Letter 43: Little Baby #2, Driving Myself to the Doctor with Contractions 3 Minutes Apart

Dear Elizabeth,

             Despite all my trips and adventures, nothing compared with the adventure of having my little baby girl, Hope.

            When I finished writing to you in the first book, I was about six months pregnant and not sure how the birth was going to go.  I imagined some pretty interesting scenarios, but once again, life surprised me by being more unusual than I could have imagined.

 

            When Daniel was born, he was a week overdue.  My body did not ever go into labor on its own, so I had to be induced.  It made sense to expect that such would be the case with the second one as well.

            It seems your Grandpa Brian was expecting to have that time to work with.  He had found a patch of mold in the back room that we had used as storage for our things while we were overseas and the house was being rented.  As it was going to be the baby’s room, he knew he would have to take that portion of the wall down and re-drywall it to get rid of the mold problem.

            However, when he went into the crawl space under the house, and then when he did take the wall down, he found that the mold problem wasn’t nearly as small or simple as he had hoped.  The mold was extensive, and some of it was black mold, which is dangerous for pregnant mothers and new babies.

            So, we moved out to live with Brian’s Grandma for awhile, and Brian spent a great deal of time at the house trying to fix the problem. 

            Things just kept getting more complicated.  He realized that to fix the mold under the house, he would have to fix the yard, which was a swamp for months out of the year.  To fix the swamp, he could either hire someone and spend thousands of dollars, or he could dig trenches himself and create an elaborate piping system to drain the yard.

            It was no surprise that my brilliant husband with his engineering brain decided to work on the project himself.

            As usual, it turned out a bigger and more difficult project than anticipated.  Days dragged into weeks.  Equipment he was renting broke down more than once.  Other responsibilities came up to compete for his time.

            Meanwhile I was struggling with gestational diabetes, a huge belly, and my legs were starting to hurt.  A lot.

            I knew that meant my potassium was low, so I tried to eat more foods that contained potassium, but it didn’t seem to help.

            Finally, after getting several high blood sugar readings as well, I called the doctor.  I felt badly doing so.  Didn’t want to be a big whiner.

            I figured the doctor would just pass over it, like most of my doctors had done with my symptoms.  So I was surprised when she said I needed to come in that very day.

            The high-risk doctor I was seeing was an hour and a half drive away.  I’d been going there every week, sometime driving myself there while having contractions three minutes apart.  They had already sent me to the hospital a couple of times because of the contractions, to make sure I wasn’t going into labor.  I never was, and it sure got old having all these random strangers checking me in places I didn’t want to be checked! 

            Just so you know, Elizabeth, all your dignity goes out the window once you’re pregnant.

            I got to the hospital that time, expecting to stay a few hours or maybe overnight.  They took blood and went to run tests, the usual stuff.

            This time, however, the doctor returned to let me know I had critically low potassium.  The nurse told me that in all her time at the hospital, she’d only seen one other person with a number lower than mine.  I got a lecture on the fact that if it gets too low, you have a heart attack and die.

            Who knew?

            So they started pumping me up with meds.  Apparently if the potassium is that low, it has to be replaced by IV, which burns terribly and is very painful (or it might have been the magnesium--they were pumping me up with both by IV).  One nurse told me she just cries when she has to give it to a patient because she knows it hurts so much.  I cried too.  In fact, over the course of the next two weeks, I would cry many, many times when they couldn’t get my levels up and had to keep giving it to me that way.

            They also kept checking me for pre-eclampsia, which is when your blood pressure spikes and you swell up a lot, and I’m not sure, but you might explode.  Not really, but you’re so swollen it feels that way.  (Actually, you might end up having seizures that could kill you, but nobody told me that.)

            I was very, very swollen, and had been for weeks.  But they kept checking my blood pressure and saying it was in the normal range.  Only they didn’t take into account that my blood pressure is usually very low . . .

           To Be Continued . . .

Letter 42: Coconut Milk and a Sinking Boat (Yes, I was in it!)

 Dear Elizabeth,

(By the way, if you're new to the blog, Letters to Elizabeth is my memoir for a future granddaughter, written back when I wasn't sure if I was going to make it and did not want to leave all our wonderful adventures untold. Besides, it's a great way to keep the stories organized! =))

   

           And then there was the unforgettable day when several of us went to a tribal village festival.  First we had to take a ferry across the river.  Then after a bit of a hike, we got into a little boat for a ride down to the festival.  I love riding in open-air boats.  I think water is one of God’s most delightful creations, and love being on it or near it or even just close enough to listen to it.

            On the way, we passed a man bathing or swimming in the river, with his cow! 

            Once we arrived at the festival, we had no desire to be the center of attention, but it couldn’t be helped.  Our white faces unmistakably stand out, like when you accidentally get an onion ring in your carton of french fries, or if you had one yellow M & M in a bag full or red ones.  We were ushered under the canopy to the only chairs available, and despite our protests, were instructed to sit there in the place of honor. 

            We got to watch two little girls do a traditional tribal dance, and I don’t remember what else they did except one guy played on an electric keyboard, which didn’t seem very tribal-ish to me.  But I do distinctly remember being served coconut milk.

            If you haven’t heard of it before, coconut milk is the juice inside the coconut.  It looks like really watered-down skim milk with white chunks floating in it.  Doesn’t look very appealing.  However, it is free for people with coconut trees, so is a popular drink in tropical areas.  They even make coconut milk popsicles to sell on the side of the road.  I’ve never had the desire to try one of those.

            That day the coconut milk was not cold at all.  It was likely fresh, and warm, as everything was on that hot day.  If they had the option of ice cubes, we couldn’t enjoy any because of the water being bad.  (My whole two years there, all our water had to be boiled.  Whenever we went somewhere, we had to take bottled water with us because we could never drink what was offered to us.  I didn’t like that, but I liked the idea of being sick as a dog even less.)

            For perhaps 100 guests at the festival, there were 4 glasses on a tray, with a pitcher of drink.  The tray was brought to us, and I was deeply thankful then for being the guests of honor, so we got to drink out the glasses before everyone else shared them.  I managed to get down a swallow or two of the warm, chunky liquid, enough to show respect but not enough to throw up (which would not have shown respect).

            On the way home, riding again in the little boat, we noticed our feet were getting wet.  There was a leak somewhere.  Little by little, each person in the boat noticed that the water inside the boat was rising.  We pointed this out to the man who was paddling.  He kept paddling.

            Where we supposed to do something?  Bail?  With what?

            Finally we saw our destination, and hoped rather fervently that the boat would refrain from sinking entirely before we arrived.  Our paddler had increased his pace despite his calm, uncaring demeanor, and I think he was as relieved as we were to finally pull up on shore.  We hadn’t had to swim after all. 

            Not that a swim wouldn’t have been refreshing on such a warm, tropical day, but remembering the bathing cow, as well as the villagers staring all along the riverbank, it seemed the day had been full enough. 

           

Freedom Isn't Free--Memorial Day 2012

Dear Elizabeth,

You come from a long Military heritage. Both my grandfathers were in World War II, my father was in Vietnam--then stayed in the Navy for 22 years, and my husband spent 6 years in the National Guard. He disabled land mines. I'm very glad that's not his day job now!

Back in World War II, war seemed a black and white thing. There were the bad guys and the good guys, and our country jumped in to fight for what was right.

In Vietnam, television brought the war into people's living rooms, and showed the world that war is never so simple.

Elizabeth, whatever your views about a certain conflict and our involvement in it, always honor those who give themselves to serve our country. My dad came home from Vietnam, after eleven months living the horrors of war, to people who protested and screamed and even spit on those who had risked their lives. There are names etched into the Vietnam War Memorial that are not just names to him. I remember as a child seeing that memorial. It was the first time I ever saw my dad cry.

No matter how you feel about where we fight and why, if someone joined the service to do just that--serve our country, then in my opinion that person is a hero. Bullet holes don't make heroes. Unselfish service does.

But you will learn, Elizabeth, that one terrible truth about war is that regardless of ideals or intentions, on each side are evil people who use war as an excuse to let their own violent desires run rampant. Also on each side are those who are innocent, who become victims simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And on each side, heroes are made out of ordinary men and women placed into extraordinary situations, who rise to the challenge and endure to triumph.

I don't know what the world will be like by the time you are thinking of such things, but I doubt it will be any closer to utopia than it is now. There will always be wars and rumors of wars. Until Jesus comes back to make things right, there will always be evil striving to conquer.

Today is the day we remember those who fought for our country, and give thanks for our freedom. I'm thankful I live in a land where I can worship God freely and openly. I'm thankful I can make choices for my own family, and can teach my children about truth. And I'm thankful for the men and women who sacrificed themselves so my generation could live free.

As Jesus said, there is no greater love than that a man lay down his life for his friends.

To all who served,
to all who live with the memories of those left behind,
to all who cry today because it is no holiday for you--
it is truly a day of remembrance of those who made the ultimate sacrifice,
I honor you
and I thank you.

Letter 41: A Stuck Van and an Amputated Leg (Warning--Gross!)

Dear Elizabeth,       

            Here’s another e-mail from a year later . . .

            Monday, 26 April 1999

            Yesterday we went out to the village of a guy who works for us.  It took over an hour to drive out to the ferry (It’s one you put the cars on and ride across, only big enough for maybe two buses and two vans) and then we had to wait over an hour because it was time for Namaj—Muslim prayers.  So we rode a little boat and took lots of pictures and watched the kids playing in the water.

            After the ferry came across we drove another forty-five minutes through villages and rice fields and rice fields and rice fields.  Finally, we got to the house and ate inside his mud home, then took pictures of the congregated village outside the door.

            On the way back our van got stuck in the road!  We laughed so hard because we had joked about getting stuck on the way over in the same spot, where the sand wasn’t packed down. 

Well, then this wedding van came toward us down the road—we could tell it was a wedding because there were roses taped to the van.  They couldn’t go because we were stuck and the road is just one lane.  

So they got out and watched us push the van (bet they’ve NEVER seen white girls do that!) and next thing we know this man is videoing us with his camcorder!  That guy’s wedding is sure going to be memorable!  It was so funny. 

            We got home six hours after we had left, by then nice and sweating, but happy.  It was a fun trip.

            There were plenty of adventures to write home about.  Some I wasn’t so sure if I should tell my mom, like the time I was riding home in a rickshaw and saw a group of people standing in front of the medical college gate, staring.  (Anytime a group is staring, it’s usually worth stopping to find out why.)  I looked and didn’t see anyone fighting or starting a riot.  Kept looking.

            Then I saw it.  It was a leg.  A person’s leg.  Without the person.  Just a leg and a foot.  And a dog was sniffing at it.  Uck!

            I feel sorry for the poor guy inside who had his leg amputated, only to have some dog drag it out of the trash and around front for everyone to stare at!

            Funny thing was, it didn’t gross me out.  I just remember thinking, well, there’s something I haven’t seen before.

Not Complaining

Well, I'm off that latest med. So far, I've had tingling in my head, bad dreams, restless nights and my blood sugar going a little weird.

This would be the part where I'd be tempted to complain about how annoying it is to be changing this or that med, or feeling like I'm my own personal lab rat, or just being frustrated with having chronic health issues that are never going to go away.

However, what keeps coming to my mind is a funeral that a nearby church held this past Sunday. The woman, Lyn, was part of a ladies group I go to each month. Several months ago, when I was struggling with the fact of having the health issues for life, Lyn did the food for the group. She made an amazing dish and I admit I watched with envy at how much she did and just the fact that she could function in a way I could not.

Then as she walked past, someone mentioned to me that Lyn was a cancer survivor. Later I head her talk about the medication she was taking. Her cancer was a particular kind that almost always came back, but if she took this certain medicine, it would reduce the risk by 80%. However, some days it made her entire body hurt.

I was deeply convicted of my own selfish perspective. I was looking around me, assuming everybody was doing great and it wasn't fair that I had so many limitations.

Lyn's cancer did come back, and six weeks to the day of when she found out, she was gone.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately. Anytime death touches us, it reminds us to think wisely about the course we choose with what life we have, and we are not guaranteed tomorrow, so let's make today about what is most important.

Most of all, though, thinking of Lyn is filling me with an intense gratitude for my situation. I have health problems, yes, but none of them are life-threatening at present. I have medicine that helps with my symptoms. I can do a lot of activities that I enjoy. I get to stay home with my little girl. I get to write--the ministry I love the most. I have a wonderful husband and two fantastic children, an extended family that loves Jesus and a home among the Blue Ridge Mountains.

My life is wonderful. Really. I am so happy with the life God has given me. It is full to overflowing with blessing.

Today I choose to see it.

The Nightmares are Back

Remember that new medication I was trying, the one that was supposed to help with my insulin/low blood sugar issues? (If you're thinking of the one with the possible side effect of me growing a beard, yep, that's the one.) I started taking the regular dose and had horrible side effects, so I lowered it down to 1/4 of a dose, which had much less side affects but still did some good. On it, my every-3 hour eating schedule got about 15 minutes of leeway, and I could eat sugar free ice cream or cookies as my nighttime snack. Also, my regular headaches went away. Exciting stuff.

Well, just recently I've been noticing my blood pressure has dropped from it's normal 90/60 (low blood pressure and low blood sugar tend to come with Addison's Disease) to the 80s over 50s. Not good. I did some googling and found out that, yes, this new medication is also used to lower blood pressure.

So now I have to go off it. It's usually not fun going off any medication, but with this one in particular, I am noticing a return of a symptoms I hadn't realized this medication had fixed. My recurring nightmares.

I have regular, recurring dreams (but never, ever exact repeats) of several situations including:

Being in an elevator when it breaks and falls.
Being in an airplane that has to crash-land on a freeway.
Trying to rescue children during war time.
My husband taking a second wife (she's always blond!)
Having to go to the bathroom in front of people (what is up with that?)

As I'm tapering down on this medication, I've noticed them coming back. Now, if you feel like psychoanalyzing them you may decide I have issues with transportation, privacy, and the need to rescue helpless people in an international setting (no big surprise there).

However, all of these dreams have one thing in common: Stress. They are all stress-filled situations, and usually they are long dreams, like when I'm trying to rescue orphans, nobody will listen to my warnings, or people are going too slow, or the van won't start, etc.

Sleep is supposed to be restful, not stressful, but I'm guessing my low blood sugar issues have my body going a little haywire in the middle of the night and thus stressing both my body and my mind.

Maybe that's why I've ground my teeth all my life. I wear a mouth guard now, so I don't completely wear away my teeth, and so my husband can keep his sanity (apparently teeth grinding can be quite loud--who knew?). Oh, and it gives the added benefit of me not waking up with an entire side of my face in pain from clenching my jaw half the night. That's nice.

So now I go to sleep with my mouth guard and my ear plugs (I don't sleep very deeply, and the clock ticking next to my bed sounds very, very loud to me for some reason. Psychoanalyze that.), and I often expect to wake up pretty much as tired as I was when I went to bed (after all, I was rescuing orphans all night, or trying desperately to find a bathroom with a door on it).

At this point I'm trying to decide if not having really low blood pressure is worth it. (If any of you have any expert medical advice on the subject, I'm all ears. I couldn't find much that was helpful online on how dangerous really low blood pressure actually is.)

I'm also supposed to taper some off my steroids, but think I'll wait awhile on that--I'm just imagining the fun dreams I'd have going off both at the same time!

Letter 40: Married at age 12--can you imagine?

Dear Elizabeth,

            When I arrived in Bangladesh in early 1998, e-mail had just arrived there as well.  It had been big in America for years by then, but it took awhile to get all the way to Bangladesh.  The missionaries thought it was great.  I didn’t blame them, since they were used to sending letters which took two weeks to arrive, if they got there at all and didn’t get accidentally rerouted to Thailand or some other country.

            I’m not sure why, but my mom printed out the e-mails I sent her when I lived in Bangladesh and saved them in a drawer.  When I returned, she gave them to me.

            Most of them were full of the boring drivel that we call small talk, so I threw them away, but I did weed out some good stories and funny stories.  Like the day I traveled to a village and met a woman who had married at age 12.  I’ll let my e-mail tell the story . . .

            Wednesday, 8 April 1998

            A lady and I went to visit a family in a neighboring village.  We walked through the village with our heads covered and had a parade of children following us by the end of the day.  We got to the mud house (not as unsturdy as you’d think) and went in for tea—everybody has tea time here, that’s another great one when it’s hot, drinking hot tea. 

            Get this, the lady was married when she was twelve.  She now has seven daughters and a little boy.  Three of her daughters are already married, the oldest one being my age!  Yeesh, makes me feel like an old maid!

This wasn't the girl married off at age 12, but this was an arranged marriage--from the look on her face, you can get the idea that they're not exactly fun.

            I still remember that day and that woman, who looked so aged, though she couldn’t have been much older than me.  I was staring at her as if she had dropped from another planet until I realized that she was staring exactly the same way at me!  Guess it’s all about what you’re used to.

            Life Lesson:  Be thankful, Elizabeth, that you live in a country and culture that allows you to make choices, instead of one that will marry you off when you turn twelve years old--and likely to someone you've never even met!