think "jail-cell" would have been more accurate, though possibly not as quaint. The closet room certainly lived up to it's name in stature. It's decor, lack of color and a clock, and it's half-burnt florescent lighting lived up to my pet-name for the place. Strike two. I can't say I was displeased with the staff that took us on. The nurses were conveniently on shift change when we arrived, so while we liked our nurse whom we'll call "Sally", our time together was short lived. She was replaced by "Martha", a competent and friendly lactation consultant RN. I like her. But, as our stay turned into overnight, the inevitable happened again- shift change. My comfortable budding relationship with "Martha" was sadly severed and replaced by "Ruth". I only know this because I can read; she failed to introduced herself, so I was reduced to reading her name-tag as a form of introduction. Grumble. She woke me up to feed Nehemiah at 11:30pm, and handed him to me while my sleep-haze tried to ware off. About 10 minutes into our 20-minute restricted feeding session, I realized dear "Ruth" hadn't weighed Miah before handing him to me for our feeding. Thus, making all of the work we had been doing to keep track of his eating volumes null and void, in one fell swoop. Strike three. Then there was the lack of paper towels, extra pillows, functional call-light, and the fact that dear "Ruth" had to ask ME how many ounces Nehemiah had been eating via bottle. Say it with me "Ruth", Chaaaarrrt Nooootes. Chart notes: saving nurses like "Ruth" from looking like incompetent fools one page at a time. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Seeing as my entire 3-day stay at Providence went completely scathe-free, (well, sans the nurse that kept letting my highly anesthetized leg fall off the table mid-delivery) I guess I had hoped that our 24-hour (or less) jaunt at CMH would have fairly equal results. Wrong-O. So long as Nehemiah is getting that black light-meets-tanning bed blue light shining on him, I suppose the rest is just details. Still.

When we were admitted, his bilirubin level was at 19.7. 19.7 of what, I don't know. But that's what I was told. The doctor explained that high levels of bilirubin can ultimately cause brain damage, and that if Nehemiah's levels were to increase to 21 or so, we would be shipped to Portland. At that point, the appeal of going to a highly reputable and award winning facility was pretty good. But, I suppose not at the expense of Nehemiah's health. We prayed. We waited. We napped. We prayed. We waited. At 8 pm, they re-tested his blood. By 9 pm the results were in. His level had dropped to 16! Our little man was shocking and awing left and right. The nurses said that his results were promising, and if progress continued, he would be in good shape shortly. After a long, grueling first night of our new breast feed-bottle feed-pump cycle, 6 am came earlier than usual. The nurses came to haul him off to the nursery to take some blood for his next blood test. I invited myself. They poked his foot and he took it like a champ, naturally. At 8:30 am, we were woke and greeted by the doctor himself. He was pleased to report that Nehemiah's bilirubin level had taken a dramatic, unexpected and rapid plunge to 13. At that moment, I am positive I loved the number 13 more than even Taylor Swift loves 13. The doctors good news just kept coming when he said that Nehemiah's CBC levels were within normal range, and that if his progress continued, we would be welcome to go home this evening. Sayonara, bilibed and closet room. You won't be missed.

I am so proud of my little man. I am so blessed by a faithful and healing God that loves us and hears us when we cry. I am even a little thankful for the closet room and bilibed for providing a healing refuge for Nehemiah. I am excited to go home and make up for lots of cuddling lost to the bilibed that will ensue immediately upon our homecoming.

The First Page of His Story

I went into labor on Labor Day.

1 PM: It was September 3rd and it was warm; I had decided to take my overzealous dog on an afternoon stroll. Our neighborhood stroll became a long walk, ending in a visit to stinky beach in Alderbrook. I kept taking mental notes of how my Braxton Hicks seemed to dislike my high-paced sauntering. They seemed to let up as I rested. Either that, or I was completely distracted with how much fun Liam was having gallivanting in the river and chasing all things winged. I thought about how things would change when the baby came. I took another mental note to just soak in the sunshiney quiet afternoon, just me and my dog.

2:30 PM:  Liam finally got tired out. William was filling in at the foster home in Alderbrook that day, so we just walked the half-mile to his work to visit. Cue Braxton Hicks. I started counting the time between each contraction, since I hadn't remembered feeling them so regularly. 7 minutes apart on the dot. By the time I got to the house, I had had about 5 contractions equally regular. I decided to sit and see if things would calm down again like they had before, but without success. William prompted me to  call L&D at Providence to see what they would have me do. Lucky for me, it was my personal OB that was the doctor on call. She advised that while I was on the boarder of being symptomatic of early labor, it may also dissipate with more rest. We decided the best plan was for me to rest, shower, and continue counting my contractions. She told me to call had things continued or progressed.

4 PM: Despite my attempts to stop my contractions with showering, water-drinking and laying in bed, they kept coming. 7 minutes, 8 minutes, 6 minutes apart. Though consistent and annoying, they weren't painful. I was thankful for that. William got home from work and asked me what I wanted to do. We decided to just be cautious and head in to Seaside to get checked out. If nothing else, their checking me will put my mind at ease knowing that everything was normal, baby was fine, and we were still right on schedule. We stopped to get gas and we stopped to get a McDonald's cheeseburger, my recent craving of choice. (Gross, I know.)

5 PM: We got to the hospital and got checked in. We were welcomed warmly by the nursing staff who ushered us to a cozy yet spacious room. To my pleasant surprise, The nurse who had given us a hospital tour just a few weeks earlier, Marty, was on duty. Though we had only met once before, she greeted me with a hug and a big smile like we had known each other for a long time. I appreciated that. They took my vitals and hooked my belly up to two monitors- one for baby's heartbeat, one for contractions. This was the first time I got nervous and excited about labor, feeling like it was finally, actually happening. Will's feelings seemed mutual.

6 PM: The doctor came. She didn't seem too concerned when she saw my contraction chart- she said it was likely a bout of false labor. But for safe measure, she told us she would check my cervix and see if there were any changes. I was dilated to a 2 already and was 80% effaced. She seemed very surprised by my progression. We were too. The doctor let us know she would be coming back in a few hours to check me again. She said it was not uncommon for people to stay at a 2 for long periods of time, so she wasn't concerned yet.

8:30 PM: I had dilated to a 3. 90% effaced. Doctor said she wasn't comfortable sending me home, and that we'd  be staying overnight. This was the moment I knew that we wouldn't be leaving the hospital without a baby. William and I tried to get as much sleep as possible. I don't know if he succeeded; I certainly didn't. The anticipation of what tomorrow would bring was too overwhelming to sleep.

7:00 AM: Dr. Greco came, and I had progressed to a 4. She said the words, "We are going to commit you to having this baby today." William and I looked at each other and smiled, both knowing what the other was thinking. As she was leaving the room, she said, "You both are going to be mommy and daddy at some point today!" They felt weird coming out of her mouth for some reason, even though I knew it to be true. I got on the phone and got ahold of our photographer Caroline, who happened to be in town for just one more day before leaving for a big trip. She came to the hospital within a few hours. Good timing, God.

1 PM: They started my antibiotic IV. We waited. And waited. I was still dilating. My contractions were consistent, but still staying 7 minutes apart. The doctor broke my water not long after to bring my contractions closer together. Nehemiah had already decided that he wanted to do things his own way, I suppose.

5 PM: I got an epidural. The anesthesiologist had said that complications were very rare, and that it shouldn't hurt at all. That was right before he "twinged" my nerve on my right side, twice. It hurt. Lucky me. I cried (probably the hormones) and Will held me like a good husband should. After the medicine started working, I felt much better. My right side was significantly more numb than my left, though.

6 PM: They started pitocin. I got nervous, excited, scared, everything. Indescribable.

8 PM: With a room-full of family and friends and at 8 cm dilated (to my knowledge), my body suddenly knew it was go time. I cleared the room. The doctor checked me. Yep, we were at a 10 and ready to go. William, the doctor, three nurses, Caroline and myself all went to work doing our jobs in the quiet and dim of Room 202. I kept looking across the room at my whiteboard that had the verse Isaiah 26:3 written on it, "You will keep her in perfect peace, whose mind is steadfast, because she trusts in You." He did keep me in perfect peace.

9:01 PM: The first moment I heard my baby's voice. I heard William start crying. I heard the doctor say the famous and anticipated words, "It's a boy". I heard William say that we had a son. Everything else because a blur. I held my child on my chest for the first of uncountable times. I held his head and his hands and cried. William held us. We cried. We laughed. We counted his fingers and toes and admired his perfection. William looked at me and said, "Nehemiah."
Our family became three.