You want to WHAT?!

Submitting to my wonderful OBGYN’s hints that it was time for me to move on and bother another doctor recommendation to see a specialist, I finally went to an appointment today with an expert in wound healing: a plastic surgeon.

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. I was afraid he would say that there was nothing he could do, however my OBGYN had indicated that he might be able to cut away the bad scar tissue in the shape of a vertical eye, and sew me back up again, much nicer than before, so I think I was hoping for that. I even glanced at my calendar on my way out, to see what day next week would work best for us.

The plastic surgeon seemed like a good doctor – young, intelligent, friendly, confident – much like my OBGYN. After pulling out a couple of stitches that had made their way up, out of my abdomen, and were poking out of my skin (I know, right?! I mean, really?!) and inspecting my wound, he however gave me some pretty bad news: he can’t do anything until I am 100% and beyond healed, which will take at least six months.

Six months of looking like a freak?

Sigh.

And I won't even be here in six months, so it will be more like in a year.

Double sigh.

But then he told me the good news: when I come back in six months or a year (even better, he said) he will give me a full tummy tuck, getting rid of the scar entirely. Our insurance will pay for it, because of my wound history. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even sure what a tummy tuck was, and his brief description did not entice me, since surgery right now isn’t exactly at the top of my Things I Want To Do list. But then on my way home I thought about it and how nice it would be not to have to look at this huge, ugly scar all the time. I texted a friend who also has carried and given birth to four children, and her response made me think that maybe it’s not the worst outcome, “A tummy tuck?! You are SO LUCKY!! I want one too!!!” In fact, I thought, if you ask any woman who bears the marks of multiple pregnancies on her abdomen, “How would you like for me to give you a 25-year old’s tummy again?” a lot of them would probably answer in the positive. Then I ran into another friend who made all kinds of exciting exclamations when she heard my plastic surgeon’s name. Apparently he’s quite famous in the region, and people come from abroad all the time just to have him operate on them.

So maybe it’s fine.

What would you do?

Cyprus: veni, vidi, vici!

I was a little nervous; about checking in, about going through passport control, about renting a car, getting to Nicosia, managing to pay the passport fee at a bank, finding the embassy... Once we got to the airport and through passport control however, I relaxed. This time I came armed with a residence card for Max and his father’s signature, and was allowed to leave with him - without my master/husband.

The flight went well, as did the car rental. There was a moment there, however. Did you know that in Cyprus, people drive on the left side? Well, I didn't. Thanks for adding that, there, God. As if the whole trip wasn't challenging enough. I am very grateful for my friend, who so nicely came with me for practical and moral support, because driving alone on the left side with a baby - who hates car seats - in a car seat in the backseat would have been... stressful. It took both of our full concentration to navigate from Larnaca to Nicosia; my friend did the actual practical steering of the car, while I directed, “OK, to turn right, you have to turn all the way over to the other side. There, aim for that phone booth! You need to drive right past that sign! Stay on the left side! Here, over here! [gesticulating] Turn around the corner here, and follow the curb.” It really was a work for two. When we finally arrived at the hotel in Nicosia, it was late; we were both exhausted and extremely wound up at the same time. After check-in we went out for some food: pork kebab, tzaziki, taramasalata, Greek bread - and then headed to bed. 

I hadn't slept very well, still a bit anxious to get the paperwork done in the morning, but everything went well. I applied for Max’ Swedish citizenship and a new passport for myself. The Swedish embassy on Cyprus is really small, and the personnel was very friendly and helpful. We were done and back at our hotel room a bit after 10 am, leaving some time for a rest and packing before check out.

Our flight was leaving in the evening, which left us an entire afternoon to visit IKEA (we enjoyed some Swedish food and I bought wine glasses) and go to the beach. It was crowded – a lot of Swedes and Norwegians, burned like lobsters, drinking beer and swimming in the sea – but the sand was soft and the water fresh. Even Max got to dip his little feet in the water. For supper we tried finding a nice restaurant in Larnaca, but ended up driving to the airport and grabbing a bite there. We were both tired and wanted to make sure we had no problems getting home. When we successfully returned the car without a scratch, my friend and I high-fived and hugged from joy and relief. The rental guy looked at us funny. What an adventure.

It was such a short trip, but it felt long, probably because of the stress, and it was great to come home. I walked in the house with sandy feet and a big smile, and Abraham yelled at me for going to the beach without him, but the Swedish candy I had brought quickly made up for it.

My new passport will not arrive for another couple of weeks – it should arrive before we leave for the US, but of course I’m a bit nervous about this – and my VISA interview at the US embassy is tomorrow. I’m praying that they will not give me a hard time and deny/delay my VISA because of my passport situation. We’re anxious to start our adventures, and in light of recent events (the rocket hits), we’d like to leave as scheduled. Wish me luck!

It's always five o'clock somewhere

It’s one of those days where I find myself cleaning up after breakfast around 11 am – hours after anything was consumed - dead tired. How do they make such a mess every time they eat? When I – to the soundtrack of yelling kids and a fussing baby - put the almost warm milk back in the fridge (hoping it has not gone bad), I find myself eyeing the chilled cooking wine in the door. Oh sweet release.

***

I didn’t *really* consider having a drink of course, but I thought it would be funny to write (if I ever got a moment); it’s the kind of thing other blogging mothers of lots of kids write at times when things get a little too crazy...

Four boys

You are not hearing from me much, because this baby will not let me put him down. As soon as I place him anywhere – a chair, my bed, his cot, in the car seat - no matter how asleep he is, he will cry within minutes. In someone’s arms, he is the happiest baby ever. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a strong advocate of baby holding/carrying, but sometimes I just need my hands, you know, to help the other boys, or go to the bathroom, and although the boys are always volunteering to sit and hold the baby, sometimes this defeats the purpose if I’m for example putting Max down so that I can help them with their school work.

Abraham has been a little more demanding than usual these past couple of weeks as well. He’s generally so independent that sometimes it’s easy to – almost – forget about him, but he obviously still needs me; not enough mommy-time is reflected in his behavior. As for the older boys – they’ve been the center of attention a bit lately since we’ve been trying to catch up on school and get them motivated to work among all the distractions. It’s difficult, I know – how can you work when a cuddly little cutie is yelling for you to hold and kiss him all day long? - but they’re getting better at it.

Our perfectly constructed paperwork plan, our beautiful card house

Last week our little baby’s passport was finally ready, and my husband went to pick it up. As soon as I had it in my hand, I purchased tickets for myself and baby to go to Cyprus. No, not as in “Yay, vacation time!” tickets, but as in, “Next step in the paperwork process” tickets. You see, the Swedish embassy in Lebanon and Syria is located in Damascus, and for obvious reasons, this embassy has been closed since, you know, things got heated in Syria. Now, because I only have a Swedish passport and because next time I enter the US I will want to stay for more than the three months the regular visa waiver program allows, I have to apply for a visa before we can leave for the US, and to get a visa, I need a passport that is valid for the entire visa period. My passport is due to expire at the end of this summer. 

In short; I need a new passport before I can get a visa, which I need before we can leave for the US. 

And to go get a new passport, I had to wait for the baby to be born, because remember how I’ve basically been on bedrest since before Christmas? And then once the baby was born I had to wait for him to get a passport, because obviously, I could’t travel without him. 

Once he had a passport I set up my trip to Cyprus, and then I went ahead and applied for a US visa, paid for the application and got my visa interview (which can’t be changed). You see, it will take up to three weeks for me to get my passport, and there was a three and a half week wait list for the visa interview, so I would have my new passport just in time for the interview- and then I would get my visa in time for us to leave for the US as planned. It was going to work out perfectly.

Until this morning.

Last week when we got our baby’s passport we asked the university to get his residence permit sorted so that he could travel with me. (I remembered from our time in Cairo that it was very important the baby had an entry stamp in his passport to leave, even though he was born in Egypt, because they had just had some problems with adoption fraud.) Our AUB representative said however that there was no time to get the residence permit sorted before our departure because of the holidays last week, but that I could just bring our baby’s birth certificate and passport, and that I would be fine to travel like that. So I didn’t postpone our trip and this morning I got up at 4:30 am, nursed the baby, changed my wound and took a taxi to the airport.

Check-in went well but I was stopped at the passport control and ushered into a smoky, 60’s style office. Bare dirty walls, and a big poster of Hariri with Arabic writing on it. They asked about the father of the baby. Did he know I was traveling with the baby? At first I thought, “Surely they’ll let me go in the end. I mean, I have the birth certificate right here, stating in very offical Arabic writing that I am the mother of this child.” Soon it became obvious however that they were not concerned about the baby being mine. The rules and regulations they were following were clearly designed to prevent women from leaving their husbands with their children. “Only the father can go with the child,” the security official told me. I was informed that there was a stamp that I could get at the general security building downtown, which would allow me to travel with the baby. I showed them the birth certificate, and explained to them that I really had to go – that I had been told I could. I would be right back tomorrow. They said that they had no problem with me leaving, but I couldn’t take the baby. This statement seemed just ridiculous to me. The baby would have to come with me, since I’m his mom, right? He needs me, if nothing else physically to survive. Literally. So what were they suggesting? That I leave the baby? I couldn’t believe they were serious. Oh but they were. At some point, I found that I had stopped thinking they were just giving me a hard time, and realized that they were not going to let me leave. I felt a little like Sally Field’s character in Not Without my Daughter in that dirty, bare security office – not allowed to leave the country with my child without the presence of my husband, the father, head of the family; the patriarch. My Sally Field moment. I still tried to argue though, but a superior and several pleas later, I was forced to go back through check-in, cancel my trip and return home.

Our perfect plan, our card house, has collapsed.

Planning for our junior research leave

Sometime during my pregnancy it came to our attention that my husband’s junior research leave was coming up, and that we needed to make plans for when and where we were going to spend this free vacation opportunity. We applied for a few fellowships and research stipends, but thought in reality that we had as much of a chance getting any extra money as we would have winning the lottery. So we started planning for a more frugal one semester visiting scholar position at a university close to family. Around the time the baby arrived we had set dates, connected with a good university, and looked into renting a home. We had also found someone to stay in our apartment for the four months we would be gone. Since we were only going to be away for one semester we didn’t have to move out, but could sublet, with our belongings remaining in the apartment.

Just when we were about to agree with a contact on renting his house near our university of choice, my husband received an e-mail from a reputable university in GA (to be disclosed later) offering him a one year paid fellowship. What? …What?!

Where do we start? First we had to get the approval from the university for a one year instead of a one semester leave. Then we had to sort out the housing situation, which worked out quite well – a visiting fellow at AUB will rent our apartment while we are gone, and we can have it back when we return. The only trouble is that we have to move out and put our belongings in storage while away.

We are currently trying to figure out how and where we can store our belongings.

We have no idea how we’re going to pack up this apartment in just a few weeks.

We are looking for a furnished house to rent near the fellowship university for 9 months. Not as easy as it sounds if your budget isn’t $2,700/month plus utilities.

Our family is searching for a used van that we can buy to use while in the US. I have absolutely no idea how to buy a car, get it registered and insured in the US, so thank God for family.

We are working on the paperwork needed for a family such as ours to relocate to the US for a year (more on this in a different post). You know how much I love paperwork.

We are in the process of buying tickets, with a return date over a year from now. Scary.

So there: stuff going on here, folks. Lots and lots of stuff.

Time and Money

You knew that eventually I would have to make this joke: 

Having a baby is like being in a casino; you lose track of time and money.

Days go by when I just barely manage, always a few steps behind. I sit down with the boys to start the school week on Monday morning, then the baby needs fed and changed, Abraham needs new clothes and a bath because he spent the morning playing with dirt watering plants on the balcony, then I make food, do laundry, and next time I look up, it’s Thursday evening, everyone’s hungry, there are no clean clothes, the house is a disaster, the boys are behind on their math, Abraham is muddy, the baby needs fed and changed, and I’m number 13 in line on the phone with the IRS.

I just wrote this, and suddenly it’s Friday evening. I’m telling you; it’s scary.

Whatever budget we used to maintain before this baby has been completely neglected pretty much since mid-March. Gauze, saline solution, and bandages are very expensive, as are diapers, wipes, and all the extra chicken I buy because I’m always craving protein. All the paperwork (birth certificates, translations, passports, transportation to and from the embassy, visa) has probably cost us more than $1000 alone. We have managed not to order in too much, but have not avoided it entirely. 

A couple of weeks ago my husband started hinting that maybe I felt well enough to start taking on jobs again, but really, I don’t even have time for everything that *has to* be done *right now* so sitting down to work has not exactly been an option. Now I’m starting to feel the pressure, however. 

Must. Get back. To work.

Out of this alive

I was actually starting to think that it would never happen, but by some miracle, over the past week and a half, we have managed to go from postnatal chaos to some form of routine again, entailing full school days and on time bedtime. I’m not sure how, to be honest, since nothing in particular has happened. We just... adjusted, I guess, and I regained some kind of control over our lives. Don’t get me wrong; there’s still chaos - it’s just not omnipotent, which means we get through most days in a – somewhat - similar fashion.

Mental note to self: after the birth of next baby, don’t worry about the chaos that follows birth. It will sort itself out.

Oh wait. There won’t be any more babies. Pheuw.

Happy birthday!

A little over a year ago, as you might recall, I started changing my eating and exercise habits to lead a healthier and more energetic life. I was reaching the end of my 30’s and decided that I wanted to run a marathon before I turned 40, and that I wanted to celebrate my 40^th birthday looking (and feeling) great, somewhere special, like on a beach or in Paris. Maybe my husband would even buy me jewelry? Turning 40 was going to be a big deal!

Ha.

I feel like I was putting a prom dress on, thinking I was going dancing, when I should have been getting my wet suit on, ready for an afternoon in the Red Sea!

Obviously, I didn’t end up running that marathon, and I’m as far from my ideal weight as I’ve ever been. I spent quite a portion of my 40^th birthday yesterday at the American embassy getting birth certificate and passport paperwork sorted, and as every day these days, I endured a session of unpleasant open wound care. I spent the rest of the day at home, inside. It was a rainy and windy day.

And guess what? It was a good day. I hugged my children, nursed a beautiful baby, kissed my husband, had some good food, cake and a glass of champagne. In light of what has happened over the past year, in the past months and what we are going to experience over the next year, turning 40 was nothing – no big deal. I mean, really; we have a new BABY! and I just survived a dangerous pregnancy and birth – a surgery. Plus we have some very exciting times coming up (I will tell you more about this soon).

Turning 40? Completely overshadowed. By life. And a great one at that.

Bottle feeding

As you know by now, we are total hippie parents: we practice exclusive breastfeeding, baby wearing, co-sleeping, etc. – all those annoying parenting techniques that are continuously discussed in media and commented on by experts, parents, doctors and anyone else with an opinion. As I’ve mentioned before, our motivation is not always exactly based on any ideological beliefs, but could perhaps be attributed to laziness.

In any case; our parenting style has meant that we’ve never had any baby bottles in our possession – we’ve never fed our babies formula, and we’ve never been in a situation where I’ve consistently had to pump milk to be fed to the baby in my absence. Until now, when I have to go to the hospital every day. It’s not like I’m gone for a long time – an hour and a little more at most – but we’ve learned that no matter how little time I’m going to be away, I should never leave the house without leaving some milk behind. Maybe it’s a preemie thing, or maybe it’s just normal at this age – I can’t remember – but it seems our baby wants to eat all the time, so even though I feed him right before I leave, he still seems to get hungry while I’m gone. We have a cheap hand pump that comes with a bottle, and it only takes me about 10 minutes to express 4 oz, so it’s not really any trouble (except after several days, my wrists are quite sore from squeezing the pump!). 

This morning I was gone exactly 50 minutes, and when I came home, Courtney had changed the baby’s diaper twice, fed him the whole bottle and lay with him until he fell asleep (until they both fell asleep, actually). He stayed asleep for almost two hours after I came home, leaving me time to clean up the house, vacuum, load the washer and dishwasher, make a big breakfast, and spend some time taking care of my neglected older boys (bangs were cut, clothes sorted, stories read, music discussed, etc.). It felt like cheating, somehow: baby was cared for, fed and put to sleep AND I had all that time to go to the hospital AND catch up on other things.

Extended newborn stage

Don’t get me wrong; although our baby’s preemie behavior sometimes worries me, I’m enjoying it to the fullest. The older boys so quickly turned into babies, but this time – not only are we already appreciating every moment more than ever, this being our fourth and last baby – we get to enjoy the newborn stage for a few extra moments. The cutest little sounds, movements, the tiny feet and hands, the curled up legs and arms, and that beautiful, innocent “fart-smile” as we call it, which is only an involuntary reflex, but oh so cute. All this usually vanishes between recovery, nursing, paper work and everything else that happens right after the baby is born, however now, we are blessed with an extended newborn stage. 

Silver lining. Extra sweet edition.

A minor setback

I’m really not sure what I said or did, but the surgeon I saw yesterday obviously has some kind of set idea of what kind of person I am. I came in with an infected, open wound in my abdomen, very tender to the touch. He had me lie down on a bed, exposed my wound, got some kind of blunt scissors instrument out, and said, “Maybe another patient I would give some local anesthetics, but I think you are fine?” (I’m adding that question mark there myself, hoping that he meant to pose this as a question, however in reality, there was no indication that he might be asking me, and actually, what followed pretty clearly suggests that he assumed I didn’t need numbing.) Without waiting for me to answer, he started tearing the rest of the wound open (yes, TEARING, with his instrument), and cleaning it out with hydrogen peroxide (which STINGS!) and gauze, all the while instructing his students, hovering around me, to not “be afraid to make contact,” (Ahh! You’re RUBBING the INSIDE of me!) and exclaiming, “Yes, this bleeding is healthy because it means the tissue is viable.” (you’re making me BLEED?!) My moans and silent protests were ignored. Eventually my surgeon was satisfied with his students’ reactions and questions/answers and covered my wound with gauze (wet-to-dry).

Imagine, I get to go through this EVERY DAY for the next 10 days to 3 weeks (at which point, hopefully, it will have healed enough that it can be permanently closed). I’m hoping that as the infection goes away, my wound will be less sore and it won’t hurt as much.

As bad as it is though, I like my surgeon’s attitude. He called my wound opening up a “minor setback,” especially with my “special case” in mind, and “considering other possible outcomes.” (Oh, you mean, like, death?)

Can't. Catch. Up.

To be honest, since the birth, I haven’t been able to do much of anything besides taking care of my body – and only in the most basic way, as in ‘change my wound dressing, drink water, take medication and sleep’ – and taking care of the baby. Everything else – the older boys’ bedtime, daily routines, rooms, clothes & shoes (I just noticed that Abraham’s sandals (the only pair of shoes he owns) are too small AND broken!), hygiene, nutrition, school - has deteriorated and/or got out of control, and what little I am able to get done between gauze changes and nursing, is more like damage control. I feel like I'm always two steps behind.  

Except for on days like these, when I feel like I'm three or even four steps behind.

I've been redressing my open wound every day, following doctor's orders and doing quite well, if I may say. When I got an infection above the open wound last week, I took antibiotics, and it seemed like it was getting better. This morning when I woke up however, the incision above the wound had opened up and was oozing pus. Followed another afternoon in the ER and a visit with the surgeon who worked with my OBGYN during the surgery.

The good news is that it can only get better from here on, since all that could go wrong in the healing process pretty much went wrong between the surgery and now. The bad news is that it's going to be another 2-3 weeks until I'm healed, and in the meantime, I have to go see the doctor once/day, every day.

Thank God for a helpful husband, great friends, and lots of summer days to make up the lost school work.

A preemie thing?

Our sweet baby - 3 weeks old today - is still a little yellow, but is eating really well, sleeping and pooping/peeing. He’s so very fetus-like to me; he really doesn’t do much else that these basic three things, and he’s all curled up all the time. I don’t feel like he’s very aware or in control of anything

either; everything he does is either an unintentional reflex (he is a noisy sleeper, and moves, squirms, twitches and jerks a lot – although when I touch him he seems to gain some control and stops), or by instinct (like rooting for a breast or sucking, and waking up to feed). It’s hard to explain what exactly I’m expecting him to do at this point, but there’s something slightly different about him compared to my other boys when they were a couple of weeks old. I haven’t looked much into it, but I’m hoping these are all part of a normal preemie behavior. (He does turn his head towards exciting noises and light, which I guess is a sign of… something.)

He does still have another week before he was supposed to be born – perhaps after his due date he will act more like a (newborn) baby?

Still struggling

I still have a disturbingly large hole in my lower abdomen that I have to stuff with fresh wet gauze every day and cover with an oversized band aid. My open wound is definitely smaller than it was when the staples were first removed, however this week I had another setback when my incision site got infected. I developed a fever, chills, my scar got red, swollen and tender, and the discharge… changed (I will spare you the details here). My doctor put me on antibiotics. I’ve spent the past few days trying to recover from this, wondering what else – possibly - can go wrong.