628.8

     I've pointed patients to the outpatient lab hundreds of times, but I had never actually been there myself  until that day a few months ago. I sat in my own hospital, a place I had called home for many years,  twirling  a small script paper signed by my doctor with the code 628.8. I didn't know exactly what that code meant, I didn't need to. I knew what it meant to us. It meant my husband and I needed to close one chapter of our lives, and nervously prepare for the next. 628.8- infertility, female, of  specified origin. 

     Six words that will remain in my medical chart and in my heart for a lifetime. We knew there was a chance we would face fertility issues after we had Hannah- but I'd be lying to you if I told you that my heart really, really believed we wouldn't. We had this perfect little girl, and uncomplicated pregnancy, and what seemed like a million stories of couples who, like us, struggled at first, but ended up having several more children with ease. In fact, I believed it so much, that when my OB/GYN ordered repeat testing at my one year follow-up "just to see" I barely thought twice about the tests- Until I saw her number on my phone and heard her say  "significantly worse".  I cried for days. We told only our closest family and prayed for a miracle. 

     Fast forward to a few weeks later, we sat in a small room meeting our lovely fertility team for the first time.  Dr. B.- A Havard trained, former Ohio State football player, whose tough guy appearance can't mask the passion and love he has for his vocation. And his charming and encouraging nurse who some how always knows just the right thing to say. I wouldn't wish this path on my worst enemy, but leaving that day wasn't dreadful or sad. It was hopeful and exciting. My tears dried and I was starting to see a little light shine through that door that had been closed in my face a few weeks earlier.  He confirmed what we needed to hear and I'll hear those words every time I look at my daughter. "I'll never tell someone in your situation that you can't have children naturally. What I will tell you is that you were very fortunate to have had Hananh without help, and I don't want you to sit around waiting for that fortune to strike again." Dr. B confirmed two things for us-  1) We needed a new plan and 2) Hannah wasn't a lucky draw, she was our tiny miracle. Our daughter. Fortune- maybe?  Or, most certainly, a divine act of God telling us not to give up. Not then and not now. 

     And so we wait for our next miracle. Maybe she/he will come a different way, but a miracle none the less. 

Covered Bridge 2015

         The Covered Bridge Festival is one of my favorite fall traditions. It's an early morning road trip to the middle of nowhere, where fall colors cover the landscape and covered bridges become a reality- a yearly reminder as to why we live in the Midwest. The food is abundment and the crafts, antiques can be a goldmine or a bust. But what I really love is the time with family. It's a whole day after the craziness of summer and before the busy holidays to soak in each other. A day to remind us that even though we have tiny families of our own, we really are at our best when we're together.  In years past, we've rented a big church van and piled all of us in, but since most of my family works weekends, not all of us can go every year. This year was a special treat, as we got to go with my husband's side of the family too. I  know not a lot people can say this (and cheers to those who can) but my in laws are simply magnificent! Thank you, Parke County for hostimg tens of thousands of people, but most importantly, thank you for hosting us. We'll see you and your ham and cheese sandwiches next year!

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Erythema Multiforme

      Back in July, Hannah and I were playing on the floor when I noticed a few little hives on her arm. We had just finished a breakfast of eggs and strawberries (two very high allergens), but nothing she hadn't had before. Knowing well that an allergic reaction comes after one or several introductions to the allergen itself, I grabbed some Benadryl, kept a close eye on her, and told Justin to hold on eggs and strawberries until we saw the pediatrician. No big deal, I got this right? 

     I waited for the hives to go away, but they didn't. In fact, they continued to get worse. Ten hours later, the Benadryl wasn't working and Hannah's trunk was nearly covered. By 9pm, we were packing her into the car and on our way to the ER. Terrified for Hannah and, admittedly, for the repercussion of taking your daughter to the ED for a "rash"- there we were. Thankfully, one of the doctors I have long worked with in the Adult ED (who is also board certified in pediatric emergency medicine) was there and so was my awesome sister. Almost immediately, Dr. W. diagnosed Hannah with Erythema Multiforme- an autoimmune response to a viral or environmental factor that causes Bullseye-like lesions across the skin.  It is also the preliminary rash to Steven Johnson's syndrome, a disease process that took the life of my aunt and godmother at 36. My heart sunk when the doctor told us this. I glanced over at my sister and without, speaking a word, I could tell she was thinking the same thing. These are the times on my my life I count my blessing to be in healthcare. These are also the times I'm grateful most of my family is in healthcare. My parents and sister all took one for the team. Offering to watch Hannah while I worked, taking turns calling our pediatrician and pediatrician friends for advice. It lasted weeks, and when I wasn't there for Hannah, someone was. The first time Leo, Hannah's 5 year old cousin, saw her he woke up his brothers saying "somethings very very wrong. Hannah's sick, like really sick" and he was right. She was swollen from the steroids, drowsy from the Benadryl, and overall spent. But, We got through it. Hannah still has flare ups occasionally and they said to expect them for a year or so, but you know what I've learned?

1) No matter how seasoned you are in your own field of healthcare, when it comes to your children you lose the ability to reason. 

2) I have a really great family. 

3) I have really great coworkers. 

4) We are incredibly blessed to have a healthy baby. There was a fear in me that this was the beginning of something terrible and all I could think about was how much I took for granted having a healthy child for the first year. Sure, her flare ups are annoying, but they go away. And she's happy, really really happy. And so are we. 

God Bless America

"It’s fine if you are opposed to what Palmer did, but that doesn’t excuse you from the duty to be sane and rational. It’s a lion, after all. An animal. If you want to be really agitated by a doctor who kills living things, you should probably be less focused on this dentist and a little more focused on abortionists like LeRoy Carhart, who murder actual people. Carhart has killed bothunborn and born humans, and likes to do the former byripping the child apart while it’s still alive. Maybe the media should be camping out in front of his houseinstead of Palmer’s. Maybe we should be asking why doctors are allowed to execute babies, not why dentists are allowed to hunt African game." -Matt Walsh

I hesitated to post this at all, mostly because I try to avoid conflict and I know many of my friends do not share my own political views, but this one hits home and heavies my heart. How could we as a nation be so devastated  by the death of another animal, yet be so unaffected by the thousands of children taken from us without of voice of their own?  Christians are being beheaded daily across the world, women are suppressed, and children are starving, but those stories rarely make headlines and surface a passion within us. Our country needs a retreat. The kind where you sit in silence for long times, interact act only in prayer with others, and reflect on yourself and your own moral being. I say this often, but this week I say it with a plea "God Bless America"

Happy Birthday, Hannah.

To my daughter on the eve of her birthday:
   I've spent the last hour typing and erasing and typing and erasing. It seems that no matter what I write is an inadequate description for what I feel inside. I remember the night I married your dad, thinking there was no way I could love him anymore. Then you came along and proved me wrong. I watch the way you've changed him, the way you've changed me, the way you've changed us. It was like WE were meant to be. I know that God specifically picked you for our life. I know that this was not by chance.
 I drove home from work tonight and tried to remember what life was like without you and I couldn't. Maybe it's because I don't want to remember what life was like before you- before I knew you and before I really knew me. You see, Hannah, the moment you were born was the exact moment that I was born.  I remember your dad telling me to open my eyes and there you were. A tiny girl with a heart shaped mouth, strawberry blonde hair, and a nose that mimicked a smaller version of my own (about the only physical trait we share).  I knew we were in for great things. I had found my calling- I was put on this earth to take care of you. Even in my frail old age, I promise to do just that. 
 There are no words, no emojis, and no insightful quotes to describe what this year has been like. What its been like to feel your tiny breaths against my chest, or hear your voice calling for me at 4am or hear that giggle that only your father can bring out- but its been magnificent, and magical, and exhausting, and inspiring. It's been the best, because while this was officially the first year of your life, in so many ways it was also the first year in mine. 
Happy Birthday, Hannah Catherine. You are loved. 

Love, 
Mom

Back in the Game...

I've been an ER nurse for 8 years (what?!) and with that comes some very proud moments and some very hard moments. Burn out is nothing new to the world of nursing. There are endless studies on it and countless attempts to prevent it, but it's almost inevitable. I am not the exception. Somewhere between the physical pains, the mental exhaustion, and the patient complaints- I was burnt out. I no longer felt the adrenaline run through my veins like I used to. Each night, I try to unwind and forget about the things I could have done better, the things I promised to do before I left, but forgot, and the things I wish I wouldn't have said, but it's hard to separate a passion and a career.   Last week, I had a particularly trying day. I forgot the sequence of medications you give to treat hypokalcemia and I paused when a doctor asked me the policy for propofol drips. I was failing at a craft I was once was very good at. But, just like everything else in my life, I've learned to look for signs that everything is going to be okay.  I came home and glanced at a notification on my phone- a doctor I work with had sent me a facebook message.  I assumed it was a hack, but I opened it anyway. And I saw this...


And just like that I was back in a game I so very much love. Thank you, Dr. 

Front and Center

I got to church about ten minutes early, just like my grandparents taught me. I greeted everyone on my way in and passed the two cry rooms to find an open pew front and center- our weekly routine. But this week I couldn't help but notice a few glares and even an eye roll as I placed the pumpkin seat on the pew and took my ten-month old infant out. We prayed together. I teach her the sign of the cross and she hears my responses with the rest of congregation. She talks out of turns, chews the end of hymnal, and she thinks it's super awesome that her tiny voice echos in the big church.  She can be a distraction. I admit that and I know it's hard to focus when my tiny person isn't. But I'm trying to teach her about the faith we share. If I don't do this, she'll never know the sense of community that exists, she won't know the Nicene Creed or the Lord's Prayer, if she can't hear other people saying it. She won't know to genuflect to the Eucharist if she can't see it being done. I know there is a cry room, and if Hannah starts to cry, I'll be the first one to tuck into it. But until then, we'll be front and center- just like my grandparents and my parents taught me. We're raising the next generation of Catholics, bear with us- we're learning to.

Lent

My Wish for You

For my baby showers each guest filled out a list of "Wishes for Baby Grovie" It dawned on me the other day that I never filled one out, even though I spend hours dreaming, hoping, and praying for your future. I've never written them down.

Hannah Catherine Groves, here are my wishes for you:

I hope you learn: 
  to love yourself. I hope you know that no matter what the scale says, or if your face breaks out the night before prom-that you were perfectly made in the eyes of God. Beauty is has nothing to do with what you see in the mirror, remember that always. 

I hope you remember:   
   these things in this order
      1)God
      2) Family
      3) Others
      4) Self
    This will get you very far in life.

I hope visit:
   Anywhere and everywhere you want. This world is yours to explore- take it in. If you want to know what pizza tastes like on the streets of Italy- go there. If you want to help the poor in India- go there. Want to try the beer straight from the tap at Anheuser Busch- do it  (but not until you're 21 and with a sober driver)

I hope you try:
   foods you wouldn't think you'd like. Be adventurous. 

I hope you ignore:
   mean people. No matter how hard you try, there will always be people who don't know how to be kind or be happy. Ingore them, Know who you are and remember that no one could ever fault you for being too kind. 

I hope you get:
   to celebrate your 100th birthday surrounded by everyone you have loved along the way and all those who have loved you right back . 


   

Here's to the Woman Who Raised Me

      If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you've probably well figured out that my dad and I are extremely close. You've probably also wondered why my mom doesn't get an equal amount of attention or if our relationship isn't as good. The latter couldn't be any further from the truth. My mother and I are extremely, extremely close. Every morning on my way to work, she calls me (at 0630) just to say "hi" and tell me to have a great day. We talk multiples times a days, text even more, and meet for breakfast whenever we can. She's magnificent. But, unlike my father, she hates the spotlight. Ask to host a birthday party in her honor? Good Luck, she's been "double checking her schedule" for an available date since April 2008. Facebook shout-outs make her unconformable, and Instagram is a loss because pictures of her are spotted on the same frequency as the Loch Nest monster. This isn't because my mom doesn't like people, in fact quite the opposite. My mom loves people. She loves them so much- she would rather take care of them and watch as their dreams come true than to risk taking up, even the tiniest piece, of their spotlight.  My silent warrior as I've called her. She's tough as steel when she needs to be, and has a heart of gold always. She's the backbone I wish I had, the faithful servant I wish to be, and the mom I pray to become.
     When I was in grade school a popular question was "If you could be anyone in the world, who would you be?" My grade school self foolishly would answer somewhere along the lines of  "Alanis Morissette or Jewel". If you were to ask me now that very question, my answer would be clear and simple- I would want to be my mom. So, yes, you may not see a lot of public shout-outs, but what you don't see are the hours of conversations, the millions of laughs, the multitudes of cupcakes, and all the "I love yous" we exchange. She's one in a million. No, she's one is a gazillion.