Best Laid Plans of Mice and Mandys... Pt 2, or Baby's First Easter

I need to write this down before I forget it all. Now that Elijah is 3 weeks old and I've had a million and one things happen since his birth, I'm already forgetting little details. (Just remembered a detail; after labor, my face, neck, and chest were really tender and my throat was hoarse. Turns out that labor is so intense that all the muscles from the chest up get used way more than I realized, and my throat was sore because they had me on an oxygen mask for the last hour of labor to keep the baby from losing oxygen).

My last narrative left off when the nurses finally let me off of bed rest for the 24-hour magnesium drip surveillance. My first stop was going to be the NICU to finally see my baby after giving birth to him the day before. I got into the wheelchair (and realized why they had me on bed rest... I think a wet noodle has more stability than my legs did), and a nice orderly wheeled me through the labyrinth of the hospital to get to the Neonatal ICU.

I got to the NICU room where my baby lay. The little plastic incubator (called an isolette) was in a private room. There were monitors everywhere, and the room was dark. The isolette had a blanket on the top of it, keeping the incubator even darker to mimic the womb. All in all, it looked like something in a sci-fi horror flick.

I sat in a wheelchair, my heart pounding. I didn't know what to expect even though I had seen pictures of him. I looked under the blanket.

Part of me was terrified. Another part of me was guilty. Still another part of me was dumbfounded. The larger part of me, however, was overwhelmed with love for him. I wanted to put him back, where he was safe and warm and nothing bad or uncomfortable would happen to him for two more months. I wanted to eat for him and breathe for him instead of a bunch of tubes. The nurse had the discretion to leave the room as tears streamed down my face.

The orderly took me to the room that I would recover in for the next 24 hours. We got settled, took a nap, then went right back to NICU. I spent all that day going back and forth from the NICU to my room. I couldn't walk at first, then I was able to shuffle on my own. I couldn't believe how the magnesium had sapped all of my strength. I could barely walk.

We were out of the woods. Everything was smooth sailing for almost two weeks. Grandparents were fawning over him and posting pictures left and right on the internet. We were all analyzing every feature, trying to figure out whose nose, ears, etc. he had inherited. We decided he had Adam's nose and my eyes - the best of both of us. He started on just a little bit of milk and then graduated to a bottle and breastfeeding. We were all exuberant with expectation and looked forward to him coming home. It seemed that he would be out sooner than his due date if he kept the course he was going.

Easter Sunday, my grandmother drove down to come to church with us and meet Elijah. We went to the service together, and then Adam and I drove home to pick up some things before we went to mom's for Easter dinner and then the hospital to see our baby. However, when we got home, there was a message on Adam's phone from the hospital. The hospital policy is "No news is good news," so the fact that they were calling us did not bode well with me. We called Elijah's nurse to get the update. 

At his 8 am feeding, he had been doing great. His color looked good, he ate his food like a champ, and he had all of his usual energy. Three hours later, at his 11 am feeding, he wasn't doing so well. He had turned gray and mottled, his stomach was distended and hard, and he was lethargic. He had turned into a different baby in a few short hours. The nurse wanted permission over the phone to do a spinal tap to make sure his spinal fluid wasn't infected (to screen for meningitis - thank God it wasn't that), and then they would perform blood work and x-rays to try to diagnose him.

I wept and wept and wept (I've cried a lot in the last three weeks). All of our great hopes and comfort about his progress evaporated. I can't think of a time when my heart was more broken. I called mom and told her that this was a bad day for my grandmother to meet him. We had to eat, so we had a miserable Easter dinner with Mom and Mimi before driving to the hospital. I could barely swallow a bite, but I didn't know when I would eat again, so it seemed a necessary chore.

As soon as we arrived, the nurse in charge of his care caught us before we went into his room and told us the update. His spinal tap was clear, but his x-ray confirmed that he had what was called necrotizing enterocolitis, a malady that I have already explained in previous posts. I cried (again), and the sweet nurse gave me a hug. Adam and I braced ourselves and went into his room.

He looked terrible. He just lay there, not moving or responding to us. His skin was gray-toned and uneven. Every once in a while I could see his eyebrows go up a little, reminiscent of his wonderful, dramatic facial expressions we had gotten used to over the days we had known him, but without all the spark. He suddenly seemed so much more frail than he had looked before.

The next few days were excruciating. We had to wait and watch to see what the disease would do. The worst experiences we had were on the third day that he had Nec. He had not needed any respiratory support up to that point, but on the third day he was getting really tired. They tried to put a PICC line on him, but every attempt they made didn't take, even after three tries. Each attempt wore him out even more. That evening, he started having really bad respiratory "events," as the nurses called them. They were periods where his oxygen levels would drop (called "desaturating," or "desatting" in the nurses' abbreviation) and his heart rate would decrease dramatically. Normal oxygen levels are supposed to be at 99-100%. Elijah's would drop to below 10%. I can't remember where his pulse dropped to. The nurses would rush in and try to stimulate him back into breathing, but he was too worn out. They tried to give him oxygen, but after a while even that wasn't working. Finally, they had to intubate him and have him on a ventilator.

I was sent out of the room every time they had to do one of these procedures, so I spent a total of four hours in the waiting room. Maybe it was watching him stop breathing, but I started to panic. I kept seeing them trying to revive him from his events, and the image replayed over and over in my head. I began to despair. I stopped having the mental fantasy of bringing him home. Instead, my image of bringing him home was getting replaced by awful pictures of having to tell Adam that he didn't make it, that he stopped breathing, that the infection ate him up, that we lost him. I couldn't keep it together. I wept shamelessly in the waiting room. The nurses started to gather around me, trying to tell me that he was doing ok, that intubating him was going to keep him from working too hard, that the PICC line would keep them from having to stick him too much, that these were good things which were going to help him. They were very kind, but I was inconsolable. 

The next few days showed slight improvement. On Friday, however, as I have already mentioned, we got the call that they were finally going to have to operate. The risks of this operation were way lower than if he had ruptured, and they felt very confident that (1) this was necessary, and (2) he should improve greatly once they operated and removed the sick tissue in his gut. I sat in the waiting room with my friends, waiting for news of the surgery and marveling at Phil's sudden death.

Since his surgery, Elijah has been improving wonderfully. He's breathing completely on his own again, and he's starting to act like himself again. He's getting that spunkiness back that he had before he got sick. We are blessed. I got to hold him last night for the first time in over a week. It was like a salve on my spirit. His pain has been well-managed, and the nurses have been able to back off his morphine doses.

One unfortunate result from all of this is that his homecoming has been pushed back considerably. We are unlikely to bring him home before June. He has to start over with his feedings, and it took us two weeks to get where we were the first time. They have been honest that he still might have complications once we add food again, and he can even contract Nec again. I am no longer going to get ahead of myself with his condition and progress. We have to take everything with Elijah one day at a time. If I live in any moment but the present, I could be setting myself up for another awful disappointment. So, we take it a day at a time. As Jesus said, "Sufficient for the day is its own trouble." I don't need to waste a single calorie worrying about tomorrow.

Things I Need

Friday morning a few hours after I wrote my last post, I woke up to hear my husband's phone vibrating. He was asleep, so I jumped out of bed and ran to it, thinking it might be the hospital calling about Elijah. I was surprised to see that it was my mother's house phone.

"Hello?"
"Amanda?"
"Yeah?"
"Is Adam there?"
"Um, yeah, let me wake him up."

Adam took the phone, and I crawled back into bed. I could still hear mom's voice through Adam's earpiece.

Are you in the bedroom?
"Yeah."
Can you walk into the living room for a minute?

...which is when I figured out that something was horribly wrong and mom didn't want me to hear what she had to say. I prayed that whatever this was, God would sustain me and give me the strength to face it.


Adam came back into the bedroom and told me that my brother had died the day before.

Phil went swimming in a river in a state park in St. Louis. He had a snorkel, a mask, and flippers. In my mind's eye, I saw him buying them in Walmart for the express purpose of going swimming that day. I saw him in a snorkel and mask, dancing on the side of the river in his flippers. They found a flipper before they found him. He had drowned in 8 feet of water, 15 feet from the shore.

I had almost called him the night before. I wanted to tell him about Elijah, but I decided not to. I remember looking at the clock on my phone a little after 7 and deciding not to bother him. He didn't know Elijah was sick, and I didn't feel like telling him about it. I'm glad I didn't call. They found his body at 7:30. Even if I had called, he was already gone.

My last conversation was a good one. I talked to him on Saturday, the night before Elijah got sick. Phil had panicked when I went into labor because he thought I was going to die. He told me he had cried and wailed and that he was so sorry for all the bad things he ever said to me. We laughed at his dramatic response, and I told him how beautiful Elijah was. We made plans for when he was coming to Florida in the summer.

I cried for 30 minutes on Friday morning. Then the phone calls and texts started pouring in. Apparently, the news had hit Facebook before it even got to us. My friend came over with chocolate and flowers for a few minutes before the phone rang again.

This time it was the hospital. Elijah had not improved the way they had wanted him to, and now the surgeons needed us to be at the hospital as soon as possible to explain the surgery to us and get us to sign consent. So, with the news of my brother only an hour old, Adam and I drove to the hospital to submit to major surgery on our baby.

I spent the entire day in the hospital. Elijah did great through the surgery. They had to remove part of his small intestine where the large and small intestines meet. They brought the bowel to the surface and attached an ostomy. I'm still not sure how it all works, but suffice it to say that his bowels are unattached, his matter will evacuate from the ostomy, and they will reattach him in a couple of months when he's bigger. The surgeons felt really good about the operation, and provided he finishes the antibiotics and bowel rest without event, this should be the end of Nec. If it happens again, which is rare, it will be a completely unrelated case of the disease.

People keep asking me if I need anything. I have decided that these are the things I need:

I need to hold my baby again after not being able to hold him for over a week
I need see him growing and getting stronger
I need to see him come home
I need to hear Phil's voice one more time
I need to wake him up by jumping on him one more time
I need to laugh with him about memories we have with our dogs, cats, and hermit crabs
I need to tell him one more time that I love him

If anyone can give me those things, please contact me.

If not, prayers are appreciated.

Holding My Breath

Elijah's x-rays are showing improvement. They showed me his x-ray from the day he got sick and the one from yesterday; there was marked improvement. He doesn't have any of the air they were worried about rupturing him anymore. Now they are watching to see if his bowels start moving like they're supposed to. If they move around well, then it is likely that he doesn't have any dead or damaged tissue and they won't have to open him up. If something isn't moving like they want, they'll keep and eye on it and make a decision on whether they need to cut him and look for the sick/dead tissue. We are praying for good peristalsis.

We aren't quite at the place where I feel free to breathe a sigh of relief... I don't think I'll be there until we get him out of the hospital. This thing struck so suddenly and HARD; I don't think I'll ever be comfortable or complacent with his progress again.

He's been very restful the last couple of days, so I think he's been getting good sleep. He tries to open his eyes when we talk to him, but he's too tired or drugged or both. I can't wait until we can hold him again.

New and Exciting Maladies

I'm interrupting my labor/delivery/NICU narrative to give some fairly dreadful news. Elijah has necrotizing enterocolitis. The nurses are calling it nec for short, so that's what I will call it. This evil-sounding condition is common in preemies, but being common does not make it less dangerous. Right now, the doctors are treating it with antibiotics and keeping a close watch on his bowels with x-rays. Worst case scenario, his bowels could perforate or sections of them could die - hence the x-rays. In the event that this happens, immediate surgery will be necessary, and this particular operation has about a 25% death rate. Basically, they would remove the damaged/dead tissue, and later on, when he is bigger and stronger, they would reattach the intestines. That's if only a section of the intestines were damaged. There are rarer cases where the entire intestine is damaged, but I don't want to think about that. Best case scenario, the antibiotics kill the infection, and there is no permanent damage.

I overheard the doctor explain to the nurses that the first 48-72 hours is the most dangerous window for perforation, but he wouldn't say that to me. To me, he said that it could happen at any time the infection is still alive in Elijah's gut. That didn't stop me from marking time, though. We are almost out of the 72 hours today. He came down with it very suddenly around 11 AM on Easter Sunday, so 11 AM today will be 72 hours. Unfortunately, this could happen again, even if the antibiotics kill it and we can start feeding him again. As disheartening as that was, I'm glad they told me, so I won't be surprised if we face this again a month from now.

Even if everything is fine and infection is killed, this is a considerable set-back on when he can come home. He will be on bowel rest (no food) for at least 2 weeks, which means we have to start over with all the progress we made since he was born 15 days ago. I can't get to far ahead of myself, though; at this point we really are just fighting for his life - we'll worry about homecoming once he gets better.

He has been fighting pretty hard. They had to intubate him yesterday (I should get an honorary nursing degree after all of this is over - I think I'll know everything). That means he has a tube going into his trachea that breathes for him. They are also going to implant a picc line so that he has a stable, more permanent IV instead of getting poked every time one of his IVs goes bad. They couldn't get a vein on him yesterday - they tried 3 times and none of them were in the right spot (the line kept coiling up before reaching his heart). They wanted to put it on his head, but I hope they put it somewhere else. He likes it when we stroke his head.

He's on morphine, so he's pretty out of it, but at least he isn't hurting. We are taking this thing a day at a time; any more than that would make me lose my mind.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Mandys... Pt 1

I don't know how clearly I expressed my desire for a natural childbirth. I read all the books, saw a midwife for my prenatal care, talked to all my birthing-center and home-birth friends, and generally geared up for the event. I told myself that things change and I would be ok with interventions if I had a medical emergency, but I really did have my heart set on a natural, intervention- and drug-free birth more than I realized.

Tuesday, March 20th was 32 weeks and 6 days into my pregnancy. We had had an ultrasound and knew we were having a little boy, and things had looked really good up to that point. I was gaining weight a little fast, which didn't make a lot of sense to me, but the baby looked good and so did I, in general.

Tuesday morning, I vomited a lot of blood, which scared me pretty badly. I called my midwife and headed right over the their office.

They took my urine and my blood pressure and gave me a once-over. They diagnosed me with a stomach virus, told me bleeding was normal when you're pregnant, and sent me home with anti-nausea medicine. The rest of Tuesday was uneventful.

Wednesday, I was in a ton of pain and couldn't hold anything down. It felt a little more like a stomach virus than Tuesday had, which restored my faith in my midwife. Tuesday had been so weird that I thought they were just assuming that "the pregnant woman was scared of stuff" and had blown me off. After being so sick all day Wednesday, however, I was willing to accept the stomach-virus theory.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were asymptomatic. The only thing that concerned me was that, in most of my experience, vomiting with a stomach virus tends to give me diarrhea later on, which didn't happen. I chalked it up to pregnant weirdness, though, and moved on. My boss threw me a little baby shower on Saturday night, and we were riding high on good pregnancy vibes.

Sunday morning was 33 weeks and 3 days into my pregnancy. I woke up feeling much like I had on Wednesday: in a ton of pain, not holding anything down. I stayed home from church and watched the service on our live feed.

I got worse and worse throughout the day. Around 5 pm, I couldn't even hold down water, and I started to feel sore in my right shoulder. I asked Adam to rub it for me, thinking that maybe I had strained it while vomiting. As the evening wore on, the pain in my shoulder got worse and worse, and my stomach pain moved from my middle upper abdomen to under my right ribs.

We got on the computer and looked up some possibilities, trying to decide if we should go to the ER. Adam was all for it, but I would have none of it. I was convinced that I was a wimp, that I'd show up to the ER and they'd tell me that it was a stomach virus - you silly, silly pregnant woman - much like my midwife had. We read about a bunch of ailments involving stomach pain and vomiting. Unfortunately, they all have basically the exact same symptoms. We investigated gastritis, preeclampsia, and gallstones. Gastritis didn't quite fit, and I was sure it couldn't be preeclampsia because my midwife would have caught it when I went in on Tuesday. After reading that gallstones cause shoulder pain, we decided - at 1:30 am - to go to the ER. By this time, I was in an incredible amount of pain, and my upper abdomen was starting to visibly distend.

They took some blood, took some urine, and put me on an IV until they figured out what was wrong. Apparently, hospitals react a little more strongly to a pregnant woman walking into the ER doubled over in pain.

The midwife on duty, who was part of the midwife team I was seeing for the pregnancy, came in around 4 am.

"Hi, Amanda. You're sick."

"Ok..."

"You have preeclampsia. I'm transferring your care to the physician on duty because I can no longer attend to you since you're high risk."

And she just walked out of the room.

I burst into tears. I didn't know anything about preeclampsia except that it was that big scary thing that no woman wants to catch. It wound up being way bigger and scarier than I realized.

I should have known things were a big deal when they sent me to a labor and delivery room, but I was still clueless about the severity of the situation.

A doctor came in around 7:30 and told me that I had severe preeclampsia and the only way to fix it was to have the baby. They wanted to start right away, and I could choose between being induced or having a c-section. I was floored. I had what they called "severe, atypical preeclampsia." It was severe because my liver enzymes were high, my liver was swollen, and my platelet count was low, putting me at risk for something called HELLP syndrome (high liver enzymes + low platelets + destruction of red blood cells). It was atypical because my blood pressure was not too high, my urine didn't have that much protein, and I didn't have that much swelling - all of which are early signs of the disease that would have clued my midwife in to my condition. I basically skipped all the early stages of the disease and dove right in to "severe." (Unusually fast weight gain is another symptom, by the way.)

I was petrified. My little baby was 6 weeks too young to be born. All the horrible images of NICU babies wrapped up in cords and ventilators and IVs came flooding to my mind, all the little arms and legs with no body fat and old-person faces. I could think only of all the parents that have to have their babies and leave them in hospitals for weeks or months, going home to empty wombs and empty houses, sitting in a hospital room to see their terrifying baby once a day.

I talked to my husband, and since the risks (at that point) of giving birth were so great, we chose the c-section. Our pastor came to the hospital and prayed with us, and we felt more or less ok with our decision.

A team of doctors came in at 9 with some interesting ideas. One doctor said that since my blood pressure was normalizing, she wanted to be sure it was preeclampsia before they took the baby early. She wanted to completely rule out gallstones before they made a huge mistake. I was so thankful for her caution, and I started to build up hope that maybe it was just a gallbladder issue and everything would be fine.

After an ultrasound, more blood work, and a few hours of built-up hope, it still wound up being preeclampsia. The doctor said that since the urgency had gone down somewhat, they would induce instead of doing a c-section, unless an emergency c-section was absolutely necessary. My platelets kept dropping, and they no longer wanted to cut me since clotting might have been an issue.

The show started at 1 pm, March 26th.

This is where stuff gets gross, so enjoy all the gory details (which I know you will, Becky :-).

They began the induction with a low dose of Pitocin and a balloon. The balloon was put in my cervix and the goal was for it to manually dilate me to 4 cm over the next few hours. The doctor inserted the wrong balloon at first, which really pissed me off because it was unbelievably uncomfortable the first time. The Pitocin was to induce contractions. I hung out with a balloon for a few hours, and mild contractions started to happen. They took the balloon out and upped the Pit. I stayed at 4 cm with ineffective contractions for 10 hours. At 2 am, March 27th, they decided to break my water to move things along. I don't know why, but breaking my water was the last straw for me emotionally. I sobbed and sobbed. My only guess is that there was something so final about it... like all the drugs and the balloon and whatnot were all reversible, but now my poor baby couldn't float anymore - there was no going back.

Adam and I had a moment alone after they broke my water. He held me while I cried, and we looked together through some baby stuff that his mom brought us. It was really comforting to look through all the little blue clothes and stuffed animals. I couldn't help but think about how much smaller he would be than these clothes...

A few minutes later, the doc came in and upped the Pitocin dosage by a ton. At that point my contractions were becoming unbearable, and we all started to discuss pain relief. Of course, I had planned on a natural birth, so I had not given much thought to pain relief. Since all of THOSE hopes and dreams were out the window, I had accepted that an epidural would be the best option and asked for one. We waited 30 minutes for the anesthesiologist to bring me sweet relief, and the contractions were getting more and more unbearable.

The anesthesiologist came in at 2:45 with some bad news. Since my platelet count was so low, he would not preform an epidural. If I didn't clot properly, it could hemorrhage into my spine and paralyze me.

I think the only person who could know how I felt is a general who is losing a battle and just found out that the cavalry is not, in fact, arriving. I was going to have to John Wayne this thing on my own.

The only other pain relief option was Demerol. Demerol is a delightful little drug that does almost nothing for pain, but does a darn good job of stealing your brain. So now, not only did I still have the same level of pain, but I barely understood what was happening to me. Everyone reacts differently to drugs like that... my reaction was painful stupidity.

The next three hours were a painful blur. In between contractions, I was practically falling asleep. I had not slept in 30 hours BEFORE inducing labor, and at 3 in the morning I was operating on more than 40 hours of wakefulness.

The only real thing I remember (besides excruciating pain) is that they kept losing the baby's heartbeat. I lost hope every time that little monitor stopped beeping. He wasn't under stress or anything - they just couldn't locate his pulse with the external monitor. Enter internal monitoring. They attached a few cords to the baby's head to monitor his heartbeat. They also had to insert a tube to add water back to the uterus because my contractions were so intense. They also inserted a straw that surrounded the inside of the uterus to monitor contraction strength. I had 5 different fluids coming in my IV and 3 different monitor cords hanging out of my uterus. So much for a natural childbirth.

My contraction patterns started freaking out some of the techs, so they lowered the Pit, readjusted me, then upped the Pit again. I labored at 4 cm for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, at 5:08 am, they checked my cervix and it was 6 cm dilated (2 whole cm of progress! whoop-dee-freakin-doo!). They gave me more Demerol at my mother and my husband's request since it seemed like we might have a few more hours to go.

A few minutes later, I had a strong urge to push. Like, STRONG. The conversation with the nurse, as I remember it, went something like this:

Me: I have to push!

Mom: What? Oh my gosh, nurse!

Nurse: No, you don't, it just feels like it. You're only at 6 cm.

Me: Well, then I have to poop.

Nurse: Don't worry about that, if there's anything there, it will come out when you push.

Me: I have to poop NOW.

Nurse: *sigh* let me check your cervix. *pause while she checks cervix* Oh my God. There's no cervix. Don't push, don't push, lemme get the doctor!

After that, it was really cinema-quality drama. The doctor told me that pushing could take a while and coached me on how it would go. The room filled with NICU nurses and techs. There must have been ten people in the room. I gave a few preliminary pushes and the doctor freaked. "I feel his head, stop pushing, don't push, not even a little!" I had to lay there, drugged out of my mind and fighting an incredibly strong instinct for a few minutes while they broke down the bed and got all the towels and pans and NICU gear ready.

Finally, everyone was ready, and I was allowed to push. I pushed three times. On the third push, the baby literally flew out into the doctor's arms. I'm not kidding. He shot out of me, and the doc caught him like a football. They rushed him to a table and started to clean him.

Now, remember, I had just had some Demerol, so while I had felt everything physically, my brain was freshly doped up. Also note that babies aren't that great looking when they are born under even the best circumstances.

They brought Elijah to the bed for me to see him before they took him to NICU. I reached out and touched the little hat they had put on his head. With the Demerol, the memory feels slow-motion. He was gray, and his face was gaunt like an old person. He looked like a corpse, and in my drugged state of mind, I thought I had delivered a dead baby. When they whisked him away, I told Adam, "Go with him!" The next 20 minutes, the doctor was delivering the placenta, and I stared at the ceiling. The doc and mom both got really concerned because I looked catatonic. I just couldn't get my head around what had just happened, and I was so drugged. I heard someone say 3 lbs 5 oz.

They brought me a breakfast tray right after they put the room back together. I stared in disbelief at eggs, toast, and sausage. They expected me to eat? I hadn't eaten anything in two days, and I had not even a little appetite.

I was on bed rest for the next 24 hours because I was on a magnesium drip for the preeclampsia. That meant that for 24 hours, the only sight I had seen of my baby was when he looked dead. Adam came back with pictures for me to see and declared that he had turned pink, but I couldn't get the image out of my head.

24 hours later, they moved me to recovery, but I demanded to be taken to NICU first. They very kindly obliged me... and I will write about that and other experiences in the next post.

Miracles

So, here's the (hopefully) final chapter in the Medicaid Saga.

I received in the mail a letter informing me of my new account number and case information (so that I would no longer be identified as someone-with-Adam's-name-who-lives-in-Miami). I got all excited and went online to see my shiny new web account. I tried to get into the new account with my new number, my name, my birthday, and zip code.

'The information you have entered does not match what we have on file.'


Of course it doesn't.

So I called DCF again.

After waiting 30 minutes listening to bad Jazz music and instructions in 3 languages, I got through to a lovely young lady who informed me that I needed to put Adam's information as the payee (the one responsible for the account) instead of myself for some unknown reason. Bingo, I was in. She gave me my ID number over the phone, I thanked her, and, like a fool, I hung up.

On the web account, I had to go through all the original registration stuff (security questions, new password, new username, etc.). When I finally got in to view my account information, there was none. There was information for the baby, but nothing for me. I couldn't even find the ID number that the lady gave me over the phone.

Trying not panic, I called my midwife to give her my new ID number so she could have me on file (so I wouldn't have to pay for that doctor's visit that I thought was covered). The secretary looked me up and said, "That's not bringing up anything. Let me try your social security number." Also, nothing. She said, helpfully, "It sometimes takes 48 hours for their systems to reflect new changes, so maybe you can check in with them again on Wednesday and see if you're information is back up." Eager for any excuse not to call DCF again, I readily accepted her suggestion and moved on with my day.

Come Wednesday, there was still no change, and I became alarmed. Adam went to his prayer meeting that he has early on Wednesdays with some of the guys in our church. I read my Bible, prayed for strength, guidance, patience, and a happy ending, and I settled in for a nice long morning of talking to DCF. I called at 8 AM, and I talked to another nice young lady about the fact that my number brought up no information for me.

"Oh, you're right, ma'am, there is nothing."

"So what could be wrong?"

"I don't know, let me try something."

...la-de-dum-de-dah...

"Ok, ma'am? It looks like Medicaid approved your application, but the Department of Children and Families denied it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've never seen anything like this, and it is definitely an internal error on our part."

"Um..."

"So I'm going to send an e-mail to Medicaid and DCF and see if we can't get this straightened out."

"How long will that take?"

"About 5 business days."

"Oh, man... Listen, I know with your job and everything that you probably have heard every sob story out there, but I am really frustrated at this point. This is the third major blunder that has occurred with my account, and I'm seven months pregnant. I'm really at the point where I HAVE to receive medical attention, and we can't afford it. Is there something else I can do, or someone else I can call to speed this up? I really can't wait any longer and I'm having to cancel appointments..."

"No, Ma'am, you're doing everything right. If there's still a problem after five business days, it will be sent to a higher level, and no one wants that..."

"I might want that..."

"Yes ma'am, I understand, but this is all I can do for now."

"Ok, thank you for your help."

Upon hanging up, I broke down into uncontrollable sobs. If you ever wanted to know my breaking point, that is it. I prayed again, then called Adam.

Me: sobbing "Medicaid doesn't have me on file"
Adam: "I'm sorry baby."
Me: *sniffle "I need you guys to pray about it while you're there."
Adam: "Ok, baby."
Me: "And then come home because I need you."
Adam: "Ok, baby."

It was one time in my life where it was nice to have a Yes Man. The whole conversation took longer than necessary because I kept sobbing and halting and swallowing and burping through every sentence. I had sincerely fallen apart.

I climbed into the tub, as I do, and cried and prayed through a very hot shower.

Adam came home to find me in a lump on the bed, wrapped in towels and face swollen, although I had pretty much cried myself out at that point. We cuddled and talked about trying to come up with plan B. If Medicaid really didn't come through, what would we do? We discussed some options, I left a message with a social worker, and started making breakfast.

At 10 AM, I received a phone call from a number in our area code. Usually, I would ignore calls from people I don't know, but I answered because of all the calls I had out to all the numbers I wouldn't recognize. A man who sounded exactly like my father said, "Amanda?"

"Yes?"

"This is D**** with the Department of Children and Families."

"Oh, hi, yes."

"We have activated your ID number and your account is ready to go. You can use the number now, and you'll have a Medicaid card in the mail in 3 to 6 weeks. In the meantime, use your temporary card that you can print online starting tomorrow."

"Oh, my gosh, thank you."

"Your welcome. Do you have any questions?"

"Uh, no sir."

"Have a good day."

Stunned, I stared at my phone after he hung up. As I was looking at the screen, I received three texts in succession from my pastor's wife (our pastor was one of the guys at the prayer meeting that morning, so he and his wife knew about my breakdown):

"And I will bring the blind by a way that they know not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forget them." Isaiah 42:16.

The message was loud and clear. I went into happy hysterics, laughing and crying simultaneously, and we prayed in thanksgiving together over my little miracle. I spent the morning in praise of the Lord, Who had certainly moved greatly that morning to take care of me and Baby. I don't know what was done or said that got the ball rolling, but I know that God was so good to me that morning, and that He has control over all the things that I don't.

---------

I had all my blood tests done that Friday, and we had an ultrasound on Tuesday. I got to see my baby's face for the first time. When I think about it, I can't help but tear up. Baby looks like daddy, which I find adorable and thrilling (but I think Baby has my mouth). I have an appointment with the midwife next week to go over the results of the blood tests and the ultrasound.

We get to meet Baby face-to-face in May, two short months away.

Adventures in the Department of Children and Families, pt 3

I am frustrated.

I mean, really frustrated.

When I went to see my midwife last week, the secretary told me that the Medicaid ID number that the DCF gave me brought up my husband's name (It's weird because he isn't pregnant.). I asked if it was a problem for my visit that day, and she responded that no, it was fine, just call them when I get the number straightened out.

I called the DCF (AGAIN!!) to find out what had happened, thinking all the while that it was some simple misunderstanding that could be easily fixed (like, maybe they just had to switch the number to my name). No such luck.

The DCF representative whom I spoke with said that was my number and treated me like an idiot for wasting her time. I responded, "Ok, if it's my number, I need to know why my doctor brought up my husband's name instead of mine." After skirting having to actually DO something about it for a couple of minutes, she finally looked it up.

"Oh, you're right, ma'am, that does bring up your husband's name."

Told ya. "Ok, so can we fix it?"

"Has he been receiving SSI?"

"What's SSI?"

"Well if you don't know what SSI is, then probably not."

"Let me ask him... Nope, he's never applied for any sort of benefits."

"Hm. I'm showing him in the system as applying for Social Security in 2008."

"Well, his name is not correct on my account. You all have him listed with middle initial 'E,' but his middle initial is 'A.' Can that mean anything?"

"I have his address as Miami, Florida."

"Uh, no. He lives with me."

After much computer-searching and number-checking and question-asking, we established that Medicaid gave me the ID number of someone who shares my husband's first and last name and lives in Miami. The lady on the phone had the courage to suggest that it was probably my fault since I didn't give Adam's SSN when I filled out the application (information that was neither required nor necessary). I figure that yes, that's probably it; since you guys got my birthday, my name, my husband's name, and my Medicaid ID wrong, it's almost certainly all my fault.

Upon hanging up with DCF, I called the hospital on the off-chance that I could still schedule an ultrasound with the promise of giving them my insurance information as soon as it got straightened out. Nope. I can't schedule an ultrasound without my ID number, nor can I have my blood work done.

I get to call DCF again tomorrow (GOODY GOODY GUMDROPS) to see if anyone took pity on my case of mistaken identity and decided to fix my problem. I am perplexed by these people...how has everything gone so wrong?