After more than 20 years together, we finally bought our first home this past spring.

After more than seven years of infertility, I somehow inexplicably became pregnant. While I didn’t make it to term, I did manage to deliver a live healthy baby at age 42.

And finally, after letting go of the idea of expanding our family and coming to peace with it, we were miraculously able to give our precious daughter a little sibling.

The rest of the world is in apparent upheaval. So are other aspects of our lives. But for our family, this was a stellar year, in a holy crap-I still can’t believe it-how did we get here-sort of way.

For us, the year began with a lot of uncertainty, after being given notice that we would have to move. While we had grown accustomed to living in limbo — through infertility, treatment and adoption — this was different in that we always had a roof over our heads. We wanted stability. We were worried we’d have to move before we were ready. Moving is expensive and time consuming, and with a toddler, it’s downright difficult. In twenty years, we had only lived in two homes. We didn’t want to have to move again. January came and we were tired and stressed. We were packing, though we didn’t know where we were going. Interest rates were rising daily, which threatened our ability to qualify for the loan we needed. It was a very unsettling feeling.

On another front, I had been recently diagnosed as perimenopausal. While I had happily stopped paying attention to my cycles when we stopped trying to conceive in 2008, I knew it had been a while since I’d had a normal period. A few months later, after I realized I was actually unexpectedly pregnant, my last period was presumed to have begun on January 11 (1/11/11). I thought, how cool, “the power of one.” But then I vaguely remembered my last cycle actually began on the 13th, which was my Nana’s birthday. She would have been 92, yet she had been gone 13 years. Now, I know that my last cycle ever began on my Nana’s birthday, two weeks into the new year, and resulted in our daughter.

Just a few weeks later, as I was reflecting on the five year anniversary of our son’s death, I somehow conceived a child. In fact, she must have been conceived within hours of this solemn anniversary. When I wrote the five year post, it was as if I had said all I needed to say. I suppose I had found a certain peace or acceptance that no longer needed processing. There were simply no more words.

I think about the origin of life of our littlest one — which is how this year began, amidst the tumult of such a stressful time — and I think of her connection to my grandmother and her big brother before her. Aside from the sheer improbability, it feels pretty magical to me, the circle of life and all.

That spring we moved and I wrote very little. I was so exhausted I wondered if I’d ever be able to blog again. Packing and unpacking took a toll, as did my new commute. Jaye needed a lot of extra love and care. I felt sick and tired and needed to sleep every chance I got. I didn’t know it then, but I was in the first trimester and it was was kicking my ass.

I turned 42 and I felt old. Then I realized I had spent nearly half my life with Mac, my soul mate, and I felt grateful. A month later we celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary.

We settled in and celebrated Jaye’s second birthday and I felt so grateful. Every night I’d tell her so as I shared a bit of her story, and it’s true. There is something about being entrusted with the care of a precious child that makes you feel so incredibly fortunate. Now, as she grows into this amazing little person, all I can do is marvel in awe and be thankful for the privilege of being her Mama. Even in the toughest moments.

Soon after that, we discovered the unimaginable — i.e., that I was actually carrying a real live baby — and the next few months were a blur. Denial took hold for so long that I was nearly five months pregnant by the time I finally took a test. I know, I know. Emotions ranged from terror and confusion to shock, angst and fear, and later, anticipation and joy. It was a short but eventful pregnancy, high risk with weekly monitoring and not one but two hospital admissions before a team of doctors decided to deliver her at 33 weeks and 3 days, in a harrowing procedure during which I think it’s fair to say I could have died.

The twenty days our youngest daughter spent in the NICU were among the longest of my life. When we finally brought Baby Z home, it was a joyous day.

By the time she reached her due date, we were settling into our new lives as parents of two babies. We still look at each other in disbelief and remark, wow, we have two children. In fact, I’m linking to these old posts not to direct traffic to the blog, but because I want to remind myself how it actually happened. After the first ultrasound I remember tweeting that I felt as if I had just discovered the winning lotto ticket, but was afraid that someone was going to come claim it from me. No way could I have been that lucky.

These days are precious and wonderful and challenging in so many new ways. Life has continued to offer us one change after another. This time last year, I was a happy mama who never in a thousand years would have imagined holding another babe in my arms today. We have so much to be grateful for this year.

December is a wonderful and crazy time of year, with the holidays, year-end frenzy, social and family gatherings and birthdays. Shorter days, longer nights, sparkling lights. It’s when Mac and I celebrate our “years together” anniversary (this year makes 21!). It’s when we met Kaye before she asked us to be our daughter’s parents. It’s a special time of year, for reflection and celebration.

It can also be a tough time too. May the new year brings you all closer to your dreams. Meanwhile, wishing you a peaceful holiday with time to enjoy what you love most.

Peace out~

One cold rainy afternoon three years ago, as the seasons changed and the sun began its return to longer days, we too began a new day that brought us closer to parenthood.

So many complex emotions surrounded our first meeting.

We solemnly tried to remain open to the process without being attached to the outcome.

When Kaye asked us to become the parents of her baby, just a week later, we were humbled and stunned.

That was the beginning of a lifelong relationship.

Today as we celebrate the solstice and the sun’s return, we also celebrate the anniversary of that first meeting. The candle we light represents not just the sun but also our daughter’s first mom Kaye, whose light shines through the very eyes of our precious little girl.

Last year I recounted once again how important this space is to me, no matter how often or rarely I am able to write. Everything I said then remains true.

I still have little time to write as I would like. Thoughts are often muddled in my mind, never reaching my fingertips. The rare exception this year was writing my way through The Big Event. Nothing quite lets the words flow the and brings the page hits like an unanticipated OMGWTF pregnancy and premature babe.

Time is even more scarce and precious these days. Last year, I had a baby that finally slept. This year, I have two that don’t so much. But I’m not complaining.

Still, it is impossible to convey the depth of gratitude I have for you, my dear friends and readers. Without you, I don’t know how I would have survived these past four years — ranging from the deepest sorrowful lows of infertility, to the uncertainty and complexity throughout our adoption, to the confusion and angst associated with this most recent pregnancy, and now the joys and challenges of parenting after infertility and loss. The compassion, connection and understanding your support has provided has been tremendous, invaluable. Ironically, there really are no words.

I am also beyond grateful for Mac, who encouraged and stood by me at every step. It was Mac who first suggested that I start this blog, as we were going through infertility treatments, when he saw the affirmation and support I found in the blogosphere. He knew I needed the information, but more than that, the connection. Thank you, Mac, for your love and encouragement, and of course your support. Thanks for letting me sit in front of the computer that rainy afternoon four years ago, on your birthday, to write like I had never written before, and to keep on writing, getting posts like this one out, which had been harboring inside for years. I love you, my amazing M. And happy birthday once again, mon cherie.

I don’t know how much I’ll get to update here these days. I also have a family blog or two that I try to maintain. Yet I really do have so much to say, to ponder and explore, here in this space. I want to write about the evolving issues in our open adoption, about raising two wonderful yet very different girls with such unique and amazing stories, about life with a newborn at age 42, doing the hard work of parenting after infertility, and how I still (yes, still) feel the lasting impact of our struggle today.

For now, I’ll just say thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your support and kindness, and for reading along this crazy journey. It certainly has been a wild ride.

xo

It’s the season to acknowledge our bounty and blessings and give thanks for all we are fortunate to have.

To say this year has been full would be an understatement.

Life with a super active, willful toddler and a brand newborn — neither of whom sleep very much — has been a challenge. Yet even as I struggle to steal a few moments of peace, I have to cherish the chaotic moments too.

I am so very grateful for our family and for every force in the universe that brought us together.

I still thank K every day in my thoughts for making me Jaye’s mama. I am beyond grateful for the privilege of watching this incredible little girl, now a big sister, grow into the person she is becoming every day. When we call K tomorrow, I’ll simply tell her how much I love her, and how grateful I am that she too is in our life, as well as her mom and brother.

Sometimes I look at baby Z and I can’t help but simply ask in awe,”Where did you come from?” Because honestly, I don’t even know how she came to be. I give thanks to her soul for finding us, for finding me.

After years of cursing my body and my womb for its persistent betrayal, I have to offer up my prayer of thanks for its ultimate gift and sacrifice.

I am indebted to the NICU nurses and doctors who cared for little Z in her earliest days, and to everyone who helped her off to such a good start, who helped us bring her home.

I owe a world of thanks and love to Mac and the incredible support he has provided to keep our family strong. He is truly amazing. I honestly don’t know how single parents do it. Every. Day.

While I often lament the lack of support we get from our family and friends, I am grateful for how many stepped up when we needed it most. I am especially grateful to my aunt and uncle, who nurtured us while we lived with the uncertainty that took such a toll.

And finally, words can’t express my gratitude for the blogosphere and my tweetsters, including those who came out of the ether to express support, who served as my virtual lifeline when no one else was there (e.g., late nights in the hospital), who banded together to keep me going when I felt alone and scared. I really can’t explain how much all of your thoughts and words have meant to me and Mac. Special thanks to the love bombers, whose kind and generous words, thoughts and images brought me to tears on my way into the NICU one afternoon, tears of gratitude.

It’s also time to remember others for whom the thought of home might leave them longing for something else, something more — be it shelter, sustenance, love, safety, security, or a child or parent. To everyone who feels something or someone missing on this day, I wish you peace and abundance, today and always.

Long-time readers may remember a post three years ago from a despondent woman who doubted whether she would ever become a mama. While I was genuinely excited about the prospect of building our family through adoption, when faced with a field of happy families at our pumpkin patch that fall, I was overwhelmed by grief, sorrow and doubt.

What I didn’t know then was that our daughter had already been conceived, though she wasn’t yet ours.

Two years ago, my heart was full as I held our cherubic five month old baby atop her first pumpkin.

Last year, I happily chased our newly toddling girl through muddy fields and watched her squeal with joy as she explored our local pumpkin patch.

This year? This year, our bounty is full. This year, we celebrate abundance.

As I tucked Baby Z into her carrier and Jaye ran around our local farm in search of the perfect pumpkin, I was overcome by our incredible good fortune. Awe. Gratitude. Joy. Not only is Jaye now old enough to thrill in the ritual of this annual event, but she has a little sister to share in the excitement some day. As I squeezed Mac’s hand while we strolled through the field, he felt it too. “Look at us,” I said, still in near disbelief. “Our family.“

This year, though exhausted, I find myself excited about the season of Halloween too. Jaye is now old enough to choose her own costume and get into the spirit. We’re in a new neighborhood where we’re excited to belong and explore. And amazingly, we have little Z to complete our family.

This year we’ve already been to the pumpkin patch three times (actually two different patches), and we’re headed back on Sunday. Once we went as a family to our local farm, and twice I brought Jaye to play at a more commercial patch (even that one is a 30 acre farm, but complete with bouncy house and haunted house, etc.). This time, we’ll return to the more rural farm to spend the morning with families from our open adoption group, families who have shared our story and path, who will meet Baby Z for the first time. We’ve gotten such great support from them, including welcoming Baby Z to our community. I’m so grateful to have them in our lives as we continue to navigate the complexities of our blended families. I hope some day our children will also have each other to share in their own way.

When we began the process for our adoption outreach, our consultant suggested we should simplify our photo book. Too many pictures, she thought, we needed to eliminate some. “I get it,” she said. “You’re all about abundance.” I laughed, because she was right. We wanted to convey how much love we shared, what we could offer a child, how we would embrace openness. We do the same thing with food — i.e., better to have more than not enough.

This year, we truly celebrate the abundance in our lives.Wishing the same bounty to everyone who seeks it.

Over 7 pounds at 6.5 weeks old.

I entered the artificially bright sterile room in nothing but one of those ill-fitting cotton gowns and something covering my feet and unwashed hair. Surely my ass was hanging out. I was accompanied by two nurses, who helped me onto the operating table.

My first thought was, wow, how different this is from the birth of our daughter Jaye. Worlds different. Couldn’t have been more different. Life contrasts.

My second thought was to try to relax. I had been in so many operating rooms before, for so many uterine surgeries. Though every procedure in the past 9.5 years was geared towards clearing the way for a baby, none of them were for such a happy occasion as a real live birth. That was a monumental thought, actually.

I tried to remember to  b r e a t h e . . .

Two anesthesiologists worked to place a spinal in my lower back while I sat sideways on the table. First they had to get me in the right position. Then a local anesthetic, with a pinch and a sting. Then the big needle, which I didn’t really feel.

As I sat there focusing on my breath, I noticed the room was still filling up. Though I lost track at 12 — I counted to calm my nerves, as a distraction, to have something to report, out of sheer curiosity and disbelief — I think there were at least 14 people in the room besides me. Plus the NICU team had not yet arrived. Or Mac.

“Someone will get my husband when we’re ready, yes?”

“Of course,” a nurse replied. “He’ll be here in a minute. We’re almost there.”

They helped lift my legs, now growing heavy, on to the table.

Again, I focused on my breath. I am not a fan of anesthesia or needles. I just wanted that part to end. Not that I was a fan of really sharp knives either…

“Do you know what you’re having?” asked the old man doctor, whom I had met just twice before in the past 24 hours. Small talk, I thought. That, or he needed to know whether someone should call out gender.

“She’s a girl,” I answered. “Either a girl, or a boy with the tiniest penis ever.”

I caught him off guard and he laughed, as did a few of the others. Comic relief. My job here is done. Heh. Almost. Not yet.

I thought about when our daughter Jaye was born, how it was my job to announce whether she was a girl or boy. There were just a few of us in K’s dark cozy room early that morning, just after dawn, when I looked down and was barely able to say, through tears, “She’s a girl, a beautiful girl!”

They went to work. It was like a choreographed dance, their efforts to prepare.

Mac finally arrived and rushed to my side. Again, I sensed fear and concern in his eyes. I assured him I was OK. They ushered him around to my head and he took his place beside the anesthesiologists. I placed my arms on armrests in an unnaturally high position (which later caused soreness). Mac rested his hands on my arm and shoulder, and wherever they would let him hold me.

By now my legs felt rather heavy, as if they were trapped beneath something. I tried to move my toes. It felt like I could, but I could not. I could not move from the waist down.

They gave me oxygen through a nasal cannula, a small tube that wrapped around my head and into my nose. Again, I focused on my breath.

I could see the reflection in the round metal lights hanging from the ceiling as they prepared the incision site. Well this is sort of surreal, I thought, a long-distance view, a little distorted, but I would watch. But then the screen came up. Only it wasn’t a real screen — as you read about and see in movies — it was more of a surgical sheet pinned up to the surrounding equipment. As they raised it up near my face, I began to feel claustrophobic. I said so and someone moved it away a bit. Better.

Finally, they were ready.

As they began to work, I felt only pressure, but no pain. I had read accounts of women who felt pressure and tugging, and that’s exactly what I felt. It was bizarre to think that they were cutting me open, through muscle and fat, to reach this elusive baby, and who knew what else.

I wondered what else they would find, knowing that my last procedures before treatment were complicated by unexpected pelvic adhesions — i.e., one ovary had been twisted and stuck to the back of my uterus, and my colon was fused there too.

Now, if the placenta could not be easily delivered, they would remove my womb after the baby was born. This doctor would give it a try. They’d be looking for signs of placental embedding into other organs. They were ready for a complicated procedure, if necessary. They were prepared with several units of blood, in addition to a system that would capture and clean my own blood for immediate recycling.

Mac focused on me as they worked, rubbing my sore neck and shoulder. I focused on my breath.

I sent out one last strong wish to the universe to deliver this baby safely, to let no harm come to her. Or me.

We heard them talking as they worked.

“Here she is,” the chief resident said as she pulled her tiny body from mine. “She’s out!”

She held our daughter high for a brief moment, though I could barely see her. Somehow, Mac remembered his camera, and he captured this moment forever and shared it with me for a better view.

“That’s our daughter!” Mac said, through tears. “We made her!” I smiled and nodded in agreement. I couldn’t believe it either. It was a notion we had given up on long ago.

I had asked, begged really, for just a moment to see and touch her, if not hold her on my chest. They had said they would try, but at just 33 weeks and 3 days gestation, she would need immediate attention. Clearly it was not going to happen. (I would get my chance a few hours later.) She was passed to the NICU team — a team of six doctors, nurses and a respiratory technician — who whisked her away to be stabilized. They had to get her on a respirator. We could hear her wailing as they took her away. Mac laughed, relieved, and said something like, “sounds like there’s nothing wrong with those lungs!”

Then they went to work again. This was the part I’d been warned about, when I’d begin to lose blood and they’d be working against the clock. They would try to deliver the placenta, and if they could not, they would remove the whole uterus and hope that nothing else was affected. For instance, was the placenta embedded into other organs such as the bladder? Would my ovaries and tubes detach easily from my womb? We thought they’d usher Mac out and put me under with general anesthesia for this part. But the doctor thought that might be unnecessary. So they worked fast.

I felt the tugging much stronger now, so much so that I wanted to say something. But I realized their goal was not to be gentle but swift. It felt as if someone was trying to pull something but it wasn’t moving. They were trying to deliver the placenta, but it was going nowhere. I would need a hysterectomy.

Meanwhile, I started to feel strong pressure on my lungs, as if they were collapsing. I tried breathing but it was hard. I couldn’t catch my breath. I said something and they pumped more oxygen.

Mac watched as my blood pressure plummeted. My normal pressure of about 120/65 dropped in half to about 60/30. Mac was terrified, but didn’t show it. He was gently rubbing my forehead but I had to redirect him to my neck and shoulder. I needed to breathe. I was light-headed. I felt claustrophobic. I couldn’t speak. Mac thought I was going to die.

B R E A T H E . . .

I had no idea how much blood I was losing. I’m still not completely sure of the total loss, since they recycle and re-infuse everything they can. Based on what we were told after, we think I lost about 3.5 liters of blood (there are about 5 liters in the human body). I was infused with four units of donated blood in addition to my own recycled blood. (Three days later, when I still felt lethargic and they were worried about my heart working too hard, I took their advice and got an additional two units in a transfusion that lasted 4 hours through the night.)

As soon as I felt the effect of the transfusion on the table, I felt better. The pressure on my lungs and chest lifted. They gave me more oxygen. I was able to breathe again. I could speak. Relief.

They were still hard at work, trying to gently separate my womb from other organs and stop the bleeding. We could hear them discussing what they were doing. My old uterus — that which had given me so much grief for over nine years, but had somehow finally given life — was taken, along with one (blocked) tube. But they left my ovaries, saving me from instant menopause, and no other organs were harmed.

But while they were still working, I started to feel movement in my toes.

“Um, should I be able to feel my toes right now?” I asked the anesthesiologists who were right by my head.

The spinal anesthetic was wearing off, to their surprise.

They explained that they were almost done, but still needed to stitch me up. They would need to use a general anesthetic with painkillers to finish the procedure. A nurse escorted Mac out and showed him to the NICU, where he could be with our baby.

The anesthesiologist applied an oxygen mask and told me to breathe deep. Cool oxygen. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in recovery about two hours later. Truth be told, I barely remember recovery at all. I vaguely remember my bedside nurse telling me the baby was fine. Next I asked about my ovaries. They were fine too. Then I know she called the NICU to tell Mac that I was up, so he could come be with me.

Those first hours were a fog and all I remember is being really thirsty and wanting water. They gave me ice chips. I wanted more. They told me to slow down. They rationed the ice chips, then gave me little mouthfuls of water.

Finally, the nurse asked if I wanted to go see our daughter. That was all I really wanted. They wheeled me on the gurney to the NICU, accompanied by my IV, oxygen and catheter. Baby Z was in the most critical bay, in an isolette by the window. They made room for the gurney and pulled me up right alongside her. When I saw her there — beneath the heat lamps in that clear plastic box, with a respiratory mask and tubes on her tiny little face and wires attached to her little body — I couldn’t believe she was really there, or that she was really ours.

Here was this tiny little being, protected from the world upon entry, connected to life through huge beeping machines, here in this place where life was so precious and fragile.

By now she had been stable for a few hours. I reached my hand in, careful not to bang my IV against the isolette, to hold her little fingers and got a thrill when she grasped mine. The nurse asked if I wanted to hold her. We both had our oxygen — she with her CPAP unit and me with my tubes. I opened my gown and she laid our daughter on my chest, covering her with warm blankets. The skin to skin contact was both electric and grounding. I felt like I was melting at my core.

I felt her near weightless body on mine (she was barely 4 pounds 7 ounces at birth). With each rise of my chest, I breathed with her. I spoke to her, for the first time outside. “Mama’s here, baby.” I took a deep breath and cried a few satisfying tears. Relief. Joy. Gratitude. Mac thought to snap a few photos.

I glanced out the window and admired the magnificent view. It was a panorama of San Francisco looking across Golden Gate Park towards the Bay and Pacific Ocean, with tips of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, peering out from the late summer fog. I could see hills and the headlands beyond that, and to the right the distinctive skyline. Picture postcard perfect.

Yet here on my chest was the most remarkable sight and sensation. This tiny little girl — who marked the completion of our family — had somehow found her way to us. She did it in her own time, in her own rhythm, with a life force so strong I never could have even imagined her.

And that is how our little Z entered the world.

There were at least twelve people in the room when I laid down on the table, though I know a few more joined us before they got started. I actually think there were fourteen. But that doesn’t include the NICU team waiting to whisk away the baby, including at least six pediatricians, nurses and a respiratory technician. The rest of them? They were there for me.

The whole morning was surreal. Ever since being admitted the day before, I suppose I knew there was a chance they’d want to deliver our baby even earlier than expected. Because of the serious risks of dangerous preterm labor and an even more complicated procedure due to complete placenta previa and accreta, my doctor had a plan. First she had planned to deliver at 36 weeks, then 35, then 34. After she delivered the baby, she would take my uterus. She didn’t think it could be saved without too much blood loss, and it would be beyond repair anyway. I decided it was a fair trade.

When the plan was finalized, we were still nine days away. Or so I thought.

On September 2, I was 33 weeks and 3 days (about 7.5 months) pregnant, and I had been bleeding for 24 hours. I was stable but they had told me the day before, when I was admitted, that I would not be going home until the baby was born. The team agreed that since the bleeding had tapered, we could try to wait it out on bedrest until my planned delivery date a week later. That would give the baby another week to develop, thereby shortening her stay in the NICU, and us more time to prepare. I was settling in for a week of hospital bedrest.

It was the Friday before Labor Day weekend. That morning, the team did rounds at about 7:00am. When they learned I was still bleeding, they changed their minds. They wanted to avoid an emergency procedure which would be more risky for me and the baby. Because of the anticipated complications, they wanted a full team of specialists available, not the skeletal staff that would be working over the holiday weekend. I also wanted to avoid general anesthesia, if possible, to be awake for the birth of our baby.

We would not wait another week. Our baby would be born that morning. Within hours.

I couldn’t fight back the tears as I realized she would come a week earlier. More premature. More risks. More time in the NICU.

Mac was at home, over an hour away, and it was nearing rush hour so it would take him much longer to get to San Francisco. When I called to tell him about the change in plans, he was having a rough morning with Jaye and he could barely hear me. I tried to remain so calm. He sounded overwhelmed, panicked.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m fine. We’ll wait for you,” I assured him. “Just come. Come now.”

Mac had already packed up snacks and activities to keep Jaye occupied. While I was on bedrest, she would play in my room and he would take her around the hospital — after all, we had done this five weeks ago when I was admitted for spotting at 28 weeks. But now this was the baby’s birth day, and everything changed. He arranged to drop off Jaye at my aunt and uncle’s and she had a playdate with her cousins. While I would have loved for Jaye to have been there for the birth of her little sister, we had no choice. We knew she’d be in good hands.

By the time Mac got there, my IVs were already in place. I had been briefed about what was supposed to happen. He had not. I had already done some deep breathing to help me focus, to calm down.

I was worried about the baby. Mac was worried about me.

Although I had drafted a birth plan, it all went out the window with the preterm delivery. This baby’s birth would be yet one more thing beyond our control. Still, I made it clear that I wanted to be awake for her birth, even if they had to knock me out and escort Mac out to finish the procedure afterwards.

While my doctor was not on duty, the attending surgeon was highly senior and skilled in complicated deliveries. He looked old to me, and I’ve never had a male ob/gyn. When I expressed some discomfort, I was assured he was known as legendary, that he brought calm to the floor when he was in charge. He was also known to be quick, so fast they thought he might finish before my spinal wore off, meaning I wouldn’t even need general anesthesia, which was my preference if it could be avoided. I didn’t want to be asleep or in a fog after the birth; I just wanted to hold our baby as soon as possible.

I’ve had so many surgeries that I thought I knew what was going to happen. I had no idea.

Mac arrived just after 10am, about an hour before our daughter was born. I saw fear in his eyes, panic. I can only imagine what he went through to get there. He had been worried about an emergency situation, even though I said I was fine. He hugged me tight.

“Our baby is about to be born,” he said. “Please don’t make me cry,” I replied. “I have to be able to breathe.”

They were getting ready for us, so we didn’t have much time together. Soon the nurses came and walked me down the hall to the operating room. They would come for Mac once the spinal was placed.

Our baby — still this thought seemed so strange — was about to enter the world.

To be continued…

In my various hospital stays, I saw a LOT of different doctors and nurses. Some of them were well versed in my history, some not so much. Every one who cared to ask for details seemed enthralled by our story. With my history of infertility and loss, some referred to my passenger as a “miracle” baby.

I figured out how to answer the questions, eventually.

“Two pregnancies, one (live) baby, two children.” Just a matter of fact. “Our first child was adopted at birth,” I’d sometimes add, by way of explanation.

Baby Z had two NICU nurses a day for her first twenty days of life, with some repeat assignments. At least 20-25 nurses cared for Z over the course of nearly three weeks. I spoke with every one of them, though I didn’t meet all the night nurses after I was discharged. Many of them I got to know well, chatting during long hours in a rocking chair by Z’s bedside. (As an aside, if we ever win the lottery, we are SO donating some good gliders to the NICU, because most of those rockers? Ouch.)

There wasn’t any medically necessary reason to inquire about the details surrounding how each of our children had come to us. But under the circumstances, many were curious.

“Was your first daughter born at full term?”

“Did you have any complications when you were pregnant with your first child?”

“Did you know you were at risk for the placenta issues?”

“Was the hysterectomy elective?”

“Did you breastfeed your other daughter?”

Now I’m normally happy to share our story. I take a certain pride in how we’ve built our family, in spite of the pain and accompanying loss involved. But even more than two years in, I’m still trying to determine how and when to draw that figurative line — i.e., what is mine to tell, and what is not? After telling a lot early on, I eventually learned to err on the side of caution.

At least here it wasn’t just invasive questioning or curiosity prompting the questions. Most of the nurses had a genuine interest in the medical issues or care I/we received.

Still, the reactions were so interesting. Some wanted to hear every detail. Some took a genuine interest in the medical infertility issues and/or shared their own stories. Some asked about the adoption process. Some offered up their own experience with or knowledge about adoption. A few shared that their children were IUI or IVF babies. One shared her fear of infertility and lamented that she didn’t even have a partner yet. One shared how she was appalled that her neighbor back home decided not to tell her son he was adopted. At least three asked if I ever watched “Teen Mom” (true story).

I’m usually happy to share our story, as I said. I love talking about how each of these children came to us. But it’s not only the need to protect Jaye and her personal story, though that is paramount. I also want to avoid using our story as evidence of the annoying myth that once you adopt, you will get pregnant — or any ridiculous variation of “just relax” (aka, it’s not a medical disease, it’s YOU!). Of course a few nurses shared some of those anecdotes as well. I used some of the responses that came up here, including how rare it actually is, even though someone always seems to know someone who knows someone…

Finally, I don’t want to offer up one story solely as a means of contrast to the other (even though I sort of did that here). That’s because I don’t want either child to feel more or less special than the other. Both of these children (and how they found their way to us) are miraculous, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want one story to trump the other. Both are equally remarkable. Just very different.

Today also marks the end of our absolute craziest month on record, beginning with an ambulance ride just past dawn on the 1st of September, with our baby daughter born just over 24 hours later, followed by a 20 day stay in the NICU.

This has been quite a month.

The first week was a blur. The emergency 911 call and transfer to SF were surreal. But when the decision to wait it out on bedrest for a week abruptly changed to, no, let’s deliver this baby today, like in a couple of hours (aka, as soon as possible), well, everything changed. I was alone in the hospital while my husband panicked to get there in time. He did. Then an hour later, Baby Z entered the world, after a most traumatic experience on the table. I still have been unable to put those memories and thoughts into words. There are still things we haven’t even said aloud. But the birth story, it is coming.

Meeting our daughter in the NICU for the first time was also unbelievable, experienced through a fog as I was on serious drugs. Those first days too, a blur, with me on painkillers sitting in a wheelchair by the isolette where our baby slept, unable to come out for long. I weaned myself off meds and tolerated the persistent pain, but hormones got the better of me. The end of that first week found me in an undeniable breakdown, as I was discharged while our daughter remained in the NICU.

By the second week, reality had sunk in. Baby Z wasn’t even 35 weeks old yet, the minimum age they would discharge her if all was well. I hadn’t been home in what seemed like forever, and other than missing my family, I didn’t care. We stayed with family for convenience and comfort. I had a chance to write. I was lucky to catch up on sleep, even when I should have been pumping milk to bring to the NICU.

It was sobering, walking out those doors without her every evening. We were relieved when Baby Z was moved to an open air crib and able to keep warm. Yet while she was reaching certain milestones, her progress was otherwise slow. There was no indication when she might be able to come home. It was undeniably taking a toll.

During her third week in the NICU, we were home but Z was not. It was good for Jaye to have returned to some sense of normalcy. But I worried that we couldn’t keep it up, if Z didn’t come home soon. Progress was still slow. I guess I expected more since she had reached a gestational age of 36 weeks, and we had hoped she’d be home by then. Mac was going back to work. I still couldn’t drive. We lived over an hour away. Z still wasn’t feeding well. That was it, her last issue to resolve. We had to get that damn tube out of her nose. Soon enough, Z pulled the tube out again and they gave her a chance to prove herself. Finally, as she approached three weeks old, her feeding improved and they started talking about discharge.

Bringing her home, finally, was both glorious yet unceremonious. This past week has been filled with sleepless nights, endless feedings, toddler tantrums with moments of OMFG how are we going to do this, stolen rest, lots of help, and endless gratitude.

I still can’t believe that we have a baby, a second child.

Just 3.5 months ago, I discovered I was somehow 4.5 months pregnant at age 42. I never believed that I would deliver a real live baby, let alone a pre-term baby at 7.5 months. It all still seems so surreal and bizarre and yes, unbelievable. Call it fairytale, myth, urban legend, whatever. Honestly I don’t know what to call it.

I still can’t believe this is my life. A few years ago, I’d have said the same thing but for different reasons. Now, it’s from a place of abundance.

We are just so astoundingly grateful to have the family we always wanted. I can only wish the same for everyone.