And why three is enough, for this body

Just as having a third child was perfect for our family, having a fourth would be selfish. On my part. I would parent more children, welcome them into our family if circumstances led to that, but I will not have another baby. Not through this body. Pregnancy and I are not the best of friends.

One year ago I was four months pregnant and just coming off of months of hyperemesis gravidarum (not unlike my previous two pregnancies). In a word: miserable. I spent every day curled up in bed and curled up on the bathroom floor. HG, for me, is made worse by loud noise, bright light, stress. Needless to say, home was a difficult place to be for everyone living here. B and S were constantly being told to be quiet, to let mommy rest. J was singly parenting our two exhausting children while also having to constantly reassure them that I was indeed going to be OK and in the next breath telling them not to bother me. He did everything for them and for me for more than three full months. And he did it with grace. We didn’t tell the kids that their soon-to-be sibling was essentially the reason I was sick. At the time they didn’t even know I was pregnant.

On a good day I would stumble downstairs to the couch or futon and collapse in front of the TV, trying to smile at my kids a bit. On a REALLY good day I would read a book or a magazine in bed, maybe try one of the NYTimes crosswords mom brought by. On an EXCEPTIONAL day I would watch a DVD in bed with the kids snuggled up with me. March of the Penguins was a favorite. That, and the first two seasons of Little House on the Prairie (sadly, no wedding episode). Most days I would lie in bed, listening to my family go on without me.

It was a VERY LONG winter and spring last year.

Then, for a few months I was doing OK. Feeling gross most of the time, but gaining weight, eating a bit, drinking a lot of Ocean Spray Ruby Red juice (weird, I know) and making it through most days without spending time with my head in the toilet.

Then July came. I was 29 weeks, feeling tired and fat and uncomfortable. Suffering from heartburn and still not able to eat a lot. But functioning. Until while folding laundry one day (I know, TOTALLY strenuous, right?) I was overcome by excruciating pain. (I had given birth without epidurals twice before. This was worse pain, people.) Hospital visit, morphine & percocet (simultaneously! and people worry about having a glass of wine? but I digress…), transfer to larger hospital, tests, cat scan … Long story short: Appendicitis? No. Ovarian torsion due to HUGE dermoid cyst? Yes. The baby showed no signs of distress during the four days it took to get me back home, although I did have contractions for most of those four days. And I was given two shots of steroids (in my butt, thank you) to mature the baby’s lungs. The thinking was that I would need surgery to untwist the ovary, and pre-term labor was a possible “side effect” of the surgery. When I heard that my baby would be “fine,” “3 pounds,” “nothing to worry about,” I worried. I was adamant that I not have the baby yet. I felt so strongly that my job as a pregnant mommy was not finished yet. As horrible as the pregnancy had been, I did not want it to be over. I did not want my baby to be in a NICU.

The pain was gone by the next morning.

The doctors agreed to send me home, gave me instructions for “pelvic rest” (funny term, right?, considering what they’d all been doing in my pelvis), no exercise, no lifting or twisting. Done, I said.

E was born exactly on her due date, 11 weeks later. She was nearly 10 pounds. (Which makes me wonder if she would have been larger than 3 in July, but still…)

The pain returned in January. My surgeon discovered that my ovary had DIED, probably back in July. And now, with half of my reproductive organs gone into the hazardous waste of our local hospital, it seems a good idea to end my reproductive activities. I could get pregnant again, even with just one ovary. But when I think of my kids, who would have to live through another period of me incapacitated, it breaks my heart. When I was in bed during my first pregnancy, I just slept and watched Sex and the City DVDs. When I was sick during my pregnancy with S, B was young enough that he didn’t know anything was wrong, and he doesn’t remember that time. But now, both of them remember when I was in bed. They remember that my “tummy hurt.” They will probably forever link Little House with me running to the bathroom to throw up. And mashed potatoes? To this day we can’t eat them without S mentioning daddy making them for me when I was sick. I can’t do that to them again. And, honestly, with each additional pregnancy to reflect on I remember more of how awful it was for me. It was wonderful and worth it and glorious and miserable and a miracle and a struggle. And I’ve done it. But I know I shouldn’t do it again. For while there’s no guarantee a subsequent pregnancy would be as difficult or complicated, for me it’s not worth the risk. Besides, who am I kidding? FOUR kids? I’m drowning in three.

Our family has reached its maximum.

Late addendum: Sarah, did I ever properly THANK YOU for getting me through this? And to think, Ethan was only 10 weeks old at the time! My youngest hospital visitor.