Month: June 2020

A Manageable Bitch

Post author By Bobbie R. Byrd
Post date June 5, 2020

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A blog is a forum where the blogger – in this case, me – gets to write about, pontificate on, express opinion, generally bullshit, and tell whatever stories she wants. This is my story of how I beat the bitch called “post-partum depression.”

My son was born at 30 weeks’ gestation. He weighed in at 2 lbs., 1 oz. He was delivered by C-section because I suffered a really severe case of HELLP syndrome. He suffered from what the doctors said was “intrauterine growth retardation” because the placenta was only functioning at 50% capacity. It was literally a case of C-section now or both of us would not have survived another week.

Fast forward about a month. I had been discharged from the hospital but my son remained in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU.) I was struggling with the stress of not being able to bring him home with me as well as the normal stress that goes with recuperating from a near-fatal illness.

I was having trouble keeping my composure. By that, I mean I cried almost constantly. Every time I visited my son, as soon as I saw him, I started crying. I cried every night when I tried to sleep. When I got up in the mornings, if I looked out the window and saw a squirrel, I cried.

I talked to my doctor about this and he put me on an antidepressant. Things got better, in that I didn’t cry all the time. But I also felt that I was about 2 seconds behind the rest of the world. It was like everything “registered” in my brain a second or two after everyone else “got it.” Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t tell if I was awake or asleep. Well, it didn’t take long for me to get tired of that crap. I stopped the antidepressants. I’m a strong person; I could handle this on my own. Suck it up and move on…that’s what the women in my family do.

My son came home from the NICU at last, 2 ½ months after he was born. He was off of oxygen, eating well, gaining weight like a little pig, and just the jolliest little bundle you could ever hope to meet! None of the horror stories I was told about or read about came true: no mental retardation, no physical deformities, no cerebral palsy, no digestive issues, no problems at all. I felt truly blessed.

When my son was about 6 months old, I was sitting in my living room one morning watching the morning news. He was playing on the floor at my feet. I was finishing up my morning coffee and feeling just fine.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, my mind filled with a mental image so real, so vivid, much more realistic than any dream I’d ever experienced. What I saw in my mind’s eye was what I would look like, from my son’s point of view, if I were holding him underwater. I could feel the coolness of the water, could hear the sound of bubbles rising from his mouth and nose, could see the bubbles rising to the surface.

It was so damn real! It only lasted a second but that was enough. It scared the fucking shit out of me!

I knew that what I had just experienced was not normal. I picked up my phone and called my mother (she lived ¼ mile up the road from me.) I told her to come immediately, that I needed her. She was there in an instant. I told her what I had experienced and asked her to take my son home with her. I knew I didn’t need to be around him until I saw my doctor. Together we gathered up the things he would need for a stay of several days if needed at Maw-Maw’s. My mother took my son home with her and I called my doctor.

Fast forward to two weeks past that. My doctor started me on antidepressant and made it clear that I needed to make certain there was someone with me when I was around my child for the next two weeks. My son and I stayed at my mother’s for three weeks, just to be on the safe side. I took the medication religiously and had no other episodes of “visions” or whatever you want to call it.

Fast forward now to today. My young man is almost grown, 6 feet tall, and making his mother proud of the man he is and the man he’s becoming. I remain on antidepressants and have had no recurrence of the problem I experienced all those years ago.

Thank God! I would not wish such an experience on my worst enemy; it was that horrendous.

That, my friends, is post-partum depression (bordering on post-partum psychosis.) It ain’t pretty and it can be dangerous, to the point of being lethal to your children if it goes untreated. We’ve all heard the stories and seen the reports on the news.

I had enough of my wits about me to realize something was seriously wrong. Some women aren’t so lucky. That’s why I think it is important for everyone in the family to be trained in what to look for before a woman has a child. There are signs and they should not be ignored. But they won’t be recognized if we don’t educate ourselves to the problem.

Take care out there, sisters. Post-partum depression is a bitch, but it’s a manageable bitch.

Archive

Leaving Baby Behind: When Mothers Come Home Alone

Post author By Bobbie R. Byrd
Post date June 5, 2020

When I was pregnant with my son, there was one moment that I could not wait to experience: the day we both came home together from the hospital. I dreamed of that day and planned every detail in my imagination. What I never imagined was that I would be coming home alone.

NICU

The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) is where a newborn may land if born prematurely or with life-threatening medical conditions. It is by far the best place for such an infant as the NICU provides the very best for precious babies in need of specialized care. It is generally staffed with nurses who are the highly trained in neonatal nursing and equipped with the most sophisticated technology available to support the fragile young lives placed in its charge.

The NICU is prepared to provide whatever care and support the infant needs during the stressful first days and weeks of his or her life. What the NICU may not be so prepared to provide is the support that the parents need.

Coming Home Alone

My son was born prematurely at 30 weeks gestation. He weighed 2 pounds and was 13 inches long. My pregnancy included multiple complications, such as preeclampsia, eclampsia and HELLP syndrome . This caused my son’s growth rate to slow; thus, his very small size. The doctors told me that the only way to save my son’s life, and my own, was to immediately deliver my son via cesarean section 2 ½ months before his original due date.

Suffice it to say that the week surrounding my son’s birth was extremely stressful, traumatic, painful and life-altering. I recovered quickly, getting discharged five days after delivery. My son remained in the NICU.

I had to come home without him.

A Mother in Crisis

A mother begins to bond with her child from the first moment she hears her baby’s cry. The first time a mother holds her child, the bond grows. This doesn’t happen when nurses must whisk her baby off to the NICU within seconds of it being born.

My son didn’t cry when he was born. He was too small and weak to cry. Nurses took him immediately to the NICU while the doctors worked to save my life. My son was almost two weeks old before I got to hold him for the first time. He was on a ventilator with a tube in his throat that prevented him from making any sounds. He was over a month old before I first heard his cry.

Studies have determined that the odds of a mother developing post-partum depression increase when a child’s medical difficulties require care in the NICU. While many mothers saw their depression clear after their babies came home, the American Association of Critical-Care Nurses cites a study that found 13 percent of mothers continued to suffer depression up to 27 months after giving birth.

My son is now 17 and I still take antidepressants daily.

Circle the Wagons Around the Family

A child born with challenges is a stressful time for everyone in a family, not just the mother. Fathers experience trauma and stress, as do other children in the family. Fear, uncertainty and feelings of helplessness are common. Parents may experience negative emotions for which they have no explanation. This negativity may embed itself in other members of the family.

My experience with the NICU took place 17 years ago. Today’s NICUs are recognizing the need to support the family – all members of the family – during the time a child is recovering in these highly specialized units. Families are now placed in a more central role in the development of the plans of care for NICU babies. This support continues even after the NICU releases the baby to come home.

Bringing baby home is a dream fulfilled, thanks to the NICU.

Archive

Giving Loved Ones Permission to Die

Post author By Bobbie R. Byrd
Post date June 4, 2020

Cancer is an equal opportunity killer. It doesn’t consider age, race, gender, socioeconomic standing, or family dynamics. It came calling in the early morning hours of Sept. 18, 2014, to claim my sister, and I paved the way for it to happen.

Preparing for End of Life

My oldest sister, three years my senior, lived next door to me. We were both teachers in the same school district. We rode back and forth together to work. On days we didn’t work, we usually talked on the phone at least once a day, or went next door to visit.

To say we were close would be an understatement.

Sis fought her first cancer battle with cervical cancer. Surgery, followed by radiation treatments, saw her defeat the cancer beast. She remained free of cancer for about five years. It took another form when it returned.

A diagnosis of rectal cancer led to more surgery and an extended round of chemotherapy. Sis fought through it, even continuing to work for about a year after. But she knew, in her heart, that she had not seen the last of this beast.

She approached me one day about making sure she could die according to her wishes, not by the dictates of a medical system that was too often cold and impersonal. We discussed at length her wishes regarding the end of her life. She asked me to be her voice when she couldn’t be.

Her husband couldn’t do it – she was the center of his universe. She knew I could; I’d done it before for my father and my mother.

I promised my beloved Sis that I would make sure to carry out her wishes. That was a promise I kept, the consequences of which I live with every single day.

Medical Power of Attorney

Sis and I met with an attorney to get all the legal ins-and-outs of a durable medical power of attorney. With all questions answered, she and I had several discussions on the specifics of what she wanted – and didn’t want – when she faced the end of her life.

As she knew it would, the cancer beast returned. It took the form of bladder cancer this time. What followed was more surgery, a round of dialysis, and more intensive chemotherapy. The treatments weren’t as effective in this round, and Sis knew that she would not survive. But she continued to fight, enjoying as much time as she could with her family and friends.

A pathological fracture in her left hip signaled the beginning of the end; it left no doubt that the beast had spread to her bones. More surgery followed to replace the broken hip. This time, she had no choice but to enter a skilled nursing facility after hip surgery. She simply could not receive the care she needed at home.

The nursing facility was aware that I held my sister’s medical power of attorney, so they called me on the night she went into kidney failure. She went by ambulance to the hospital’s emergency room, and that’s where I joined her.

Bringing in Hospice

The emergency room physician wanted to transport Sis to a large teaching hospital 60 miles north, where she could receive dialysis. I could tell by the look on Sis’s face that she didn’t want to do this. Her eyes met mine, and I knew it was time to fulfill my promise. I told her if she wanted to fight it, we would fight it tooth-and-nail with everything we could. If she preferred to let nature take its course, we would do that.

She looked at me, her face resolute and said, “I’m so very tired.”

I told her not to worry, that I would take care of it. After a conversation with her husband, I told the doctor to cancel the transfer to the other hospital. We were returning to the skilled nursing facility and bringing in Hospice.

Sis drew her final breath about a month later, in the early morning hours, with her husband and daughter at her side. Quietly, peacefully, with all the dignity her magnificent spirit deserved and her life’s contribution to the world around her earned.

It was under the direction of her physician, a man she’d known for 30 years, the Hospice nurses, and my oversight that my sister could die on her terms. The staff of the skilled nursing facility was fantastic, giving deference to me when Sis could no longer speak for herself, and following the instructions of Hospice personnel.

Hospice people are the ones trained in dying with dignity, especially with people battling the cancer beast. They’ve looked the beast in the eye over and over, and while a life may end, the beast doesn’t get to claim a victory.

When a person leaves this life with peace and dignity, she wins. Hospice never settles for a loss.

In the Aftermath

Losing a sister is never easy. Knowing that you lost your sister because of the actions you took makes it that much more difficult. Even after Sis was gone, Hospice was a voice I could call on who understood what I meant when I said I let my sister die.

Few can understand it if they haven’t been there and done that. Hospice understands, and my Sis and I are eternally grateful for it.

Archive

Krumpus

Post author By Bobbie R. Byrd
Post date June 3, 2020

My Krumpus – aka Krumppy, Krumpazoid, Krumptastic, Big Krumpy Boy – looking super fine while waiting for a treat.

Rescuing Krumpus

I love dogs. I am a hard-core dog person. I’ve had dogs all my life, from early childhood to my current state of vintage existence. My puppies (‘puppies’ regardless of their age) are as much family as my son, my siblings, and anyone else who shares my bloodline. (You aren’t required to admit to it, so don’t panic.)

Snowball, the white American Bulldog diva and queen of the world who allows me and my son to share her home, is technically my son’s pet. She was a birthday gift to him from his favorite uncle almost six years ago. His dog, who’d shared his life since Thomas (my son) was three years old, had recently passed away. (Rest in peace, Tubby.) Snowball came into our lives when she was seven weeks old.

Around the time of Snowball’s first birthday, I noticed a posting come across my Facebook feed. It was a picture of a tiny puppy picked up as an abandoned animal by the local animal rescue league. That little puppy’s eyes seemed to be begging me to find him. After two days in which I was unable to get the image of that little puppy’s face out of my mind, I went to the Brookhaven Animal Rescue League (BARL.) Filled out the paperwork, paid the $135 fee ($50 refundable if I got him neutered when he was old enough), and brought my Radar home.

He and Snowball hit it off immediately and have been inseparable since.

Fast forward to November of 2019.

I again ended up on the BARL website. When the homepage loaded, a picture was at the top of the page. It was a sizeable reddish-brown dog with piercing eyes. Again, those eyes seemed to bore into my soul. I scrolled through to find the information on this big boy.

His name is Krumpus. He’s a Shar-pei mix, but there’s some question as to what the ‘mix’ actually is. According to his stats, he weighs approximately seventy-five pounds. He’s neutered, is negative for heartworms, and is up to date on all his shots. That’s all good to know, but I wondered what else there was to his story.

Reading on, I found out. Krumpus came to the BARL when he was about six months old, picked up as a stray by the local animal control officer. BARL did the usual advertising that they had the puppy, and if anyone was missing him, they could claim him.

No one came for Krumpus.

For the next three and a half years, Krumpus lived at the rescue league facility, waiting for someone to give him a forever home. BARL is, thankfully, a no-kill shelter. Krumpus was a favorite of the staff, but he was consistently passed over by those who came to find their forever pet. Why?

Krumpus was shy and reserved. Growing up as just one dog among many in a shelter doesn’t help with socialization and fostering of ‘people skills.’ Krumpus didn’t know how to make friends. He didn’t know that he was supposed to smile and wag his tail and pitter-patter around all excited-like whenever a human came by. Krumpus didn’t see people as a potential forever family. To him, people were something that was going to throw him out and abandon him to the night. So, when people came around, Krumpus hid in his doghouse.

I’m looking at the picture of this imposing big boy and wondering how any living thing survives for four years in a small fenced area with four other dogs. He looked physically healthy, but the sadness in his eyes was soul-withering.

In my 63 years of life on this planet, I’ve learned one thing the hard way: never go against what your Spirit is telling you to do. When Spirit says, “get your ass in gear,” you best get your ass in gear. That’s what I heard as I looked at the picture of Krumpus.

So, off I go to the Animal Rescue League. The look of utter astonishment on the face of the BARL worker when I announced I wanted to meet Krumpus was priceless! I took a seat on a bench under a tree and waited. Within a few minutes, the worker came out, leading Krumpus on a leash.

I spent about an hour with him that day, petting him and talking to him. He trembled so hard that his teeth clacked. When I walked him back to the office, he was more than happy to return to the comfort zone inside his doghouse.

I went back to visit with him for the next three days. Each day, he trembled less and became more at ease with my petting him. He hadn’t wagged his tail yet, but that was okay. We were gaining an understanding of each other.

Well, as the fates are wont to do, life intruded, and I wasn’t able to see Krumpus for the next four days. On the fifth day, I did return. And something amazing happened.

As I pulled into the Rescue League parking area, I looked to Krumpus’ pen. His area fronted the parking lot. Much to my surprise, Krumpus was at the fence, intently staring at my car, and….wait for it….wagging his tail!

I went into the office and said, “I want to adopt Krumpus. Now.” Once the worker was over her shock, we filled out the paperwork. Because he’d been there so long, his adoption fee was only $50. And, to my delight, BARL had just received a grant that allowed them to waive adoption fees for senior citizens. For once, being an old fart came in handy!

I packed Krumpus up in my car, and we drove home. My other puppies were a little wary of him at first, but after about an hour of them all being out in the HUGE fenced backyard I have, the awkwardness wore off, and it was playtime. Radar and Krumpus played chase, both infected with the ‘zoomies,’ for at least another hour. Snowball, the diva, of course, sat on the back porch and ‘supervised’ the boys.

I brought Krumpus home on December 1, 2019. Today is May 30, 2020. Today, my Krumpus is a fully integrated member of my family.

He’s a chow hound when it comes to treats. He loves hugs and belly rubs. He gets a little anxious whenever I leave the house, and greets me with an amazingly cute jiggy dance when I return.

At the time I brought Krumpus home, I knew, on a practical level, I didn’t need another dog. But Spirit was telling me that this dog needed me. And I can honestly say, I have no regrets at all.

Rescuing Krumpus was one of the best things I’ve done in this life.

I urge anyone looking for a pet to check their local animal shelter. Ask for the ones who’ve been there a long time; those overlooked continuously. Take the time to get to know them, then welcome them into your forever home.

It’s a good move, for all concerned.