Smoothie Gate

We approached week 18 with trepidation.  Given that we suffered so much loss in the year prior, we honestly believed that we would lose the babies any day.  Every week seemed surreal, and we finally started to think maybe we would make it to 18 weeks and the move to Arizona would become reality.

That was until the Hepatitis A scare. Also known as Smoothie Gate.

One evening before bed, I was skimming Facebook and saw a notice for all Tropical Smoothie customers.  It seemed that their strawberries had been infected with Hep A and any and all customers were at risk of contracting the disease.  

As a neurotic pregnant woman, I immediately googled everything I could think of.  This didn't look good.  Given that it was a weekend, I called my maternal fetal medicine specialist at UVA. She had me come into Labor and Delivery to do some blood work to check my liver.  Hepatitis A indeed affects the liver and a malfunctioning liver can trigger pre-term labor which would, in essence, kill the babies.  

I went in for the blood work.  It came back with "troubling" results, as the doctor called it.  My liver levels were indeed elevated. That pointed to Hep A.  She immediately scheduled an appointment for me with an infectious disease specialist on Monday (granted, this is a Saturday).  

I was told to watch for the yellowing of my eyes, fever, upset stomach, and a list of other symptoms.  As you can imagine, that was the longest weekend of my life.  We were supposed to leave for Arizona on Monday. But instead, we were going to see an infectious disease doctor.  The doctor recommended that I go ahead and get the Hep A vaccine ASAP, as the vaccine can often fight off the disease in the early stages.  Michael called around to all of the pharmacies in town until he found one that would administer it on a Saturday night. 

As a precaution, my doctor suggested I stop taking some of the vitamins I had been taking in case those were causing a spike in my liver functions.

We re-did the blood work on Monday morning and had our meeting with ID doctor on Monday afternoon.  If you're any sort of a germaphobe, going to the infectious disease doctor will make you twitch--guaranteed.  Take an extra gallon of Purrell with you.  I did.  A mom has to do what a mom has to do.

There was good news!  My liver levels were lower and I showed no signs of Hep A.  WHEW.  I remember walking out of the doctor and asking Michael to just hold me.  I was wrapped in such a tight knot I didn't realize how afraid I was.  But, no Hep A and thus the conclusion of Smoothie Gate.

On to Arizona we go!

Weight Gain

So, when one is pregnant with quintuplets, nutrition is of the essence, especially in the first 20 weeks.  This is mostly because after that point, the babies start to press on the stomach so much that eating solid food proves difficult.

As a result, Dr. Elliott told me I needed to eat at least 4,500 calories PER DAY.  That's right, folks--4,500 calories per day. Which meant that just about any food was on the table. Everyone I share this with looks at me with bitter envy.  I wish I could tell you that it was fun.  It wasn't.  (Also, as it turns out, the best foods for packing on calories are actually kind of healthy - nuts, olive oil, avocado, eggs, milk.) The first trimester I felt HORRIBLE.   Like dirt.   I felt like dirt--every day.  Crackers were all I could bear eating and even that felt taxing (and nauseating). The idea of eating 4,500 calories felt as feasible as climbing Mount Everest.  

My co-workers would laugh at me because every time I participated in a meeting, I brought a snack.  And by snack, I mean a jar of peanut butter with two apples. Or a pint of strawberries with a jar of nutella.  These were the snacks of heavy weight champions, not some yogi from small town Alabama.  Oh well, if I wanted this pregnancy to succeed, I was going to have to tough it out.

Michael became a whiz at finding more calories for me.  Real butter?  Yep.  Avocado on my cheeseburger?  You bet.  Any calorie he could think of, he put on my food.  Sometimes it worked and sometimes I got sick.  I ate more ice cream in that beginning stage than I care to recall.  I even used an app to track my calories. To maintain a pace that would secure my goal, I had to eat every two hours.  Smoothies, trail mix, peanut butter, tacos..whatever I could think of! 

Typically by dinner time I would have made it to 3,700 calories at which point Michael would hand me a pint of Haagen Daaz and let me eat as much as I could handle.  Again, please don't think this was fun--it really wasn't.

Week 14 photo.  At this point, I was gaining 4-6 pounds per week, which still wasn't good enough for me to reach the goal of gaining 75-100 pounds before 28 weeks.

So....Now What?

Dr. Elliott recommended that we be in Arizona full time by my 18th week of pregnancy.  Given that we were just at our 11th week when we talked to him, we thought we had some time. And given our track record, who knew if we'd even make it to 18 weeks.  We never had before.

Given that we had only shared our news with our pastors, we realized it was time to tell our families.  We waited until week 12 just to protect our parents from getting too excited.  Michael and I now have a love/hate relationship with hope (more on that later), and we wanted to protect our parents from getting hurt.

 Michael and his parents, Ginny and Charlie

 My parents, Tom and Kaye

I remember we told our parents on a Sunday.  We went to our church supper club, and on the way home, we knew it was time. We called Michael's parents first.  Ginny and Charlie were out on the deck when we called.  As Michael walked them through the situation, they took it in stride.  Michael comes from a family of five, so his parents were ready to jump in and help.  Ginny and Charlie are some of the most competent parents I've ever met.  I immediately felt calmed, knowing that they could help us manage the details of parenthood.

My parents were next.  Mom answered the phone. 

"Mom, is Dad there?"

"Yes, honey, do you need to talk to him?"

"No, I need to talk to both of you."

I heard feet thumping through the living room as Mom yelled, "TOM, pick up the phone!!"

As we began to tell them the whole story, Mom immediately began to weep (happy tears).  It was quite the moment.  Mom and Dad knew about our struggles getting pregnant, so they shared our joy in the purest sense.  My mom is the classic "doer," so she was ready to jump into action.  What comes first?  How should we organize this?  How could they help?  My parents have always been the first to offer a helping hand and this circumstance was no exception.  They both, especially Mom, have been such a support system for me.  Dad suggested we name one of them "Buddy Wayne."  Yes, I'm from Alabama and we tease each other about our southern roots.  For the record, my child will not be named Buddy Wayne.

We explained to both of our parents about Dr. Elliott's track record.  How the national average gestational age for quintuplets is 27 or 28 weeks.  How Dr. Elliott's patients usually average 32 or 33 weeks.  How this additional gestation time can lower the risks for post birth complications.

With our parents on board, we started to make plans.  Michael and I shared the news with our bosses and God bless them, they were very supportive.  Michael would work remotely from Arizona, using leave as needed, and I would take an early maternity leave and let my co-workers counsel the students in my absence.

12 week photo

With the help of a very dear friend in Charlotte, we found a place to live (that would accept our sweet dog Ellie) and things began to take shape.

Our sweet Ellie

Fear Tactics

The doctor's visit confirmed that there were indeed FIVE little Baudinet bundles of joy in my tummy. Not four--five.  So now we have a basketball team?  Oh boy.  I only thought my husband was pale before.

The tough part was that as soon as the doctors confirmed the fifth baby, they began to immediately talk about the risks involved in a high order multiple pregnancy (pre-term labor, preeclampsia, cerebral palsy, blindness, deafness, infant mortality, mother mortality, etc).  As a result, this doctor (and the other doctors in her practice) recommended we "reduce" the pregnancy to twins. For those of you who don't know, "reduction" means that the doctor would take a needle and inject potassium chloride into the baby's heart to make it stop beating (in other words, reduction means aborting several babies to increase the chances of a positive outcome for the other children).

As you can imagine, this is terrifying to hear, especially after you've heard that if you don't reduce, your kids may have severe disabilities if they are lucky enough to even survive (much less you, the mother...oh yeah, almost forgot about you!).

Michael and I sought a second opinion.  This doctor did not make a recommendation but was clear that reduction provided the best chance for at least some of the babies to make it.  He told us that the last set of quints he delivered came at 27 weeks--one died, one was blind, two had cerebral palsy and one was "normal" (don't you hate that word--normal?  Grrrr--end of rant). He said there was nothing we could do to improve our odds if we chose to keep them all. We walked out afraid that we would be sentencing all five to certain death if we did not reduce.

We had to decide what to do before 11 weeks gestation, so we had about 2 weeks left.  Each week that I went in for an ultrasound, the doctor would say, "I'm so sorry, but your babies are healthy."  Doesn't that sound odd?  These doctors were hoping that one, two, three of my children wouldn't make it?  I couldn't take it anymore.  We switched doctors.

We began working with the University of Virginia Maternal Fetal Medicine practice.  I can't say enough good things about these folks.  Although the still believed reduction was our best option, they didn't push it on us. They told us if we wanted to keep the quints, they would do everything they could to help.

Michael and I weren't convinced reduction could be the answer. We just didn't think we could bear murdering our children and then continuing to live a life devoted to our God and His kingdom.  

Luckily, being the prolific reader that he is, Michael came across a Newsweek story about Dr. John Elliott of Phoenix, Arizona.

This is a doctor that specializes in saving high order multiples. He celebrates getting moms to longer-than-average gestation times and reducing the risk of physical/mental handicaps. From everything we could find, no doctor had more experience with high order multiples. And every one of his patients seemed to rave about him. In fact, Michael's aunt lives in Phoenix and has a friend who was a neonatal nurse. She, too, said that Dr. Elliott was the best (and had actually delivered her daughter years earlier).

Needless to say, we were very interested, but had no idea how this would work.  After we left a message with his office explaining our situation, Dr. Elliott called us on a Thursday night and spent an hour with us on the phone, explaining the risks and rewards of keeping all five babies. Most importantly for us, Dr. Elliott was the first doctor who didn't tell us that keeping the quints meant that we would "hope for the best." Instead, he had the attitude that "this can be done." While he did not sugarcoat the risks, he explained that he could help the pregnancy succeed. It would not be easy, but it could be done.

We agreed to take the weekend to think it over.  Michael went to meet with his priest and I met with the pastor at my church.  We both spent time in prayer and meditation.  We were both, of course, terrified that we wouldn't be able to agree.  As Michael talked to his priest, the priest reminded Michael to "honor his wife."  To think of this as an opportunity to honor his wife and his God.  I thought that was such a beautiful sentiment.

On my drive to work the next day, I felt as if God was asking me to do one thing.  He wasn't asking me to be brave or to know all the answers or to please everyone in this process.  No.  God asked me to surrender.  Surrender.  Physically, mentally, spiritually.  God asked me to surrender.  

To me, this meant that we would keep all five babies and let God determine their fate.  Michael agreed and thus began our Bundle of Baudinets journey.

Marvel In Maine

Well, of course, the test was positive.  I literally rolled my eyes when I got the results.  What was the use in hoping for anything? I told Michael and he agreed.

It was too early to do an ultrasound, so I did a few more blood tests that confirmed the pregnancy.  Still, I barely told anyone and remained focused on my life and the things I knew to be true and stable.

Michael and I had planned a trip to Maine the following week.  I was so looking forward to a vacation with my sweet husband. Even with no kids, we keep busy.  His work schedule is demanding.  He's a dedicated athlete.  My work is demanding.  I try to maintain my volunteer work along with my yoga commitments and all the rest.  

So, off to Maine we went.  Unfortunately, my hormones started to make themselves known.  I didn't want to eat.  I was sick to my stomach.  I was weak.  I ached.  I was in no shape to hike and kayak Acadia as we'd hoped.  So, Michael saw much of Acadia by himself.  

I saw the inside of our bedroom.  And a lot of rerun Fixer Upper episodes.  

On the next to the last day of our visit, at seven and a half weeks pregnant, I started spotting.  Here we go again, I thought.  We called the doctor and she recommended going to the ER. Off we went, expecting the worst.  

As much as I love Bar Harbor, I can't say they have the most cutting-edge emergency room I've ever seen.  After we checked in, the ultrasound technician introduced herself and said she would do a sonogram to check for a heartbeat.  Same song, different verse, I thought.  As she began the ultrasound, the technician began to giggle.

Giggle?

She giggled, that's correct.

I looked at my husband, thinking that there would be heck to pay if she was looking at our deceased baby.  

She wasn't.  She smiled a bright, toothy smile at me and said, "Well, aren't you going to be a busy lady?"

WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT?

I gave her a puzzled look.  As I did, she showed me one....two.....three....four heartbeats.  Four heartbeats.  Wait, what?  That's right, she told us we were going to have quadruplets.  There might be a fifth, but she couldn't really tell. But, at the very least, we were having four babies in the next year.

I've never seen my husband go as pale as he did that night.  We returned to the hotel in complete silence.  Grateful not to receive bad news, but totally shocked by this revelation.

One of Michael's superpowers is that he can sleep anywhere, so of course, we walked back into the hotel room, and he fell in the bed and slept.

I, however, stay up all night reading quad mom blogs, researching cars, car seats, risks of a high order multiple pregnancy, and everything in between.

We wake up the next morning and walk down to breakfast, again in silence.  I can't tell if my husband is excited, terrified, all of the above?  None of the above?  

For the remainder of our trip, my sweet husband seemed to be in a trance.  He wasn't angry, but he was indeed overwhelmed.  As we drove home, I don't think either one of knew what to make of this situation.  We spent most of the trip listening to audiobooks because we didn't know what to say. We made an appointment with our doctor for the day after our return and hoped for clarity.

A Little Help

As we rounded the corner on spring of 2016, we decided that perhaps it was time to return to the doctor.  The reproductive endocrinologist suggested that we try fertility medication to improve our odds of getting pregnant.

We agreed (to the detriment of our bank account--yeesh!), thinking that when/if this failed, we would feel as if God was directing us to pursue adoption with our whole hearts.

After one failed cycle of hormones, we decided to try once more, though given the previous failed attempt, we didn't hold out much hope. Then, about 12 days after ovulation, I started to feel awful. I mean, really awful.  As in, I could barely go the grocery store because of all the mixed up smells.  

I called the doctor and said something like "I'm pretty sure the medications messed up my hormones because I feel awful."  She laughed and said to come in to do a test to be sure.  I told her there was no need.  I'd start my period any day now and it would clear.  She insisted I come in.  

Quitters Never Win

As my dad always says, "Quitters never win."  So, as I got "closer to fine," I decided that life must go on.  My niece would have birthdays, Christmas time would come, and friends would continue to grow their families.  Instead of trying to shield myself from the potential pain, I decided to choose joy.  I wanted to celebrate birthdays and new babies and everything in between.  I wanted to choose joy.

Of course there were hard days.  There still are.  I slowly grew out of my anger with God as I realized that He didn't want the miscarriage to happen, and as I lay there in that hospital, He was holding me the whole time.  I decided to let go of that white-knuckle anger in hopes of acceptance.  

Michael and I considered adoption.  We were both open to the idea and we even went down to Texas to meet with an adoption agency. Still, the timing didn't feel quite right, so we decided not to pursue it for the moment.

Christmas of 2015 was especially tough.  I envisioned having a stocking for our unborn baby.  Every decoration, every song seemed to drown my heart into unspeakable sadness.  

We agreed we would take a break from trying to get pregnant and just focus on work and each other.