Why We Walk

Many of you know about our commitment to the March of Dimes, and that we walk and fundraise every year for the March for Babies. Sure, we've had preemies. Sure, we think it's a great organization. And yes, we truly do believe that the March of Dimes is dedicated to healthy pregnancies & babies! But for us, and most family teams that participate, it is so much more and there is normally a defining moment for Why We Walk.

At the March for Babies 2014, I was pregnant with Paisley then (upper left)

Lined up for the March (upper right) With our company team, Family Health Care (bottom)

When I spoke at a kickoff campaign last year for the first time, telling our story, I brought myself to tears. Not that I was that eloquent. pfft. No, I started crying because the memory I shared was SO VIVID, even 2 years later, with a happy, healthy baby...correction, toddler! sitting there wreaking havoc in the room. I am glad for the opportunity for donors and fundraisers alike to get the chance to see firsthand a family that has been neck-deep in the NICU, with firsthand experience to what kinds of education and support the March of Dimes provided. But more importantly, I wanted to share what was the driving force and motivation behind our commitment. I wanted them to know .... and so, with just under 2 weeks before we walk again, I want you to know as well, exactly Why We Walk.

...it does not get any easier - no matter how many times you've done it before...

It was discharge day for me, March 4th, 2011. I'd had an emergency C-section, and had been deemed fit to go home. I was ready to a certain extent. Certainly sore, who isn't? But mentally... I had no idea. They discharged me, and Kevin helped me down the stairs to Ella's room. By then she had been moved to Pod 8, and we had the routine of checking in, scrubbing, dropping off breastmilk - down to a science. I went in and I held her hand through the incubator window. We stayed for several hours, until shift change, and then reluctantly made our way down to the car. We were going home, without our baby. But I was determined to be a grown-up about this. I knew she was in the best of care, that her doctors and nurses were highly competent medical professionals. In fact, I knew she was receiving better care than I could possibly give at that moment. But we were leaving our baby. That's what it boiled down to in my head. I remember getting in the car, Kevin making sure everything was packed up tightly, even coming over to check that I was seatbelted properly. And then we started the drive home. We made it about 4 minutes. Right after you get on I-4 off Kaley, about 20 feet further... before he pulled over to the shoulder. And he reached over the console, held my hand and we sat there in silence, crying. My silent tears eventually turned into sobs, because in my head, all I could hear was this voice saying, "THIS IS NOT RIGHT! This is NOT the way it should be! No parents should ever have to leave their babies!" and I think I was hoping my crying would drown out that voice. That is Why We Walk.

Fast forward 2 years later... the same scenario is playing in my head. I was discharged just 2 days after Paisley was born. I pep-talked myself into handling this better. "We've been through this before" - "Same old song and dance" - "She's in the BEST CARE POSSIBLE" - "You can handle this!" - "You have 2 babies at home that need you" and again "We've been through this before"  But no matter the litany of go-getter-you-can-do-it phrases I told myself... it didn't make it any easier. I didn't even make it out of the driveway in front of the hospital before I gave in to the tears. This time, Kevin just pulled into the parking garage and we sat there together, holding hands until he got out of the car and came and just held me. Some things make a marriage fall apart and some make them stronger. I like to think we've been through the sickness and worse part of our vows in the first few years of our marriage, so we should have smoother sailing for the rest. But that moment there, was this glaring truth that it does not get any easier - no matter how many times you've done it before. And we've been down this route 3 times too many. That is Why We Walk.

We hope that one day, enough research, education and treatments will have accumulated to the point where no parents will ever experience the devastating loss of a child be it a miscarriage or stillbirth (the statistics for how common pregnancy loss occurs is staggering!). We hope that one day NICU nurseries will not be filled to capacity. But for us, the Adkins Family aka Team Adkins Asylum, we hope that when your little bundle of joy is brought into this world... that you get to experience the JOY of bringing her home, surrounded by family and love and never the loss, devastation, and even guilt... of driving away that first time. That is Why We Walk.

How can you help? Donate, Walk/Join/Create a Team, Start a fundraiser!

It's dark in here... enter at your own risk (oh yeah, and it's long)

So as I mentioned in my first post, some of this is to keep friends and family in the loop. Some of this is to keep me...sane. I've been struggling with this sort of depression off and on since I started getting sick with this pregnancy. I guess, if I want to be honest, that it means I've been teetering very closely on that edge, and the pregnancy was just an excuse to topple me over. But I've also been dealt some pretty judgmental blows recently.

There is nothing that can explain the feeling of inadequacy like hearing other people essentially BRAG about something that comes naturally to them... but that you struggle with doing. From friends and family, to co-workers and bosses, and heck, even strangers. It's an age-old process. Millions upon millions of women time and again do it. And here I sit, having a pity party because bringing a new life into this world is not just an effort, but a seemingly impossible task for me.

I've had people tell me, "Well you know, it says that you're only supposed to be nauseous for the 1st trimester." or even "It's not like you have to do anything special, many women get pregnant." And I guess, to a certain extent, it's my own fault, because, well it's one thing to hear it, and another to let it get to me. And it's easy for some to go, "Oh just ignore them" - but it's another thing entirely to do it. I've even had one person say that if I wasn't overweight, none of these problems would occur. And maybe they wouldn't have. But the harsh reality is that I AM overweight. The harsher reality that I neglected to touch base on was that, when I was NOT overweight, I still had difficulty being pregnant. Depression doesn't use logic to weigh out those opinions though. It doesn't put up a flashing sign that says, "HEY! Skinny people have problems getting pregnant too!" or "Healthy women struggle with pregnancy as well." There is no statistic that says only overweight women have stillbirth. There's nothing that says perfectly healthy women have bodies that have unhealthy innards. There's no journal that says if you are 125 lbs. your babies will be full term. So it's easy to lie down and take it. It's easy to let it snowball. And yeah, sometimes I just feel like it's easy, so why not?

"But I'm going to let you in on the darker side of all of this. I may catch heat for it. I'm sure plenty of people have an opinion and will consider me weak, think less of me."

In the more recent weeks, I've been hospitalized a few times for various reasons. None of which are the same, but all equally scary. When they start slinging terms like "transfusions" and "waivers" and "living wills" it's time to put on your big girl panties and realize your pity party at home can get a little complicated. I've hit the stage where I can no longer walk without any extreme amount of pain. Some people would just suck it up, or since the doctor did prescribe pain killers, they'd maybe pop a pill. The thing is, I've never really been good at just "sucking it up" and dealing with the pain. And I've already got a grocery list full of meds, so yeah, I'm hesitant to just start poppin' more pills... prescribed or otherwise. 

But I'm going to let you in on the darker side of all of this. I may catch heat for it. I'm sure plenty of people have an opinion and will consider me weak, think less of me. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I'm tired of internalizing it. People ask me how I feel? And all I can think is... I feel like $h!t. You asked. But instead I smile, and try to lessen the degree of pain I'm in by saying something inane, like - "One day at a time" or "Almost there" anything other than what I really feel. They don't really want to know anyways. Most people just expect me to say fine and go about my day. So I do.

I woke up on Sunday with the most intense pain I've ever dealt with. I'm talking - worse than the post c-section, worse than when I broke my arm as a kid and never said anything to my dad because I didn't want to get in trouble because I went down the slide face first, worse than literally slamming my hand in the car door and hearing my pinky break. Yeah, THAT kind of pain. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against my pillow, felt the tears leak out, and realized that I was DISAPPOINTED that I woke up. I just wanted the pain to go away. 

You have to understand, that of everything I have to be grateful for in life, it's my wonderful husband and my two beautiful daughters. It's my mom, dad, brother and all the other family members in my life that just... give me meaning. I treasure family more than anything in the world. So when the pain is SO GREAT that the only relief I can look forward to is the thought of never waking up, and NEVER seeing any of that again - I realize that I've come to an impasse. It's difficult to admit that I would be so willing to give up EVERYTHING that I hold near and dear and treasure the most. Even to myself. 

I'm sure the first thing you're all screaming is GO SEE A SHRINK! No offense to those in that profession - seriously - but I don't put a lot of faith in seeing a shrink right now, unless you're going to take the pain away. It's the pain that drives me to this. I'm not on self-destruct mode. I don't go out drinking, or do any type of drugs to numb the pain. I'm not intentionally harming myself. I'm living. One. Day. At. A. Time. I'm crying myself to sleep. As silently as possible, so I don't wake up Kevin, because he has to go to work in the morning, after he drops Laurel off to camp, and gets Ella ready for the day. As I sit upright, because I can't physically lie down without intensifying the pain. I wake up approximately 14 times throughout the night. Which essentially means I don't sleep. And judging by the permanent purple smudges on my eyes that look like I've invested in permanent plum eye shadow - I'm guessing that I DON'T sleep. I spend all day trying to get "comfortable" in bed. And this is just the "physical" aspect of pain.

 I'm living. One. Day. At. A. Time. I'm crying myself to sleep.

As silently as possible...

The "emotional" side is just as intense, and sometimes worse. I sit in bed and volley between having faith and not. I mean, who really lets you live in this much pain? Or what have I done wrong in a past life to deserve it? But also, there's the loneliness. When my family comes home from their respective places, and they all convene in the living room... I sit in my room and cry some more. It's a self-imposed prison. I jokingly refer to my 1-2 hours of walking around as my "time-out" or "prison break"  for good behavior. You have NOTHING but time on your hands to sit and think about things. 

Oh sure, everyone says just relax and enjoy it! Or some have even suggested getting away from my family because they must be the cause of my stress. I want to tell these people that they have no clue. In the nicest way possible, you have no clue. When our household income is literally sliced in two with no notice, but the bills remain the same. Or when you want to do something as simple as get the oil changed, but can't really afford to do that, but you're afraid to let one of the only working vehicles you have go to pot. Or knowing full well that the laundry will continue to pile up, or the dishes will eventually need washing, despite the fact that it hurts to stand for more than a 10 minute stint. Or, and this is the pity party part... knowing that only 1 or 2 people will stop out to say hello and give you a friendly face, an adult to talk to, a little news from the outside world. Because for some, the discomfort is greater than the friendship. And you have to live with that. And you get to THINK about that. Because, in all honesty, what else is there to do?

I can't tell you that writing this out and sharing this will make my hips feel better. Because it won't. I can't say that I'll mentally be a better person for having written this - because I just don't know. I may instantly regret hitting the publish button. But I'm in for a penny at this point. I can't say that I'll be able to walk tomorrow without pain... because, well I'm pretty sure I won't. I can't even tell you that if I wake up in pain tomorrow, I'll feel any differently than I did on Sunday - because I don't know what tomorrow brings. I don't know the extent of the pain I'll be in. I don't know what mindset I'll have. If I went to bed and actually slept. If I was able to lie down on my side instead of propped up vertically all night. I won't know any of this until tomorrow. But MAYBE... just maybe, before YOU judge someone, before you roll your eyes because they sound like they're moaning, before you notice that our yard is overgrown or there's an oilspot in our driveway, or see my husband helping me out to the car each time... maybe you'll realize there's always more. And that it makes people feel less. And when you're down to nil, it doesn't take much more to teeter over that edge.

*On the bright side, officially at 27 weeks. We're talking BABY STEPS with the doctor... so the goal is to get to 30 weeks. Then we make another goal... until we get to where we need to be. Paisley needs to just hang tight and stop trying to make an early appearance.*

Life is what happens...

So, I've been jotting down notes in Word ever since I found out I was pregnant. I thought about going back and doing some posts retroactively, but to be honest, it's a litany of me getting sick, missing work, getting sick, going in the hospital... you get the point. I'm going to just throw in some back knowledge, and a little bit about why we're going here and then I'll start from there. I'm a 33 year old mom to two beautiful little girls, and wife to one crazy red-haired British dude. That's what my Girl Scout troop calls him: the crazy British dude. Kevin is my rock. I want to make that clear from the get-go. Because I'm sure in one or two or all of my posts, I may rant or grumble or whine or plain out bitch - and it may seem like I am ungrateful. And I don't want for any given point in time, anyone to ever mistake the love and appreciation I have for my husband. He is our foundation, and without him, I cannot imagine how our lives would be. That being said, there are times when a simple shake of my head, nod and smile, yes honey - any of those... are entirely appropriate.

I am presently 25 weeks pregnant with our 3rd (and last) child. As luck would have it... we're having, you guessed it - ANOTHER GIRL! Poor Kevin. Of our 2 daughters, both were born premature, each pregnancy worse than the one prior. Laurel Leah (DD#1) is now 9, and was born at 32 weeks. Elora Sage, aka Ella, (DD#2) just turned 2, and was born at 31 weeks. Her birth resulted in a TIA, or a minor stroke, for me and had her hanging out in the NICU for just over a month. So let me just make it clear, each birth has been progressively worse. While Laurel was early, she did not require a stay in the NICU. She was big (7lbs and 6 oz) and I was on insulin with this pregnancy and aside from being a little jaundiced, she was healthy. I was induced, had her naturally, and recovered relatively well, albeit a bit worn out. Ella, on the other hand, had us going from the beginning.

First of all, John Lennon sure knew what he was talking about... we went and made plans! Kevin and I were newlyweds, having married on the 4th of July that year, and planned on waiting for the immigration process to finish up before extending our family. In September, we discovered we were young, misguided fools - and I was pregnant! I managed to escape the insulin beast, but what I didn't get there, I more than made up for. Ella's pregnancy had me passing out left and right, my heart wasn't up for the extra load. Apparently neither was the rest of me, since I ended up with a TIA. I went in to one hospital and woke up in another with the doctor telling me, "You should let your parents know you're having a baby." To which I replied, "Oh they already know." And he chuckled and said - "NO - you're having one in about 2 hours" and so began the saga of Ella.

It was more difficult than anything I'd ever dealt with before. Leaving your baby in the hospital when you go home from giving birth is a disappointment like no other. We recently acted as our local March of Dimes Ambassador Family, and when I spoke, I referred to the varying emotions you feel as a parent that first time you drive away from the hospital with your child in the NICU. We had no real option, as we still had a little girl at home. And yes, we had jobs if we wanted to still be able to provide for our family. It was rough. My husband and I sat on the side of the road that first time, and cried together. We were in varied stages of guilt, grief, anger, frustration, disappointment and yes, we still had that sliver of joy because we DID have a baby. And for all intents and purposes, she was healthy and whole. But we felt incomplete - and we knew we would until the day we could bring her home. Ella's progress was much like many babies in the NICU, and also different from so many others. She was a strong little fighter, and jumped through hurdles faster than they anticipated. Every obstacle or goal she was to meet, she met and then moved on to the next one. She was a happy baby (still is) and loved to be cuddled. Wasn't fussy and irritable and the nurses loved on her all the time. We met our favorite NICU nurse, Jenn, at Winnie Palmer - and she left such a lasting impression on our hearts, that we continue to keep in touch with her today... even if she did move several states away *grumble, grumble* from us!

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

-John Lennon 

But that experience left a mark on us as well. We tendered the idea of having another baby and ultimately, we decided we just weren't going to try for another. I'm by no means on the shelf, but I was getting older. It had already been proven that my body just wasn't capable of carrying a baby full-term. And despite people telling us that "every pregnancy is different" - we also had experts that said that the likelihood of having a repeat experience was very high (especially since we're talking about the same father) - this is why you'll hear me say, "It's all Kevin's fault" so often. Kevin and I arranged for him to have a procedure done (the dreaded V) in late March. Unfortunately, we'd had some issues with our current BC plan, and then I went on traditional BC, aka the Pill, while being sick and on antibiotics. At this same time, my heart started doing these weird fluttery things again, and I was passing out...again. So lo and behold, I went to the cardiologist. When he told me my heart was working for 2, I felt a little stupid. Okay - I felt a LOT of stupid. I work in a doctor's office by the way, so the fact that it did not occur to me that antibiotics and birth control are not good team players... well, like I said, I felt a LOT of stupid.

 

We don't believe in the alternative, so Kevin and I immediately got over the shock, cried, laughed, told our families, cried some more. Fast forward now to mid July - my thyroid has given up the ghost, my blood pressure thinks it's in an express elevator, and now my blood sugar thinks EVERYTHING is cake, with icing, on top of icing. After a few days stay in Winnie Palmer, which sometimes feels like a vacation were it not for the needles and rationed meals, my perinatologist has deemed me unfit for work. I'm officially on bedrest at 25 weeks, and slowly going nuts. Okay, maybe not so slowly. The next few weeks will chronicle some of the struggles, maybe flashback to some of the health issues, and since I'm 90% positive I won't go to term with baby Paisley - her journey after birth. On the bright side, I have plenty of opportunity to notice that the tops of the walls in my bedroom never got painted. Oh yeah, and it's all Kevin's fault. Thanks for reading!