Flotsam

After the 800th commenter swore that she would sell her grandmother for a Miracle Blanket, I hied myself to the website and ordered two. My baby adores a swaddle, and I got a bit nervous when a nurse mentioned that once I am home I will only be able to swaddle Simone below the arms, because swaddling with her arms in and the blanket up to her neck is a SIDS hazard. Apparently babies can wriggle the blanket loose, get it over their face, and suffocate themselves. (Incidentally, between the catching fire and the suffocation, is anyone else getting the impression that babies are awfully accident-prone?) But unless Simone ties one end to a crib slat with her teeth and barrel rolls in the opposite direction, that Miracle Blanket isn’t going anywhere. She’s trapped! Just as nature intended.

I had so much fun reading through your comments and making my list of pre-homecoming essentials. I tried to sneak “pedicure” and “Nikon D40” onto said list, but Scott objected. (Of course with May 26th approaching, he has been trying to convince me that year one is “The Playstation 3 anniversary,” so he is not arguing from a position of strength). What your comments made especially clear is that I will need two or three hundred cloth diapers per baby-orifice, and probably I should just plan on scattering them liberally around the apartment to mop up any stray fluids. Your sling recommendations were helpful as well—I got a Baby Ktan (quite like a Moby-wrap-for-dummies), and it sounds like the Kangaroo Korner fleece pouch might be worth a look, irksome misspelling of “corner” notwithstanding.
Anyhow, I am in a much better position than I was last week, when a nurse asked whether I had “one of those vibrating chairs” for Simone yet, and if so, could I bring it in? and I thought she meant an infant-sized leather massage chair from Hammacher Schlemmer Baby or something. In my defense, I didn’t realize that bouncy-seats vibrated—I thought they were simply a spring-loaded receptacle in which to place the baby while you answer the phone or use the bathroom, a receptacle that you may “bounce” with your foot if you are so inclined. I had much to learn. Of course I do realize that all Simone really needs is a boob and my love and a dresser drawer lined with rags (well, besides her oxygen tank) but it’s lovely to finally, finally feel safe enough to shop for a carseat and mentally arrange nursery furniture.

Speaking of which, we got a call two days ago from our landlord, indicating that our new apartment was nearing completion. We picked up the keys today and start moving tomorrow, and also, we need to have our current place emptied and cleaned by Tuesday morning at nine. So, guess what I’m doing this weekend? If you guessed “moving,” you’re only half right—full credit goes to those of you who added “hyperventilating in the dark recesses of a closet.”

Of course the other thing I am doing this weekend is walking in the March of Dimes March of for Babies with Simone’s fabulous nurses. I suppose this means the babies will be all alone in the NICU, throwing a wild party ($3 cover, must be under 37 weeks, the breastmilk will flow like wine). The March is on Sunday, and this morning my iGoogle weather gadget displayed a picture of a christless SNOWFLAKE for that day. “Rain and snow showers,” they say. On the day of our noble four mile walk to keep babies alive! Really, April? Is that how you want to be remembered? As a babykiller? Let’s have a little sunshine. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN.

I must admit, I am exhausted. The last few days were harder to handle than some of our other NICU catastrophes (collect them all!) because things had been going so well. Simone had come off the high flow and was on a regular nasal cannula. Her ROP was improving in one eye and stable in the other. She had a negative MRSA swab. She was awake more, goggling at the world, and she was starting to learn to breastfeed. One of her nurse practitioners had called to say goodbye before leaving on a three-week vacation, figuring that by the time she returned, Simone would likely be discharged.

When I left Wednesday evening the oxygen was on the lowest setting, and I was making a mental list for a planned IKEA trip to buy SVARSLIGS and such for the—gulp—nursery. The next morning, I ran an errand, arriving at the NICU around 10. All hell had broken loose, in the form of seven severe spells of apnea overnight, one of which required Simone to be manually bagged. This was extremely uncharacteristic. Simone is, in the words of her medical team, “very mature” neurologically. While in a 16-year-old this might manifest itself in inappropriate crushes on professorial types, in Simone’s case it means she holds her own pacifier, interacts with people, roots and latches, and—more to the point—doesn’t forget to breathe. Her apneic spells have been mild and related to her (dreadful) reflux.
It would have been lovely to get a phone call in the night when the wheels first came off, but bygones—Simone had been returned to the high flow nasal cannula and a septic workup had been started. A nurse practitioner—not one of Simone’s regulars—came to talk to me, and within 45 seconds I was in tears.

Quoth she:
•Simone could have an infection, but she may simply have gotten tired from her two days on the regular cannula, showing us that she failed her trial off the high flow.
•If she can’t come off the high flow, I should be prepared to hear about a tracheostomy.
•Her lungs don’t look that bad on x-ray, so there may be a problem with her airway instead, like tracheomalacia. Probably she should have a bronchoscopy next week.
•Also, looking at her growth charts, her weight seems to have plateaued. She was only at 3% on the preemie charts before, and now she’s straying from that curve.
•Probably that means she is expending too many calories breathing, and hey, have you met my friend, MR. TRACHEOSTOMY?
•Of course there is also the possibility she’ll need a G-tube, which would help her get the nutrition she needs without losing as much energy.
•But we have a good FOUR TO SIX WEEKS to think about all that.
•Now, how about a nice lumbar puncture?

I was overcome. How did we go from “hurry up and find a car seat” to “buy stock in home medical equipment?”

I try not to cry in front of the nurses and doctors, because I find they are more likely to keep you completely and honestly informed if they don’t think you’ll fall apart at the mere suggestion of unpleasantness. But this time I couldn’t seem to get myself under control. Silence was the best I could do; I stood in my sterile gear for the spinal tap, tears streaming into my mask.
Simone didn’t respond well to the Morphine, so they gave her a dose of Narcan and the nurse practitioner reached over and turned her high flow up to three liters. A hissing sound filled the room, and I thought “I don’t remember high flow being that loud. How quickly we forget!” Two more doses of Narcan and half an hour later, as Simone continued to falter, it was discovered that the hissing sound was her oxygen escaping. When she reached for the dial, the NP had disconnected a tube. At that point I wanted to kick the whole world in the shins, but instead I watched as a sweet, nervous nursing student attempted to eke a few drops of spinal fluid from my daughter. With a needle. In her spine.
Simone’s CRP came back elevated, indicating infection, and she was started on IV antibiotics. They weren’t able to get enough urine for a urinalysis, just a few drops for culture. I went home and slept like a dead thing.

By yesterday Simone seemed noticeably better, though her cultures were coming up negative. Our favorite NP—one who is especially fond of Simone—had taken over her care. I accosted her immediately and rattled off what I had been told by Wednesday’s NP. My side of the conversation can be summed up like this: WTF???? Her side was more helpful.

Quoth she:
•It doesn’t make sense that Simone simply tired out and “failed” the regular cannula. If that were the case, her O2 needs would have been creeping up rather than going down consistently before the Night of the Seven Spells. The apnea was probably due to a UTI. Even though nothing grew on the culture, the fact that her urine was cloudy, that her CRP was up, and that she began to improve dramatically with antibiotics is suggestive.
•There is no reason to believe that Simone will be unable to come off the high flow and need a tracheostomy. It is possible, yes, but not probable.
•There is no evidence that there is anything wrong with Simone’s airway. Her known reflux is much more likely to be a cause of intermittent spells than is a floppy airway.
•Simone’s weight hasn’t “plateaued.” She is recovering from busy weeks transitioning to a crib and off the ventilator. G-tube schmee-tube.

As you can imagine, I liked this conversation rather more than its counterpart from the previous day. I am trying not to be upset about the communication breakdown, the (undoubtedly well-meaning) alarmism, the DISCONNECTED OXYGEN TUBING—and for the most part I am succeeding, mostly because my relief doesn’t leave room for much else. Simone’s CRP has started to go down with antibiotics, and she has had virtually no spells since Thursday morning. She is on high flow with room air, and was active and googly-eyed this morning, the cotton batting securing her scalp IV perched atop her head like a fancy Parisian hat. I don’t understand how it is possible to have a bladder infection without a positive culture, but then I can’t do cartwheels or like physics either: some things remain beyond me.

That’s all for now. More as events warrant.

Thursday I signed onto my checking account and found my money missing. “J’accuse!” shrilled the minus sign before my balance, and I scrolled through my transactions in a panic. How had this happened? The $200 in overdraft fees lovingly applied by my bank hadn’t helped, but it appeared the real culprit was a mysterious transfer to an unfamiliar account. The account number was followed by the initials CA—California? Was someone in California stealing my money? Squirreling away my hard-earned nickels to spend on organic produce and Mystic Tan sessions?

The next hour was a busy one, what with all the tears, confused phone calls, and flushes of shame and futility. I could chronicle every excruciating second, but why keep you in suspense? Somebody was siphoning money from my account into their own: Me.

To explain, I must take you BACK IN TIME, all the way to LAST WEEK. If I cast my mind back to this forgotten era, I can remember that my bank was located in the same building as my office, some 25 minutes from my apartment. Having just officially(!) resigned(!) from my job, I decided to open a new checking account ( “CA”) at a bank closer to home. I transferred money from my old account to open the new one, and then…I promptly forgot about it.

Did I redirect my automatic withdrawals to the new account? No, of course not! Did I retain any memory of opening the account at all? Well, sort of, in that I kept checking the mail for my new debit card, but I failed to recall both 1) that actual money had been required to set up the account, and 2) the provenance of said funds.

I have never screwed myself more efficiently. Following years of subtler, more complicated self-sabotage, the directness ought to be refreshing. At least that’s what I told myself as I kissed my money goodbye.

Happily, the next day was much better:

After more than two months of lolling about in her own filth, Simone had her first bath.

She loved it. I loved it. One of her favorite nurses held her upright while I washed her slippery little limbs (Simone’s limbs), and at one point I started to giggle—I think it was while utilizing what appeared to be a hospital-issue Barbie comb.
“This is the most fun I have had…Well, ever.”

After the bath, I dried Simone with a warmed blanket and dressed her in one of those snap-laden garments all the babies are wearing. Where did all this snapping take place, you ask?
Oh, just in her CRIB.
Yes! A crib! All open to the air, and whatnot, so that I can rush over and touch her whenever I feel the need. Don’t mind me—it’s just your mother, rubbing your fat little belly.

Excuse the tardiness of my epiphany, but OH MY GOD. I have a baby.

Simone seems to be doing well, and I have an hour to myself, so I feel it is time to tell you a tale of latent homosexuality, alcohol abuse, and truly hideous red and white tile—also known as the story of how we came to be moving at the end of this month.
Yes, we are moving. Again. For the third time in two years. You may remember my previous moves, in which case you are probably asking yourself one of three questions:
1. What is wrong with these people?
2. Is her antidepressant prescription up to date?
3. No, really—what is wrong with these people?

The answers are 1. I don’t know, god help me; 2. Thankfully, yes; and 3. This is the last time we move until we buy a house, and if I have to sit on a toilet for two years to ensure that, well, so be it. Those of you who have not been reading as long may be wondering “Has Alexa started packing?” or “Does Alexa have time to pack?” and the answer to both of those is “No,” followed by a hollow laugh.
(Those of you who asked yourself no questions, instead making a snide comment about gauchos: VERY GODDAMN FUNNY).

Anyway. Last fall we got new upstairs neighbors. Almost immediately, the noise began—just after bar close, around 2:30 in the morning, mostly in the form of incredible thumps and crashes that shook our ceiling and were often accompanied by raucous laughter. This went on every weekend for some time, and around Christmas it started to unhinge my poor husband. I wasn’t delighted by it either, but as mentioned before, confrontation is not my strong suit, and it seemed easier to put up with being occasionally startled awake. I tried to see the bright side: attempting to figure out what on earth they were doing up there was a diverting puzzle that kept me occupied during many a nocturnal bathroom trip.

The obvious explanation was cow tipping. The tenants were two young men from Wisconsin in their early to mid twenties, boys who appeared unaware that they had left the perpetual keg party of college and entered the real world. Or perhaps they were confusing the real world with the television show of the same name. Anyway, my cow tipping theory, though it explained the window-rattling WHUMPs, was ultimately disproven when we found out what was really going on: drunk, shirtless wrestling.

I can’t remember exactly when we made this discovery, but it was after several calls to the building manager and multiple visits by the police. Our neighbors’ continued devotion to the sport baffled me. A few days after I was released from the hospital, I stormed upstairs at three a.m., my dislike of conflict temporarily overcome by roiling post-partum hormones and the fact that Scott’s endless hand-wringing about our living situation was getting on my very last nerve. One of the ruffians, Clompy—so named because he wears the world’s loudest cowboy boots—answered the door, weaving. As he slurred his apology, I looked past him to where his roommate sat, sans shirt, on a piece of furniture that had been pushed against the wall. Our building is a small, quiet one, its 12 apartments populated primarily by bookish types and professionals. These hoodlums had been warned, repeatedly, that further complaints would result in eviction, and yet nothing—not Scott, not the law, not my barrage of subliminal Brokeback jokes—could induce them to quit writhing intoxicated before a crowd of braying friends.

Eventually the inevitable happened. They were booted, and no-doubt fearing a repeat of my husband’s wrathful 2 a.m. phone calls with another tenant, the building’s owner offered us their top-floor apartment. Upon touring it, however, I declined. Our current apartment is Fancy. The apartment above has the same footprint and identical living/dining/bed rooms, but the kitchen and bath were horrifying, with outdated cabinetry, bizarre layouts, and the most revolting red-and-white-checkered linoleum I have ever seen. Not that I am a red-and-white-checkered linoleum connoisseur or anything, but trust me: it was unlivable. However when I explained this to the owner, he offered to completely renovate the wrasslers’ apartment, tearing up the linoleum, refinishing the hardwood floors, and installing all new granite countertops, bathroom tile, cabinetry, sinks, and toilet.

I have always wanted to have something renovated, and being able to do so without paying any of the money, doing any of the work, or absorbing any of the inconvenience of having my home ripped asunder was too great an enticement to resist. Besides, after the winter I have had, there is something appealing about a fresh start. A nice archaeologist couple has rented our apartment for May 1st, and we move the last week of April.
April being, of course, the month we are in now.

Is deciding to move just before my daughter comes home from the hospital (insert paranoid genuflection here) a form of postpartum psychosis, do you think? Or am I psychotic LIKE A FOX?