Make that +1

Apparently there isn't a true consensus on the number of organs in the human body. The balance teeters on what defines each piece and parcel.

Whatever the number is, I've discovered it's +1 once you become a parental-figure to a single petite edition of our species.

Back in Salt Lake City, five days after Quinn surprised us with her choice to be a Utah native, I caught myself clinching my chest as I galloped down the stairs to get to the hospital in time to just maybe touch her for an extra moment while changing her diaper. Even though I packed on the pudge during pregnancy, I had stayed relatively fit, yet the pain in my chest felt like something serious.

On the drive up to the hospital, a game of delayed rationalization consumed my thoughts: "If I still feel the pain by the time I reach that third set of lights, then I'll think about mentioning it to someone else.... Ok, it still hurts, maybe worse. Um, alright... Maybe I'm still acclimating to the altitude, so if I hold my breathe maybe my lungs will relax..." None of my tricks worked; all pointed to something potentially grim. So I folded my cards and went down two floors to the ER to get checked out.

At the time, the concern was that I might be having a pulmonary embolism, which is something akin to having death on call-waiting.

The doctors hammered this home when I suddenly reneged having an MRI after learning I'd have to toss out what milk I produced for several days afterward because of the radiation involved. Since I was still producing the liquid gold "colostrum," and not much at that, there wasn't a chance I'd throw it out rather than feed my little girl, since that is all she was being fed. (You knew it had to come back to that darn breastmilk, didn't you!?! Surely a new postulate in algebra can be boiled down to: Breastmilk = Root of all evil for J).

Long story short -- the doctors made me sign a stack of forms, including one that was handwritten, all of which stated that if I croaked the moment I left the ER it was all my own doing having been so thoroughly warned.

Admittedly, it was monumentally dumb to risk my life in exchange for some breastmilk. I realized that then, and now, with all the troubles it's given Quinn, I feel of notable stupidity.

Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that the pain that radiated throughout my chest wasn't caused by anything physical so much as by the yanking of the strings and threads on my heart pulled like a puppet by the well-being of our little girl.

That's when I became attuned to this new organ.

Whether a kid finds shelter behind your own cage of ribs, or if that kid comes to you by a means other than birth, that organ hatches before that baby ever touches your arms. Tentacles from this new organ replace the severed umbilical cord, and trump it in reach and strength.

They reach back into past moments of anguish, as well as into future pangs over the child's first skinned knee, her first undeserved affront, or her heart's first break... And they extend through generations, as grandparents feel old pains all anew.

That gripping chest pain returned to me moments after we thought Quinn might have NEC. The lingering guilt for my foolish disregard of the doctors' concerns finally vindicated and assuaged, was quickly replaced with trepidation that this pain might have fostered permanent roots in my heart.

Today, a tinge of that pain resurfaces as Quinn will undergo an ultrasound, and possibly a Barium swallow, to see if her digestive problems are more than an intolerance for mother's milk. She doesn't get much, but some breastmilk every day to infuse her with those properties no man or manufacturing can ever replicate. Still, she is not able to stomach much of anything in terms of volume -- without promptly returning it -- and continues to writhe and thrash from deep discomfort with what her stomach keeps.

We are hopeful that the outcome quickly puts both her belly, and our hearts to rest.

All the belly and the best from,
the Murphy Tribe

Hold the Milk, Please!

True to form, as a California girl, I gave the whole radical nuts-and-berries diet a try.

Not really to live up to our new state's reputation (if that's what I was after, I'd go the route of smoking dope and staring at the surf all day). No, actually, it was my latest attempt at pinpointing what was causing Quinn's continued digestive disruptions when fed mother's milk.

Thankfully, she hadn't had another bout of bloody stool, but clearly wasn't tolerating breastmilk like most babies could. (This puts her in Darwin's reject pile for the second, and hopefully, last time.)

After soliciting the advice of pediatricians near and far (particularly one I used to work for at a pediatric malnutrition clinic in Boston), it seemed worth a more aggressive approach. So I stopped eating all animal products (meat/dairy), wheat, soy, peanuts, and still -- no chocolate. Gulp!

The thought was that after a few weeks my body would clear all of those potential allergens and Quinn could drink my milk without an issue. At which point, I could slowly reintroduce each as an edible item for me, and see if it caused a reaction in her.

Of course, this is where Quinn played her lotto number proving to be the one-in-a-million kid who, at a certain threshold, is allergic to her own mother's milk. Her body didn't seem to notice a difference, and so the experiment ended shortly after it began.

Being that Jack is the super-sized version of our kid, I should have just tested my milk out on him to see if he got gassy or had explosive and bloody diarrhea.

Better still, would have been if he found it to be an undiscovered hallucinogen that we could market and prosper from seeing as I have purchased and filled a deep-freezer with the stupid stuff.

Maybe I would have taken it as a sign that it just isn't stellar stuff if -- hypothetically -- I were to put a bowl of it out for our dog and if he -- hypothetically -- turned his nose up at it, and instead hunted for a treat from the catbox that suspiciously looked like an almond roca.

Hmmm . . . If only the above scenario were true might I take advantage of my parents' absence and feed my mephitic milk to their dogs, both of whom could benefit from something mildly --or even better -- potently toxic.

Maybe the bottom line is , I will have to accept that no one should be forced to drink my breastmilk . . . regardless of how unappreciated and forsaken my milk ducts would feel.

More scheming (if not milk!) to come from,
the Milkless Murphys

Vacuity Apres Vacation

It's been two weeks since Jack returned from Afghanistan to meet our little creation. In so many ways it feels like he just arrived, and on the other side of that feeling, I could swear he never missed a moment with her.

But early yesterday, the Army reclaimed their possession and set Jack back on his way to war.

Watching his plane disappear into the sky was so surreal. Along with my husband, my heart hopped on board and left for the next eight months. Squinting into the sky, I watched the jet become so small I could swat it with my hand. The audacity that his hand had just been in mine, but was now whisked away between the clouds made me question for a moment if he had been here at all.

Having adjusted to a long-distance existence, it took me several days to get used to having Jack under foot. Yet once I did, I knew it would be jarring to have him leave yet again.

Quinn on the other hand melted right into his arms. She wasn't afraid nor did she grown tired of him. Even today she spent long lulls in her eating/pooping/sleeping cycle to gaze at his picture.

Last night Quinn's serenity eluded her. She spent several hours fussing and crying, completely inconsolable despite my and my parents' efforts to soothe her. As unlikely as it may be, I can't help but wonder if Quinn sensed Jack's absence and vocalized her own protest to the Army's agenda... It seems possible because my experience for the first few days after he departs is that the void he leaves reverberates all around like a deafening echo, perhaps one that even she could sense.

But then I smile and chuckle, since Quinn is probably only befuddled as to where her Daddy went with her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her paddle feet, and stylish hairdo -- and when she'll be getting them back. "Yeah?!?"

Love and eventually more laughter from --
A Somber Mama & Her Contemplative Kid