Never say never, and other thoughts on having more kids
Some folks have asked if my doctors are putting pressure on me not to have more children. I usually respond with a sound like hoooooo-ho-ho-hooooo (which is not supposed to be a sound like what Santa says, but rather a hearty laugh to indicate, YOU HAVE NO IDEA).
The doctors have said this before, when I was diagnosed with the clotting disorder after getting a deep vein thrombosis during my second pregnancy, but, luckily for my third, fourth, fifth, and sixth children, I knew that they weren’t that serious when they said, “You seriously can’t have any more children.”
But now they’re saying it with extra drama, and there’s nothing like lungs full of blood clots (for me) and lungs full of holes (for the baby) to make me think that they might actually mean it this time.
So what does that mean for me? When I converted to Catholicism, to my great surprise I came to agree whole-heartedly with what the Church teaches about contraception. I do Natural Family Planning (badly), and probably have about eight years of fertility left. Am I still going to stick with it? Am I resentful of these rules? Do I even want to have more kids? If the subject lines of my email inbox are any indication, a lot of folks are curious about this; hey, I would be too if I followed someone’s blog who found herself in this situation.
So let’s go ahead and crack open that can of worms, and I’ll give you my long answer to the question: Your doctors said you can’t have any more kids. What now?
Let’s talk about risk
First of all, let’s remember that when we speak about the dangers of pregnancy or any other undertaking, we’re talking about risk. This is not certainty. Nobody has a crystal ball. It’s all just educated guesses.
This sounds obvious, but it’s surprisingly easy to forget.
You hear a doctor say, “You shouldn’t do XYZ because it would put your health at risk,” and it’s tempting to immediately declare, “‘Risk,’ you say? I SHALL NEVER DO XYZ AGAIN THEN!” But it’s critical to do the best we can to identify what level of risk we’re talking about.
In my own case, for example, I have a responsibility to my existing children not to take unnecessary risks with my life. The word to hone in on here is “unnecessary,” though, because the reality is that we take risks with our lives all the time. I’m thinking about taking a road trip this summer that would involve driving for hours down two-lane roads with 70-mile-per-hour speed limits and no barriers separating oncoming traffic. I would be driving on a weekend, when plenty of people are on the road after having beers at nearby lakes. There is no question that my life would be in danger if I went on that trip; in fact, the danger to my health in that situation is probably not even drastically lower than it would be with another pregnancy. Yet we perceive the pregnancy as being so much more fraught than the fun road trip.
For a variety of reasons, we’re always tempted to freak out and get all fearful when it comes to new life, much more so than in other areas of life. A mother setting out to climb a famous mountain as a personal self-fulfillment project would be congratulated and encouraged, whereas another mother being open to pregnancy despite concerning health conditions would be chided and discouraged, even if the risk to both women’s health from their respective activities were the same.
So, especially when it comes to the question of more children, we need to look very carefully at the question, “How big is the risk?” There are times when we’ll take a closer look and find that the risk is real and huge and deeply concerning; but other times we might just find that the risk isn’t all that much greater than it would be with plenty of other “normal” activities, and that the doom and gloom predictions about future pregnancy were fueled as much by our culture’s fear of life than as by a reasonable analysis of risk.
The hope factor
Every risk has a flipside, and this is another area that is too often forgotten about when we’re talking about pregnancy: the benefits of undertaking the risk.
We have this problem in our society of seeing new human lives as burdens. Instead of celebrating new people, too often we chalk them up to carbon footprints and mouths to feed. We deem others (always others, not people we know) to be “overpopulation.” And I’m not using “we” rhetorically: Seriously, I’m not immune to the mentality either.
The soundtrack to all of my pregnancies is the noise of my whining voice. I always forget about the life of the new son or daughter that I’m carrying, and talk about the huge burden that “the pregnancy” is placing on me. Maybe it’s all those years I spent immersed in secular culture, but I am naturally sympathetic to the frame of mind that wants to immediately shut down the pregnancy train as soon as the doctor says the word “risk.” Especially in the case of those of us who already have a lot of children, why not? After all, how many kids does one person need?
But children are more than a number in the family birth order, and each human life is infinitely valuable. Think of someone you love: When you consider the worth of his or her life, it makes you view the pregnancy that brought him or her into existence differently. It makes you willing to accept higher levels of risk to add a person like that to the world.
Imagine that you were diagnosed with a rare and fatal illness, and you discovered that there was a doctor who had developed a brand new way to treat it. Imagine that this doctor cured you. Imagine the waves of joy and relief that would sweep over you when you found out that he had defeated the disease that threatened to cut your life short. Now imagine that you found out that he was his mother’s seventh child, and that her pregnancy with him went against warnings from her doctors not to have any more children. Would his mother seem crazy for becoming pregnant anyway? Would she seem irresponsible for deciding that adding another soul to her family was worth the risk?
Unfortunately, sometimes we need to remind ourselves what other people can do for us in order to remember the value of their lives.
I’m not suggesting that there’s never a good reason to avoid pregnancy; even aside from health risks, there are plenty of other reasons couples might decide that it’s not a good time for another kid. I only suggest that when we make those decisions, it’s critical that we make them in light of the hope that every new baby brings. When you think of making sacrifices for a nameless, faceless “pregnancy,” it doesn’t seem worth much effort. But the cost/benefit ratio changes drastically when you really think about the worth of one boy or girl’s life.
NFP is worth it
All that said, I do think there’s enough risk in my own situation that I should chill on the pregnancy front for now, maybe forever. In that case, then, wouldn’t contraception or sterilization make everything easier? To put it concisely:
No.
First of all, Natural Family Planning can be an effective way to space children. (I’ll give you a moment to stop laughing and clean up the drink you just spilled on your keyboard.) No, seriously, if you’re willing to invest a little time to learn the ropes, it can work just as well as contraception. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s not always easy, and that the challenges that come with NFP are very real. However, it’s not like the alternatives offer problem-free solutions either. As the great Simcha Fisher once said, “When it comes to facing fertility, all God’s children got angst.”
I know a lot of other couples who have given up contraception to use NFP, and not a single one of them has ever returned to contraception use. I’m not saying it never happens, but, at least in my experience, it’s rare. That’s totally counter-intuitive since NFP is a sacrifice-based system, but I think what most couples find when they give up artificial birth control to space children naturally (especially when they involve God in the process), is that the high level of personal sacrifice involved is a feature, not a bug. NFP is not just another form of birth control; it’s an entirely new lifestyle. It makes you see yourself and your spouse and your children entirely differently. It makes you see the meaning of life differently. It even makes you see your relationship with God differently. And once you’ve spent a while living that kind of life, you don’t want to go back.
Intellectually, I don’t think that contraception is a good thing. I’ve come to believe that it takes away women’s reproductive freedom, and, on a societal level, fuels abortion culture. But, when I think of my own situation, I never even get that far in the analysis. Like so many other people who have made the switch to NFP, I simply couldn’t be okay with any form of sterilization anymore, whether temporary or permanent. I don’t know how to articulate it other than to say I just couldn’t do it. On a purely visceral level, in that place deep in the heart where the most important truths about our humanity reside, I know as surely as I know anything else that those Catholic teachings about human sexuality are true and good.
So what now?
As you can imagine, I’ve gotten some flack about all of this lately, especially in light of this disastrous pregnancy. Sometimes I catch myself reacting by saying:
“I didn’t know!”
I mean, yeah, I knew that I had a blood clotting disorder that’s exacerbated by pregnancy, and, okay, there was that one just slightly life-threatening DVT in my second pregnancy. BUT! I thought that it would be fine once I took preventative Lovenox. I didn’t know that it was possible to end up with bilateral pulmonary embolisms when you were on blood thinners — I thought that I was stabbing myself with needles every day to prevent that kind of thing! I didn’t know that a one-month supply of said blood thinners would set me back FOUR THOUSAND dollars. I didn’t know that I’d end up having to undergo medical procedures that were like something out of a bad episode of Fear Factor. I didn’t know that one of my veins would turn black from having over 10 blood draws in the same arm over a few hours. I certainly didn’t know that my baby would have his own, unrelated life-threatening lung issues that would put him in intensive care for two weeks. Sheesh, people, I didn’t know!
The implication there is that I would have done something differently if I had known that I was signing up for a pregnancy that was like something out of a homeric epic.
But would I?
I look down at my sweet baby boy, who is sleeping in my lap as I type, and I am overwhelmed with love and joy at his existence. I am filled with certainty that his life was meant to be. I can barely even remember all the pain I went through to bring him into the world, because that finite amount of suffering seems so utterly insignificant in comparison to the infinite value of his life.
Yet I am also sitting here saying that it would probably be best if I didn’t have more children. It leaves me in a place of strange tension: If this baby was so worth it, wouldn’t that be the case for another one? As a mother, I certainly have a duty to my precious children not to take risks with my health; but if I’d followed that train of thought more closely before, most of said precious children would not even exist.
It is when I ponder these truths that I realize: It’s so freaking complicated.
There are no more difficult, complicated, messy decisions in the human experience than the decisions we make about having kids. In no area of life is there more at stake, more opportunities for suffering and loss, and more opportunities for joy and love and connection that will last through eternity.
I don’t have all the answers; many days, I don’t feel like I have any. I have no idea if I’ll ever have another biological child. Today I’m thinking that I probably won’t…but will I feel that way tomorrow? If I’ve learned anything so far this year, it’s that your whole world can be turned upside down in a matter of hours, leaving you with an entirely different perspective on life than you had the day before. Luckily, with NFP, you make these kinds of decisions on a month-to-month, rather than a long-term basis. I’ll have regular opportunities to re-evaluate my choices.
And so when people ask about whether I think I’ll have more children, I usually respond with a responsible-sounding answer about how I am aware of the risks and currently plan to take the prudent course and avoid pregnancy for the rest of my fertile years. But then I’ll glance over at my little blond-haired son, and sometimes his tiny, ink-blue eyes will catch mine, and I can barely suppress a smile as I think: Never say never.
Coming home
Great news: The baby is on track to come home late Thursday night! We’re thrilled.
We still don’t understand what caused the tearing in his lungs when he was first born; the doctors think it was either underdeveloped lungs (which would be weird since we induced past the 38 week mark) or pneumonia or both. He spent a week with tubes in both sides of his chest to release excess air that was building up in his chest cavity.
In addition to our concerns about his health, these tubes meant that nobody could hold him. Seeing my baby crying and not being able to pick him up aged me about a thousand years in the course of those few days.
Because he’s old enough to be quite alert, we’ve tried to have someone there with him pretty much all the time. He was transferred from the hospital where he was born to a Level III NICU at a hospital 30 minutes away from us, which has meant a lot of driving around. With five other young children at home, you can imagine how exhausting that’s been.
One of the ways that I am certain that your wonderful prayers were answered was that we had previously arranged for my aunt to come visit for a week (hey, God is outside of time, so perhaps it was retroactive divine inspiration?). Back when the thought first came to mind it was a spontaneous idea to have her come hang out to meet the new baby and pal around with the other kids. It seemed like it would be a fun little vacation; we could have never imagined how critical her presence here would end up being! She goes home today, and the baby most likely will come home tomorrow. Perfect timing.
I apologize that I have not been responding to emails, tweets, and other kind messages. After all the concerns about my health, all of us were absolutely floored when I was fine and the baby had major problems. On top of a difficult labor and an even more difficult few months leading up to it, it’s been all I can do to put one foot in front of the other to get through this situation. Things have been going surprisingly well and we’ve been blessed with an unbelievable support network, but worrying about the baby’s health + recovering from the birth and all the medical procedures leading up to it + running back and forth to a hospital that’s not nearby + arranging childcare for our five other kids + making sure the other kids’ emotional needs are met + making sure Joe was able do his CPA work before the tax deadline has left me utterly drained all the time.
When I do have down time I’ve been disconnecting and completely losing myself in books. I don’t surf the web, read blogs, get on Twitter, check email, or any of the stuff I’d normally do; instead, I jump into the world of a book and immerse myself in it totally. Normally I’m not a big fiction reader, but in this case it’s just what the doctor ordered to spend a couple of hours a day in a world other than my own. It’s like a balm for my overheated brain.
Thank you so much again for your kind words, prayer, and support. More updates soon!
Prayers for baby
Our sweet little baby Joseph Thomas arrived yesterday
The Feast of the Annunciation
7 lbs. 4 oz., 19 inches long
Unfortunately, he has some breathing problems (unrelated to my medical issues) that mean that he requires NICU care, and is now being transferred to a NICU at a different hospital with better facilities. Even more unfortunately, I have to stay here at the delivery hospital until we get my blood thinners under control. I haven’t even seen him that much since he’s been born.
Hallie keeps sending me encouraging texts telling me I’m being so strong. I’ve been meaning to follow up and ask her for some examples of what “not being strong at all” would look like. Because I’m pretty sure that that’s what I’m actually doing.
Needless to say, this is a stressful situation for all involved, so we appreciate any prayers you can offer. Thanks again for all your wonderful support.
Because why even have a blog if you can’t write chatty posts while stuck in the hospital?
The rooms here are gorgeous. It's like being at a hotel where they stab you with needles.
I’m sitting in my hospital room and have about 18 hours to kill until anything noteworthy occurs, so I thought I’d do a brain dump of updates for those of you playing along at home (if one more crazy thing happens I half expect to hear someone shout, “BINGO!”).
Here’s what’s new:
- As I mentioned on Twitter, I had The Insane-O Vein Procedure on Friday, but did NOT get a filter. The doctor realized that my lumbar veins are huge, so there’s no point in putting a filter in that one main vein — my heart and lungs still wouldn’t be protected, since clots could just go through the other veins. So it’ll be a filter-less delivery.
- Unfortunately this realization occurred after the tube with the filter was down right by my heart, so I underwent the entire procedure.
- Here is my verdict on whether or not the filter placement procedure is “no big deal”: LIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Ahem. Allow me to explain: If you are not nine months pregnant while having it done, I’d imagine that it is indeed no sweat. But here’s how it goes when you are nine months pregnant:
They took me into a huge surgical room that was stocked with equipment like it was a NASA control center. I had to lie completely flat on a narrow board. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? But wait! Remember that I am 38 weeks pregnant and my breathing is already compromised from pulmonary embolisms. So when I lie completely flat on my back, the result is that I feel like I am suffocating (and, in fact, I kind of am). Then they put oxygen tubes in my nose. Logically, I knew that this would help me get air; but when you have foreign objects in your nose, your body has a physiological reaction of thinking that you’re being prevented from breathing. So more signals from my body that basically said, “HEEEEEELP! YOU ARE SUFFOCATING TO DEATH!!!!!!”
And then it got worse.
Because they had to go in through my neck, they took a large roll of tarp-like paper and covered the entire area around the entry point, leaving only a hole where they’d do the incision. You know what part of my anatomy is included in the “entire area” around the entry point? My freaking face. They put a circular bar above my head for the paper to rest on so it wouldn’t touch my face, then covered me to the top of my head, leaving only a small opening where I could see out. It was like being zipped into a body bag.
So now I had: 1) a heavy baby basically sitting on top of my 2) already-compromised lungs, 3) my hands were immobilized by my side, 4) foreign objects stuffed in my nose, and 5) my head was covered by a tarp that was just inches away from my face. Did I mention that I’m 6) very claustrophobic?
The result? Total freak-out.
Now, for all of you who’d been praying for me, this is one of the many ways I believe that your prayers worked: As I whined about mentioned, this procedure was supposed to be done in a hospital with no labor and deliver facility, which means they would refuse to give me any sedation whatsoever. At the very last minute (last minute as in 6:00 PM the day before the procedure), a bunch of craziness played out that moved it to being with a new doctor at my usual hospital. These folks were much more comfortable with everything since this is where my OB is, and so they had no problem giving me plenty of sedation.
The drugs didn’t knock me out, but they made me feel like it was just delightful to be suffocating to death. If I hadn’t had them, I am certain that I would have had a full-on panic attack. It was truly one of the most terrifying moments of my life.
Hospital bling, part 1
- The night before the procedure we were watching One Man Army, a reality show where men compete in various tests of strength and endurance to see who has the most elite warrior skills. There was a challenge where the guys had to use a hacksaw to get out of a small box while it was filling with cold water. The hacksaw part wasn’t hard; the test was to see if they could keep their wits about them even while it felt like they were drowning in a coffin.
I commented to Joe that I’d like to try that sometime (in safe conditions like the reality show contestants were in, obviously). Sort of like how some people like to undertake physical challenges that test their limits like marathons and mountain climbing and all that other stuff that cannot be done from a desk chair and therefore I know nothing about, I sometimes I like to test myself psychologically. Like, I always thought it would be interesting to be water-boarded for a couple of minutes. I wondered if I would be able to reason my way out of any suffering, and I’d be all like, “See, I’m chill! I used the power of LOGIC to tell myself that there is no real danger here and I’m not really drowning, so therefore I’m juuuuuuuust fine.”
I got my opportunity to have a small taste of all that on Friday during the procedure, and now I know: I would be the biggest, most hysterical, freaking-out wimp in the world in any of those situations. If it is even possible to keep calm when you have multiple physiological indicators screaming at out that you’re suffocating, it is far, far beyond my capacities.
- Anyway. What else?
- I’m reading In the Heart of the Sea, the ultimate book for making you say no matter what your life circumstances, “Well. It could be worse.”
- I’m here in the hospital a day early so that I can be on IV heparin (blood thinners).
- It’s evidently quite a remarkable thing to have a patient on heparin in labor and delivery. The L&D nurses keep having to run over to other parts of the hospital to get supplies, since it’s rare that anyone would ever want a woman’s blood thinned any time near childbirth.
Hospital bling, part 2
- When the nurse finished getting me set up, she paused before leaving and said, “I’m so sad for you that nobody’s here with you!” I got some comments along those lines when I was in the hospital for the pulmonary embolisms too: I was here for quite a few days, and was alone the majority of the time. It was all fine with me. I didn’t watch TV either. I was totally happy to read and lie around in silence by myself. This isn’t everyone’s idea of a good time?
- We’ll stop blood thinners tomorrow (Monday) morning, and then we’ll induce labor. I’ll have to be totally immobile since I’ll need these crazy boot things on my legs to try to prevent clots from forming, so THE EPIDURAL HAD BETTER WORK THIS TIME (I thought the Epidural Fates might be able to hear me better if I used caps lock there).
I’ll post updates as I’m able, probably on Twitter first. St. Michael the Archangel is my patron for the year, so I trust that he’ll have my back. Thanks again for all your prayers and support!
