out of the depths

To be exact, I didn't break. My breastpump broke. My "vintage" loaner pump from the military hospital stopped working at full capacity and I wasn't aware of it until it was too late.

On this day I was able to hold my baby. I felt weird on this day. But things weren't exactly "normal" and I wasn't exactly sure how I was supposed to be feeling. I desperately wanted to hold Sam. But I as I held him, I had trouble keeping my head up and staying awake. Finally, I gave him up and we left the hospital to pick up some dinner and get some rest. As we left the hospital and walked through the main lobby, I felt heavy. So heavy. And cold. I couldn't get warm.

I waited in the van while my husband picked up our dinner. I huddled under a fleece blanket and thought that it sure had gotten colder all of a sudden.

We went back to our crummy little hotel room (we left the Ronald McDonald house because someone with the Army informed us that we'd be given an allowance to stay in a hotel... this information turned out to be wrong, but we'd already given up our place at the RM house... so we found an inexpensive extended stay room close to the hospital) and ate dinner. I pumped and I didn't get very much milk, which was strange. But I was so very tired that I didn't give it much thought. My husband left the room to walk outside and call his parents to update them on Sam's condition. During the short time that he was gone, things went horribly wrong. I started shaking violently- so violently that my jaw locked up. And suddenly I was colder than I've ever been. I tried to call for my husband to come back, but I couldn't make my mouth work. When he did come back in, he half carried me to the van and back to Duke- but this time instead of heading to the fifth floor where Sam was sleeping, we went to the emergency room. I was delirious and terrified. My husband was terrified. He thought I had a staph infection and that I was surely going to die. When they took me back (after making us go through the metal detector about four times- apparently I looked like a terrorist or something, shaking uncontrollably in a wheelchair with my hair exploding all around my face) it was discovered that my fever was over 106 degrees. It's a wonder my brain didn't melt. Although sometimes I wonder if part of it did. That would explain a lot about the way I am now.

I had mastitis. A very bad case of mastitis. The lactation consultant said that in her 25 years of being in the profession, she'd never seen such a bad case. There is a deep irony in the fact that I managed to have a baby unmedicated, and then two weeks later, I was given more medication than I have ever had in my life. So many antibiotics. So much pain medication. So much pain. Because the way to get through mastitis is to keep pumping. I would rather have given birth again without meds than go through that experience. It was horrifying. A never ending cycle of pain, 24 hours a day. And then they told me that they suspected that I had MRSA. They suspected this because they just couldn't believe that my fever and sickness could be from mastitis alone. When the doctor informed me of their suspicions, he also told me that if it was MRSA, I'd be looking at chemical showers and at least 30 days of isolation. Isolation? But my babies need me... I cried... and cried... and cried. (Out of the depths...) And then the doctor said, "You seem depressed. Would you like for me to prescribe you something for depression?" Even in the darkest place, there is still humor. He's fortunate I lacked the strength to punch him in the face. And I am fortunate that I lacked the strength to punch him in the face. Because it's likely that would have changed his snap diagnosis from "depression" to "acute psychosis."

Very few people knew that I was sick. We were afraid that the news would trickle down to my daughter and she didn't need to know. I was in the hospital for six days. Six days of pumping and crying and throwing up from the pain meds and surviving. All the while feeling completely helpless and out of control. Before I got sick, I could only see one of my babies at a time, and now both were out of my reach.

In the weeks prior to my collapse, as I drove back and forth from our home to Durham, picking up bills that needed to be paid, picking up clothes from home for my daughter, I listened to music. One song in particular I listened to- over and over, on repeat. It was always in my head, everytime I left the hospital. When I was sick and couldn't be with my babies, it played in my brain- over and over. I prayed that I could make it my prayer. "Make this true for me, Lord."

The chorus says this:

"Take it all
Cause I can't take it any longer
All I have
I can't make it on my own
Take the first
Take the last
Take the good and take the rest
Here I am
All I have
Take it all"
     by Third Day; Take it All- from their album Revelation

Take my babies. They are Yours. They were never mine, really. After all, isn't that why we named our son Samuel? After Samuel in the Bible. His mother desperately wanted him- prayed for him in tears with so much passion that the priest watching thought she was drunk. Her prayer was granted. She had her sweet Samuel. And then: she gave him up. Gave him back to the Lord in a literal way. She took him from her home and left him at the temple to serve with the priests. She gave him up when he was still small and precious and cute- not when he was 12 and starting to get kind of obnoxious and she just needed a break. She gave him up when he was still small enough to carry and cuddle. She held her baby with her hands open. (True story. You can read about it in the book of 1 Samuel, chapter 1. "After he was weaned, she took the boy with her, young as he was..." 1 Samuel 1:24) That became my prayer, "My hands are open. My babies are in my arms, but my hands are open. Take them. They are Yours." It was true before I prayed it, but I needed to open my eyes to the reality of it.

God stripped everything from me. My false sense that I had the ability to control my environment. (Remember Breastfeeding with Comfort and Joy? That book = not so helpful for me after all.) My false sense that I could make my plans and count on my ability to carry them out. My children, my precious children- they are not mine to keep. They are mine on loan- my talents, my treasures. He stripped my health from me. In order to cry to the Lord out of the depths you have to actually descend to the depths.

Throughout that week, while Sam continued to recover from his surgery, I pumped around the clock, slept very little, and watched short videos of Sam that my husband took for me- since I couldn't go see him. The high fever caused me to break out in fever blisters, which effectively banned me from the PCICU until they were healed. I confess, I felt a little like Job, but on a much smaller scale. The lactation consultant visited me frequently, encouraging me to continue pumping because there was still a possibility that Sam would nurse once he recovered and came home. She told me later that she had actually held no hopes that I would recover completely from the mastitis and be able to continue producing milk. She failed to take into account my type A personality and the fact that I had Nothing. Else. To. Do. But pump. The radiant spot during this time was when I was finally released from the hospital and I was able to spend a day with my daughter. We both needed that time, but it was incredibly difficult for both of us when I had to leave to go back to Durham. She never expressed jealously toward Sam and his neediness. She never seemed bitter or resentful, just sad. I hated watching her hurt- but I didn't have a lot of choices available to me. So I left her again and went back to Durham. And we prepared as best we could to survive the step down unit- the big move from the PCICU that would transition Sam from being a hospital baby to being ready to come home.