Our sweet golden fluffy

Two years ago, we buried our dog Dingo.

Dingo was a sweet dog, almost a year old, that was at Justin's work. His story at the shelter was actually pretty sad -- his previous owners were moving and they couldn't take him. Then when he was in the larger dog kennel, somehow he had gotten hit in the head by the heavy metal door separating the inside and outside of the kennel. The poor guy was knocked unconscious and had several x-rays, a CT scan, etc. performed, and he was then put in the puppy room since he had a very reasonable fear of the large dog kennels. 

And because he was now housed in the puppy room, he often got overlooked for the fluffy little puppies. 

The first time I saw Dingo's picture, I instantly fell in love.

He had such a goofy, adorable expression on his face, and a floppy bum ear that wouldn't stand up straight. 

I went on my lunch break to meet him, and we adopted him the next day.

At the time, Allie was barely a year old and was somewhat scared of dogs. I know, those of you who didn't know her back then are probably having a hard time believing that, seeing how she is with dogs now -- the bigger the dog, the better, in her world! 

But Dingo was the perfect dog to help a little girl get past her fear of dogs. He was so patient with her. He nuzzled her, let her climb all over him (supervised, of course), played gently with her. And it was quite the symbiotic relationship. He laid under her high chair at meal time, and happily cleaned up any bits of food that managed to find their way to the floor.

Dingo 'nuggles

Sharing her sippy cup -- I tried not to think about how gross that was.

Hugs!

Dingo immediately became part of our family. We all loved our sweet golden fluffy to pieces.

His favorite place to sleep was at the top of the stairs. He would make sure we were all tucked into bed safe and sound, then position himself at the top of the stairs until the morning. He was very protective of us, especially of Allie.

Dingo taught Allie responsibility. When she got old enough, her chore was to feed him and our cats twice a day. And she took her job very seriously.

About a year after we got him, he started having seizures. We took him to our vet, and she told us to monitor him and log the frequency and length of his seizures, and what kind they were -- tonic, tonic clonic.

At first, the seizures weren't that bad -- just a mild one here and there. Then they started getting more frequent, and longer, and more intense. After weighing the pros and cons very heavily, our vet recommended putting him on phenobarb to help manage the seizures.

The phenobarb worked for awhile. We stopped worrying and moved forward, thinking now that the phenobarb was doing a good job of managing Dingo's seizures, he would be just fine.

But as the months went on, Dingo's seizures became more frequent again, and he began having cluster seizures. Our vet upped his phenobarb and gave us valium to use in extreme cases, to give the poor guy some relief. 

But our sweet golden fluffy just worsened. Some days he would have 10 to 11 seizures, often having cluster seizures for 30 minutes straight. It got to the point where he couldn't control his bathroom for a long time after he came out of a seizure. In-between seizures, he paced around the house, staring blankly into space. The phenobarb and valium were no longer helping, and his quality of life was rapidly declining. Allie witnessed several of his seizures, something no little child should ever have to do. One particular seizure, Dingo's head was on my lap, and as his jaw thrashed open and closed along with the rest of his seizing body, he clamped down hard on my thigh, leaving a pretty nasty bruise.

We talked to our vet, and the next step would be to put him on a phenobarb drip. But that would really only delay the inevitable. With her advice, we made the heart-wrenching decision to put our sweet golden fluffy down.

We spent the evening before his vet appointment loving on him, snuggling him. letting him know how much we loved him and were going to miss him. We dealt with his seizures as they came.

Our last family photo with Dingo. I have no idea why Allie had a cat toy in her mouth.

Snuggling for the last time with my sweet golden fluffy.

The next morning, Justin and I both called in to work. He took Allie to daycare while I stayed home with Dingo. Watching my daughter give Dingo a hug for the last time, tell him goodbye, and that she loved him and would miss him broke my heart.

I gave Dingo a can of Alpo and sat next to him while he scarfed up his treat. All morning long, he alternated between seizing and spacing out. Deep down, I knew we were making the right decision. Justin came home from dropping Allie at daycare, and we loaded Dingo up in the Xterra and took him to the vet. 

We walked into the vet's office and signed Dingo in. The receptionist took one look at his name, gave us a sad look, and quietly whispered, "I'm so sorry." She took us to a quiet, comfortable room where we waited with our sweet golden fluffy. A vet tech came and got him, then brought him back, sedated. Our vet came into the room and explained what would happen. She would inject the liquid into the port they'd put in his leg, and he would quietly and peacefully go to sleep. 

Justin and I sat on the floor next to Dingo. I laid his head in my lap and we stroked his face, his ears, his neck, telling him how much we loved him and were going to miss him. Dingo closed his eyes, and I felt his entire body relax -- probably the first time I'd seen him truly relax in several weeks. My tears fell unchecked on his golden face as that liquid made its way through his sick body, freeing him from his seizures, from his pain.

Our vet gently put a stethoscope to his chest and listened. "Okay," she said softly. "He's gone." She stood up. "Take as long as you need." She closed the door behind her.

I hugged Dingo's now-lifeless body and sobbed. I looked up at Justin and saw tears in his eyes. "Are you sure we did the right thing?" I asked him, already knowing the right answer in my heart.

Justin nodded. "I'm sure."

When we were finished saying our final goodbyes, we called one of the vet techs and she put Dingo in the cardboard coffin. Then she, the receptionist, and Justin carried the coffin out to the Xterra.

We drove Dingo to my in-laws' house where we planned to bury him. Digging his grave with Justin was somehow healing for me, and after several hours of digging, we lowered Dingo's coffin into the ground and covered it back up. 

We buried him on the middle tier at my in-laws' house, at the foot of a giant pine tree.

The following weeks were very hard for all three of us. Allie, at the time only a little over two years old, grieved in her own way. She became very attached to one of our cats, Muttsy, aka Fat Cat, and would bury her face in his fur and cry. To this day, she and Muttsy have a super close bond.

A few months after we buried Dingo, we took Allie to see his grave for the first time. She picked a yellow daffodil from my mother-in-law's garden and laid it on his grave.

It's always seemed unfair to me that our sweet golden fluffy had to be put down before he even turned three years old. He didn't even get a chance at life. Our vet said there's no way to be 100% sure what caused his epilepsy, but we all suspected it was the head injury he sustained when the door fell on his head.

I comforted myself by knowing that, while his life had been short, it had been a happy life. For the last year and a half of his life, all he knew was love and care. 

Justin's coworkers gave us a beautiful reminder of Dingo -- a sympathy card signed by all of them, and a beautiful glass ornament with a picture of Dingo and a white feather inside, and a poem attached to the outside:

"A feather from an angel

Is one we rarely see

But this one is quite different

And as special as can be.

This feather is a reminder

Of a special fluffy's love,

Who's now a guardian angel,

Watching and protecting from above."

Throughout the year, we visited Dingo quite often. One time, we found a beautiful violet growing at the head of his grave. We arranged a flower petal cross next to the violet.

Allie always loved blowing "wishy flowers" over his grave, and every time, she wished that he was happy in heaven and knew that we missed him and still loved him.

Last year, January 2014 -- the one-year anniversary of Dingo's death -- we visited his grave. We picked some flowers and holly berries and Allie laid them on his grave.

Justin arranged a heart-shaped wreath out of some long grass and laid that around the flowers and holly berries.

About seven months ago, a gentleman from the Foothills Search and Rescue Unit came into the shelter. Before Dingo had started having problems, we had planned to train him to be a search and rescue dog. Justin had talked to a man at the Foothills Search and Rescue, and the man said that Dingo sounded like a prime candidate. The gentleman that came into the shelter that day was the same gentleman whom Justin had initially spoke to. He saw Justin and asked him how Dingo was doing and had we pursued getting him trained as a SAR dog. 

Justin told him Dingo's sad story. The man gave his condolences, walked out of the shelter, and returned with one of the leashes that the SAR dogs wear while on duty. "Here, take this," he told Justin. "I know Dingo would have made a fine search and rescue dog."

I was so proud of my sweet golden fluffy, and I have no doubt that, had he lived and pursued training, he would have been the best SAR dog out there.

Dingo was our first dog, and he'll always have a special place in our hearts. I found this little jewelry box, and got it for Allie. It seemed perfect for her. 

I told her it was to her, from Dingo. She keeps the little bracelet I made her while I was at the hospital in there.

To this day, I still miss Dingo. I fondly remember all our fun times with him -- trips to the dog park, sweet snuggles on the couch, and Allie dressing him up, to name a few. But I know in my heart that, two years ago, we made the right decision. Our sweet golden fluffy had fought so hard, and he deserved a seizure-free rest.

The Rainbow Bridge

author unknown

Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to the Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animal who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing -- they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together . . . 

Struggling through Christmas

Christmas has come and gone, and it's kind of all been a big blur. The fall/winter season, from Halloween to New Years, is my absolute favorite time of year, and normally I'll go all out to celebrate Halloween, my birthday, Allie's birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Justin's birthday, and New Years.

This year, however, I felt like the holiday season flew past me like a speeding train and I was running to catch up.

Starting back on August 23rd, I spent the better part of two months in a psychiatric hospital -- 23 days the first stay, one week out, then 17 days back in again. The next day, I started the outpatient partial hospitalization program there and participated in that for a little over a month. After I was discharged from that, I immediately stepped down to the intensive outpatient program and was in that for about half a month, then went straight from that to my new DBT therapy program at Three Springs.

So since August 23rd, I've been slightly out of touch with reality. And it's a weird feeling -- one I'm not sure I like.

I feel like I wasn't able to completely enjoy my favorite time of year. I feel like the last 4 1/2 months have been consumed by hospital stays and therapies, leaving me no time to plan for the holidays like I usually do. No homemade, themed, family Halloween costumes. No giant Pinterest-inspired birthday party for Allie. No extravagant family Christmas photos. No baking for Thanksgiving or Christmas. No homemade Christmas presents for the grandparents.

In all honesty, I was actually barely able to keep my head above water. Some days, it was a miracle that I got through the day.

I don't like not having it all together, not being in control.

I actually don't even feel like it's Christmas. I'm happy and so glad to be at my home in Maryland, but it just doesn't feel like the holidays. This isn't a post about the true meaning of Christmas, because I get all that, but there's a certain feeling in the air and in our home that I can't explain that just hasn't been there this year. I didn't even feel that post-Christmas let-down the day after Christmas.

I guess I feel like, for the four months that my world paused while I was in the hospital and therapy, the rest of the world went on without me. And I'm having trouble catching up. I guess I still feel like I'm back at the end of August when I was committed to the hospital, pausing my world.

And I guess, overall, the hardest thing for me is that I feel like I'm having trouble connecting back with the people in my world. And it seems like now at Christmas-time, it's twice as difficult.

Conquering her fears

Just like every four-year-old, my daughter has fears. Some are quite understandable, like her fear of the dark, and some are irrational (although genuine fears to her), like her sporadic fear of the wall (which could also possibly be a stalling tactic at bedtime). 

So many times, I'm tempted to say, "You have nothing to be afraid of," or "Thunderstorms aren't going to hurt you," etc., especially when her fears suddenly crop up at bedtime. But it's important for my feelings to be validated, even if they seem irrational to others, and I want to validate hers as well.

A couple months ago, I sat down with her and talked over what things specifically she was afraid of. We talked about why she was afraid, and then we talked about reasons why she didn't need to be afraid of those things. Then we wrote it all down in a book, which I called "Allie's Book of Fears." I had her draw pictures of the fears and reasons to not be afraid that we came up with, and whenever she talks about being afraid, we pull that book out and talk about it.

The things we Dane owners do

I was organizing my pictures on my computer and came across these classics from this past summer.

Justin, Allie, and I and our friends Mignon and Debbi had all gone downtown for a Dane Date. Mignon has a Dane named Klaus and Debbi was fostering a Dane named Pluto. And of course, we have Miso.

Allie: "Three Danes? I got this."

You wouldn't believe the amount of women who are attracted to a hottie pants guy holding three Danes.

We played in the fountain for a bit, got bubble tea, and walked around downtown some. I lost track of how many times people stopped us and either wanted to pet the fluffies and/or ask questions about them.

At one point, I decided to be silly and pose with a statue. As Justin snapped each picture, he cracked up laughing, and at the time I just thought he was laughing at me. Then when we got home and I looked through the pictures, I realized what was so hilarious.

I'm surprised I didn't see them in this one.

Notice the lack of Dane . . . 

 . . . then BOOM! Mignon and Debbi are in the same position, but Pluto suddenly appears.

Oh yes, and did I mention that my kid was pretending to be dead during the entire photoshoot?

Debbi appears to be smelling Mignon's armpit.

Mignon and Debbi wave hello, Allie plays dead, I whisper in my statue boyfriend's ear, Miso tries to hide, and Klaus is oblivious.

Mignon's incredible flexibility impresses me.

So there you have it. Mad props to Mignon and Debbi for doing the best photobombs ever, to my husband for keeping a straight face as much as possible, for my daughter for going with the flow and deciding to play dead, and to Miso, Klaus and Pluto for putting up with their crazy owners.

Oh, and to my statue boyfriend for sitting still and posing so well the entire time.

Celebrating World Prematurity Day. Celebrating my little preemie.

November 17th was World Prematurity Day. Although my daughter is healthy, happy, and right on track developmentally, I'll never forget the point of my pregnancy when my doctors thought she wasn't going to make it to 24 weeks inside me, and possibly not even make it.

I'm writing a separate post about my high risk pregnancy, since that's a long story itself. But after Allie was born, I wrote out her birth story and I hadn't really shared it with many people, so I'd like to share that here.

Sunday, October 31st
It began on my birthday. Justin and I woke up and decided to go to the Farmer's Market down the road, buy pumpkins and carve them for Halloween, then celebrate my birthday in the evening with a quiet dinner. Anyone who knows me well knows that "quiet" is usually not part of the vocabulary when I talk about celebrating my birthday. Typically I go all out with a costume party of some kind, then we'd have our annual Halloween party/bar crawl at the newspaper, and sometimes my friends and I would even trick-or-treat. My birthday has always been a big deal for me. I'd already tried to convince Justin that trick-or-treating would be okay, even though I was on bed rest. He told me if I called my high risk maternal fetal doctor and got his permission, then we could go.

So . . . pumpkin carving it was.

Right after I got out of the shower, I started feeling weird pains. It started out in my side and shot across my abdomen to my other side and through my back. After about a half hour of me curled up on the floor in intense non-stop pain, we decided we should probably go to the hospital.

I don't totally remember the ride to the hospital, but Justin told me I had my back arched the entire time and my head pushed back into the seat. I just remember thinking it had never taken that long to get to St. Francis Eastside before.

We walked in entrance B of the hospital (well, Justin walked. I staggered.) and the lady at the front desk took one look at me, stood up, and rolled a wheelchair over to us. Justin wheeled me up to 4th Floor Labor and Delivery to the nurses' station where they gave us a paper to fill out. It seemed like it took over an hour to get that stupid form filled out, but in reality it probably took less than five minutes. Our nurse, Susan, finally took us to a room, where she had to go through even more paperwork with us.

Susan was so so kind to me, but so so firm.

Susan: "On a scale of 0 to 10, with 10 being the highest level of pain you've ever experienced and 0 being no pain at all, what would you say your pain level is?"
Me: "If I say 10, can you give me something to make this pain stop?"
Susan, ignoring my question and writing on her clipboard: "OK, so a 10. What is your due date?"
Me: "I don't remember."
Justin: "She's due November 29th."
Susan: "How far apart have your contractions been? Have you had any bleeding or spotting? Did you feel your water break?"
Me: "Really close together, like less than a second apart. I don't think I've had bleeding, but I haven't checked. I don't know what it feels like if my water broke. It probably did, because I think I'm about to give birth. Can we skip this part?"

Susan kindly, but very firmly and no-nonsense-ly, told me that she was required to go through all this paperwork and she was skipping the parts she could. Then she said, "You probably think I'm the meanest person right now, don't you?" And I very tactfully told her, "Yes I do, actually." She told me to focus on something other than the intense pain that was now radiating throughout my entire body and to pattern my breathing.

Susan hooked me up to the machine that monitored my contractions and how Allie was handling them and checked to see how dilated I was. I swore I was at least 500 cm dilated. She informed me that I was barely even 1 cm dilated and no, my water had not broken.

I asked her if she could perform an emergency c-section right there and even gave her my permission to cut Allie out with a butter knife if that would help the pain stop.

Her excuse: "You know honey, I would totally do that, except I don't have a butter knife with me right now."

The final verdict was -- I was not ready to go into labor. The pain was being caused by contractions, which in turn was making my uterus spasm, and it was actually the spasms that were causing all the pain, and not so much the contractions. Susan gave me a shot for the pain and a shot to stop the spasms.

After spending most of the day in the hospital, we headed home and didn't carve pumpkins or trick-or-treat. I'm pretty sure I slept the rest of the day from the shots.

Monday, November 1st
Justin and I went to my weekly checkup with my maternal fetal medicine doctor, Dr. Grieg. I was 35 weeks and 6 days pregnant. After the usual ultrasound and heart rate monitoring, Dr. Grieg came in and said it was time to schedule my c-section.

He and my regular OB had previously told me I would need to have a c-section because Allie had been breech for almost the entire pregnancy, and with the low amniotic fluid, it would be too dangerous to try and turn her. The low fluid was also why I would need an early delivery, because as Allie grew bigger, the chances of complications cropping up from the low fluid increased.

Dr. Grieg told me that one of my OBs, Dr. Dach, would give me a call and schedule a time that week for my surgery. I told him that Thursday would probably work out the best, since Biggest Loser was on Tuesday night and America's Next Top Model and Law & Order: SVU were on Wednesday night. He chuckled and said he'd see what he could do. Justin reminded me we would have a TV in the room at the hospital.

Dr. Grieg sent me over to St. Francis for a steroid shot, which would help Allie's lungs develop further since she would be born four weeks early and the lungs are the last things to develop.

The nurse at the hospital, who looked exactly like Phoebe on Friends, hooked me up to the machine.

"Hmmm. Did you know you're contracting about every minute?"
"Um, not really."
"Yep, you are. Also, your baby's heart rate is over 100."
"Oh, that's weird. They just checked her heart rate less than an hour ago over at Maternal Fetal and she was fine."

So what was supposed to be a quick get-the-steroid-shot-and-then-leave visit turned into an over three-hour stay where they hooked me up to an IV because I was dehydrated, monitored my contractions, and waited for Allie's heart rate to come down.

During that time, Dr. Dach called and scheduled my c-section for Wednesday morning. Dr. Grieg stopped in to see me when he came to the hospital to make his rounds. "What in the world did you do between my office and here?" he joked.

They eventually were able to lower Allie's heart rate, finished hydrating me, gave me the steroid shot, and sent me home.

Fast forward to about 7:30 that evening. Justin and I had made our phone calls to update our families and such about the news and we were at the grocery store stocking up on some last minute items. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, Dr. Dach called and informed me she'd had a cancellation the next day and she would like to bump up my surgery to Tuesday morning instead of Wednesday.

I turned to Justin: "So would you like to have a baby tomorrow?"
Justin: "Sure, why not."
Me to Dr. Dach: "OK, we're in."
Dr. Dach, laughing: "That was great. It's like you were discussing the weather or what to have for dinner."

More phone calls were made and we were up until around midnight, rushing to get everything done that we had originally planned to do the next day. Justin suggested it might be a good idea to pack my hospital bag.

Tuesday, November 2nd
We woke up around 5 a.m. A lot of people had told me to get a good night's sleep that night, but I didn't because 1) I was too excited, and 2) we were rushing around like chickens with our heads cut off, trying to get everything done that we'd planned to do Tuesday before my surgery got moved up a day.

We stopped at Wal-mart on the way, and arrived at St. Francis around 8 a.m. My c-section was scheduled for 10 a.m. This time, I walked by myself up to 4th Floor and my pain level was 0!

I was happy that my now-favorite nurse Susan was working that day and would be prepping me for surgery. Justin's mom and sister showed up and hung out with us for a bit. Dr. Rhodes, my other OB, stopped by my room to see how I was doing and to tell me that she would be doing my c-section since Dr. Dach was tied up in another surgery. That was totally fine with me, and I thought it was actually pretty cool, since Dr. Rhodes was the doctor who'd originally discovered I was pregnant back in March.

At 9:30, Susan wheeled my gurney to the operating room. She instructed Justin to don a pair of scrubs and then wait outside the operating room while they got me ready. I later found out that he was out there watching The Cosby Show and completely missed when they gave him the OK to come into the operating room, which is why they started without him there.

I felt a freezing cold blast of air as I was wheeled into the operating room. I glanced around and saw Dr. Rhodes and several other nurses buzzing around. The anesthesiologist explained about the spinal tap and what would be happening during the c-section, as well as some possible side effects. They put some kind of monitor device thingy on my finger and oxygen tube things up my nostrils

One of the nurses told me I had pretty teeth. Another nurse told me I had pretty hair as she tried to stuff my thick ponytail into a blue hospital cap.

It's a little fuzzy in my memory exactly what all happened at that point, because I was starting to panic. Susan held onto me as the anesthesiologist put the most gigantic needle I had ever seen into my back, and I was amazed at how quickly that stuff worked. And how much trouble I was having sitting up by myself.

They laid me down and the anesthesiologist told me he was going to test the spinal tap and to let him know when I felt that the cotton swab he was rubbing on me was cold. Apparently, the senses your body uses to detect pain are the same senses it uses to detect heat/cold, so this is how they determine if the spinal tap is working effectively.

Then a lot of things all seemed to happen at once. They put the veil up right in front of my face. I became very aware that I couldn't move anything below my sternum. I looked around and couldn't find Justin (because he was outside watching The Cosby Show, remember?).

Then I felt Dr. Rhodes start to cut me open. I didn't feel any pain; I could just feel that I was being cut open. It's hard to explain and a very surreal, weird, freaky feeling.

I got extremely claustrophobic and started having a full-blown panic attack. I opened my mouth to ask when Justin would be allowed in the room, but for some reason, no sound would come out. I felt like I was going to throw up. Thankfully one of the nurses brought him into the room at that moment.

I started crying when I saw him. Well, more like sobbing uncontrollably and beginning to hyperventilate. He tried to comfort me but I panicked even more.

Susan's head popped around the veil: "Hey, so what are you going to name your baby?"
Justin: "Allison."
Me: "What? Nuh-uh. We're naming her Alexandra, remember?"
Justin: "Wait, are you sure?"
Me: "Yes. Babe, we've had Alexandra picked out for a long time now."
Justin, grinning: "I know, but it made you forget that you were freaking out."
Me: "Oh yeah."

Plus, they'd given me some medicine to calm me down and to help with the nausea, so that helped immensely.

After what seemed like hours of Dr. Rhodes shifting my organs around inside my body, all of which I could feel (I said at one point, "Hey, I think she's touching my uterus!"), it was time to get Allie out. The anesthesiologist offered to take pictures for us.

Then I felt a lot of tugging . . . and tugging . . . and more tugging.

"Girl, you have some seriously tight abs here," Dr. Rhodes said.

I don't know how, considering I'd been on bed rest for the last 4 1/2 months of my pregnancy. Dr. Rhodes ended up having to make the incision bigger because Allie's head was stuck in my abs and she needed to dislodge her.

I teared up when I heard my daughter's first cry. And then wondered why I couldn't hear her anymore. Apparently, she'd let out one cry, then took a giant breath, puckered up her face, and held her breath.

Definitely my kid. Stubborn.

Dr. Rhodes brought Allie around the veil, and I got to see her for the first time. She was all covered in uterus goop, her face pinched up because she was holding her breath, and a head full of black hair. She was the most beautiful, adorable, perfect little baby I had ever seen.

Interestingly enough, my first thought was: "She doesn't look anything like her ultrasound pictures." To which Justin replied, "You mean the ones where she looks like a tiny little alien?"

Keep in mind I was still being pumped with drugs to calm me down and help my nausea and lightheaded-ness.

The nurses took Allie over to the french fry warmer and cleaned her up and measured her and weighed her and such while Dr. Rhodes sewed me back up. Justin went with them. Allie weighed 6 lbs, 9 oz, and was 18 1/2 inches long.

Justin came back around the veil holding our precious little newborn. I was so overwhelmed with love my heart threatened to burst.

At one point, one of the nurses told me that I was going to go from the gurney I was on to a regular hospital bed. "I hope you don't expect me to help you out with that," I said, as my entire lower half was still 100% numb.

It seemed like only a few minutes before I could hold her, but in reality it was actually about 45 minutes or so. Apparently they were having trouble getting my bleeding to stop.

My entire world changed when Justin placed that precious little bundle in my arms. I'll never forget the first time I cuddled my little angel close, breathed in her smell, and kissed her little cheek.

They finally brought us to our mother/infant room, which also served as our recovery room. No one except Justin was allowed in for the first hour or so because they were still trying to get a handle on my bleeding. So Allie got a little more time under the french fry warmer.

She would not let go of my finger.

The nurse finally got my bleeding under control, and after that it seemed that a steady stream of people were in and out of the room the rest of the day. Allie's pediatrician. My doctor. Nurses to check on my incision. Nurses to check on Allie. The anesthesiologist to see if I was having any side effects from the spinal tap. Lactation consultants to help with breastfeeding. My in-laws. My coworkers from The Greenville News. My good friend Anna who had supported me from the beginning of my pregnancy.

A few other friends who knew I was pregnant stopped by over the duration of my hospital stay, including Roshena and her seven-week-old baby Beckham.

I was so exhausted I couldn't even think straight, but it was a happy exhaustion. Like the kind of giddy exhaustion that sort of drives you to insanity. At one point, I even glanced over at Allie and very loudly announced to everyone in the room, "Guys, look! I have a baby!"

But finally, the exhaustion won out and Allie and I both drifted off to sleep.

The following three days in the hospital were an intense mixture of love, excitement, fear, pain, happiness, sadness, responsibility, joy, frustration, as I learned how to be a parent while simultaneously healing from the major surgery that is a c-section. 

For some reason, I hadn't thought of a c-section as major surgery, until my nurse came in at 6 a.m. the following morning, unhooked my legs from the compressors, and told me it was time to try to walk. 

Let me tell you, the pain from a c-section is no joke. It took me at least five minutes to get out of bed just to get up and use the bathroom, and every time the nurse came to check my incision, I wanted to scream and cry out in pain. Any time I wanted to hold Allie, someone had to get her out of the bassinet and place her in my arms, because I couldn't lean over to pick her up myself. At the end of every four (or six?) hours, as my pain meds were wearing off, I fought back tears until the nurse came back in with another dose of pain meds.

But it's true -- all that pain of childbirth was overshadowed by the love and joy of my baby. Every time I looked down at her sweet face, or breathed in her newborn smell, or kissed her soft squishy cheeks, or gently placed my finger in her palm and felt her tiny hands wrap around my finger, my heart swelled all over again and my mind was no longer on how much pain I was in. All I could feel was love.

One of my favorite times was during the early morning hours, when I pumped and fed her a bottle (she never learned to latch on). I remember the first time she opened her eyes and looked at me -- I mean really looked at me -- and we just spent about five minutes staring at each other and memorizing every detail of each other's face.

And then her milk coma would set in, she'd yawn her adorable little yawn, and drift back to sleep.

I was very blessed that I was able to carry Allie until 36 weeks to the day before she had to be born. For 16 weeks, we took it one week at a time, with both my doctors consulting every week and deciding my womb was safe for her for another week. God protected her, and he protected me.

Allie turned four at the beginning of this month, and she's as spunky, sassy, sweet, and smart as ever. As I wrote this post, I looked back through the pictures of when she was born and compared them to pictures of her now. It's so hard to believe that my little teeny tiny newborn has developed into this beautiful, tenderhearted, brilliant little lady. I thank God every day for lending her to me, and I couldn't be happier that He chose me to be her mom.