Week two post-op came, and Marin was finally strong enough to be weaned from ECMO. I later learned that while a person is on ECMO, the body has no pulses because the machine creates a continuous flow rather than blood being pumped by the heart. Marin had no pulse for eight days. How was she still alive? ECMO is also VERY high-risk for a number or reasons, and is only used in worst-case scenarios. It can damage the lungs, blood can clot in the ECMO cannulas, and she had a significant chance of contracting an infection. By God's grace, none of these situations happened with Marin. It was so nice having that huge machine out of her room, knowing that although she was still very sick, her body was learning to do things on its own again. The machine was kept right outside our door against the wall, and I was always sad when I saw that it was being used, that another family had to see their baby on it.
Marin's numbers were all over the place...regulating her required constant monitoring and numerous medications. Some days she would be under a warm blanket...other days we walked in to find a device blowing air on her because she had a fever and needed to be cooled down.
Life outside the hospital had changed...we had moved from the hotel to a home, provided with free housing through a program called Hospitality Homes. We stayed in a four-story mansion that dated back to the early 1900's with a grumpy yet generous old widower named Paul Polishuk. We were there for over two months, and he generously gave us complete access to his home, including the kitchen and laundry room. Having a place to call "home" made the stresses of our daily lives seem a little easier. Each night away from the hospital, an internal alarm would wake me around 3 am, and I would call Marin's nurse to get a quick report. It was always a game of input and output for her...She needed to gid rid of all of the medicines and IV fluids being pumped into her, and her body had a hard time doing this.
After fourteen days of literally watching our daughter's heart beat under a thin sheath placed across the hole in her chest, she was finally able to have her chest closed. This was a huge step forward for her, and at that point we all had more faith that she would pull through. It was only after this took place that she was slowly weaned from her paralytic medications and able to open her eyes for the first time in weeks. Those first glances at her outside world must have been so scary for her, and we made sure we were there. Her drug-heavy eyes looked in different directions and she couldnt seem to focus. We were told this was normal, that since she had been on so many heavy drugs for so long that her body was adjusting.
Several days passed, and slowly, lines and tubes were removed. Each day we would come in to find something else missing and a few small stitches in its place. She began to look like a baby again and less like a medical catastrophe.
We were allowed to hold her that third week, and although overjoyed, I quickly saw that it was very uncomfortable for her with the tube down her throat. She would gag and try to cry, but no sound came out. It was heartbreaking to know she was hurting, and I wanted nothing more than to comfort her. We decided to avoid holding her again until she could breathe on her own. To entertain her, Jacob and I bought her a mobile, and she would stare at it as it spun. She followed it with her eyes and seemed to take comfort in it being there.
At one month into our recovery, and after much waffling over the decision whether or not she was ready to breathe on her own, Marin decided to extubate herself. She got so mad at one of the technicians doing her ultrasound that she cried and cried until the ventilation tube popped right out of her mouth. The entire team of doctors and nurses rushed in, ready to reintubate her, but Marin looked so happy and was breathing so well on her own that this wasn't necessary. She was put on oxygen and was doing great. I still believe this was her way of letting them know she was ready to breathe on her own.
She had slowly began to get breast milk through a tube that went down her nose and into her stomach, and the elephant-like skin on her once-chubby legs began to fill out again. We attempted daily bottle and breastfeeding, but she refused, and would cough and gag when she did drink. I continued to pump breastmilk into small containers 4-5 times a day, and often fell asleep in the pumping room. Jacob would call and wonder where I went, and he could always find me laid back in the recliner of the secluded pumping room, enjoying the quiet time to myself.
After being extubated and having her chest tubes and temporary pacing wires removed, Marin's heart rhythm began to fluctuate. She would go from 100 beats per minute down to 50, then back up again. This temporarily seemed to get better with doses of electrolytes, but it would always return to an unstable rhythm. The decision was made to put in a permanent pacemaker to stabilize her heart rhythm, so Marin went to the OR again to have the leads placed on her heart and the pacemaker in her abdomen. To us, this was a slap in the face...we had only had her back in our arms for a few days, then another surgery. We feared the worst, because this was all we had known.
Thankfully, she flew through the operation with flying colors, and was back in our arms by that evening. We were so grateful.
Marin was moved out of the Cardiac ICU after spending almost forty days there. We were moved to a larger room on the stepdown unit, and we had a roommate. After another week of regulating medications and more attempts at nursing and bottle feeding, Dr. Breitbart asked what we thought about going home to finish recovery at Our Lady of the Lake in Baton Rouge. We were thrilled, and immediately accepted.
The next day, Jacob returned home, and we prepared to fly out the following morning on a private jet to Baton Rouge. Marin wasn't considered to be stable enough to fly commercially, so a private flight was set up that would include a nurse and respiratory therapist. The cost for the one-way flight was $30,000, and once again our insurance came through for us. We packed all of the things we'd accumulated since ariving in Boston, and signed all of the necessary paperwork. We were ready to go HOME!!!
As our luck would have it, a huge snow storm came in the following morning, and after getting into the ambulance headed to the airport, we got stuck in about 3 feet of snow, and had to return to the hospital for the night.
The next morning's attempt was much more successful, and we arrived at the airport. As I stood outside on the tarmac waiting to board the plane, I began crying. This was the end of our trip to Boston. We had almost lost her several times, but we didn't. I owed my life, and hers, to this city, those doctors, that hospital. She was our miracle, and anyone that had been through this experience with us knew that to be true. Thank God for Boston.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Struggle for Survival
Unfortunately, the morning after the worst day of my life did not wake me with a sunny disposition and hopeful heart. I was a battered woman. Beat up by my emotions, by the events of the preceding day. I had to force myself to get out of bed, to go see her at the hospital. If she was still in that broken body somewhere, she needed me. She needed to know that I had not given up, although on the inside I nearly had. She needed faith, prayers, strength. And I would give her everything I had in me.
We trudged through the frigid air and into the warm hospital. This place was so inviting...so welcoming...how could my daughter be dying upstairs? Did the people in the lobby not understand what was going on here? Most of them did, all too well. Parents of children with deformities, defects, kids in wheelchairs...they were all a normal, daily sighting here. This was where they brought their children too, putting their faith in doctors they had only read about. I soon became aware that this was a place full of miracles...that children throughout the world were sent here for treatment. If she was going to die, at least we brought her to the best place possible for what she needed.
The Cardiac ICU smelled of Purell and antiseptic, to this day a smell that immediately brings me back to those metal doors entering the unit. We were let back to see her. There she lay, as she had the night before, still looking almost unrecognizable. Her room was busy. She was under the constant supervision of nurses, therapists, and ECMO technicians. They worked tirelessly to balance the machine's capabilities with what her little body needed to survive. We learned she had lost over ten units of blood throughout the night, and she was being transfused almost hourly. There was still a source of bleeding somewhere, and it needed to be found and stopped quickly. We were taken to a private room, where her surgeon discussed the need to do a heart cath to look for the source, and then most likely go back to the OR to stop it. We agreed, as this was our only hope. We signed the paperwork, being made well aware that the risks listed on the top of the page simply said "Death."
We learned that morning that her cardiac surgeon had cancelled a speaking engagement somewhere out of the country to stay and care for Marin. The thought of this humbled me, and made me realize how important she was to everyone...not just us. He was determined to stay and try to fix her.
After the cath, we were told they "thought" they had identified the source of bleeding, and needed to go back to surgery to redo her repair. Before we left the consultation room that day, my amazing husband did something I will never forget, and something that I have no doubt played a huge part in that surgery; he asked our cardiologist and surgeon to pray with us. They graciously accepted. We sat, holding hands with these Harvard-educated and world-renown physicians, humbly asking God to heal our daughter. I left the room in tears, humbled by these two brilliant men.
Toward the late afternoon, we spoke with her surgeon again. He had successfully stopped the bleeding, but her heart was still in very critical condition after what it had been through. Dr. Mayer uttered a phrase that we would hear almost daily for the next few weeks..."She's not out of the woods yet." He refused to give us any optimism until he himself was able to feel some. I was heartbroken still, but thankful for his honesty.
The next week was full of setbacks, and a few small steps forward. Her body was so swollen from all of the fluids given during and after surgery that her heart and lungs still were unable to function on their own, and she remained on ECMO for seven days. This terrifying machine was the only thing sustaining my daughter's life. I became so grateful for its existence.
That first week dragged on. Every day was a routine of waiting for improvement, and it came very slowly. She remained sedated and paralyzed with her chest open. We weren't allowed to hold her while her chest was open, but we kept a vigil at her bedside, quietly reassuring her that we were there. Jacob's parents reluctantly headed home. We found things to do to occupy our minds and bodies. Playing video games in the hospital lobby, going out to dinner, taking walks around downtown Boston. Marin was always at the front of our minds, and only a phone call away. We entrusted her life to the wonderful staff of Boston Children's Hospital.
We trudged through the frigid air and into the warm hospital. This place was so inviting...so welcoming...how could my daughter be dying upstairs? Did the people in the lobby not understand what was going on here? Most of them did, all too well. Parents of children with deformities, defects, kids in wheelchairs...they were all a normal, daily sighting here. This was where they brought their children too, putting their faith in doctors they had only read about. I soon became aware that this was a place full of miracles...that children throughout the world were sent here for treatment. If she was going to die, at least we brought her to the best place possible for what she needed.
The Cardiac ICU smelled of Purell and antiseptic, to this day a smell that immediately brings me back to those metal doors entering the unit. We were let back to see her. There she lay, as she had the night before, still looking almost unrecognizable. Her room was busy. She was under the constant supervision of nurses, therapists, and ECMO technicians. They worked tirelessly to balance the machine's capabilities with what her little body needed to survive. We learned she had lost over ten units of blood throughout the night, and she was being transfused almost hourly. There was still a source of bleeding somewhere, and it needed to be found and stopped quickly. We were taken to a private room, where her surgeon discussed the need to do a heart cath to look for the source, and then most likely go back to the OR to stop it. We agreed, as this was our only hope. We signed the paperwork, being made well aware that the risks listed on the top of the page simply said "Death."
We learned that morning that her cardiac surgeon had cancelled a speaking engagement somewhere out of the country to stay and care for Marin. The thought of this humbled me, and made me realize how important she was to everyone...not just us. He was determined to stay and try to fix her.
After the cath, we were told they "thought" they had identified the source of bleeding, and needed to go back to surgery to redo her repair. Before we left the consultation room that day, my amazing husband did something I will never forget, and something that I have no doubt played a huge part in that surgery; he asked our cardiologist and surgeon to pray with us. They graciously accepted. We sat, holding hands with these Harvard-educated and world-renown physicians, humbly asking God to heal our daughter. I left the room in tears, humbled by these two brilliant men.
Toward the late afternoon, we spoke with her surgeon again. He had successfully stopped the bleeding, but her heart was still in very critical condition after what it had been through. Dr. Mayer uttered a phrase that we would hear almost daily for the next few weeks..."She's not out of the woods yet." He refused to give us any optimism until he himself was able to feel some. I was heartbroken still, but thankful for his honesty.
The next week was full of setbacks, and a few small steps forward. Her body was so swollen from all of the fluids given during and after surgery that her heart and lungs still were unable to function on their own, and she remained on ECMO for seven days. This terrifying machine was the only thing sustaining my daughter's life. I became so grateful for its existence.
That first week dragged on. Every day was a routine of waiting for improvement, and it came very slowly. She remained sedated and paralyzed with her chest open. We weren't allowed to hold her while her chest was open, but we kept a vigil at her bedside, quietly reassuring her that we were there. Jacob's parents reluctantly headed home. We found things to do to occupy our minds and bodies. Playing video games in the hospital lobby, going out to dinner, taking walks around downtown Boston. Marin was always at the front of our minds, and only a phone call away. We entrusted her life to the wonderful staff of Boston Children's Hospital.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Boston
Rain poured as we woke early on the morning of October 29, 2007. We were to board a plane bound for Boston, Massachusetts in a few hours. Jacob pulled the car up to the stairs near our apartment as we prepared to leave for the airport. I said a silent goodbye to our warm and comforting apartment, hoping that the next time I entered I would still have Marin in my arms. That thought seemed too good to be true. How could someone so small survive what was to come? It seemed impossible.
We rode silently in the rain, but I knew we were both screaming inside our heads with anger, sadness, frustration, fear. Jacob later told me that he'd already planned to ask his mom to come to our apartment and take all of the baby stuff out before we got home if Marin didn't survive. I had silently pondered funeral arrangements for her, knowing that if I voiced my fears I would crack. I was drowning in my thoughts. Jacob wore a facade of strength and faith, and I looked to this for comfort. He always knew what to say to reassure me at my darkest times. He still, and has always, knows me inside and out.
We arrived in cold, dreary Boston that afternoon, after many compliments on the plane of what a good baby we had. She didn't fuss once. The winding, confusing city had us lost within minutes, but we finally made it to our hotel. I wanted a stiff drink and some food, trying so desperately to pretend we were tourists in this beautiful city, rather than taking our child to her death.
We arrived at Boston Children's Hospital first thing the next morning for a long day of xrays, echocardiograms, EKGs, blood draws, and paperwork. We met the man that would come to be our hero, Marin's cardiologist Dr. Roger Breitbart. After performing the echo, he informed us that her anatomy was a bit more complex than seen on a previous echo, but still reassured us that although the surgery might be a little more difficult, she would be fine. I tried to believe him.
Since she was so small, the decision was made to admit us to the hospital so she could be monitored overnight before her surgery. Our families flew in later that day and met us at the hospital. My mom and brother had come, along with Jacob's parents, to be with us for the surgery. We said our goodbyes for the night as they left for the hotel, and we settled into the hospital room. That night is still so vivid in my mind. There was one chair that folded out into a "bed," and though against hospital protocol, Jacob and I were both allowed to stay in the room with her that night. We cuddled together with her in the middle, praying this wouldn't be our last night with her. We were given an antiseptic soap sponge to wash her little chest in preparation for the surgery. I stared at her chest, admiring her smooth skin, trying to picture the scars that would soon be there. We soon fell into a restless sleep. I was woken once around midnight to breastfeed. If I had known it would be the last time, I would have enjoyed it more, savored every second of that intimate bond between us.
The next morning came all too quickly. It was October 31, Halloween. Our families arrived back at the hospital. We met our surgeon, Dr. John Mayer, and after a prayer by Jacob's dad, it was time to go. I carried her to the elevator, and we rode quietly to the pre-op area. Jacob and I held her and kissed her one last time, and then handed her over to the surgery team. I lost it. He embraced me tightly, and reminded me to have faith. God had brought us together and given us this special child, and He would take care of us.
The surgery waiting area was full of families. It was a busy place. We checked in and were introduced to our nurse liason, who would come to us with updates during her procedure. Then, we waited.
I took a sedative, and tried to sleep on a couch. Our families tried to encourage us and lighten the mood with jokes and stories, but I only wanted to sleep, and to wake up when it was all over and I could have her back. Minutes turned to hours, and the first few updates were positive. Then, things took a turn for the worst, and Dr. Breitbart came out to speak with us.
He told us she was bleeding severely when they warmed her up, and was not able to come off of bypass. They were going to cool her down again and attempt to find where the blood was coming from. Several more hours went by. We were now the only family left in the waiting area, and it was after 6 p.m. Surgery began at 8 a.m. Dr. Mayer and Dr. Breitbart then came out to speak with us. Marin was still bleeding, and was unable to come off of bypass. She was transferred to a machine called ECMO, which would route all of her blood out of her body, through a machine, then back into her. The machine essentially took over the work of her heart and lungs so they could rest. They were very honest, and let us know how critically ill she was. Dr. Mayer was visibly worried, and did not seem confident of her survival. He told us he had seen worse babies recover, but not many. Our worst nightmare had come true, and we knew we might lose her.
We waited several more hours as they transferred her with all of her new machinery to a room in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. It was finally time, and Jacob and I went back to see her.
It was so far worse than I could have imagined. Her chest was left open due to swelling, and every inch of her body was covered in some form of IV or monitoring device. ECMO cannulas in her neck and groin, four chest tubes, temporary pacing wires, three or four IVs, two arterial lines, a ventilator in her mouth, gastric tube in her nose, and brain monitor on her forehead. She looked dirty, and blood had dried on her skin and in her hair. This was not my baby. This was not the clean, content little girl I had handed off just twelve hours ago. Once again, I broke down. Jacob and I held each other, and tried to cope with this new version of our child. We went close to the bed, and could see her heart beating through the thin film that was over the opening in her chest. We stroked her hands, her legs, and let her know we were there, and that we loved her. We said a prayer, and left so our relatives could come back to see her.
We left the hospital and headed back to the hotel. That was the worst day of my entire life, and I pray that nothing will ever surpass it.
We rode silently in the rain, but I knew we were both screaming inside our heads with anger, sadness, frustration, fear. Jacob later told me that he'd already planned to ask his mom to come to our apartment and take all of the baby stuff out before we got home if Marin didn't survive. I had silently pondered funeral arrangements for her, knowing that if I voiced my fears I would crack. I was drowning in my thoughts. Jacob wore a facade of strength and faith, and I looked to this for comfort. He always knew what to say to reassure me at my darkest times. He still, and has always, knows me inside and out.
We arrived in cold, dreary Boston that afternoon, after many compliments on the plane of what a good baby we had. She didn't fuss once. The winding, confusing city had us lost within minutes, but we finally made it to our hotel. I wanted a stiff drink and some food, trying so desperately to pretend we were tourists in this beautiful city, rather than taking our child to her death.
We arrived at Boston Children's Hospital first thing the next morning for a long day of xrays, echocardiograms, EKGs, blood draws, and paperwork. We met the man that would come to be our hero, Marin's cardiologist Dr. Roger Breitbart. After performing the echo, he informed us that her anatomy was a bit more complex than seen on a previous echo, but still reassured us that although the surgery might be a little more difficult, she would be fine. I tried to believe him.
Since she was so small, the decision was made to admit us to the hospital so she could be monitored overnight before her surgery. Our families flew in later that day and met us at the hospital. My mom and brother had come, along with Jacob's parents, to be with us for the surgery. We said our goodbyes for the night as they left for the hotel, and we settled into the hospital room. That night is still so vivid in my mind. There was one chair that folded out into a "bed," and though against hospital protocol, Jacob and I were both allowed to stay in the room with her that night. We cuddled together with her in the middle, praying this wouldn't be our last night with her. We were given an antiseptic soap sponge to wash her little chest in preparation for the surgery. I stared at her chest, admiring her smooth skin, trying to picture the scars that would soon be there. We soon fell into a restless sleep. I was woken once around midnight to breastfeed. If I had known it would be the last time, I would have enjoyed it more, savored every second of that intimate bond between us.
The next morning came all too quickly. It was October 31, Halloween. Our families arrived back at the hospital. We met our surgeon, Dr. John Mayer, and after a prayer by Jacob's dad, it was time to go. I carried her to the elevator, and we rode quietly to the pre-op area. Jacob and I held her and kissed her one last time, and then handed her over to the surgery team. I lost it. He embraced me tightly, and reminded me to have faith. God had brought us together and given us this special child, and He would take care of us.
The surgery waiting area was full of families. It was a busy place. We checked in and were introduced to our nurse liason, who would come to us with updates during her procedure. Then, we waited.
I took a sedative, and tried to sleep on a couch. Our families tried to encourage us and lighten the mood with jokes and stories, but I only wanted to sleep, and to wake up when it was all over and I could have her back. Minutes turned to hours, and the first few updates were positive. Then, things took a turn for the worst, and Dr. Breitbart came out to speak with us.
He told us she was bleeding severely when they warmed her up, and was not able to come off of bypass. They were going to cool her down again and attempt to find where the blood was coming from. Several more hours went by. We were now the only family left in the waiting area, and it was after 6 p.m. Surgery began at 8 a.m. Dr. Mayer and Dr. Breitbart then came out to speak with us. Marin was still bleeding, and was unable to come off of bypass. She was transferred to a machine called ECMO, which would route all of her blood out of her body, through a machine, then back into her. The machine essentially took over the work of her heart and lungs so they could rest. They were very honest, and let us know how critically ill she was. Dr. Mayer was visibly worried, and did not seem confident of her survival. He told us he had seen worse babies recover, but not many. Our worst nightmare had come true, and we knew we might lose her.
We waited several more hours as they transferred her with all of her new machinery to a room in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. It was finally time, and Jacob and I went back to see her.
It was so far worse than I could have imagined. Her chest was left open due to swelling, and every inch of her body was covered in some form of IV or monitoring device. ECMO cannulas in her neck and groin, four chest tubes, temporary pacing wires, three or four IVs, two arterial lines, a ventilator in her mouth, gastric tube in her nose, and brain monitor on her forehead. She looked dirty, and blood had dried on her skin and in her hair. This was not my baby. This was not the clean, content little girl I had handed off just twelve hours ago. Once again, I broke down. Jacob and I held each other, and tried to cope with this new version of our child. We went close to the bed, and could see her heart beating through the thin film that was over the opening in her chest. We stroked her hands, her legs, and let her know we were there, and that we loved her. We said a prayer, and left so our relatives could come back to see her.
We left the hospital and headed back to the hotel. That was the worst day of my entire life, and I pray that nothing will ever surpass it.
October 11, 2007
A day that will live in infamy...for our family at least. It felt as though the world should have stopped turning and focus should have been just on us for those days...but as we al know, that doesnt happen. The world goes on, and you learn to live with your new reality.
The days leading up to my scheduled induction became very anxious for me. I began having small panic attacks, but kept these to myself thinking it was due to my swiftly approaching due date. I kept friends and family around constantly to take my mind off of the nervousness. It helped, but something still didn't feel right.
The day came, and I began my induction. As a first time mom, this was scary. Knowing a baby was coming out of me, that life was about to change forever, that now we were completely responsible for another person's life...those were daunting tasks. Jacob held my hand (and my legs) through it all, and at 10:36 the next morning, October 11, 2007, our daughter Marin Avery Varnado was born weighing in at 8 lb, 11.6 oz. She was beautiful....she looked exactly like Jacob, with blonde hair. She was the picture of a healthy baby...and we settled into our first night in the hospital with her. She breastfed well, slept well, and was the perfect child.
The next morning, the nurses took her to the nursey for a well-check before they would release us. I was exhausted, and trying to catch up on rest while she was gone. About an hour later, she returned with Marin, and she let us know that the doctor head heard a heart murmur and wanted to check it out, just to be safe. She reassured us that most heart murmurs are completely harmless and go away on their own. Unfortunately, that was not to be the case with Marin.
Intimidating medical words and phrases became a part of our lives from that day forth. Marin was diagnosed with Double Outlet Right Ventricle and a Ventricular Septal Defect, two congenital heart defects that would require heart surgery in her first year to correct. We were completely devastated. Dr. Crapanzano, our pediatric cardiologist, explained her defects in simpler terms so that we could understand what would need to be done. He apologized for being the bearer of bad news, and told us to follow up with his office in a week. I laid in my hospital bed hurting, physically and emotionally. Mentally, I was a wreck. Always having been a pessimist and a "what if"-er, my mind immediately was immediately sucked into a dark hole of despair and depression. Panic set in. Jacob held my hand and tried to reassure me...but I knew things were bad. I watched my brother, a doctor, as the echocardiogram was performed on Marin, and saw his hopes dashed. He stared out of the window, silently angry with a higher power. This hurt me almost as much as the diagnosis. He and I had become so close throughout all he'd been through, and I knew he hated that we would have to endure this. His later reassurance and optimism through the darkest days of Marin's life were crucial to my emotional survival. He was a brother, a friend, a confidante, and now a doctor that I trusted with my deepest worries and fears.
The days leading up to my scheduled induction became very anxious for me. I began having small panic attacks, but kept these to myself thinking it was due to my swiftly approaching due date. I kept friends and family around constantly to take my mind off of the nervousness. It helped, but something still didn't feel right.
The day came, and I began my induction. As a first time mom, this was scary. Knowing a baby was coming out of me, that life was about to change forever, that now we were completely responsible for another person's life...those were daunting tasks. Jacob held my hand (and my legs) through it all, and at 10:36 the next morning, October 11, 2007, our daughter Marin Avery Varnado was born weighing in at 8 lb, 11.6 oz. She was beautiful....she looked exactly like Jacob, with blonde hair. She was the picture of a healthy baby...and we settled into our first night in the hospital with her. She breastfed well, slept well, and was the perfect child.
The next morning, the nurses took her to the nursey for a well-check before they would release us. I was exhausted, and trying to catch up on rest while she was gone. About an hour later, she returned with Marin, and she let us know that the doctor head heard a heart murmur and wanted to check it out, just to be safe. She reassured us that most heart murmurs are completely harmless and go away on their own. Unfortunately, that was not to be the case with Marin.
Intimidating medical words and phrases became a part of our lives from that day forth. Marin was diagnosed with Double Outlet Right Ventricle and a Ventricular Septal Defect, two congenital heart defects that would require heart surgery in her first year to correct. We were completely devastated. Dr. Crapanzano, our pediatric cardiologist, explained her defects in simpler terms so that we could understand what would need to be done. He apologized for being the bearer of bad news, and told us to follow up with his office in a week. I laid in my hospital bed hurting, physically and emotionally. Mentally, I was a wreck. Always having been a pessimist and a "what if"-er, my mind immediately was immediately sucked into a dark hole of despair and depression. Panic set in. Jacob held my hand and tried to reassure me...but I knew things were bad. I watched my brother, a doctor, as the echocardiogram was performed on Marin, and saw his hopes dashed. He stared out of the window, silently angry with a higher power. This hurt me almost as much as the diagnosis. He and I had become so close throughout all he'd been through, and I knew he hated that we would have to endure this. His later reassurance and optimism through the darkest days of Marin's life were crucial to my emotional survival. He was a brother, a friend, a confidante, and now a doctor that I trusted with my deepest worries and fears.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
2007...best and worst year of my life
During my time in California, my older brother John's drug use had become steadily worse. I would get calls from my parents, both worried sick, and sometimes not knowing where he was or hearing from him for several days. I knew things were bad. I remember him calling me one night and he was obviously messed up, and driving around in his truck. I begged him to pull over, call a friend, call a cab, or just sleep until he was sober enough to drive. I didn't find out until much later the extent or seriousness of the drugs he had been doing, including shooting up heroin and crack cocaine. All in his fourth and final year of medical school, soon to graduate second in his class, and become a doctor. How could someone so smart be so stupid? I was angry. Angry that he was putting my family, and himself, through this. I didn't understand his addiction. I understood that what he was doing was dangerous, and had the serious capability to take him out of my life forever. This terrified me, and I cried often. Jacob understood, and was there with me through it all.
In early January of 2007, John went missing. He wasn't at the hospital he worked at in Shreveport, wasn't with his girlfriend, and we were all sick with worry. Finally on the second night, his girlfriend called. She had found him, in one of the beds in the doctor's sleep rooms at the hospital, attempting to detox himself. He was sick. Shivering, throwing up, cold sweats..all the telltale signs of withdrawal. With his girlfriend's assistance, my mom committed him to a local mental institution. He spent three days among schizophrenic and depressed people, while trying to get his head straight. The Medical Association found out about John's drug use, and told him it was either rehab, or no residency. Get clean, or you'll never be a doctor. So he was released to my parents under the condition that he would be checked into an inpatient rehab in the next few weeks.
As we began our soon-to-be fateful trip home to Baton Rouge, I was filled with mixed emotions. Sad to be leaving behind a dream of moving away from Louisiana and finding a job, but also so happy to be back with the person I loved and who loved me unconditionally.
That Spring, John had several residency interviews, and since we didn't trust him to drive himself from state to state, I offered to take him. We drove to Houston one weekend and stayed with a friend of mine. All night that night as John slept on the couch, his phone rang over and over. It was a drug dealer, incessantly trying to get hold of one of his best customers. I didn't tell him, but I copied down that number and later called it in to crime stoppers. I doubt anything ever became of it, but was glad I did it. How anyone thought he was worthy of residency at their hospital was beyond me. I guess I knew him too well, because all I saw when I looked at him was blood-shot eyes, track marked arms, and a brother who had not been himself in quite some time. But he did get accepted to a residency program in Little Rock, Arkansas. We all hoped this new position would help him get back on track. But it didn't.
Those few weeks between John's brief institution stay and rehab were hell. He seemed not to care at all any more, and was trying to kill himself via overdose rather than attend rehab. There were constant instances of long bathroom trips to shoot up, falling asleep sitting up, and a complete indifference to the well being of those around him. He wrecked his new truck, flipping it across an interstate 10-12 times, and somehow walked away unscathed. We rushed him to the Emergency Room one day when he complained of severe abdominal pain, and there were no usable veins left in his arms or legs, so one was started in his neck. I silently cried and held his hand as the doctor asked him "have you used drugs in the past few days?" and he replied with a defeated "Yes." He was ashamed. My anger over his drug use soon turned to pity, sadness, and fear. I was so afraid to lose him.
His ninety day rehab stint finally began several weeks later at a small but nationally known rehabilitation clinic thirty minutes from our home town. The next three months would force my broken and angry family to be brutally honest with each other, something my estranged parents had not done in years. I dutifully attended each family session, tissues in hand. I heard other addicts tell their stories of sexual abuse and substance abuse. Some had lead very hard lives...but they all seemed to honestly want to get better. John, being a doctor, became a confidante of many of these men, and I was so proud to see how they looked to him for guidance on issues both medical and emotional. This was the brother I knew and had missed for so long.
Our parents were forced to review their past mistakes; to take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves "what did I do wrong?" It was hard. We all ended these sessions in tears. I held my breath as I heard my brother tell stories of walking through the back alleys of New York City buying drugs while he was there for a medical internship...watching friends overdose, and even bringing one back to life several times...shooting up so many times in one arm that it caused a deep abcess that had to be packed with gauze. All of these horror stories that I was so unaware of. How he had survived to this point was so far beyond me. All I could say is that it was God, knowing that we couldn't stand to lose him...that he was such a critical part of our family...and he protected him time and time again. I will always be so grateful for that.
I later found out from my mom that on that fateful night in the emergency room where John was found detoxing himself, he had a gun in the pocket of his lab coat. He was considering suicide, which is why he was committed to the mental institution. He later admitted to my mom that the only reason he didn't kill himself was because he thought of me, and how I would react. The brother I had always looked up to and admired now showed that he was worried about me, that he did care. I was shocked and saddened by this news, but grateful that we had the close relationship we did.
Midway through John's rehab and all of our stressful family sessions, I found out I was pregnant. Jacob and I went to dinner one night and had boiled crawfish, and my stomach started cramping while I was eating them. I'd never had this happen before, and have always loved spicy southern food. So, I decided to take a pregnancy test, never assuming it would actually be positive. But it was! So, we drove to the pharmacy and bought yet another pregnancy test. This time I bought the one that says "pregnant" or "not pregnant," I was in no mood to fool around with all of the pluses and minuses of the cheaper brands. This time a very definitive "pregnant" flashed across the screen. I was terrified, but excited. I came out of the bathroom crying, and startled Jacob while he was playing on his computer. He was so happy, which really calmed my fears and reassured me. At the time, he was preparing for his second deployment with the Marines, and I was saddened by the fact that I would most likely deliver our baby without him by my side. But I knew that everything would work out.
I sat on the bed that night and called my brother in rehab to break the news. He was very calm. "Are you ok?" he asked. "Yes, just scared and nervous" I replied. He assured me that everything would be fine, and I could tell he was happy for us. He said something then that I will never forget...he told me "If I weren't here right now, this baby probably wouldn't have an uncle." It hit me how close we came to losing him. I cried and told him how much I loved him, and he reassured me again that everything would be ok. Next, I called my mom. She too was very calm, but very excited. She'd been jokingly asking for a grandchild for years, so I knew she would be ecstatic. My pregnancy became a bright spot during that very difficult time in our lives, something happy that we could all look forward to.
John was released from rehab for a weekend to attend our beach wedding that we quickly threw together. It was a small gathering of about 30 family members and a few friends, and the best wedding I could have asked for. It was a beautiful day, and I was so happy. I had married the man I loved, was pregnant with our first child, and my brother was on his way to recovery. We spent a beautiful week at the beach in Destin, Florida celebrating. It was over too quickly, we returned home, and John returned to rehab.
Over the next two weeks, Jacob and his unit prepared to leave for Iraq. I was terrified at the idea of losing him, and even more terrified of having our baby alone. I spoke to my doctor, who strongly recommended that Jacob be with me throughout my pregnancy due to my previous issues with ovarian cysts and depression. I agreed that I was very anxious about his leaving, and my doctor wrote a letter to his command, recommending to them that he be allowed to stay home from this deployment in case something were to happen with the baby. The night before he was set to deploy, we received a phone call. He would be allowed to stay home.
I was so excited, but Jacob on the other hand was feeling sad, and guilty. He felt like he had betrayed his squad, and we both knew if something happened to one of them overseas, he would feel responsible. I understood, but reminded him that I too needed him, and this baby took priority over everything. We soon moved into an apartment together, and he went active duty with the Marines as a recruiter. Summer flew by as my stomach continued to swell uncomfortably. The next few months would be the hardest of our lives.
In early January of 2007, John went missing. He wasn't at the hospital he worked at in Shreveport, wasn't with his girlfriend, and we were all sick with worry. Finally on the second night, his girlfriend called. She had found him, in one of the beds in the doctor's sleep rooms at the hospital, attempting to detox himself. He was sick. Shivering, throwing up, cold sweats..all the telltale signs of withdrawal. With his girlfriend's assistance, my mom committed him to a local mental institution. He spent three days among schizophrenic and depressed people, while trying to get his head straight. The Medical Association found out about John's drug use, and told him it was either rehab, or no residency. Get clean, or you'll never be a doctor. So he was released to my parents under the condition that he would be checked into an inpatient rehab in the next few weeks.
As we began our soon-to-be fateful trip home to Baton Rouge, I was filled with mixed emotions. Sad to be leaving behind a dream of moving away from Louisiana and finding a job, but also so happy to be back with the person I loved and who loved me unconditionally.
That Spring, John had several residency interviews, and since we didn't trust him to drive himself from state to state, I offered to take him. We drove to Houston one weekend and stayed with a friend of mine. All night that night as John slept on the couch, his phone rang over and over. It was a drug dealer, incessantly trying to get hold of one of his best customers. I didn't tell him, but I copied down that number and later called it in to crime stoppers. I doubt anything ever became of it, but was glad I did it. How anyone thought he was worthy of residency at their hospital was beyond me. I guess I knew him too well, because all I saw when I looked at him was blood-shot eyes, track marked arms, and a brother who had not been himself in quite some time. But he did get accepted to a residency program in Little Rock, Arkansas. We all hoped this new position would help him get back on track. But it didn't.
Those few weeks between John's brief institution stay and rehab were hell. He seemed not to care at all any more, and was trying to kill himself via overdose rather than attend rehab. There were constant instances of long bathroom trips to shoot up, falling asleep sitting up, and a complete indifference to the well being of those around him. He wrecked his new truck, flipping it across an interstate 10-12 times, and somehow walked away unscathed. We rushed him to the Emergency Room one day when he complained of severe abdominal pain, and there were no usable veins left in his arms or legs, so one was started in his neck. I silently cried and held his hand as the doctor asked him "have you used drugs in the past few days?" and he replied with a defeated "Yes." He was ashamed. My anger over his drug use soon turned to pity, sadness, and fear. I was so afraid to lose him.
His ninety day rehab stint finally began several weeks later at a small but nationally known rehabilitation clinic thirty minutes from our home town. The next three months would force my broken and angry family to be brutally honest with each other, something my estranged parents had not done in years. I dutifully attended each family session, tissues in hand. I heard other addicts tell their stories of sexual abuse and substance abuse. Some had lead very hard lives...but they all seemed to honestly want to get better. John, being a doctor, became a confidante of many of these men, and I was so proud to see how they looked to him for guidance on issues both medical and emotional. This was the brother I knew and had missed for so long.
Our parents were forced to review their past mistakes; to take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves "what did I do wrong?" It was hard. We all ended these sessions in tears. I held my breath as I heard my brother tell stories of walking through the back alleys of New York City buying drugs while he was there for a medical internship...watching friends overdose, and even bringing one back to life several times...shooting up so many times in one arm that it caused a deep abcess that had to be packed with gauze. All of these horror stories that I was so unaware of. How he had survived to this point was so far beyond me. All I could say is that it was God, knowing that we couldn't stand to lose him...that he was such a critical part of our family...and he protected him time and time again. I will always be so grateful for that.
I later found out from my mom that on that fateful night in the emergency room where John was found detoxing himself, he had a gun in the pocket of his lab coat. He was considering suicide, which is why he was committed to the mental institution. He later admitted to my mom that the only reason he didn't kill himself was because he thought of me, and how I would react. The brother I had always looked up to and admired now showed that he was worried about me, that he did care. I was shocked and saddened by this news, but grateful that we had the close relationship we did.
Midway through John's rehab and all of our stressful family sessions, I found out I was pregnant. Jacob and I went to dinner one night and had boiled crawfish, and my stomach started cramping while I was eating them. I'd never had this happen before, and have always loved spicy southern food. So, I decided to take a pregnancy test, never assuming it would actually be positive. But it was! So, we drove to the pharmacy and bought yet another pregnancy test. This time I bought the one that says "pregnant" or "not pregnant," I was in no mood to fool around with all of the pluses and minuses of the cheaper brands. This time a very definitive "pregnant" flashed across the screen. I was terrified, but excited. I came out of the bathroom crying, and startled Jacob while he was playing on his computer. He was so happy, which really calmed my fears and reassured me. At the time, he was preparing for his second deployment with the Marines, and I was saddened by the fact that I would most likely deliver our baby without him by my side. But I knew that everything would work out.
I sat on the bed that night and called my brother in rehab to break the news. He was very calm. "Are you ok?" he asked. "Yes, just scared and nervous" I replied. He assured me that everything would be fine, and I could tell he was happy for us. He said something then that I will never forget...he told me "If I weren't here right now, this baby probably wouldn't have an uncle." It hit me how close we came to losing him. I cried and told him how much I loved him, and he reassured me again that everything would be ok. Next, I called my mom. She too was very calm, but very excited. She'd been jokingly asking for a grandchild for years, so I knew she would be ecstatic. My pregnancy became a bright spot during that very difficult time in our lives, something happy that we could all look forward to.
John was released from rehab for a weekend to attend our beach wedding that we quickly threw together. It was a small gathering of about 30 family members and a few friends, and the best wedding I could have asked for. It was a beautiful day, and I was so happy. I had married the man I loved, was pregnant with our first child, and my brother was on his way to recovery. We spent a beautiful week at the beach in Destin, Florida celebrating. It was over too quickly, we returned home, and John returned to rehab.
Over the next two weeks, Jacob and his unit prepared to leave for Iraq. I was terrified at the idea of losing him, and even more terrified of having our baby alone. I spoke to my doctor, who strongly recommended that Jacob be with me throughout my pregnancy due to my previous issues with ovarian cysts and depression. I agreed that I was very anxious about his leaving, and my doctor wrote a letter to his command, recommending to them that he be allowed to stay home from this deployment in case something were to happen with the baby. The night before he was set to deploy, we received a phone call. He would be allowed to stay home.
I was so excited, but Jacob on the other hand was feeling sad, and guilty. He felt like he had betrayed his squad, and we both knew if something happened to one of them overseas, he would feel responsible. I understood, but reminded him that I too needed him, and this baby took priority over everything. We soon moved into an apartment together, and he went active duty with the Marines as a recruiter. Summer flew by as my stomach continued to swell uncomfortably. The next few months would be the hardest of our lives.
Monday, September 20, 2010
2006...
Christmas 2005 came and went, and my final semester at LSU began. I was almost done, and beginning to realize that I had no idea what I wanted to do next. I began to get restless again, and as I'd always selfishly done in the past, I hurt the person who loved me so much. I began to be afraid of settling down...what if he wasn't "the one?" What if there was something out there I was missing out on? So, I broke up with Jacob. I broke his heart. We screamed, we fought, we cried...but I didn't back down. I knew in my heart that he was the one I wanted to end up with, but I tried to convince myself otherwise. I secretly hoped he'd be there waiting for me later when I was ready to settle down.
That spring, I heard about a summer job working for the Truth anti-tobacco campaign on the Vans Warped Tour. This seemed like a dream to me, and I assumed it was unattainable, but I applied anyway. That was my toughest semester yet, and I spent a lot of time studying, writing, and filming different projects. I also worked at an Italian cafe called Monjuni's, alongside Jacob and several of his friends. I spent many weekends driving back to my home town of Monroe to visit with friends. Midway through the semester, I received a call to do a phone interview for the Warped Tour job. I was ecstatic that I had even been considered. The phone interview went well, and I was invited to New York City for several days of group and solo interviews with the company that puts on the Truth campaign. It was spring in New York, and my friend Kristi joined me for the trip. On the last day of interviews, I learned that I hadn't been selected as one of the 8 that would do the tour, but I was selected as an alternate. So just in case something were to happen to one of the 8, I'd be in. I was devastated, but sure I'd done my best.
Back home, I got a call that one of the girls that had been selected was disqualified, and I was offered the job. I saw this as the opportunity of a lifetime, and I quickly said yes. I was also able to somehow convince the people at LSU that this summer job of traveling the country on a tour bus should count as my required internship for Mass Comm. After all, I was marketing for a campaign.
After my last final, I packed up my apartment and prepared to leave for the summer. I flew out of Monroe and landed in Maryland, the tour's first stop. I reunited with our group that I had met during interviews, and we quickly became friends. It was like a season of "The Real World," but on a tour bus, in the middle of a loud and crazy music tour. It was a wild summer, and one of my most memorable. I worked all day in the blistering heat in the middle of about ten stages with different bands playing constantly on each one. I marketed my anti-tobacco campaign to the youthful attendees of the Warped Tour, and tried to convince them to believe in my cause. Some days, we did a great job. Others, we were tired and hung over. There were nightly parties in the midst of several hundred tour buses. We stayed up late drinking and stumbling through mud and dirt fields in the middle of various U.S. cities. Often times we would forget which city we had arrived at in the middle of the night, but it was always exciting to crawl out of my small bunk in the morning in a new place. I saw the country, one city at a time, within a span of sixty days. There was a party in every city, and with my Warped Tour backstage pass, I was always on the guest list. I befriended members of the bands who had been in my ipod for years. It was a dream job, and I loved it. Although each repetitive day seemed endless, the tour came to an end all too quickly. I was sunburnt, tired, and 10 pounds heavier after a summer of catering and eating out.
I returned home to Monroe for a few days to visit with friends and family. Jacob and I had been in contact throughout the summer, but it was usually an infrequent "I miss you" text at 3 a.m. I was cruel, and ignored many of these messages. I can remember driving over the bridge into New York City to attend a tour party and texting him in the back seat. We were arguing again, he was a constant reminder of the real life back home that I didn't want to think of. I planned on moving to California after tour to look for a job, and already had a roommate waiting out there for me. I took one last trip to Baton Rouge to visit friends, and to see Jacob before I left. Nothing had changed. He was the same handsome guy I'd left, and my feelings for him were still there. As hard as it was, I remained detached from him. I could see it was killing him, and inside I was hurting. But I drove away.
I picked up a friend from tour at the airport in New Orleans. He and I explored the city for a day, then drove back to Monroe to prepare for our drive to Los Angeles. My mom cried as we drove away, and I thought this time, it was for good.
I found a job at a small Entertainment Company in Beverly Hills called Novi Entertainment. The guy that owned it managed several big-time rock bands, and was rarely in the office. It was just me, and occasionally another girl who did marketing for him. He paid me $400 a week to sit in his office and answer his phone. October came, and Jacob and I had been talking again. We texted often, chatted almost daily. I remembered why I fell in love with him in the first place, and decided to fly home for my birthday to visit. It was a great weekend. I fell in love with him all over again, and this time realized I didn't want to lose him. We spent the next two months flying back and forth between Los Angeles and Baton Rouge. By Christmas, I decided I was ready to be with him forever, and planned to move home. I made the excuse to our landlord that I just found out I was pregnant, and needed to go home to be with my boyfriend. Little did I know, that excuse would soon turn into my reality.
That spring, I heard about a summer job working for the Truth anti-tobacco campaign on the Vans Warped Tour. This seemed like a dream to me, and I assumed it was unattainable, but I applied anyway. That was my toughest semester yet, and I spent a lot of time studying, writing, and filming different projects. I also worked at an Italian cafe called Monjuni's, alongside Jacob and several of his friends. I spent many weekends driving back to my home town of Monroe to visit with friends. Midway through the semester, I received a call to do a phone interview for the Warped Tour job. I was ecstatic that I had even been considered. The phone interview went well, and I was invited to New York City for several days of group and solo interviews with the company that puts on the Truth campaign. It was spring in New York, and my friend Kristi joined me for the trip. On the last day of interviews, I learned that I hadn't been selected as one of the 8 that would do the tour, but I was selected as an alternate. So just in case something were to happen to one of the 8, I'd be in. I was devastated, but sure I'd done my best.
Back home, I got a call that one of the girls that had been selected was disqualified, and I was offered the job. I saw this as the opportunity of a lifetime, and I quickly said yes. I was also able to somehow convince the people at LSU that this summer job of traveling the country on a tour bus should count as my required internship for Mass Comm. After all, I was marketing for a campaign.
After my last final, I packed up my apartment and prepared to leave for the summer. I flew out of Monroe and landed in Maryland, the tour's first stop. I reunited with our group that I had met during interviews, and we quickly became friends. It was like a season of "The Real World," but on a tour bus, in the middle of a loud and crazy music tour. It was a wild summer, and one of my most memorable. I worked all day in the blistering heat in the middle of about ten stages with different bands playing constantly on each one. I marketed my anti-tobacco campaign to the youthful attendees of the Warped Tour, and tried to convince them to believe in my cause. Some days, we did a great job. Others, we were tired and hung over. There were nightly parties in the midst of several hundred tour buses. We stayed up late drinking and stumbling through mud and dirt fields in the middle of various U.S. cities. Often times we would forget which city we had arrived at in the middle of the night, but it was always exciting to crawl out of my small bunk in the morning in a new place. I saw the country, one city at a time, within a span of sixty days. There was a party in every city, and with my Warped Tour backstage pass, I was always on the guest list. I befriended members of the bands who had been in my ipod for years. It was a dream job, and I loved it. Although each repetitive day seemed endless, the tour came to an end all too quickly. I was sunburnt, tired, and 10 pounds heavier after a summer of catering and eating out.
I returned home to Monroe for a few days to visit with friends and family. Jacob and I had been in contact throughout the summer, but it was usually an infrequent "I miss you" text at 3 a.m. I was cruel, and ignored many of these messages. I can remember driving over the bridge into New York City to attend a tour party and texting him in the back seat. We were arguing again, he was a constant reminder of the real life back home that I didn't want to think of. I planned on moving to California after tour to look for a job, and already had a roommate waiting out there for me. I took one last trip to Baton Rouge to visit friends, and to see Jacob before I left. Nothing had changed. He was the same handsome guy I'd left, and my feelings for him were still there. As hard as it was, I remained detached from him. I could see it was killing him, and inside I was hurting. But I drove away.
I picked up a friend from tour at the airport in New Orleans. He and I explored the city for a day, then drove back to Monroe to prepare for our drive to Los Angeles. My mom cried as we drove away, and I thought this time, it was for good.
I found a job at a small Entertainment Company in Beverly Hills called Novi Entertainment. The guy that owned it managed several big-time rock bands, and was rarely in the office. It was just me, and occasionally another girl who did marketing for him. He paid me $400 a week to sit in his office and answer his phone. October came, and Jacob and I had been talking again. We texted often, chatted almost daily. I remembered why I fell in love with him in the first place, and decided to fly home for my birthday to visit. It was a great weekend. I fell in love with him all over again, and this time realized I didn't want to lose him. We spent the next two months flying back and forth between Los Angeles and Baton Rouge. By Christmas, I decided I was ready to be with him forever, and planned to move home. I made the excuse to our landlord that I just found out I was pregnant, and needed to go home to be with my boyfriend. Little did I know, that excuse would soon turn into my reality.
2005
During my semester in Los Angeles, I began having some knee pain. I was aware that I had a bone tumor called an osteochondroma, but it had never given me any trouble, until then. One night while working at Billabong I was climbing up a ladder and my knee popped. It hurt really badly, and felt like my muscle had caught on the knobby tumor that was sticking off of the bone. I couldn't exten my leg all the way and had to keep it slightly bent for the next few days until it got better. I decided to see an orthopedist there, and he told me that if this continued to happen, I would need to have the tumor removed. Of course, it continued to happen. Christmas break of that year included a knee surgery for me, and I began the Spring semester of 2005 on crutches and with my leg in a splint so I couldn't bend it. We made the most of it, and drove electronic carts around Walmart using my leg as an excuse. Jacob, on the other hand, didn't have a scar or crutches, and was soon kicked off of the cart by Rick Support Manager.
After all that I'd done, Jacob took care of me. He took me to class, picked me up, brought me medicine and candy, and continued to love me for who I was. I loved him back.
Since one surgery just wasn't enough, I soon discovered that I had a large cyst on my remaining ovary, the evil predacessor of Derwood, the cyst that had destroyed my left ovary as a teenager. So, Spring Break 2005 was spent in the hospital having yet another surgery, with yet another ugly incision. It was not fun. Jacob was there through it all, and bought me some DVDs and candy for my recovery. After a night in the hospital, I went home to Jacob's apartment to recover. My mom had caught a stomach virus in the hospital, which I then caught. Throwing up with a fresh incision on your abdomen is not fun. I spent that afternoon and evening back at the hospital emergency room. All the retching had caused my incision to split open, and I was bleeding. Not the Spring Break I would have envisioned for myself.
Life was soon back to normal, and I moved into a new apartment with my former dorm roommate. That fall I began my senior year as a student in the college of Mass Communications at LSU, and I enjoyed it. I knew I didn't want to stay in Baton Rouge forever, but was complacent.
After all that I'd done, Jacob took care of me. He took me to class, picked me up, brought me medicine and candy, and continued to love me for who I was. I loved him back.
Since one surgery just wasn't enough, I soon discovered that I had a large cyst on my remaining ovary, the evil predacessor of Derwood, the cyst that had destroyed my left ovary as a teenager. So, Spring Break 2005 was spent in the hospital having yet another surgery, with yet another ugly incision. It was not fun. Jacob was there through it all, and bought me some DVDs and candy for my recovery. After a night in the hospital, I went home to Jacob's apartment to recover. My mom had caught a stomach virus in the hospital, which I then caught. Throwing up with a fresh incision on your abdomen is not fun. I spent that afternoon and evening back at the hospital emergency room. All the retching had caused my incision to split open, and I was bleeding. Not the Spring Break I would have envisioned for myself.
Life was soon back to normal, and I moved into a new apartment with my former dorm roommate. That fall I began my senior year as a student in the college of Mass Communications at LSU, and I enjoyed it. I knew I didn't want to stay in Baton Rouge forever, but was complacent.
2003-2004
My carefree attitude and lifestyle soon came to a halt in the fall of 2003. Jacob and I went to the movies one night to see a horror flick entitled "Gothika." I'd always been a fan of scary movies, and assumed this one would be like every other cheesy horror movie I'd seen. But it wasn't. As we left the theatre that night, I remember feeling very uneasy. Something just wasn't right. Later that same night, I had my first panic attack. I didn't tell anyone, and thought I was going crazy. I didn't think anyone could understand. I soon began spending most of my waking hours either in class or at home studying and self-medicating with Nyquil so I could sleep. Every thought, every worry became a "what if" and soon turned horrible. My mind was in a state of almost constant fear and panic. Who am I? What am I doing here? What will happen when I die? These questions were constantly floating through my head, and I began to analyze them so deeply that it would always end in fear and panic. I was depressed. I rarely ate, got sick to my stomach often, and lost about 10 pounds. For two semesters, I made straight A's in all of my classes. In the fall of 2003, I took a trip to New York City with my mom and aunt. Jacob decided to join us. It was the worst trip of my life. I tried my best to ignore the anxiety and panic, but it was always there. That fear was inescapable. I was so happy to return home. After several more months of panic attacks and unhappiness in the Spring of 2004, I finally decided to reach out. I can remember calling my mom from the bathroom of a restaurant on a Spring Break trip to the beach. I didn't know what to do, and she could hear the fear and helplessness in my voice. She told me I had to get help, to go see someone. So I did. When we got home, I set an appointment with the Mental Health department at the LSU Student Health Center. I saw someone who seemed to understand, I cried a lot, and he prescribed me Zoloft. I was doubtful that it would help, but he assured me that panic attacks are common and that I wasn't alone. Several weeks later, I was a new person. The attacks had subsided, and my head felt clear for the first time in months. I decided that I wanted to get out of town for a while, and applied for the exchange program through LSU. Jacob didn't understand, and neither did I really. I don't know what made me do it...I had been so depressed for so long, and just needed to escape my surroundings. I was accepted to the national student exchange program, and chose to go to California State University at Northridge, just north of Los Angeles.
After several months of planning and a big going away party, Jacob, my mom, and I set out on our road trip to California. I found an apartment with two other girls from the exchange program who I'd never met. We had fun along the way, taking 4 days to make our trip and sight see. I soon settled in to my new apartment, and mom flew home. Jacob stayed a few extra days and we explored Los Angeles. He then flew home, and I began my semester in California.
I found a part-time job at Billabong at Universal Studios. Jacob flew out often to visit. I turned 21 there, and began going out frequently in L.A. with my roommates. We were having the time of our lives, and I tried to forget my life back home and all the people in it. I wanted independence, freedom, and this was my chance. I surfed, partied, and mingled with celebrities. I was disloyal once again, and I could tell Jacob wasn't happy with me. He brought me back down to earth and reminded me who I was and where I came from. He was angry with me...and I deserved it. After several months of trying to be someone I definitely was not, it was time to go home. I was thankful that he was still there...that once again, he forgave me and let me back in his life when I truly did not deserve it.
After several months of planning and a big going away party, Jacob, my mom, and I set out on our road trip to California. I found an apartment with two other girls from the exchange program who I'd never met. We had fun along the way, taking 4 days to make our trip and sight see. I soon settled in to my new apartment, and mom flew home. Jacob stayed a few extra days and we explored Los Angeles. He then flew home, and I began my semester in California.
I found a part-time job at Billabong at Universal Studios. Jacob flew out often to visit. I turned 21 there, and began going out frequently in L.A. with my roommates. We were having the time of our lives, and I tried to forget my life back home and all the people in it. I wanted independence, freedom, and this was my chance. I surfed, partied, and mingled with celebrities. I was disloyal once again, and I could tell Jacob wasn't happy with me. He brought me back down to earth and reminded me who I was and where I came from. He was angry with me...and I deserved it. After several months of trying to be someone I definitely was not, it was time to go home. I was thankful that he was still there...that once again, he forgave me and let me back in his life when I truly did not deserve it.
From the beginning- 2002-2003
Sometimes I just feel like typing. Typing my thoughts, my memories, my musings on life...typing the things I don't always want to share with the world. That is me. I've always liked to put a pen to paper, or in this case a finger to a keyboard, and see what happens. This is my life, and whats become of it. This is me, the good, the bad, everything. I'm a worrier, so that will definitely become evident here. Well, here it goes...
From the moment I met my husband, I knew there was something special about him. It wasn't one of those "this is the person I'm going to marry" kind of things, but we clicked. He was walking through the quad at LSU, and I was a freshman in my first semester there. I was eager to meet new people, learn new things, just to experience life on my own. He and his friends were goofing around as I watched them, and I literally laughed out loud at something they did. He overheard, and was obviously pleased I'd noticed how funny they were. So we introduced ourselves. That day, we ventured around the LSU campus, talked, and even visited one of his friend's dorm rooms in the Honors College. We exchanged numbers, and kept in touch infrequently throughout that semester. I was sort-of seeing someone at the time, spending almost every night and weekend with a friend from high school who also came to LSU from Monroe. As fall turned to Winter, we kept in touch, and he went skiing with friends while I took a trip to New York with the BCM. Christmas passed, and my second semester began. We reconnected, and soon were inseparable. I liked him. He and his friends made me feel comfortable, and they made me laugh. We did silly things together...spent hours in the Union at LSU doing crossword puzzles, eating junk food, and throwing noodles at cakes. (An LSU catering truck driver made the mistake of leaving a huge cake unattended in the back of his truck, and since we had leftover noodles from lunch, we decided the cake was a great target.) We quickly grew very close.
That Spring, we made a lot of memories together. Then one day as I walked through the Quad, Jacob called. He was in the Marines, as I knew, and had just found out that he'd be heading to Iraq for a tour of duty. I cried as I walked back to my dorm, worried and confused. We had just begun to really get to know each other, and now he was leaving. The next few weeks we spent every moment possible together. He withdrew from classes, and I skipped a lot of mine to be with him. Our last night together came way too soon, and by that point he was incredibly sleep-deprived from trying to stay up every night to spend time with his friends and family. By this point I'd grown to know and love his family, as we had visited them frequently over the past few months. His mom and I hugged and cried as his bus drove away.
Luckily, I was able to fly out to California to visit Jacob twice while his unit prepared for deployment to Iraq. We spent two lazy weekends walking around the strange town of Palm Springs checking out places called "Gay Mart" and the bum fountain. Those trips flew by, and soon he left the country for Iraq. I told him I loved him, and promised to write all the time.
Unfortunately, life doesn't stand still when you're on the other side of the world, and I soon became involved with my own life, with new friends and adventures. Jacob was always there, in the back of my mind, and we did exchange letters and once in a while I would get a phone call, usually in the middle of the night, from an Unknown number, and it was him. Those talks were short, sometimes awkward, and always sad. He was definitely homesick, and boredom was a huge issue. They often had long expanses of time with nothing serious going on, and I could tell that was killing him. He missed his life and family back home.
After several months of him being away, I took the selfish route. I decided I didnt want to be in a long-distance relationship with someone in Iraq, and I wrote a letter saying I hoped he'd understand. Although I know he didn't, he wrote back and said he agreed.
His deployment finally came to an end, and he returned. The mistakes I'd made in his absence were tough to overcome, and it took a long time for me to get back in good graces with his friends. They knew of my disloyalty, and hated me for it. Honestly, I couldn't blame them. I was young and selfish.
We soon settled back into our former routine of spending the majority of our time together. His friends slowly began to accept me back into their circle, and I was happy. Temporarily, at least.
From the moment I met my husband, I knew there was something special about him. It wasn't one of those "this is the person I'm going to marry" kind of things, but we clicked. He was walking through the quad at LSU, and I was a freshman in my first semester there. I was eager to meet new people, learn new things, just to experience life on my own. He and his friends were goofing around as I watched them, and I literally laughed out loud at something they did. He overheard, and was obviously pleased I'd noticed how funny they were. So we introduced ourselves. That day, we ventured around the LSU campus, talked, and even visited one of his friend's dorm rooms in the Honors College. We exchanged numbers, and kept in touch infrequently throughout that semester. I was sort-of seeing someone at the time, spending almost every night and weekend with a friend from high school who also came to LSU from Monroe. As fall turned to Winter, we kept in touch, and he went skiing with friends while I took a trip to New York with the BCM. Christmas passed, and my second semester began. We reconnected, and soon were inseparable. I liked him. He and his friends made me feel comfortable, and they made me laugh. We did silly things together...spent hours in the Union at LSU doing crossword puzzles, eating junk food, and throwing noodles at cakes. (An LSU catering truck driver made the mistake of leaving a huge cake unattended in the back of his truck, and since we had leftover noodles from lunch, we decided the cake was a great target.) We quickly grew very close.
That Spring, we made a lot of memories together. Then one day as I walked through the Quad, Jacob called. He was in the Marines, as I knew, and had just found out that he'd be heading to Iraq for a tour of duty. I cried as I walked back to my dorm, worried and confused. We had just begun to really get to know each other, and now he was leaving. The next few weeks we spent every moment possible together. He withdrew from classes, and I skipped a lot of mine to be with him. Our last night together came way too soon, and by that point he was incredibly sleep-deprived from trying to stay up every night to spend time with his friends and family. By this point I'd grown to know and love his family, as we had visited them frequently over the past few months. His mom and I hugged and cried as his bus drove away.
Luckily, I was able to fly out to California to visit Jacob twice while his unit prepared for deployment to Iraq. We spent two lazy weekends walking around the strange town of Palm Springs checking out places called "Gay Mart" and the bum fountain. Those trips flew by, and soon he left the country for Iraq. I told him I loved him, and promised to write all the time.
Unfortunately, life doesn't stand still when you're on the other side of the world, and I soon became involved with my own life, with new friends and adventures. Jacob was always there, in the back of my mind, and we did exchange letters and once in a while I would get a phone call, usually in the middle of the night, from an Unknown number, and it was him. Those talks were short, sometimes awkward, and always sad. He was definitely homesick, and boredom was a huge issue. They often had long expanses of time with nothing serious going on, and I could tell that was killing him. He missed his life and family back home.
After several months of him being away, I took the selfish route. I decided I didnt want to be in a long-distance relationship with someone in Iraq, and I wrote a letter saying I hoped he'd understand. Although I know he didn't, he wrote back and said he agreed.
His deployment finally came to an end, and he returned. The mistakes I'd made in his absence were tough to overcome, and it took a long time for me to get back in good graces with his friends. They knew of my disloyalty, and hated me for it. Honestly, I couldn't blame them. I was young and selfish.
We soon settled back into our former routine of spending the majority of our time together. His friends slowly began to accept me back into their circle, and I was happy. Temporarily, at least.
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