Considering my parents are literally off-the-boat from Switzerland, it's logical that cheese and chocolate are thought to be (the only) food groups in my family. So, as a first generation American I fully intended to pass on this tasty bloodline to my offspring.
In fact, I rationalized that the results of a study by the University of Helsinki illustrating the lasting effect on happiness for babies born to chocolate-eating moms gave me not only license to eat chocolate, but would constitute child abuse if I failed to gobble some every day during my pregnancy.
Being a fan of scientific reasoning, I surmised that the endorphin exuding effects of chocolate in utero could be continued after birth via mother's milk.
Well, guess who shot that theory to hell.
Last week when Quinn's new doctor (they rotate them every three weeks) looked at her x-ray following her latest bloody stool, she asked the nurse what my diet was like. The nurse said she wasn't sure but was pretty certain it was fairly healthy and that I had stopped eating dairy in case Quinn is lactose intolerant. She was then stumped when the doctor asked about my consumption of chocolate. Uncertain, the nurse came to inquire about how often I eat the heavenly stuff.
When asked, I nearly fell off my seat. Suspicious if one of the other nurses or my friend Tiffany, all of whom had quickly learned how I relish dark chocolate, hadn't set me up for some cruel joke, I stood in disbelief as the theory of the cause of Quinn's bloody stools was relayed.
Turns out that some newborns have an adverse reaction to chocolate when received through breastmilk. Stupified, I explained that I'm 100% Swiss, how could my daughter not be able to digest chocolate?!?
As much as I'd like to start out each morning by diving into a bowl of melted chocolate and swimming a few laps before licking off every last drop, I generally don't do that, nor eat more than a small square each day -- if that!
Not only does she not look like me, she doesn't even have the fundamentals of my genetic makeup if she is lactose intolerant AND can't eat chocolate!
Obviously, I'm going to have to file for a maternity test.
So, as unnatural as it is, for the last several days I have been chocolate-free. To my and many others' surprise, it appears that Quinn's digestive malaise is passing and chocolate may indeed have been the cuplrit.
It's an easy fix, but I do wonder if there was a mix-up at the hospital as this little one is not much of a Swiss Miss!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Making Mammory Memories
Ok, so the dog didn't eat my latest blog posting, but I still have a good excuse for being somewhat absent.
The whole biology of having a baby is so much easier than the paperwork these little tykes entail. I've spent much of what little free time I (and any new parent) have volleying about the city trying to add Quinn to our health insurance. The medical statements forwarded by my parents must be the cause of my new grey because in a little over a month, the digits add up into the hundreds of thousands. Suffice it to say, this hasn't been a cheap admittance to a little girl's early existence.
Aside from said medical minutia, I've been suckered into frequent fundraising for the Ronald McDonald House. Considering this organization has salvaged my sanity, it's the least I can do. Apparently, my little story works at making people dole out the cash; so there's at least some satisfaction knowing I can contribute to society (or someone!) in some small way.
However, last night's event was a bit off the hook for this Mormon mountain town.
My new friend Tiffany, also a NICU Mom (and the other mooring to which my mental health is kept upright), accompanied me to a cocktail fundraiser at someone's house in Park City. Since neither of us have had any alcohol in a number of months, we carefully sipped on our glass of wine while sharing our sob stories about how the Ronald McDonald House has helped us stay stable and sane through the unexpected.
For some, the party may have started long before we arrived. Although nearly everyone there was very senior to us, a few became far too friendly as there was no preservation of personal space. (I told myself that if those extra -- and unsolicited -- hugs and kisses brought some extra bucks to this charity, then it probably was worth pimping myself out for a few hours to some wealthy elderly folk.) Another woman, who made the night quite exceptional wasn't so much touchy as spacey as she asked us the same two questions every few minutes while never losing a gleefully glazed look.
With our milking schedules all amok, Tiffany and I eventually left. We drove into town where we excitedly hoped to have some sushi before spending the rest of our waking hours in the NICU.
Parked in a dark lot, we laughed at ourselves and the bizarre memories the night was bringing as we pulled out our individual pumps and hooked ourselves up like diary cattle. All set to go, the plan was foiled when (no -- thankfully, not the police interrupted) but the power on my pump failed. After several frustrating minutes of trying to troubleshoot the dumb thing, we gave up and walked into the building to find a bathroom in which we could hook up our boob gear.
Since we were on a roll with odd luck, it wasn't until we were again all hooked up to our equipment at the sink in a public bathroom (surely scaring anyone who walked in), that we discovered that outlet didn't work either.
With our mammary glands ready to pop from an overload of milk, we desperately sought out any -- functioning -- electrical outlet to plug into. Unabashedly, Tiffany and I ended up in an open stairwell of a building that housed several restaurants (including the sought after sushi stop).
Nearly peeing my pants from laughter as people uncomfortably walked by (and wondering if we were braking some subtle Utah law), we pushed the limits on public display of milking. We did contemplate making this a habit through which we could create a series of postcards of the various public places we might be found pumping.
Of course, by the end of our saga we lumbered our freshly made milk and ridiculous equipment back to the sushi restaurant, only to see the "closed" sign dangling in the window. Considering our hankering for having sushi (after many months of eating so cautiously) was a pivotal reason for our agreement to interrupt our NICU schedule and drive out to Park City, we remained undeterred by this latest snafu to our plans.
Luckily, the chef behind the bar was a bit uncomfortable with talk of our breastmilk and insisted we and our bottles of moo sit down and focus on the menu.
As expected, we found a number of appetizing aliments to quench our stubborn craving for sushi, and even brought some back to the NICU when we returned late that night. There, we each spent a few hours with our kids (Tiffany has twins), all of whom were in great health. Quinn was particularly alert and playful, which made the long night especially sweet (regardless of the sushi).
So, that's the latest (and perhaps most random and uninteresting, but hopefully humorous) news from Salt Lake City . . .
Mama & Quinn Murphy
The whole biology of having a baby is so much easier than the paperwork these little tykes entail. I've spent much of what little free time I (and any new parent) have volleying about the city trying to add Quinn to our health insurance. The medical statements forwarded by my parents must be the cause of my new grey because in a little over a month, the digits add up into the hundreds of thousands. Suffice it to say, this hasn't been a cheap admittance to a little girl's early existence.
Aside from said medical minutia, I've been suckered into frequent fundraising for the Ronald McDonald House. Considering this organization has salvaged my sanity, it's the least I can do. Apparently, my little story works at making people dole out the cash; so there's at least some satisfaction knowing I can contribute to society (or someone!) in some small way.
However, last night's event was a bit off the hook for this Mormon mountain town.
My new friend Tiffany, also a NICU Mom (and the other mooring to which my mental health is kept upright), accompanied me to a cocktail fundraiser at someone's house in Park City. Since neither of us have had any alcohol in a number of months, we carefully sipped on our glass of wine while sharing our sob stories about how the Ronald McDonald House has helped us stay stable and sane through the unexpected.
For some, the party may have started long before we arrived. Although nearly everyone there was very senior to us, a few became far too friendly as there was no preservation of personal space. (I told myself that if those extra -- and unsolicited -- hugs and kisses brought some extra bucks to this charity, then it probably was worth pimping myself out for a few hours to some wealthy elderly folk.) Another woman, who made the night quite exceptional wasn't so much touchy as spacey as she asked us the same two questions every few minutes while never losing a gleefully glazed look.
With our milking schedules all amok, Tiffany and I eventually left. We drove into town where we excitedly hoped to have some sushi before spending the rest of our waking hours in the NICU.
Parked in a dark lot, we laughed at ourselves and the bizarre memories the night was bringing as we pulled out our individual pumps and hooked ourselves up like diary cattle. All set to go, the plan was foiled when (no -- thankfully, not the police interrupted) but the power on my pump failed. After several frustrating minutes of trying to troubleshoot the dumb thing, we gave up and walked into the building to find a bathroom in which we could hook up our boob gear.
Since we were on a roll with odd luck, it wasn't until we were again all hooked up to our equipment at the sink in a public bathroom (surely scaring anyone who walked in), that we discovered that outlet didn't work either.
With our mammary glands ready to pop from an overload of milk, we desperately sought out any -- functioning -- electrical outlet to plug into. Unabashedly, Tiffany and I ended up in an open stairwell of a building that housed several restaurants (including the sought after sushi stop).
Nearly peeing my pants from laughter as people uncomfortably walked by (and wondering if we were braking some subtle Utah law), we pushed the limits on public display of milking. We did contemplate making this a habit through which we could create a series of postcards of the various public places we might be found pumping.
Of course, by the end of our saga we lumbered our freshly made milk and ridiculous equipment back to the sushi restaurant, only to see the "closed" sign dangling in the window. Considering our hankering for having sushi (after many months of eating so cautiously) was a pivotal reason for our agreement to interrupt our NICU schedule and drive out to Park City, we remained undeterred by this latest snafu to our plans.
Luckily, the chef behind the bar was a bit uncomfortable with talk of our breastmilk and insisted we and our bottles of moo sit down and focus on the menu.
As expected, we found a number of appetizing aliments to quench our stubborn craving for sushi, and even brought some back to the NICU when we returned late that night. There, we each spent a few hours with our kids (Tiffany has twins), all of whom were in great health. Quinn was particularly alert and playful, which made the long night especially sweet (regardless of the sushi).
So, that's the latest (and perhaps most random and uninteresting, but hopefully humorous) news from Salt Lake City . . .
Mama & Quinn Murphy
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Quotidian Quinn
0600 Grunt
0823 Kick off the covers and let them know someone will pay if I don't get fed soon!!!
0828 Look for a new target while making space in my intestines for incoming food.
0837 Hope for a change in the menu (like Cherry Garcia or at least vanilla flavor) before guzzling down mouthfuls of milk.
0913 Go into food coma . . .
1117 Repeat.
0823 Kick off the covers and let them know someone will pay if I don't get fed soon!!!
0828 Look for a new target while making space in my intestines for incoming food.
0837 Hope for a change in the menu (like Cherry Garcia or at least vanilla flavor) before guzzling down mouthfuls of milk.
0913 Go into food coma . . .
1117 Repeat.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Night Blossom
Last summer, our dog Oakley died. Even though Jack originally wasn't agog about pets when we started dating, Annie Oakley quickly won him over once he moved to Newport and she became his as much as mine.
He must have similar hesitations or disconnected feelings about parenthood. Finding out he is a father by phone must have been a peculiar experience, that continues as I send emails and pictures of our little creation each day.
Yet, I'm certain that as much as he thinks he loves and cares about her now while he's in Afghanistan, it won't compare to how it will feel once he holds her in his own arms (especially since she doesn't have nearly as much fur as did Oakley).
We had a tough time coming up with a name for our new dog, so you can imagine how we bantered about for a name that wouldn't send a kid to lifelong therapy. Luckily, about a week or two before she surprised us with her early birth, we settled on two names. "Finnegan" was the name if it was a boy, and "Madeline Quinn" if -- as predicted -- it was a girl. (As much as I still would like to name a kid Finnegan, that's just too much "inn" for one family.)
As it turns out, the nickname "Quinn" covers her paternal heritage. We knew it was an Irish alias, but we had no idea it was also Vietnamese. This was a discovery I made at the NICU when I met a nurse who is from Vietnam with the same name, but spelled "Quynh." Upon googling the name, I found its sweet meaning: "Night Blossoming Flower" -- (thank goodness it doesn't mean something like "Little Child of Horrors!").
Despite her incremental growth, there are (and will be) spurts of growth and change when our little budding girl seems more like a weed.
Over the weekend she had some nice developments as she was taken off oxygen (yahoo!) -- and has done superbly, and is really getting the hang of breast-feeding. She is still on penguin food, but allowed to keep whatever breastmilk she takes directly from me.
Last night, she again had some blood in her stool, however it wasn't anything like what we'd seen before, and somehow that makes me feel less concerned. An x-ray verified that it doesn't appear to be nec; and I am waiting to discuss with her doctor what other causes could be the culprit of her digestive disposition (such as lactose intolerance, a virus, or something in my diet).
And true to her name, this little flower is taking the requisite time to burgeon and bloom. As I gaze at her steady growth, I am reminded that the petals of a blossom cannot be forced to open, nor can our little seedling.
He must have similar hesitations or disconnected feelings about parenthood. Finding out he is a father by phone must have been a peculiar experience, that continues as I send emails and pictures of our little creation each day.
Yet, I'm certain that as much as he thinks he loves and cares about her now while he's in Afghanistan, it won't compare to how it will feel once he holds her in his own arms (especially since she doesn't have nearly as much fur as did Oakley).
We had a tough time coming up with a name for our new dog, so you can imagine how we bantered about for a name that wouldn't send a kid to lifelong therapy. Luckily, about a week or two before she surprised us with her early birth, we settled on two names. "Finnegan" was the name if it was a boy, and "Madeline Quinn" if -- as predicted -- it was a girl. (As much as I still would like to name a kid Finnegan, that's just too much "inn" for one family.)
As it turns out, the nickname "Quinn" covers her paternal heritage. We knew it was an Irish alias, but we had no idea it was also Vietnamese. This was a discovery I made at the NICU when I met a nurse who is from Vietnam with the same name, but spelled "Quynh." Upon googling the name, I found its sweet meaning: "Night Blossoming Flower" -- (thank goodness it doesn't mean something like "Little Child of Horrors!").
Despite her incremental growth, there are (and will be) spurts of growth and change when our little budding girl seems more like a weed.
Over the weekend she had some nice developments as she was taken off oxygen (yahoo!) -- and has done superbly, and is really getting the hang of breast-feeding. She is still on penguin food, but allowed to keep whatever breastmilk she takes directly from me.
Last night, she again had some blood in her stool, however it wasn't anything like what we'd seen before, and somehow that makes me feel less concerned. An x-ray verified that it doesn't appear to be nec; and I am waiting to discuss with her doctor what other causes could be the culprit of her digestive disposition (such as lactose intolerance, a virus, or something in my diet).
And true to her name, this little flower is taking the requisite time to burgeon and bloom. As I gaze at her steady growth, I am reminded that the petals of a blossom cannot be forced to open, nor can our little seedling.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Check Your Head
As with all premies, Quinn had her head checked by ultrasound the other day. Unlike the anticipated visit from the eye doctor who produces quite a scream from even the most tranquil of tots (as she pries open a baby's eyelids, then pokes and prods, and finishes up with something that looks like an electric toothbrush) -- Miss Quinn didn't even stir during the process.
Head and hair full of goo, Quinn snoozed as the technician looked for signs of intelligent life (and brain bleeds). Feigning to be a fixture in the room, I hung out to take pictures and see what it was all about. Humored by how hypnotic the ultrasound seemed to be for Quinn, I was full of jokes and smart-ass remarks... (Which quickly came back to bite me in that ever protruding body part).
Wooden faced, the technician said to me "Ok, I'm not the radiologist, but I think you'd better leave the room -- right now." Being only a week since the last time I felt my pulse ebb out of me, I blinked hard as again Quinn's fate seemed to turn with a mere moment; an audible gulp came from the nurse.
It felt like an entire lifetime passed in the silence before the technician's next words: "...Yeah, you'd better head straight to the bank and start saving up for this kid because she'll be heading to college sooner than later." Ahhhhhh...! My heart jump-started once my brain caught up with the prank.
Luckily, the ultrasound of Quinn's brain turned out fine. There was some questionable area for a brain bleed, but more than likely it's just natural brain development. If by chance it is a bleed, it is nothing to fret about. This sadly, is not the outcome for many kids.
While my sister was visiting, the kid in the next bed had much more dismal results, which are expected to manifest as problems with motor skills. The two of us felt awful that their news was less than they had hoped, and that we were fumbling around with a healthy Quinn just when they heard it.
Yesterday I again felt like I was intruding on someone's personal pain and denial as I overheard another parent yelling at her premie "You have a brain, just use it damnit!" Turns out, that child is in a vegetative state because he, in fact, does not have a brain.
Needless to say, the "bumps" in the road that Quinn has had as a premie pale in comparison to the challenges these families face. We are so lucky and grateful that our daughter is doing as well as she is, and thank each of you for your continued support and encouragement.
Much love from the mountains,
Mama Murphy
Head and hair full of goo, Quinn snoozed as the technician looked for signs of intelligent life (and brain bleeds). Feigning to be a fixture in the room, I hung out to take pictures and see what it was all about. Humored by how hypnotic the ultrasound seemed to be for Quinn, I was full of jokes and smart-ass remarks... (Which quickly came back to bite me in that ever protruding body part).
Wooden faced, the technician said to me "Ok, I'm not the radiologist, but I think you'd better leave the room -- right now." Being only a week since the last time I felt my pulse ebb out of me, I blinked hard as again Quinn's fate seemed to turn with a mere moment; an audible gulp came from the nurse.
It felt like an entire lifetime passed in the silence before the technician's next words: "...Yeah, you'd better head straight to the bank and start saving up for this kid because she'll be heading to college sooner than later." Ahhhhhh...! My heart jump-started once my brain caught up with the prank.
Luckily, the ultrasound of Quinn's brain turned out fine. There was some questionable area for a brain bleed, but more than likely it's just natural brain development. If by chance it is a bleed, it is nothing to fret about. This sadly, is not the outcome for many kids.
While my sister was visiting, the kid in the next bed had much more dismal results, which are expected to manifest as problems with motor skills. The two of us felt awful that their news was less than they had hoped, and that we were fumbling around with a healthy Quinn just when they heard it.
Yesterday I again felt like I was intruding on someone's personal pain and denial as I overheard another parent yelling at her premie "You have a brain, just use it damnit!" Turns out, that child is in a vegetative state because he, in fact, does not have a brain.
Needless to say, the "bumps" in the road that Quinn has had as a premie pale in comparison to the challenges these families face. We are so lucky and grateful that our daughter is doing as well as she is, and thank each of you for your continued support and encouragement.
Much love from the mountains,
Mama Murphy
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Mighty Madeline
. . . We last left our premie superheroine ready to pit her intestinal strength against the ultimate baby food: Mama Milk.
Having conquered penguin food in record time, the Mighty Madeline Quinn convinced her keepers that she was prepared for this arduous undertaking.
Alas, neither her ambition, nor her appetite, proved prepared to handle the formidable and menacing Mother's Milk.
The Mighty Madeline Quinn's pace was slowed not only by the weight of drenched diapers, but also the ghastly gas that crippled her from leaping out of her crib and seizing the world at large. . . (or at least that coveted stash of pacifiers).
And so, our dear superheroine has been reduced to being fed penguin food -- yet again.
While she succumbs to the distasteful pre-digested food, the Mighty Madeline Quinn refuses to surrender her ability to ripen in her own way. Tonight, she proved she's striving to be a heavy-hitter as she weighed in at a full 5 lbs!
It is a night of discrete excitement as so much more is to come when (days from now) she again tries to prevail over the ever-potent breastmilk.
Stay tuned for the next episode from the adventures and triumphs of the Mighty Madeline Quinn . . .
Having conquered penguin food in record time, the Mighty Madeline Quinn convinced her keepers that she was prepared for this arduous undertaking.
Alas, neither her ambition, nor her appetite, proved prepared to handle the formidable and menacing Mother's Milk.
The Mighty Madeline Quinn's pace was slowed not only by the weight of drenched diapers, but also the ghastly gas that crippled her from leaping out of her crib and seizing the world at large. . . (or at least that coveted stash of pacifiers).
And so, our dear superheroine has been reduced to being fed penguin food -- yet again.
While she succumbs to the distasteful pre-digested food, the Mighty Madeline Quinn refuses to surrender her ability to ripen in her own way. Tonight, she proved she's striving to be a heavy-hitter as she weighed in at a full 5 lbs!
It is a night of discrete excitement as so much more is to come when (days from now) she again tries to prevail over the ever-potent breastmilk.
Stay tuned for the next episode from the adventures and triumphs of the Mighty Madeline Quinn . . .
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
A Separate Reality
Having gone for nearly four weeks without much sunlight, I have been thoroughly enveloped into the shadowy folds of the NICU. Sadly, Quinn knows no other reality.
When I spin stories for her about the dog back in California waiting to lick her milk mustache, the cat who will always purr her into a good mood, or the oodles of family and friends eager to fawn over her father's likeness, Quinn's eyes betray that talk of a different home doesn't make a modicum of sense to her. And, I have to admit, I'm starting to wonder if the hospital isn't indeed our home, and this strange sense of time isn't a loop we may never escape.
Here, the day isn't over until the next one begins. . . The edges of each smudge into the other and memories collide to confuse any sense of a point in time. Oddly enough, it sounds as though Jack's days are very similar in how they blur together in his separate and Afghani reality.
A day, two, or several ago (who knows!), I splurged for some flavor of my former life at Whole Foods (better known to some as "Whole Check"). As if it were normal, I stood outside the backseat of my rental car, while ravaging (what Jack would call) the "lickies and chewies" I had bought.
A woman who approached me took her own life in her hands when she thought it worth interrupting my feast. From under her cloud of cigarette smoke, she asked if I could spot her some cash. Turns out her daughter was stuck in Provo, having gone into early labor, and was "so far from home" that by pooling money perhaps this woman could bring her daughter and grandchild back.
I wasn't sure whether to snarl because this woman got so close to my food, or to choke on the irony of her story. . . (particularly the punchline that Provo was "far" considering it's less than 50 miles from Salt Lake). Needless to say, I shooed her away from stealing my food. . . and my identity.
Although this place tends to feel isolating and removed from normalcy, it is a our home and way of life for now, and I am resigned to this fact.
Fortunately, we now get to experience the happier side of the NICU as Quinn continues to improve. Tonight, she is off the penguin food and is only digesting breastmilk. She is almost back to the weight and stage of progress she was at a week ago when everything seemed to come undone. What a difference a week can make -- in any place, and at any time.
All the best from this side of reality,
The Murphys
When I spin stories for her about the dog back in California waiting to lick her milk mustache, the cat who will always purr her into a good mood, or the oodles of family and friends eager to fawn over her father's likeness, Quinn's eyes betray that talk of a different home doesn't make a modicum of sense to her. And, I have to admit, I'm starting to wonder if the hospital isn't indeed our home, and this strange sense of time isn't a loop we may never escape.
Here, the day isn't over until the next one begins. . . The edges of each smudge into the other and memories collide to confuse any sense of a point in time. Oddly enough, it sounds as though Jack's days are very similar in how they blur together in his separate and Afghani reality.
A day, two, or several ago (who knows!), I splurged for some flavor of my former life at Whole Foods (better known to some as "Whole Check"). As if it were normal, I stood outside the backseat of my rental car, while ravaging (what Jack would call) the "lickies and chewies" I had bought.
A woman who approached me took her own life in her hands when she thought it worth interrupting my feast. From under her cloud of cigarette smoke, she asked if I could spot her some cash. Turns out her daughter was stuck in Provo, having gone into early labor, and was "so far from home" that by pooling money perhaps this woman could bring her daughter and grandchild back.
I wasn't sure whether to snarl because this woman got so close to my food, or to choke on the irony of her story. . . (particularly the punchline that Provo was "far" considering it's less than 50 miles from Salt Lake). Needless to say, I shooed her away from stealing my food. . . and my identity.
Although this place tends to feel isolating and removed from normalcy, it is a our home and way of life for now, and I am resigned to this fact.
Fortunately, we now get to experience the happier side of the NICU as Quinn continues to improve. Tonight, she is off the penguin food and is only digesting breastmilk. She is almost back to the weight and stage of progress she was at a week ago when everything seemed to come undone. What a difference a week can make -- in any place, and at any time.
All the best from this side of reality,
The Murphys
Monday, February 16, 2009
Reading the Tea Leaves
Since Wednesday, Quinn has been on close observation for any indications she is continuing to have trouble digesting her food. As the nurse and I crane over each new diaper to look for signs of blood or improved absorption, I feel as though we are reading the tea leaves for Quinn's digestive fortune.
The all-breastmilk plan was quickly foiled when she restarted her antics of shooting her mother with explosive diarrhea when within close range (she's just testing my reflexes and sense of humor I'm sure).
Yesterday morning I had bargained with the doctors to not reintroduce formula for another day or two until her system proved to be able to digest plain breastmilk. My hope that Quinn was over this setback and back on the mend were further dampened by her continued lethargy and the brevity of her states of alertness. I argued that if they gave her formula and it caused yet another upset (or worse, another bloody stool), then she might have an even harder time recovering.
For the moment the doctors acquiesced, but by yesterday afternoon her loose stools caused them to decide to give her nourishment through a formula that is so simplistic it's as if it were predigested (meet Quinn the penguin!).
Within six hours, that formula did it's magic and for the first time in weeks Quinn was pooping like she hadn't been marinating in salt water. (Who needs antidepressants when poop can bring infinite happiness?!)
The other spectacular thing is that along with putting her gut back on track, the penguin food also brought back Quinn's fiestiness (as she demonstrated when I put her to the breast and she immediately tried to gum me to death). So, our girl is definitely back and with a bite!
All the best from the bowels of the NICU!
J & the Penguin
The all-breastmilk plan was quickly foiled when she restarted her antics of shooting her mother with explosive diarrhea when within close range (she's just testing my reflexes and sense of humor I'm sure).
Yesterday morning I had bargained with the doctors to not reintroduce formula for another day or two until her system proved to be able to digest plain breastmilk. My hope that Quinn was over this setback and back on the mend were further dampened by her continued lethargy and the brevity of her states of alertness. I argued that if they gave her formula and it caused yet another upset (or worse, another bloody stool), then she might have an even harder time recovering.
For the moment the doctors acquiesced, but by yesterday afternoon her loose stools caused them to decide to give her nourishment through a formula that is so simplistic it's as if it were predigested (meet Quinn the penguin!).
Within six hours, that formula did it's magic and for the first time in weeks Quinn was pooping like she hadn't been marinating in salt water. (Who needs antidepressants when poop can bring infinite happiness?!)
The other spectacular thing is that along with putting her gut back on track, the penguin food also brought back Quinn's fiestiness (as she demonstrated when I put her to the breast and she immediately tried to gum me to death). So, our girl is definitely back and with a bite!
All the best from the bowels of the NICU!
J & the Penguin
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Fingers Crossed
Keep your fingers crossed -- because so far, it looks like Quinn has averted a real medical crisis.
Her gaggle of doctors and nurses are divided on the theory of what caused her bloody stool earlier this week. Some are certain the increase in her (blood) platelets is an indication her body was wrestling with a virus; others contend her explosive diarrhea started when formula was added to bulk up my breastmilk, which would suggest she has a sensitivity to it. It will take a few more days to figure out, if we can at all, what caused this blip in her progress.
Either way, Jack and I are nothing less than grateful, and pretty close to euphoric that this scare is not materializing into anything more.
For me, it feels like I awoke from two of the worst nightmares I could have in one night . . . As in a twist of fortune, the night Quinn's health seemed to come undone, Jack was suddenly out of touch. It wasn't clear why he didn't call when he emailed to say he would, but I tried through the night not to let my worries expand to that other quadrant of my little universe. Thankfully, by the next morning, both he and our girl proved to be just fine.
That I didn't totally crumble under the uncertainty of both Jack and Quinn's well-being wasn't because I found a stash of superhuman strength in some hospital cabinet, or had learned the secret behind Ronald McDonald's perma-smile . . . Rather, it was from the resounding support and compassion that every member of the hospital staff expressed to me (I think the cleaning lady even reached out to show she cared as she asked me to move the *&@! ouf of her way).
There were not many dry eyes when people stopped by Quinn's room to hold me up with a hug. Some felt they were being "unprofessional" by showing emotion for a patient in front of a parent; whereas all I saw were professionals who understood the gravity of what we as NICU parents, and all humans at some juncture, endure when all our hopes and expectations hang in the balance.
Slowly, Quinn is regaining her strength and is now back to basic feedings of breastmilk through a tube in her nose. She is showing a renewed interest in life as she squirms and roots for food shortly before a feeding, and then afterward stares endlessly at Jack's picture. Tonight, I will sleep soundly knowing she is on the mend.
Thank you all for your concern, encouragement and support. . . It certainly worked and helped keep me sane.
All the best from the snow-capped NICU,
Mama Murphy
Her gaggle of doctors and nurses are divided on the theory of what caused her bloody stool earlier this week. Some are certain the increase in her (blood) platelets is an indication her body was wrestling with a virus; others contend her explosive diarrhea started when formula was added to bulk up my breastmilk, which would suggest she has a sensitivity to it. It will take a few more days to figure out, if we can at all, what caused this blip in her progress.
Either way, Jack and I are nothing less than grateful, and pretty close to euphoric that this scare is not materializing into anything more.
For me, it feels like I awoke from two of the worst nightmares I could have in one night . . . As in a twist of fortune, the night Quinn's health seemed to come undone, Jack was suddenly out of touch. It wasn't clear why he didn't call when he emailed to say he would, but I tried through the night not to let my worries expand to that other quadrant of my little universe. Thankfully, by the next morning, both he and our girl proved to be just fine.
That I didn't totally crumble under the uncertainty of both Jack and Quinn's well-being wasn't because I found a stash of superhuman strength in some hospital cabinet, or had learned the secret behind Ronald McDonald's perma-smile . . . Rather, it was from the resounding support and compassion that every member of the hospital staff expressed to me (I think the cleaning lady even reached out to show she cared as she asked me to move the *&@! ouf of her way).
There were not many dry eyes when people stopped by Quinn's room to hold me up with a hug. Some felt they were being "unprofessional" by showing emotion for a patient in front of a parent; whereas all I saw were professionals who understood the gravity of what we as NICU parents, and all humans at some juncture, endure when all our hopes and expectations hang in the balance.
Slowly, Quinn is regaining her strength and is now back to basic feedings of breastmilk through a tube in her nose. She is showing a renewed interest in life as she squirms and roots for food shortly before a feeding, and then afterward stares endlessly at Jack's picture. Tonight, I will sleep soundly knowing she is on the mend.
Thank you all for your concern, encouragement and support. . . It certainly worked and helped keep me sane.
All the best from the snow-capped NICU,
Mama Murphy
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Strollercoaster
Whatever endorphins I built up the other day were completely burned up yesterday afternoon.
Just as the nurse and I were excitedly preparing Madeline Quinn for her first bath ever, we discovered blood in her diaper. For those of you not medically inclined, read: not good.
Trying not to let the nurse's face send me into an orbit of panic, I waited until the room was flooded with medical staff to accept the reality that things might have taken a turn for the worse with our little girl.
They immediately started drawing blood, urine, and doing a physical assessment to try and understand what could cause the blood in her stool. She is one of the tougher patients for an IV, but they eventually got one started to deliver two different kinds of antibiotics in case it was what they feared -- necrotizing entercolitis, aka "nec." Essentially, this is yet another mysterious condition that occurs with premies that if not caught early enough causes the intestines to die, which can be fatal.
Starting yesterday afternoon, Quinn started to receive a barrage of x-rays every six hours. This wasn't so bad, at least from her perspective, compared to the garden-hose of a tube they left stuck down her throat to ensure that nothing remained or collected in her stomach. The poor kid was perpetually choking on that dumb tube, while whacking her IV around, and squirming to get out of reach as the nurses attached -- and then detached -- sticky leads for every kind of monitor to every (and I mean EVERY) part of her body.
Watching helplessly from the sidelines, the scariest moments were when she wasn't being feisty or annoyed, but was lethargic and out of sorts.... Since seeing that bloody diaper, the night passed by so slowly it felt as if my own life was hemorrhaging out with every passing moment of uncertainty.
As of this morning her diagnosis has changed. According to the top radiologist, her x-rays suggest that it is not nec, but either a virus or, slightly less likely, a reaction to the formula they use to fortify breastmilk. Originally, they said she would be on IV fluids and antibiotics for 7-14 days, and in order to give her intestines a rest they would withhold food for anywhere from 7-21 days. For a kid who is hungry half an hour before her next feeding (which is every three hours), I felt especially bad for what she was about to endure.
Fortunately, if her bloodwork and x-rays continue to lack strong indications for nec, they will discontinue the IV and let her go back on breastmilk (alone) tomorrow!
I'll keep up with the latest here on her blog... In the meantime, thank you for all your support and thoughts of health!
J & the kid
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