tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30400122524776370472024-03-12T21:55:42.614-04:00The Heart of HomeCasey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-6170791421456105292022-02-01T09:00:00.018-05:002023-01-20T13:04:12.233-05:00Trains, Cracks and Re-routed Tracks<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBN7IZDmb3SasZPCrG7ZJnuzlayZbD359kqtDI5x9PAiBpxsIDGnlXfExeGMi87Iegn1w8yCB1slLwoM3VthzstwDJF6UBefszFaBoXLLwsB_D8F_-7ajA6sd6KBeYkPYsHFMhbRuvwT8V/s1881/Trains+Cracks+and+Re-routed+Tracks.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1578" data-original-width="1881" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBN7IZDmb3SasZPCrG7ZJnuzlayZbD359kqtDI5x9PAiBpxsIDGnlXfExeGMi87Iegn1w8yCB1slLwoM3VthzstwDJF6UBefszFaBoXLLwsB_D8F_-7ajA6sd6KBeYkPYsHFMhbRuvwT8V/w320-h268/Trains+Cracks+and+Re-routed+Tracks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>He was very excited when I said “<i>let’s go check out the little train station over there</i>” while we were running errands. We walked over and then in true fashion, “<i>Mom! What?!!? Don’t go on the train tracks! Did you look both ways to see if a train is coming?</i>” Sometimes it's nice to be reminded that he is listening. <br /><br />We were close to the hospital too, so I asked him if he wanted to see where he was born. I have a lot of mixed feelings about the place, but it’s part of his story. He deserves to see it. As we drove there, I pointed to where his daddy and I would go for dinner before our childbirth classes. I told him the funny story about the time we had to stop at WaWa for snacks on the way to class (or maybe a few times) because we were running late and I was nine months pregnant and starving. He hung on my every word. He wanted to know it all. <br /><br />When we pulled in front of the hospital, the nostalgia of being pregnant crept in. <br /><br />Sigh. <br /><br />I loved carrying him so much. Yes, there were times when it was incredibly scary, and despite all those hurdles, I would have loved the opportunity to do it again. It seems unfair that a woman who loved it so much only got to do it once; then, it was harshly snatched away. It's something I am still processing. But then again, I’m thankful to have a seat at the motherhood table at all and be alive to sit in it! Growing him will always be one of the greatest privileges (achievement!) of my life. </div><div><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div>As I turned the car into the circle driveway of the hospital, I pointed to the wall along the lot we parked in front of when labor pains were in earnest. I showed him the ER entrance I waddled through and our postpartum room window on the fourth floor. He just soaked it all in. When we drove past the medical offices attached on the far end of the main building, I finally felt the lump form in my throat. I was surprised it took so long, but seeing the windows of their offices- and fully knowing the view out of them- was a bit of a jolt.</div><div><br /><b>This really happened. </b><br /><br />Sometimes, I’m in denial. Sometimes, it feels like an awful dream that we were fortunate enough to wake up from. Sometimes, it feels so very far away, like it happened to someone else we know. Then just like that, I can reach out and touch it. <br /><br />“<i>What’s this place, momma?</i>”, he asked. <br /><br />I launched into an explanation that these windows are my former doctors’ offices. Dr. Fields* worked in those windows up there. I smiled remembering <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-7-i-will-tell-of-his.html" target="_blank">how giddy she was the day I walked in pregnant</a>. How she wheeled in an archaic ultrasound machine because she just had to see this baby! Oh, Dr. Fields. I wish you had told me to go to a Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist after the pulmonary emboli. <b>Would all of this have been different? </b><br /><br />I continued... "<i>and those windows on the first floor are the pulmonologist’s office.</i>" We liked them until the on-call pulmonologist I saw once post-delivery angrily called your dad during my emergency surgery demanding to know why I missed my blood draw appointment that morning. <b>Yes, the one who quickly hung up and never called us again after learning “<i>she’s actually in surgery fighting for her life right now.</i>”</b> Yeah, that guy. Interesting that it's the on-call physician once again. (do they just not care about other patients?) I have some strong feelings about him... and the whole office for never following up... perhaps I'll send a strongly worded letter when I'm ready. Of course, I left all this out of the version I shared with my son. Someday I'll tell him. Today is not that day though. <br /><br />As I drove around remembering, I had a deep realization that life can’t help but go on. There is a constant humming in the hospital realm. Patients in and out. New challenges to overcome. New lessons to learn from... like my friend’s case at this same hospital just the month prior. Her family comes to mind and what they went through guts me. This isn’t how any of this is supposed to be. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRiiSWDtWLsSYy_JXS_wrbC1IgGaTmxhUT72ZCbm3RF0IJaForyc-HEEc3f5CWwB671dVpl5snOQyt2_0teSeON5a7EoLib4xwyg2ERCX-Vfv45xUio5Xmiyr8zB_cLpzGJwOEKyf1BBZ_/s1080/Trains+Cracks+and+Re-routed+Tracks2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRiiSWDtWLsSYy_JXS_wrbC1IgGaTmxhUT72ZCbm3RF0IJaForyc-HEEc3f5CWwB671dVpl5snOQyt2_0teSeON5a7EoLib4xwyg2ERCX-Vfv45xUio5Xmiyr8zB_cLpzGJwOEKyf1BBZ_/s320/Trains+Cracks+and+Re-routed+Tracks2.jpg" /></a></div>I’m likely a distant memory to my doctors, if I am a memory at all... but they are not to me. I used to think about my doctors- all of them- every single day following my hemorrhage. That frequency lasted for a solid year or two and has faded now, but I still think of them on occasion. <b>I’m sure there is a lesson for medical professionals in there somewhere. Maybe a small, quiet reminder that your day-to-day grind is someone else’s major life event and milestone. That your words and actions (or inactions) will reverberate loudly long after you’ve said or done them. That good or bad, you’ll be a permanent character in someone’s story. What kind of character do you want to be?</b> <b>Are you practicing that way?</b><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Life is full of lessons, little one. There are so many in our story. I hope to paint the beginning of yours beautifully, but accurately. There were wonder filled moments- divine interventions full stop- and then there were things that still keep me up at night years later. You, my love, will always be the best of them. This will always be the place I first heard your voice. The place I first laid eyes on you. The place my lips touched your sweet cheeks for the first time. It will always be the place you made me a momma, and I’m choosing to focus on the good while doing my part to leave maternal healthcare better for the mommas and babies coming after us. <br /><br />We had a deep conversation about how God can use our greatest disappointments (Aka: broken bellies) for good things. Sometimes they are blessings in disguise (sometimes not), but they are almost always sure to benefit someone else someday. I’m pretty sure my initial analogy was a disaster. <br /><br />Me: <i>Do you understand what I mean? </i><br /><br />Him: <i>What are you even talking about? </i><br /><br />That sounds about right. I prayed for the right words and tried again. I said something about broken train tracks and how it looks like a mess but God can put the tracks back together in new ways that are useful and good. <br /><br />Me: <i>Does that make more sense? </i><br /><br />Him: <i>Uh... (thinking). I don’t think so.</i><br /><br />I’ve always felt like my near-misses blindsided me and knocked me onto a completely new and different life track. I thought that would be relatable to my little train boy. No doubt this will be a lifelong conversation, and well, he’s four. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’ll work on my analogies in the meantime.</div><div><br /><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Mood: Bittersweet</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="color: #797a7c;">Music: </span><span style="color: #f1001c;">For You </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OoqAi8OJ9T0" style="color: #797a7c;" target="_blank">by Coldplay</a><br /></span><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div><div style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Buckle Up!</a></b></div></div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #797a7c; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #797a7c; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMtRoTtH25zGeenVjF59J5HYMVhrhOFTZk9CQ0XWZDfwE-dAVi8lGSgsVIA5Q5acKqw57iYz7YbCHl21ADdRkFVuOvO2y_TOqdwrx_e2cs8dnf1b_bHBRqoI_W0mK83ETXHydLxfF7fAuF7LQWSUPp75rBYVyrafv1azFucNQsnxP1ZRXlhLhTSQHWTA=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMtRoTtH25zGeenVjF59J5HYMVhrhOFTZk9CQ0XWZDfwE-dAVi8lGSgsVIA5Q5acKqw57iYz7YbCHl21ADdRkFVuOvO2y_TOqdwrx_e2cs8dnf1b_bHBRqoI_W0mK83ETXHydLxfF7fAuF7LQWSUPp75rBYVyrafv1azFucNQsnxP1ZRXlhLhTSQHWTA=w320-h180" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #666666;"><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">About the Author: </b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-weight: 400;">Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a 2x maternal near-miss survivor writing to illuminate the aftermath of severe maternal morbidity and give hope to other moms in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate and </span><a href="https://heroesformoms.com/" style="font-weight: 400; text-decoration-line: none;">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-weight: 400;">. She has shared her story with many publications, including Propublica, The New York Times, the </span><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii/id1452440833?i=1000436810762" style="font-weight: 400; text-decoration-line: none;">Empowered Health Podcast</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-weight: 400;"> and is a chapter author of </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="font-weight: 400; text-decoration-line: none;">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-weight: 400;">. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;">Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime enjoy hiking with their son. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-weight: 400;">If you were encouraged by this post, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow" style="font-weight: 400; text-decoration-line: none;">Instagram</a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"> @caseycattell and @pphsurvivors.</span></span></span></b><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></span></b></div>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-41473665190946532272022-01-27T00:08:00.020-05:002023-01-20T11:30:09.220-05:00Survivor Moments<div class="separator"><i style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #222222; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghKRqABbc1FUTrvFGJgs6m5QTCR2ySdbRKduH3pFHogtGFf3CnajsyiDxBCNA0eQHHNU6Ftxjy68qiQwDU8jM-ro3h0dnxX1sQZoNQscuUf0AAXtat3IvTDV868NzTNuab9Trox3N3Mlg9mDuT7vp8gplKZxLtef5PNXHhSocqHYQFTcOHkeRxtkKE_w=s1080" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghKRqABbc1FUTrvFGJgs6m5QTCR2ySdbRKduH3pFHogtGFf3CnajsyiDxBCNA0eQHHNU6Ftxjy68qiQwDU8jM-ro3h0dnxX1sQZoNQscuUf0AAXtat3IvTDV868NzTNuab9Trox3N3Mlg9mDuT7vp8gplKZxLtef5PNXHhSocqHYQFTcOHkeRxtkKE_w=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #666666;">“Hello, my friend!”</span></span></i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #666666; font-family: times;"> she says as she enters the
room and closes the door behind her. </span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;">It’s the greeting I’ve been hearing since I
met her six years ago. The sound of her voice provides a type of relief I can’t
quite explain. A reminder that she knows all of it. I don’t have to rehash or
explain anything because she was there from the very beginning. </span></span><span style="font-family: times;">I’ve been seeing her more often since the
summer of 2020 thanks to some not-so-pleasant concerns. In some ways visiting
her office so much throws me back to the early days of regular appointments
following my near-misses.</span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“Have you been writing?”</span></i><span> she asks after our routine debrief about
vitals and how I’ve been.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“No, not as much as I used to.”</span></i><span> I reply.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">She presses, <i>“why not?”</i></span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><span><a name='more'></a></span></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;">I know what she’s getting at: writing has been
my therapy over the years and she was the one to suggest it in
the weeks following my hemorrhage. I remember that appointment very clearly despite
the dense fog that led me to ask <i>“when can I start running again?”</i> after
two major abdominal surgeries. I was trying my best to be a model patient and
proactive about my health and wellness so I could be the best mom I could be-
knowing anxiety and PTSD were creeping in hard- but still not fully comprehending
the scope of my ordeal.<br /> </span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“You sit! I’m going to have to be very direct
with you, aren’t I?” </span></i><span>she asked back then.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">Looking to my sister who had driven me to my
appointment because I wasn’t cleared to drive yet, she asked <i>“What does she
like doing?”</i></span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“She likes to scrapbook.”</span></i><span> My sister quietly answered.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“Ok, then. You get a little table and you sit
and scrapbook. No running or walking. You need to rest and heal, my friend.”</span></i><span> my surgeon instructed.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">Full disclosure, it was really hard to sit and
rest when I wanted nothing more than to be the mom I dreamed of being to the long
awaited baby I had been separated from. Most people (including medical
professionals) don’t fully realize the physical and mental struggle of being
this sick after childbirth. Some of us shrivel inward. Some of us try to power
through it. At the root of it, both are survival techniques. Realizing
I physically could not care for my newborn and asking for help was one of the most
humbling things I’ve ever done in my life. There were some hard conversations
and arguments about this at home too. Being told to rest felt like another
layer to the punishment I had already endured.<br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">During my next appointment two weeks later, my surgeon
suggested I start writing to process what I had gone through. I used to have a lot of
quiet time to write back when my son napped in those early years. I processed
so much parked in front of Dunkin Donuts with tears streaming down my face. I
was just close enough to the building to hop on their wifi, while my infant
snoozed in the back seat. That was the year of iced tea lemonades and learning
how to pour out my heart in humiliating vulnerability on the internet.<br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">Those days of processing in my car are long gone
and it’s interesting that I look back on them so fondly. Even the thought of
sitting in my front seat writing, processing and grieving over the string of
losses somehow is met with a sort of nostalgia. These were the days of the
snap-n-go stroller and the Dunkin drive thru, walking at the park with
the sun on my face. The sun never felt so good. I was methodically sifting
through the giant pile of rubble my near-misses left; but goodness, there was contentment
and healing in that place too. Those processing sessions and walks helped me breathe again. <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">Back to present day.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;">My surgeon asked how my little guy is doing and I couldn’t help but gush. I told her about kindergarten and what a sweet boy he is, but my voice quivered when I began sharing about the day I teared up watching his swim class the previous week.<br /> </span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">“<i>I’m so overcome with gratefulness to be here
to see it. I call them survivor moments.”</i> I said.<br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">She turned her chair and leaned in toward me
with a concerned look on her face. <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“When did this start?”</span></i><span> she asked softly.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">I realize she probably hasn’t seen this part
of the survivor journey before, or at least with me. I’m pretty sure survivor
moments are a thread in all our stories. The emergency may be long over, but
the depth of the trauma stays and weaves its way into every facet of our life. It
has a ripple effect. If we’re healing, we learn to live with it. <br /></span></span><i><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span></i><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“They’ve been here since the very beginning…”</span></i><span> I reply.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><br /></span></span><i><span><span style="font-family: times;">“I’m just so thankful to be alive! I don’t
take anything for granted. I hope this gratefulness never goes away.”</span></span></i></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></i><span><span style="font-family: times;">She gave me a knowing smile and nodded her
head.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i><span>“Will you promise me something?”</span></i><span> she asked. <i>“Will you start writing again?”</i></span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span><i><br /></i></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">So here I am once again taking the sage advice
from my surgeon and processing the long list of things that I have been urgently
typing on my phone in the middle of the night during my many insomnia spells over
the years. It’s not that I ever stopped writing. I just stopped carving out time to sit with it and publish what comes out.<br /> </span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <br /></span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">It seems fitting that my word of the year is intentionality.</span></span></span></div><div style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span><span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">This is a start. </span></span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-size: 14px;">There's an ocean inside my head</span><br style="font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-size: 14px;">Waves that don't ever rest</span><br style="font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-size: 14px;">This kind of beauty ain't ordinary</span><br style="font-size: 14px;" /><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="font-size: 14px;">You look, but do you really see?</span></span></i></p><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Mood: Feeling pushed to start the next part</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Music: Take Your Time- Vance Joy<br /></span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div><div style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Buckle Up!</a></b></div>
<b><br /></b><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn2eH-O2F9UL8z8MIUoElIWvMvudEmevTlf2yWFZQMzREQTpa0koBd0gK2ZQjsa2CNrOtJVorJCwinWl4nNwGShfx11IefRBRwzV-R4FWlGpSnO665E-cmRExFIpjL4ISAA4a-HdXzT3g_DqCIYyTdDYjQJVAMILTbRoghg_aobcVDrYEGLoklPSL1qA=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn2eH-O2F9UL8z8MIUoElIWvMvudEmevTlf2yWFZQMzREQTpa0koBd0gK2ZQjsa2CNrOtJVorJCwinWl4nNwGShfx11IefRBRwzV-R4FWlGpSnO665E-cmRExFIpjL4ISAA4a-HdXzT3g_DqCIYyTdDYjQJVAMILTbRoghg_aobcVDrYEGLoklPSL1qA=w320-h181" width="320" /></a></div></b><b>About the Author: </b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a 2x maternal near-miss survivor writing to illuminate the aftermath of severe maternal morbidity and give hope to other moms in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate and </span><a href="https://heroesformoms.com/" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">. She has shared her story with many publications, including Propublica, The New York Times, the </span><a href="https://empoweredhealthshow.com/maternal-mortality-american-crisis/" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Empowered Health Podcast</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> and is a chapter author of </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">. </span>Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime enjoy hiking with their son. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">If you were encouraged by this post, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Instagram</a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"> @caseycattell and @pphsurvivors.</span></span></div><br /><br />Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-66438357992211967402021-01-21T08:00:00.006-05:002021-02-22T20:23:24.549-05:00If You're Losing Sleep<b><u><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSIyzrpe-DPb3hU6F6ghHZET8dWDodH2k4XArxWfrk9SlrDqd2ci4CDL7sYpUv_tvFm89l3yskOD9O_NXVRpZZcMpEpqGpcAvfx9QklFeun9waY1fGCD_rtSV0HWFmh1dwDA_xK3Zcr8P/s1080/579c4cf29348ccbaad7a02186fd8e1f2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSIyzrpe-DPb3hU6F6ghHZET8dWDodH2k4XArxWfrk9SlrDqd2ci4CDL7sYpUv_tvFm89l3yskOD9O_NXVRpZZcMpEpqGpcAvfx9QklFeun9waY1fGCD_rtSV0HWFmh1dwDA_xK3Zcr8P/s320/579c4cf29348ccbaad7a02186fd8e1f2.jpg" /></a></div></u>FLASH BACK: September 9, 2019</b><div><br /></div><div>It wasn’t the first phrase that came to mind, but when I said it aloud, I knew that was it. I had been busying myself with a number of major transitions over the last year- a move and a long list of home improvement projects- and now another one was added to the mix. My son started preschool. I was sad time was going by so incredibly fast and excited for him at the same time. I couldn’t wait to hear about his day and all the new things he’d learn, and yet, I was standing in my kitchen at 10pm on a Sunday night feeling anxious. Or jittery. Or just out of sorts. <br /><br />What’s wrong, he asks. <br /><br />Nothing, I say. <br /><br /><span><a name='more'></a></span>That wasn't necessarily true. Something was off but I didn't know what it was. I didn't have the words to describe it. But I could feel it. It was like a tightening in my gut, but not a scary kind that would warrant a trip to the ER. Believe me, I played through that mental checklist already. No, this... I knew I felt this before. I was just having a hard time pinpointing it. <br /><br /><i>I open the fridge. Maybe I’m hungry. Maybe I want something sweet before bed. <br /><br />I really don’t want anything in here. <br /><br />I open the cabinet and grab the marshmallows. Maybe a toasted marshmallow and a piece of chocolate. That sounds good. <br /><br />I’m not hungry. Why am I making this at 10pm? </i><br /><br />This banter with myself continued for another ten minutes while I was thinking about the week ahead. Interestingly, a new small group focusing on grief was starting at my church that Saturday and I told myself it would be a good thing to go when my husband’s work schedule allowed. The timing was good. It was 3-4 weeks ahead of my anniversary. Then it hit me. <br /><br /><br />I know what this is. <br /><br /><br />The insomnia had already started. Why didn’t I see it sooner? The introspection. The near tear-fest at the preschool meet and greet the other day when I saw my son's name on a paper apple up on the wall with the other students' names. "<i>I almost missed this"</i>, I thought at the time. The angst. It’s a handful of weeks before my anniversary... and I’m struggling. <br /><br />When I say it, it’s almost like I gave myself permission to feel it. I’m struggling. I’m not myself. I told myself earlier today that I’m feeling depressed all of a sudden. Nathan and I went for a walk after dinner because I just couldn’t stand to be in the house anymore. I knew I had to get moving to get out of this funk I’m in. I hadn’t yet realized what it was though. <br /><br />PTSD rears it’s ugly head in a lot of ways. I’ve experienced the nightmares and flashbacks before. As time goes on, thankfully, they have lessened considerably. The thing that haunts me is insomnia. The complete and utter inability to turn off my thoughts at night. Laying there awake staring at the ceiling (of course, during the rare, unicorn phase of 8+ hour sleep cycles with my son) and it becomes maddening fairly quickly. I should be asleep when he is asleep, but it’s like a button pressed on the back of my head the second my head hits the pillow and I’m on for the rest of the night. <br /><br />It’s why I’m still standing in my kitchen writing this when my little family is fast asleep. <br /><br />It’s why I feel like a giant hand gripped me from head to toe and just squeezed. <br /><br />I want to throw up. <br /><br />I also really want to go to sleep. <br /><br />I don’t know why PTSD cycles like this. More often than not, I feel fine. Maybe I’ve suppressed it enough where I *think* I’m fine. Lord only knows. But the cycle goes on. At the rate I’ve been going over the past few years, I should start to get some quality sleep in about six weeks. <div><br /></div><div>Until then... <br /><br /> <br /><br /><b><u>Present Day, January 19, 2021</u></b><br /><br />PTSD season is hardly rare in the maternal morbidity and birth trauma community. It’s something most of us deal with on a regular basis in one form or another. Yet, one of the things I continually hear from members in our support group is that no one around them understands why our birth trauma still affects us years after the emergency is over. And I’m talking about new mothers who were diligent about seeking help too. Women who spent countless hours in therapy. Women who tried EMDR. Women who take care of themselves through diet and exercise. Imagine the effects for the new mothers who don't have the time, energy or resources to begin addressing the aftermath of their trauma. <br /><br />Another hurdle for survivors is that many providers are not trauma-informed. It's incredibly defeating to make and keep these appointments only to be met by medical professionals downplaying your concerns, ignoring your well articulated requests for help only to be flip about birth trauma. And worse yet, some providers are not open to feedback when a survivor actually musters up the strength to speak up about the insensitivity of their care. That’s usually when I advise them to seek another provider, but often there are barriers to that too. Insurance coverage, distance or whether a good practice has room to accept a new patient... not to mention the emotional energy it takes to rehash your entire medical trauma history to someone new all over again... to someone who may be just like the last provider you left. <br /><br />PTSD from birth trauma may be one of the next areas of the journey I illuminate more publicly. It has certainly popped up in a few of <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/maternal-mental-health.html">my past posts</a>, but I want to dive deeper. I want to start a raw and candid conversation about it from the survivor perspective. I want to normalize PTSD as a reasonable response to birth trauma. No, it's not a sign of physical, mental, emotional, psychological or spiritual weakness. It's a sign of the depth of what we've been through. I want to talk about common misconceptions and offer some things to consider. I also desperately want these mommas to know they aren’t alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Goodness, <i><u>YOU ARE NOT ALONE</u></i>. <b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div></b><i><span style="font-family: times;">Oh if you're losing sleep...<br /><br />Oh if you're losing sleep, scared of shadows.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times;"><br />See it's just a chair, see the clothes hang there.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Oh don't go losing sleep, scared of shadows.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Oh don't feel bad...</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Oh c'mon sleepyhead, get yourself to bed.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Don't go losin, oh, the nighttime.<br /><br />You are loved, you are loved, you are loved...</span></i><b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="color: #797a7c;">Mood: Tired. So tired of insomnia. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="color: #797a7c;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKEZTRdQByg" target="_blank">EmmyLou by Vance Joy</a><br /></span></span><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div><div style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400;"><b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Buckle Up!</a></b></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1c5JVpDTGHb-u-uz-4Loelmc4alGWtbWK1SOyGFe0C6eGcF-5myoR_KJFKrd3ZIICzLgrfCqw7ShzGz9p8bzzQYLm5u2c5te11OpU8UWn_wT3sDuqOqnUM8H5h-IPC7dbCvfD2l6CQCEs/s2048/051119-MarchForMomsPrint-101.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="2048" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1c5JVpDTGHb-u-uz-4Loelmc4alGWtbWK1SOyGFe0C6eGcF-5myoR_KJFKrd3ZIICzLgrfCqw7ShzGz9p8bzzQYLm5u2c5te11OpU8UWn_wT3sDuqOqnUM8H5h-IPC7dbCvfD2l6CQCEs/w320-h224/051119-MarchForMomsPrint-101.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a 2x maternal near-miss survivor writing to raise awareness of perinatal complications and to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate and <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>. She has shared her story with many publications, including Propublica, The New York Times, the <a href="https://empoweredhealthshow.com/maternal-mortality-american-crisis/">Empowered Health Podcast</a> and is a chapter author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a>.</div></div>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-25430998110288706862021-01-14T08:00:00.014-05:002021-01-14T14:50:49.729-05:00Should I Stay Or Should I Go Now?<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;">In early 2020, before Covid-19 came and changed life as we knew it, I really felt the pinch of over committing myself. Some of it was expected because National Blood Donor Month overlaps with Maternal Health Awareness Day in January. I supported three blood drives to varying degrees and had a speaking engagement all within one week. Then four hours after I returned home from Maternal Health Awareness Day, my son threw up in his bed and the start of our family’s battle with the never-ending stomach bug and a “flu-like illness” began, lasting until... well, March! I never got the downtime to decompress after so much advocacy work and I felt it.</span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht04HoCqA1_1mDeRQODoVxZ7_NNErkhkgxJnBXN8bFnWaAU6PfiFz7K2gtCV3PiY_QVcfJDjGNID5XR0Xrs99wR-34y79Q0c4DiH5OmEe6BC4cuIi5r73uT2zXfi0rlQiCzqV-H-kc_Nuv/s480/1.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="480" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht04HoCqA1_1mDeRQODoVxZ7_NNErkhkgxJnBXN8bFnWaAU6PfiFz7K2gtCV3PiY_QVcfJDjGNID5XR0Xrs99wR-34y79Q0c4DiH5OmEe6BC4cuIi5r73uT2zXfi0rlQiCzqV-H-kc_Nuv/w384-h202/1.webp" width="384" /></a></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">During all of the sickness, I was prepping to speak at
another maternal health conference and had an out-of-state meeting the following month. I know battling the sicknesses in rapid succession
like this stressed me out far more than I was willing to admit at the time. There
were a handful of times I contemplated stepping away from both opportunities,
but advocacy work pulls me in like a rip-tide. Fighting </span></span><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;">it often takes more emotional energy than
swimming with it and coming out at the other end</span></span><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;">. So,
I went with it. Then the
pandemic swept in and changed life in a flash. It shut down my trip two weeks
before I was supposed to leave, and if I'm honest with myself, I welcomed the
break. (This from someone who LOVES to travel!) It forced my family back to basics in a lot of ways (mostly good!) and I
began to assess how I allowed myself to burn out so spectacularly.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">There is also this:</span><span style="color: #666666;"> <b>reliving trauma over and over again takes
its toll on every area of life</b>. It sort of throws you back into PTSD for
a while. The anxiety, nightmares and insomnia flare up similar to the time around
survival anniversaries. You eventually re-emerge from this self-inflicted season only to repeat the cycle with more advocacy work. A kind soul at the forefront
of the maternal health advocacy movement confirmed this is true for her too; and her feedback gave me a lot of pause when I was considering the possibility of starting a non-profit. Because once I took that step, there was no going back. I would have to be all in... PTSD seasons and all.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">One of my biggest reservations was glimpses of the "simple life" in the fall of 2019. It was a season without that dark cloud of trauma constantly hanging so heavily overhead... and
I liked it. In many ways, I finally felt like I could breathe a little more when my son started preschool. Or maybe it’s experiencing a new stage of life as it’s supposed to be more or less (as
opposed to the postpartum stage that went to hell in a hand basket.) Before the
pandemic hit, I was just your average suburban preschool mom. No one new knew our story! I want that mom to live life fully too. I want her family to have her healthy and whole, rather than oscillating between self-inflicted cycles of PTSD. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;">But just as quickly as that picture emerged, <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2020/02/when-one-of-us-hurts-we-all-hurt.html">a mother in our neighborhood died shortly after delivery in February 2020</a>. It gutted me... and gave me some soul crushing clarity. As I cried into my
son's head that night, I had an epiphany of sorts. It was like God said <b>'<i>You
have been given a second chance.</i> <i>Don't keep it to yourself.</i>'</b><b> </b>While that’s all fine and good… what does this
balancing act look like? What does the healthy and grounded version of maternal
health advocacy look like when you’re the birth trauma survivor? Is there such a
thing? Because all the women I know who are doing it are struggling just the
same. Publicly, they may act like they are handling it well, but if you know what questions to ask, you begin to see the mental health toll. I found myself asking God for <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/03/our-story-part-3-tender-telegrams.html">a new installment of telegrams</a>… what comes
next? If I’m supposed to do something with this near-miss mess, what does it look like? <b> <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I've always said my experience knocked me off my previous course onto this muddy, rugged path
with giant sinkholes and flame spurts. (Picture the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093779/characters/nm0000705">Fire Swamp from the Princess Bride</a>; survivorship is like that sometimes.) I feel a great debt to the moms who didn’t make it home...
whose babies hear stories of a woman they call momma, but will never know... of new
mothers who aren't here to speak about the destruction and death caused by denial and delay. I’ll be the first to admit I am still learning to
navigate this. I am still testing my advocacy limits... and there are limits! I may need to
reset some boundaries and learn to swim <i>out</i> of riptides, but those lost mothers and their babies are the reasons why I’ll never be able to walk
away.. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">Perhaps you’ve heard the poem '<i>I Stay Near The Pit</i>'.
Reading it reminded me so much of Psalm 40, and then I learned it's
actually based on it, in part. I read it remembering how </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/3040012252477637047/2543099811028870686?hl=en"><span style="color: blue;">Psalm 40</span></a><span style="color: #666666;"> became my life
passage in the ICU after </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/3040012252477637047/2543099811028870686?hl=en"><span style="color: blue;">my pregnancy near-miss</span></a>. <span style="color: #666666;">I even printed the first five verses</span> <span style="color: #666666;">on the back of our son’s birth announcement. It also hangs on the wall in our living room. Then suddenly, the loose ends</span><span style="color: #666666;"> connect in new ways and the path I’m on is
illuminated just a little bit more. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b><i><span style="color: #666666;">The rugged, muddy path is really a weathered
trail around the edge of the pit. </span></i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">Like the characters in <i>The Princess Bride,</i> if I'm keenly observant, I'll learn the warning signs of the flame spurts and be able to avoid them too. </span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">It’s reassuring to finally recognize that </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">I’m not</span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"> stuck</i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"> in an endless loop of trauma. I’ve actually </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">chosen</i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"> to stay near the trauma and be one of
the hands reaching down below the rim of the pit to help the others. There are a lot of us here with our arms wearily stretched out. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">We see the enormous need, so we stay... but most of us aren't particularly great at avoiding those flame spurts. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><b style="font-style: italic;">We have to give ourselves permission to protect our mental health.</b></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"> It's okay to step back. It's okay to not share parts of our story. It's okay to rest when we need to. Just like it's okay to get back up when our cup is filled again. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">I feel like 2020 was my year to take that step back- partly because I had no other choice thanks to the pandemic- I had the space and time to do those deep dive observations. I think I'm better for it too.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background: white; color: #666666;">It's not that we're stuck here in the trauma... <i>we just don’t
have the heart to leave anyone behind.</i> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">Chris Haughee, 2018. All rights reserved.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I stay near the pit.<br />
My cry was heard and I was lifted from it.<br />
And while my feet are steady on the Rock and the path is laid straight before
me<br />
I was not alone in that pit.<br />
There were many others with me, stuck in that mire.<br />
So, I stay near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I had tried for a long
time—such a long, long time—<br />
to make my way out,<br />
to find myself planted firm on that rock.<br />
That Rock in whom I now put my trust.<br />
Yes, I tried to find my way out on my own…<br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">But steep are the
slopes and slick the sides that surround the pit<br />
Dark with self-centeredness, with self-hatred, with fear and shame.<br />
I had almost given up my trying, given up my crying, when someone heard.<br />
Yes, my cry was heard.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">And it turned out the
ears of the Lord took the shape of a friend<br />
And the hands that lifted me out came not from heaven, but from those Heaven
sent.<br />
They lifted me out, pulled me clear and helped me clean up.<br />
It turns out that they, too, had just been freed from the pit<br />
and felt compelled to help… me.<br />
They pointed the way to the horizon, a path laid out upon the Rock.<br />
They beckoned me, “Come!” as they started on their way.<br />
But something made me pause. So,<br />
I stay near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">It is a miraculous
thing, this difference between the Rock and the pit<br />
And it is a glory to be saved from destruction and shame.<br />
To stand in the light and know you are loved…<br />
Loved by the One who calls from the horizon.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I understand the
motivation of those who started down the path<br />
Leaving the pit far behind them.<br />
Drawn forward by Love, urged on to know who they are<br />
Know whose they are.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I, too, am compelled
by Love.<br />
Not to start down that path, but to linger still.<br />
For love of those still in the pit.<br />
So I stay near the pit.<br />
Run freely the paths of God’s great law, fellow saints!<br />
Revel in the joy of being free, being alive.<br />
With ecstasy, I too have skipped down that road.<br />
The sun on my back. A new song in my mouth.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">But as the volume of
that praise arose<br />
The sounds from the pit and the cries of those<br />
Still stuck, still hurting, still without hope…<br />
Grew fainter, and fainter still… nearly silent<br />
Drowned out by the chorus of pilgrims and their singing<br />
So I withdrew<br />
I returned<br />
And I stayed near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">I remember that first
time<br />
That first cry that I heard<br />
Calling not for me, but for someone… anyone.<br />
Fearfully I went near the pit<br />
dark with the memories of my past, my guilt, my pain<br />
But a companion to that fear was a Love that compelled me<br />
A love I recognized in the faces of those that pulled me free.<br />
So I came nearer the edge and I looked into the darkness<br />
For the one who was calling—screaming, really…<br />
And I was not prepared for what came next<br />
It became my reason,<br />
The reason I stay near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">As the cry grew louder<br />
my front foot slipped on the sludge near the edge<br />
So I got on my knees and leaned forward to reach<br />
What was it? Could I make it out in the dark?<br />
Yes… a hand! But not any hand…<br />
The hand of a child.<br />
I reached out and grabbed hold…<br />
For this reason I had remained near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">This frightened child
at first feared my grasp and<br />
Scratched, bit, and clawed to free herself<br />
All the time crying and wailing, covered in filth<br />
She did not—could not—know that Heaven had sent me<br />
Just as One had once been sent for me!<br />
So I held on through the pain and pulled her free.<br />
Free from the pit, she wept. We wept. And,<br />
Exhausted, together, we stayed near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">In the midst of that
struggle, another miracle took place.<br />
Gathered round us, drawn in by the girl’s cries,<br />
Was huddled a group of others.<br />
They, too, had been pulled from the pit... yet stayed near.<br />
Drawn as I was, it turned out, to help—<br />
If not many, at least one.<br />
And send these little least ones on their way…<br />
Down the path toward healing, toward wholeness.<br />
So we sent this young girl off to the horizon.<br />
But we—these new friends and I—</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">We stayed near the
pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">And here we are
together—you and I—<br />
And our tribe has grown as have the years.<br />
Some we have lost. Not every tale a triumph.<br />
More than a few have gone on, past the horizon.<br />
But new friends have come…<br />
They, too, having heard the cries.<br />
We stay near the pit.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #666666;">And it is here that we
do this messy,<br />
inglorious, difficult work together.<br />
We stay near the pit.<br />
Yes, “He drew me up from the pit… set my feet upon a rock,”<br />
So, in honor and praise…</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;">
I stay near the pit.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="color: #797a7c;">Mood: Refocused</span></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="color: #797a7c;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R4tdF2s42w">Survivor- Zach Williams</a><br /></span></span><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div><div style="color: #797a7c;"><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><br /></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Buckle Up!</a></b></div></div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><b><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNW-sU5hC_ju9LyQZiqanecaw2d7jIWMliEHD3EF9J3uKWFsF4lJmAhdUEuncOoFKC6_E3vrABA_hgDWJSBwuOwoO0wDpfhjHIwvssSM8ULxPJbbuYRW8QOyGBbaRbL_j4hWZoaJR45uyN/s750/author+box2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNW-sU5hC_ju9LyQZiqanecaw2d7jIWMliEHD3EF9J3uKWFsF4lJmAhdUEuncOoFKC6_E3vrABA_hgDWJSBwuOwoO0wDpfhjHIwvssSM8ULxPJbbuYRW8QOyGBbaRbL_j4hWZoaJR45uyN/w210-h210/author+box2.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a> and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the NY Times and the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us="">Empowered Health Podcast. She is a chapter author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. </ahref></span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-37641413315662276432020-08-24T08:00:00.007-04:002020-08-24T08:00:05.562-04:00When One Of Us Hurts, We All Hurt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIW0wlApJMIivA0SW_lFiwtrXydnEop_PoRNPu8UxTRhKozkVDBkWGEp3hfKFX-yqj_6nzMCjC21lU4zZQmIcqYJc1hoLZlha21TEpl2IRSFiu0uNdon3Y4cLmR4vVc9EYNZOyrhDc5jD/s1600/inline_image_preview.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="590" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIW0wlApJMIivA0SW_lFiwtrXydnEop_PoRNPu8UxTRhKozkVDBkWGEp3hfKFX-yqj_6nzMCjC21lU4zZQmIcqYJc1hoLZlha21TEpl2IRSFiu0uNdon3Y4cLmR4vVc9EYNZOyrhDc5jD/s320/inline_image_preview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I drove by your house the other day. It’s only
a few blocks away. I remember seeing it up for sale when we were shopping for a
new home too. We bought our fixer upper about six months before you bought
yours in the same little neighborhood by the river. My son and I have passed your house countless times on
our summer walks. You’re so close that I felt like I
had to come. As I drove by with tears in my eyes and a big lump in my throat, a
little voice piped up from the backseat. “<i>Where are we going, Momma?</i>” And it
hit me even harder just then. You'll never have moments like this with your future backseat driver. “<i>We’re taking the long way home, sweetheart</i>", I said. </span><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Hearing those words, </span><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I realized we’ve taken the long way home in a number
of ways that far surpassed my initial intention when they
passed over my lips. I rounded the corner and the weight of what your husband and family are going through felt so massive and tangible. When I pulled in our driveway, I just sat in my car for a minute and cried for you... a sweet, new momma I will never meet.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You should be here.
You should be here welcoming your firstborn son into the world with your
over-the-moon family. Instead, they were holding your funeral that morning. The sting
of losing your life while giving life is a contradiction so deep and fierce... and it never fades. With news of every lost mother, I
am gutted all over again and the wound gets even deeper. I say it a lot: <i><b>this isn't how it's supposed to be! </b></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The way your family described you in your obituary, it sounds like you were a lovely woman. I'm sure you would have been a great mother to your little one too. </span><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">I don’t know much else about your story other than HELLP syndrome took you far too soon.</span><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t
know if you were affected by denial and delay. Did your care team listen when you said something was wrong? Did they do everything they possibly could and this was an unavoidable tragedy? It’s crushing to think of all the work being done in New
Jersey and yet one of my own neighbors- literally a mother in my own backyard-
is gone. It’s hard not to feel like we failed you... like I failed you. I know that’s
an enormous reach practically speaking, but that’s how close your death feels.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tonight, I put my son to bed and cried into
his little head in the dark like I have so many times throughout this journey... wondering
how I managed to escape the clutches of maternal death not once, but twice. Why do we keep losing precious mothers like you? What is it going to take to make it stop? And every time this happens, it takes me right back to the late nights I rocked
my infant son in the nursery chair in our old home, grieving and wrestling over my own
survival while <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html">a former classmate battled terminal brain cancer after her son was born</a>. I think of the countless new moms who never made it home, the moms who never met or kissed their babies before breathing
their last breath. The guilt of surviving is a heavy burden to carry sometimes. The gratitude is tremendous because I am
fully aware that I should be counted among you. I should be one of you, and yet, somehow, my family was spared. I feel a great debt to you as one of the moms who made it home. We all feel that debt. Every single survivor feels it.</span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I will reaffirm the promise I made to Alison and the other mommas
that came before you. I will hold your name close to my heart. I'll remember you and your family when this maternal health work takes everything out of me and I feel like I don't have anything left to give. I will press on through the trauma anyway. I will breathe deep and keep going for the moms like you... for the families like yours. <i><b>I will do everything in my power to
make sure that more moms and babies go home together. </b></i>And as for your sweet family, I want you to know the community will rise up for them, because that's what we do. When one of us hurts, we all hurt. And this hurt runs deep. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Originally written in February 2020.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Mood: Sorrowful<br />Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIZjyf1jhKE">I Wonder As I Wander- Audrey Assad</a></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div><div><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div><br style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><br style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div><div style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Buckle Up!</a></b></div></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Zj_CHuGMOR8jFtBr5aUQbjBs3OJotCJnAVgNqDyMH0qhiIKMkKJGu1V8q4smz3JDZn0FYTlES4xY6s4sQAfkpoudVrw5GE1SAviY7BaSbzvGke-c0czU0MkG6tdQNvSkz_HhjofrKCZa/s1600/author+box2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Zj_CHuGMOR8jFtBr5aUQbjBs3OJotCJnAVgNqDyMH0qhiIKMkKJGu1V8q4smz3JDZn0FYTlES4xY6s4sQAfkpoudVrw5GE1SAviY7BaSbzvGke-c0czU0MkG6tdQNvSkz_HhjofrKCZa/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time maternal near-miss survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a> and survivor support group leader. She has shared her experience with many organizations and media outlets, including Propublica, The New York Times, the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us=""><a href="https://empoweredhealthshow.com/maternal-mortality-american-crisis/">Empowered Health Podcast</a>, and the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a>. She is a co-author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>, a book helping new families navigate postpartum. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime enjoy hiking with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>..
</ahref>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-71726034410201199232020-08-17T20:49:00.009-04:002020-08-18T12:32:03.424-04:00Let's Talk About Racism In America<div><div dir="auto"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">When the pandemic hit back in March and so much death and uncertainty loomed over
our region and then our country, I found myself asking “<b><i>do I have anything
worthwhile to say right now?”</i></b> My heavy heart said “<b><i>no</i></b>” at
the time and so this blog took a bit of a break. Yes, maternal mortality and morbidity matter. Our stories matter. It
just didn’t feel like the right time to write when so much suffering was
occurring on such a grand scale. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjI-srXBKs0RhYewlattqf2RXI11S0jZZuULRfXVwBFiQs4_RElqQiir5VdNjkcw19HWrIFUj81ZpHuqz3fQDROC9qv75dYb7dQS6YlM6nSUwNo7EuMhMnyihXnMfkFMh0XFZYyJthl0p/s570/MLK.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="570" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjI-srXBKs0RhYewlattqf2RXI11S0jZZuULRfXVwBFiQs4_RElqQiir5VdNjkcw19HWrIFUj81ZpHuqz3fQDROC9qv75dYb7dQS6YlM6nSUwNo7EuMhMnyihXnMfkFMh0XFZYyJthl0p/w365-h243/MLK.jpg" width="365" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">That sentiment grew
stronger when the racial injustices over the past year began coming to
light. Ahmaud Arbery. Breonna Taylor. George Floyd. So many lives have been horrifically cut short, and I fully recognize this has been happening all along. It's just recorded in graphic, indisputable detail now thanks to cellphone cameras. It didn't feel right to continue writing about my maternal
morbidity battle- and more specifically, highlighting the horrendous racial disparities for black and brown
mothers caused mainly by systemic racism- without and before addressing the fire of racial injustice and oppression that is burning in our society right now.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666;"></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"></span></span></p><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: times;">I’ve been listening to the news, to the protesters, to the
mothers concerned for their black sons, to the pregnant mothers concerned about
the black baby boys they are about to deliver, to faith-based and secular
perspectives, to my black friends who affirm implicit biases and structural
racism are very much alive and thriving in America, albeit more insidious and
covert than in the past.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span face="" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span></span><span><span style="font-family: times;">As</span></span><span style="font-family: times;"> a white woman from New Jersey, discrimination based on skin color
is not something I have ever experienced. It’s why it’s imperative I listen to
the voices who have experienced it. How else would I know this is their reality?</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQ20HRQ50AQ30Tk5GgT7Uqfz9O641WybjgEhLuZl6YHsoRyvJiDlnBIOO6eyHjT-89Ut0P1vvwTMontCR3c6g8bK1pnf2BadqtvKDtTXH7-MrYQKk5QGlTkabB2NbXa9DJf3tRo9V1S71/s2048/George_Floyd_Illinois_AP_Images.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQ20HRQ50AQ30Tk5GgT7Uqfz9O641WybjgEhLuZl6YHsoRyvJiDlnBIOO6eyHjT-89Ut0P1vvwTMontCR3c6g8bK1pnf2BadqtvKDtTXH7-MrYQKk5QGlTkabB2NbXa9DJf3tRo9V1S71/w328-h219/George_Floyd_Illinois_AP_Images.jpg" width="328" /></a></span></span></div><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">In an effort to better educate myself, these are some of the resources I’ve been consuming and ruminating over the past few months. I found them to be informative and helpful... and as they say, sharing is caring. I have such respect and appreciation for my friends sharing about their experience. Your individual and collective impact is
enormous... it's bigger than you know. And to the people facilitating tough conversations head on through various media while the rest of us read along or listen in... Thank you!</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #666666;"><b>"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require </b><b>of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." Micah 6:8</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></b></p></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">VIDEOS</span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• <a href="https://www.holypost.com/post/let-s-talk-about-race-in-america">Holy Post: Let's Talk About Racism In America</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.holypost.com/post/racism-video-transcript-w-citations&source=gmail&ust=1597776760702000&usg=AFQjCNGxPnU6hL53YzQh5DyZc1NXWJb1dw" href="https://www.holypost.com/post/racism-video-transcript-w-citations" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">https://www.holypost.com/post/<wbr></wbr>racism-video-transcript-w-<wbr></wbr>citations</span></a></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• <a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=share&v=wqJ-psD9vJw">Get Home Safely: 10 Rules of Survival</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Henry Johnson’s PSA: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tv/CAsa4tHDf0r/?igshid=19b5cn71lw68w">Racial Injustice</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Henry Johnson’s PSA: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tv/CCHjBzKj8uh/?igshid=1ak7y572605rs">So Lets Talk About White Privilege</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Henry Johnson’s PSA: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tv/CA0j1GGjo12/?igshid=stzvaot85l7u">So Let’s Talk Riots</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div></div><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">SOCIAL MEDIA POSTS</span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Robert Richardson: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/681863446/posts/10158581959503447/?extid=JzxHHkciEnccoDNM&d=n">Thoughts on Black Out Tuesday </a></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Shola M Richards: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/863095219/posts/10163797079620220/?extid=60gmU4NTqOM5QIXw&d=n">White Privilege</a></span></div></div></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">PODCASTS</span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Be The Bridge- <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/be-the-bridge-podcast-with-latasha-morrison/id1497999509">The Podcast</a></span><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Church Chat by AssemblyHUB</span></div><div dir="auto"><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/racism-in-america-part-1/id1498665136?i=1000477549225" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">Episode 17: Racism In America, Part 1</span></a></div><div dir="auto"><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Church Chat by AssemblyHUB</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/racism-in-america-part-2/id1498665136?i=1000479242687" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">Episode 18: Racism In America, Part 2</span></a></div></div></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Your Enneagram Coach- The Podcast</span></div><div dir="auto"><a href="http://yourenneagramcoach.yec.libsynpro.com/episode-9-listening-well-taking-action-a-conversation-about-race-and-the-church-with-chris-and-dorena-williamson" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">Episode 9: Listening Well & Taking Action: A Conversation About Race and the Church with Dr. Chirs and Dorena Williamson</span></a></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Your Enneagram Coach- The Podcast</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="http://yourenneagramcoach.libsyn.com/episode-10-next-steps-a-conversation-about-race-justice-and-hope-with-danielle-and-kyle-rodgers">Episode 10: Next Steps: A Conversation about Race, Justice and Hope with Danielle and Kyle Rodgers</a></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• Your Enneagram Coach- The Podcast</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a href="http://yourenneagramcoach.yec.libsynpro.com/episode-11-a-conversation-about-race-from-all-nine-types" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">Episode 11: A Conversation About Race From All Nine Types </span></a></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">BOOKS</span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.dorenawilliamson.com/">Colorful</a> by Dorena Williamson (for kids)</span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Color-Compromise-American-Churchs-Complicity-ebook/dp/B07BB6R827">The Color of Compromise</a> by Jemar Tisby </span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Just-Mercy-Story-Justice-Redemption/dp/081298496X">Just Mercy</a> by Bryan Stevenson (there is a movie too)<br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mother-Son-Letters-Black-Identity/dp/0830832769">Mother to Son: Letters to a Black Boy on Identity and Hope</a> by Jasmine L. Holmes</span></div></div></div></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><b><u><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">ARTICLES</span></u></b></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• <a href="https://www.assemblyhub.com/3-different-responses-to-racism-by-the-church/">3 Different Responses to Racism by The Church</a></span><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;">• <a href="https://butgod.net/christians-need-to-talk-about-racial-justice/">Christians Need To Talk About Racial Injustice</a></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“‘Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, for you were
foreigners in Egypt.’” – Exodus 22:21</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the
rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights
of the poor and needy.” – Proverbs 31:8-9 <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“This is what the Lord says: Do what is just and right.
Rescue from the hand of the oppressor the one who has been robbed. Do no wrong
or violence to the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow, and do not shed
innocent blood in this place.” – Jeremiah 22:3 <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the
hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the
Lord lifts up those who are bowed down, the Lord loves the righteous. The Lord
watches over the foreigner and sustains the fatherless and the widow, but he
frustrates the ways of the wicked.” – Psalm 146:7-9 <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“But you must return to your God; maintain love and justice,
and wait for your God always.” – Hosea 12:6</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“The Lord works righteousness and justice for all the
oppressed.” – Psalm 103:6 <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; therefore he will
rise up to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are
all who wait for him!” – Isaiah 30:18</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">‘For I, the Lord, love justice; I hate robbery and
wrongdoing. In my faithfulness I will reward my people and make an everlasting
covenant with them.’” – Isaiah 61:8</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #666666;">“The Lord reigns forever; he has established his throne for
judgment. He rules the world in righteousness and judges the peoples with
equity. The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of
trouble.” – Psalm 9:7-9</span></b></p></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: times;"><div style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold;"><div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman", times, freeserif, serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Mood: Deeply grieved, but hopeful</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a>.</span></div></div><div><span face="" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="font-weight: bold;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodg6zmS5kS3jRMDTqpvLH75jIdLiimt8EREaAim7-KyS5CTdwnQ6bIm7bSf-vKbZWm5jkEk0IbIFGII6wtjRMaGhHExWNxuwaZCEYIvtzFVbOv1nWFX-wWSVKX0FXKjGbOWpVqC0hn36J/s200/Author+Photo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodg6zmS5kS3jRMDTqpvLH75jIdLiimt8EREaAim7-KyS5CTdwnQ6bIm7bSf-vKbZWm5jkEk0IbIFGII6wtjRMaGhHExWNxuwaZCEYIvtzFVbOv1nWFX-wWSVKX0FXKjGbOWpVqC0hn36J/s0/Author+Photo.jpg" /></a></div><b>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time maternal near-miss survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a> and support group leader. She has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including Propublica, the New York Times, <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us=""><a href="https://empoweredhealthshow.com/maternal-mortality-american-crisis/">Empowered Health Podcast</a> and the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a>. She is also a co-author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>, a book helping new families navigate the postpartum period. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>..
</ahref></span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-73991818207072933912020-02-05T15:00:00.000-05:002020-02-05T15:34:12.219-05:00Fill Up Your Cup<div dir="auto">
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This past Monday, we took advantage of the glorious 50 degree day by spending the afternoon outside. We walked and scooted for over three hours at the park near our home with many stops along the way to explore the riverbed. We dug in the sand. We threw rocks in the water. We had dirt under our fingernails and loved every second of it. We talked about erosion, the water cycle and the seasons. He's so curious about the world around him. I love how much he learns from our small adventures outside. His vocabulary continuously explodes in ways that astonish me and his interest in things like the three states of matter makes his scientist momma awfully proud. It's actually one of his favorite things to talk about.</div>
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<i><b>"Momma, I love spending time with you."</b></i></div>
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And yes, my heart swoons every time his little voice says it. These moments with Nathan... I treasure them. He's my little side kick. It's such a precious phase of motherhood and I bask in it, fully know how fleeting it is. To see him grow up at all, there is so much privilege in that. The gratitude just can’t help itself. It bubbles up and overflows every time.<br />
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We wandered farther along the path and eventually arrived at the waterfall to eat our snack as the afternoon sun slipped behind the trees. It's the beginning of February but the warm breeze that swept across our faces made it feel like spring. Today felt different besides the weather too, like it was meant to be acknowledged somehow. Then, on the rock beach it dawned on me. I learned this precious child, my cute little side kick, was growing in my belly five years ago. <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-5-god-remembered-me.html">I got the surprise of my life that day.</a> I feel like I say it often: it's funny how subconsciously you remember these days and it takes the mind a bit to catch up. What a life changing day it was! Seeing and feeling how far we've come in five years, the battles we've emerged from... how along came this little miracle and no day was ever ordinary again... I couldn't help but breathe deep and whisper "<i><b>thank you</b></i>".</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbtUwbgcSFx_213dq2P_9vtqWxdj4X-dfc3hTvShTfzfiwx_bbsanUZn77FtwkhY2pYSUtRl8mOZcSkfL9pkgNSlD-DOCbiPULjOeMLcZYaAlC0du6m_d0q2urnzmGDhYr173P3k5OhuC/s1600/river2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbtUwbgcSFx_213dq2P_9vtqWxdj4X-dfc3hTvShTfzfiwx_bbsanUZn77FtwkhY2pYSUtRl8mOZcSkfL9pkgNSlD-DOCbiPULjOeMLcZYaAlC0du6m_d0q2urnzmGDhYr173P3k5OhuC/s320/river2.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><i>"Momma, are you sad?"</i> </b></div>
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(This boy has the profound ability to read me. I've never witnessed a young child this in tune with adult emotions without a word uttered.) </div>
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<i><b>"I'm not sad. I'm just really thankful to be here with you. God has shown us great mercy."</b></i></div>
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And with that, my mind immediately went to a passage I've known since I was a little girl. It's just taken me thirty years to feel the fullness of it.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.<br />He makes me to lie down in green pastures;<br />He leads me beside the still waters.<br />He restores my soul;<br />He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.<br /><br />Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,<br />I will fear no evil; for You are with me;<br />Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.<br /><br />You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;<br />You anoint my head with oil;<br />My cup runs over.<br />Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;<br />And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Psalm 23</i></span></div>
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And that's just it. After all we’ve been through, even with all the grief... <i style="font-weight: bold;">He restores my soul and </i><i style="font-weight: bold;">my cup runs over. </i><br />
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The deep gratitude, it bubbles up and overflows every time.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Beyond grateful<br />Music: <a href="https://youtu.be/k_datGMQwGc" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Oceans (Where Feet May Fall)- Bethel Music</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-5-god-remembered-me.html">Our Story Part 5: God Remembered Me</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html"><b>Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</b></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html"><b>A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</b></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html"><b>Someone I Used To Know</b></a></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/10/buckle-up.html">Buckle Up!</a></b>
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<b>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time maternal near-miss survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a patient advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, survivor support group leader and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us="">Empowered Health Podcast and the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a>. She is also a contributing chapter author to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>, a book aimed at helping new families navigate the early weeks of postpartum. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime they like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider sharing it. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</ahref></div>
Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-8408417858286665202019-10-11T16:00:00.000-04:002019-10-24T12:12:26.773-04:00At Least We Would Be Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>FLASHBACK</b><br />
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October 11, 2017<br />
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(Second PPH Anniversary)<br />
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It’s a dark, rainy Monday morning. My husband left for work hours ago and my little one has snuggled in close to my chest. I can feel his chest rise and fall with each delicate breath. His sweet little body still fits perfectly inside my arms. <br />
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It’s sleepy moments like this and countless others that were almost stolen from us two years ago when we skated dangerously close to the edge of losing our little family. Each day is truly a gift and it’s a fact that hasn’t been lost on me once over the previous 730 days. It’s a fact that many don’t understand and likely never will… but it’s forever a part of me and of our family’s story. <br />
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Two years ago today, I lay in a bed in the surgical intensive care unit waiting for the doctors to decide how best to address my internal bleeding. The hope was that reversing my blood thinner therapy, which had spiked more than double the therapeutic range, and replacing my blood volume with multiple bags of whole blood, packed cells and platelets would help my blood clot where it needed to on it’s own, but that wasn’t happening. <br />
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Up until this point, I found solace in the midst of the medical gauntlet knowing my baby was tucked safely inside my body. That if, God forbid, things worsened and we didn’t make it, at least Nathan and I would be together. I’d still be holding my long awaited miracle. Yes, I realize my poor husband would be alone.<br />
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That’s a terrible thought. <br />
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But the reality that my son had been born and was now apart from me made this new crisis all the more jarring. We were in the thick of it again, but this time I was in it alone. There wasn’t a baby in my belly to talk to or sing to or pray over for comfort. It was just me... and somehow that made it all the more terrifying. Our story was shaping up to be one of those sad and tragic Lifetime movies, like the one called “What She Left Behind”. Oddly enough, I still remember the title of that film. I only saw the commercial as a young girl but it was a paradox that stuck with me. I remember it like I saw it yesterday. The concept that a mother could die in childbirth was such an unbelievable possibility to me then. <br />
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It still is decades later. <b><br /></b>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Overwhelmed<br />Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lm8mIVB6W60" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Vance Joy- Alone With Me</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">Someone I Used To Know</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="color: #f1001c; text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWuIDWtROgmCnZeXpdMupDVU6jHAlQJElzRp302remlN8gTtLhmpZEB66WAf0qLSiytaeiGC5mMj7OlZIsxrxS6q7El9-IIuHgd5q3v-n9nVEQFkEGUR2MQOOY_GRMGvnI1fFXx_toRId/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVWuIDWtROgmCnZeXpdMupDVU6jHAlQJElzRp302remlN8gTtLhmpZEB66WAf0qLSiytaeiGC5mMj7OlZIsxrxS6q7El9-IIuHgd5q3v-n9nVEQFkEGUR2MQOOY_GRMGvnI1fFXx_toRId/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, survivor support group leader and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us=""><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii/id1452440833?i=1000436810762">Empowered Health Podcast</a>, the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>..
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Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-60849007468475860762019-10-11T11:00:00.001-04:002021-01-19T10:44:46.864-05:00There Are Others<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKXa3lEFqankeXw_cJWtCJCw7brJpQQ4C3AKM-j5bhBV3fzMyMEwXJGRCnJzpPNRFVrKv4vxPtZCsAh8E-rPrTt1ljAymSREf4MyOro-Jmd44tDUT52HqR5IK905bLDsAMki40oghMJd7/s1600/unnamed+%25286%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="506" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKXa3lEFqankeXw_cJWtCJCw7brJpQQ4C3AKM-j5bhBV3fzMyMEwXJGRCnJzpPNRFVrKv4vxPtZCsAh8E-rPrTt1ljAymSREf4MyOro-Jmd44tDUT52HqR5IK905bLDsAMki40oghMJd7/s200/unnamed+%25286%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I've said it many times before: there are dozens and dozens of blog posts, notes and thoughts I have written over the last four years just waiting to see the light of day. Early on, I starting emailing myself in real time as a coping mechanism. It helped me document what I needed to, avoid ruminating on it and hopefully (someday) come back to it and develop it further. I still use this method to process and piece together timeline blog posts. Other anecdotes have been in the blog queue for the simple fact I haven't been ready to release them into the wild yet. Here is one of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>October 10, 2017<br />My second postpartum hemorrhage/ Hemaperitoneum trauma anniversary is Wednesday. I thought I was handling it well (my second pulmonary embolism anniversary came and went without a blip). I thought I was sufficiently distracted by birthday parties and all things fall, but tonight the nightmares started again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />A woman sits behind me on a bus and tells the two kids with her that they have one more stop. She needs them to color while she gives blood. I turned around to thank her: “as a transfusion recipient, thank you for giving!” She asks how long ago I needed blood and tells me that she’s a near-miss survivor. She needed blood herself so now it’s important for her to give when she can. We start comparing stories and she had the same OB/Gyn practice. Her doctor missed all her complication signs. Her doctor was the same on-call doctor I called THREE TIMES for help leading up to my frenzied emergency room stabilization, surgery and eleven day hospitalization.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />I woke up in a sweat thinking ‘<i>there are others at this practice</i>’. It kind of makes sense now, because when I requested medical records from my OB’s office a few months after my ordeal, I never got them. I always thought that was strange. Maybe they were worried I was going to sue. Maybe I should have sued. I was in the thick of recovery and following up on records wasn’t high enough of a priority at the time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Tomorrow it is. --wishing nightmares and insomnia would take a hike.<br /><b><br /></b><b>PRESENT DAY</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>Two years later, I'm still gathering the courage to fight for my medical records at my delivering hospital. Interestingly, when I wrote this, I didn't have any other records yet. It would be another two months before I got the box. I know so much more now. For example, I no longer hesitate to call it a postpartum hemorrhage, and I've dropped the hemaperitoneum. But this was back when I was still questioning everything. And in true form that makes me smile, my gratitude for blood donors came pouring out, even in a PTSD-laced nightmare. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Gratitude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Focus on the good, and the good gets better. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />Mood: Overwhelmed with gratitude and grief<br />Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lm8mIVB6W60" style="text-decoration-line: none;">Vance Joy- Alone With Me</a><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</a><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</a><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">Someone I Used To Know</a><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">About </span>the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, survivor support group leader and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us=""><a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii/id1452440833?i=1000436810762">Empowered Health Podcast</a>, the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>..
</ahref>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-82541032610880604592019-10-11T01:00:00.000-04:002019-10-11T01:27:25.339-04:00Buckle Up!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I just had a sinking feeling and wasn’t sure what it was. We took a much-needed impromptu stroll by the river tonight. I just needed to clear my head and breathe in the fresh air a little deeper. <br />
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Earlier today, I attended a maternal health meeting and met with a woman who works at my delivering hospital, and truth be told, it kind of threw me a little. She knows the characters in my story by their real names. There is no Dr. Fields* or Dr. Benson* for her. She sees my former physicians and knows them by first name. Talking with her also peeled back a layer in some ways, “<i>I’m sorry this happened to you</i>”, she said. I don’t know why hearing this acknowledgement is important, especially now. Talking with her helped me to compartmentalize better than I have been previously, to clearly see it’s not the hospital system that affected my outcome per se, it was literally one doctor. That fact should be a stark reminder to healthcare professionals everywhere: all it takes is one for a bad outcome. </div>
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Even after our walk, I was still feeling unsettled… and it didn’t hit me until I was in the shower later on. It’s weird how the body knows. For me, it’s always just known. <br />
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<i>Today is the day it all started, the day the first of three calls were made. </i><br />
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Today is the day <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii/id1452440833?i=1000436810762">I sat in my bed and pushed my dinner around</a> on the plate with my fork because I couldn’t eat. </i><br />
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Today is the day I handed our newborn to my husband and told him I couldn’t physically care for him anymore.</i><br />
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Today is the day I lay dying on my bathroom floor with my newborn and husband in the next room. </i><br />
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Today leads up to the day I kissed my baby goodbye for good, just in case I didn’t come back home.</i><br />
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It’s the culmination of what I call “PTSD Season”. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJeXG9ZQmU8bNKVHc0CeF2Tphjmb06YBeRYzCbutLfAiQZiSXKsHDjlvHmW3_J4oLnCcuSYQrb1XUbU941VtU5VUlYBPNLKV7waLycMt0BM9L4OBHInkfR4ZtqTeVRPMqVGA53pUyWaN4/s1600/sunset1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJeXG9ZQmU8bNKVHc0CeF2Tphjmb06YBeRYzCbutLfAiQZiSXKsHDjlvHmW3_J4oLnCcuSYQrb1XUbU941VtU5VUlYBPNLKV7waLycMt0BM9L4OBHInkfR4ZtqTeVRPMqVGA53pUyWaN4/s200/sunset1.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPSTAPY1KEmRix0zFMwUWIw4Av8YTigLMTTuKaxd8M4g3Iy_k5Xavb7VQ7np3WSFChyC1r47zEoLakN_LDCYAFpQA_qokkls2KCWMFVeYOg8CSKWX8iZOf6NSzYxacydjDJrxoWkT_S2K/s1600/riverbed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPSTAPY1KEmRix0zFMwUWIw4Av8YTigLMTTuKaxd8M4g3Iy_k5Xavb7VQ7np3WSFChyC1r47zEoLakN_LDCYAFpQA_qokkls2KCWMFVeYOg8CSKWX8iZOf6NSzYxacydjDJrxoWkT_S2K/s200/riverbed.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6D7WJO7gX1YDnrLdGIBX1I1iZ0rGp4fULoQiqtk_7qbBIDEeEwL1hwkWWKkGMXPuy3eqlU8pe4gnjw6lAtQharIH_-6xUsosveehUQ_3DUleyOJCVAIUC4zOrYxe28rEe1y6BOnGpSSPv/s1600/sunsetscoot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6D7WJO7gX1YDnrLdGIBX1I1iZ0rGp4fULoQiqtk_7qbBIDEeEwL1hwkWWKkGMXPuy3eqlU8pe4gnjw6lAtQharIH_-6xUsosveehUQ_3DUleyOJCVAIUC4zOrYxe28rEe1y6BOnGpSSPv/s200/sunsetscoot.jpg" width="150" /></span></a></div>
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I’ve always sort of earmarked October 11th and 12th as the beginning. <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/02/our-story-part-16-dark-days.html#more">October 11th</a> was the day I presented in the ER as a crashing postpartum patient. <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html">October 12th </a>was surgery day. But it started before that, and once again, my body knew and my mind just needed to catch up. <i><b>Buckle up, because it’s coming whether you like it or not.</b></i> Push it aside and try to ignore it, but it’s futile. Deal with it, or it will deal with you on its own terms instead of yours. It’s already past midnight and that is exactly what I’m doing. Instead of sleeping, I’m writing. I’m getting all this angst out. I’m giving it the space it demands.<br />
<br />
Reflecting on our journey so far, I’d be lying if I said I'm over the losses. I'm not sure I ever will be. The “what if’s” still gut me. I carry them differently now, but they are still very much a part of me. This little boy scooting down the path… who would be doing this with him right now if I wasn’t here? Who would scoop him up and point to the rising moon behind the trees? Who would whisper “<i>I love you to infinity and beyond, because the moon isn't far enough</i>” in his ear as he giggles and turns to kiss my eyes, and then in true preschooler fashion, licks the side of my face? (This is true love, am I right?)<br />
<br />
Goodness, how I am grateful for life! I am grateful for my loves, modern medicine, the medical professionals who held my barely pulsing organs in their hands and fought off death with everything they had… the precious blood donors, you don’t even know how amazing you are. <br />
<br />
I stood watching the sunset and moon rise, and I just breathed deep. "<i>Thank you, God, that I am still here to see this." </i> I am just overcome by the gratefulness. So many moms have been lost. I know some of them. How am I lucky-blessed-fortunate enough to actually be standing here soaking up this mundane moment of golden autumn beauty with my scooting four-year-old son?<br />
<br />
Four years of big and little things like this. But these little things, they aren’t little.</div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<br />
Four years later, I’m pretty certain everything glistens more than it used to. <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I'll sit right here, till you start talking<br />
I'll wait it out till you come 'round<br />
It pays to look up in the big city<br />
Everything moves so fast<br />
It pays to look up<br />
'Cause you don't know what you might see<br />
When you look around</i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Oh, you're the shape of all my days</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">Oh, you're my holy place</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">And I know</span></i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Everything's good<br />
Everything's just as it should be<br />
When you're alone with me</i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Everything's good<br />
Everything's just as it should be<br />
When we're alone </i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>When I fall, I'm fine<br />
All I wanted was your time<br />
Everything's good<br />
Everything's just as it should be<br />
When you're alone, alone with me</i></span><br />
<div class="secrsf" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; margin-top: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Here I am, saying things to you</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I never thought that I'd I would say outside my head</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">Oh, and here we are</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm doing things with you I never thought we'd do</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm seeing into you</span></i></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Overwhelmed with gratitude and grief<br />
Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lm8mIVB6W60">Vance Joy- Alone With Me</a></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html">Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death</a></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html">A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</a></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html">Someone I Used To Know</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6XSCp8Iy6psHok2cjutgUs78ZPrLafFbolE0FmjyjXWWTJiYztclMS2-K0C5DCbViJDGYgQ_lGC8IemMXDFX2uBQrfZ7HqpUjFJFapkdwQBm_B6qeAlTNSCQn9-KTQQ7ogVQ3_cdugiK/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6XSCp8Iy6psHok2cjutgUs78ZPrLafFbolE0FmjyjXWWTJiYztclMS2-K0C5DCbViJDGYgQ_lGC8IemMXDFX2uBQrfZ7HqpUjFJFapkdwQBm_B6qeAlTNSCQn9-KTQQ7ogVQ3_cdugiK/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<b>About the Author: </b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, survivor support group leader and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the <ahref https:="" i="1000436810762" id1452440833="" podcast="" podcasts.apple.com="" the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii="" us="">Empowered Health Podcast, the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That-The First Six Weeks</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</ahref>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-40381642917667037342019-09-18T10:30:00.000-04:002019-09-18T11:06:25.048-04:00Are We Broken?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkqDgUSmbGKYgTd6EgbktyKKi_x8bDUMboX6OZeug0l3Hm9u_whU29wB_5uixmPlOAFxI-v-F9IHALeFEmEDTirhEypNaEKlxlDcwx4roJOR9odIVjBZ0BJSBMpO9AoY7K86aU-p8ayr-/s1600/IMG_2889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1118" data-original-width="1110" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkqDgUSmbGKYgTd6EgbktyKKi_x8bDUMboX6OZeug0l3Hm9u_whU29wB_5uixmPlOAFxI-v-F9IHALeFEmEDTirhEypNaEKlxlDcwx4roJOR9odIVjBZ0BJSBMpO9AoY7K86aU-p8ayr-/s320/IMG_2889.jpg" width="317" /></a><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I saw it and
froze. My chest tightened immediately, and I started involuntarily shaking. This
was the physical response I had to seeing my delivering OB/Gyn practice
featured in an online report touting the integration of midwives. And believe me, I know it's a good thing for midwives to be working alongside obstetricians. But when two of the three women pictured in
the report were directly involved in my care just before I was diagnosed with
the <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html">pulmonary emboli</a>, it was hard not to notice every muscle in my body stiffen. This physical reaction would be far from the last one too. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I walked
into the women’s restroom at the local ballpark just last week, I saw their 30-foot-long
advertisement hanging on the wall above the mirrors. It caught my breath a little, and I had to laugh and shake my head. I
really can’t escape them, can I</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">?</span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course, there is an
underbelly to the report and all the advertisements I have been seeing over the
last four years, and it certainly hasn’t been touched on in the raving reviews
I see online. The nausea starts up every time I read and see them. This report
had pictures too, pictures of a room on the postpartum side of the L&D unit
that looked exactly like mine. I could almost see my husband curled up
with a blanket on the couch under the window like he was when our son was born.
The second photo was of the nurse’s station and I knew the room at the end of
that corridor was the one with the hydrotherapy tub. Nearly four years
ago, I had been in that tub. My husband held my hair back and put a trash
can to my face as I vomited over the side of that tub during labor. So much came flooding back in
the matter of seconds reading this report, including the sound of her voice over the phone saying,
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/02/our-story-part-16-dark-days.html#more">“Your pain is normal.”</a> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.</b></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">They’ve been in
practice for 30 years and they’ve delivered more than 5100 babies in that time
according to the article. Conveniently omitted was any mention of their morbidity
and mortality rates. I often wonder if anything changed after my case. Do
they respond differently to pain complaints? Are they taking the time to
examine women when they voice concerns? Do they support more thorough new parent education
now? Or do they consider me an outlier, an unlucky mom that,
thankfully, no longer frequents their practice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve had nightmares about
the other moms. I am certain there are others like me. The nightmares about them have been so intense and vivid that I wake up out of breath and in a cold sweat. If
a high-risk postpartum patient with a near-miss under her belt called off-hours
<i><b><u>three times</u></b></i> over 24 hours and was so easily dismissed, how many more low risk moms have
been too? I never wanted to sue them, or pursue any case against them. I have no desire to ruin their reputation
in the community either. I loved my delivering Obstetrician and still think of
her fondly, but I also need to make sure what happened to me never happens to
another mom again. I need to know they took it seriously. My hope is that seeing
and hearing so much about the maternal health crisis in the national headlines, and from the 2020 Presidential Contenders, is resonating now. I hope they are listening,
because they sure weren’t back then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I often wonder if my former physicians have seen any of the awareness campaigns I’ve been
involved in over the last few years. Does it strike a nerve? </span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><b>I hope it does.</b> </i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I hope it strikes a nerve in a way that they are constantly striving to improve the care they provide to future moms. I hope my presence in the national movement to save mothers is a perpetual reminder of the near fatal mistake that '<i><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/01/improving-maternal-health-and-safety.html">STOP! LOOK! And LISTEN!</a></i>' could have helped to prevent. I want them to know they’ll
be seeing a lot more of me too. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I want them to know that I’m not slinking into the shadows,</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> because the state of maternal
health care in our state and country is unacceptable. And I am hell-bent
on doing my part to change it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This experience has taken so much from me and my family. It has beaten me down in such an impactful way, that I often wonder if I'm permanently broken. Maybe not broken, but certainly changed. I'm not about to let the darkness of maternal mortality that set out to consume me twice get away without a good fight. It has ignited a blazing fire in my gut. I won't be satisfied until I set fire to the
rain, because my eyes are open now. I can see. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">My heart is open </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Eyes are wide </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">My mind is free </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">My hands are tied </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I can see </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">People hurting </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">People preaching </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">People watching </span></span></i></div>
<div jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Some are listening </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Some are hearing</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Many talking</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Others working</span></span></i></div>
<div jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">Are we broken? </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Are we broken? </span></span></i></div>
<div jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will rise <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I will rise <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I will rise <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I will rise </span></i></span></div>
<div jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">I am standing </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Use my arms </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Use my legs</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Use my hands </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Use my heart </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Use my voice </span></span></i></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am tired, I am strong<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I am human, I will listen<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can think, I will love<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />If we love, then we'll love<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />We can love without hate</span></i></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>My heart is full <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My eyes are open <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can see <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can see <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can see <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can see </i></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Determined and hopeful. Beauty will rise from these ashes.<br />Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cT86WYYav2k">Norah Jones- My Heart Is Full</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Related posts about maternal morbidity and survivorship:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2019/02/to-on-call-ob-who-dismissed-me.html">A Letter To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me</a></span></div>
<div class="OULBYb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="line-height: 1.57; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html">Someone I Used To Know</a><br /><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html">This Isn't How It's Supposed To Be</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of these hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, </span><a href="https://heroesformoms.com/" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">, survivor support group leader and has shared her story with many organizations and media outlets, including the <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-u-s-maternal-mortality-crisis-part-ii/id1452440833?i=1000436810762">Empowered Health podcast,</a> and the </span><a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">National Blood Clot Alliance</a>. She is also a<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> co-author of </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Nobody Told Me About That: The First Six Weeks</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Instagram</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> and </span><a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;">Twitter</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;">.</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-510261354239286822019-06-22T17:05:00.002-04:002019-06-22T23:50:26.293-04:00The Messy Middle: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Toward the end of May 2015, we had a mini photo shoot for
a project related to my baby shower. If you can’t
tell by the glow on my face, I was so happy! I was so hopeful! I was
so excited! I was one of those women who LOVED being
pregnant. This was the nearly two trimester long stage I call my “blissful
pregnancy” because life was good! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When we finally found out we were pregnant after nearly 14 years of marriage, <u>my heart dared to dream</u>. Just getting that statement out is excruciating, because I’m reminded of how many of those dreams have been crushed by this chaotic journey. These pictures still make me smile, but it’s mixed with a
deep sadness now. They represent the calm before the perfect storm that would
ravage everything. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What we didn’t know at the time was that in just three and a half short weeks, <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html">my battle with two near-death experiences would begin</a>. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">They were lurking, stalking me really, and I had no idea how much they would steal from us. We didn't know how their effects would turn our world upside down and reverberate long after the physical emergencies were over.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Four years ago today, I sat in an Emergency Room and learned about a deadly pregnancy condition that would be the start of a life changing experience.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUjtzRjOl-PBuBk-YT53bLzvMfkaJFuQN5QNKvpPmE4NmsoQlxN3vRGNrp1dQU9c8P656OSIAPfoilg5-JNlU108pWEA3IIefstzNt3GZ8fTs91aBh61QFHiU5fBhNVs5EdlEbeK1rfMt/s1600/IMG-0926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: transparent; clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUjtzRjOl-PBuBk-YT53bLzvMfkaJFuQN5QNKvpPmE4NmsoQlxN3vRGNrp1dQU9c8P656OSIAPfoilg5-JNlU108pWEA3IIefstzNt3GZ8fTs91aBh61QFHiU5fBhNVs5EdlEbeK1rfMt/s200/IMG-0926.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6R9nAJotCeL1KdZDwD6UnuksER1nJW62Stwyol_KC2_BNurUYo223b0G7FER-IPt7IAh17ZlEwLVkfG8JlKZy40vGy7DGQrod5pW_eNb0gywZk51GX0J4lnpnIrDEft9dALODhimLaDk/s1600/IMG-0918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6R9nAJotCeL1KdZDwD6UnuksER1nJW62Stwyol_KC2_BNurUYo223b0G7FER-IPt7IAh17ZlEwLVkfG8JlKZy40vGy7DGQrod5pW_eNb0gywZk51GX0J4lnpnIrDEft9dALODhimLaDk/s200/IMG-0918.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuZKR5OrZ-F0JPi64ItXzkBn3BE4_j7ahrudfBtKXq7d9J3sz9j5eyMJzUHh25VOvMu58PNWjLqjVaC_nup1oyw30MuRqmaO4eq79aZeY0FhAClJg1qjr0j6BICeFFhC69oEf_RjTfKAj/s1600/IMG-0925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuZKR5OrZ-F0JPi64ItXzkBn3BE4_j7ahrudfBtKXq7d9J3sz9j5eyMJzUHh25VOvMu58PNWjLqjVaC_nup1oyw30MuRqmaO4eq79aZeY0FhAClJg1qjr0j6BICeFFhC69oEf_RjTfKAj/s200/IMG-0925.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Today, I'm allowing myself to surf the waves of grief and gratitude that
crash in together without warning or invitation. </span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">I'm giving myself the space to feel it without hesitation or apology. B</span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">ecause June 22 was the day the
first of many balls dropped and this isn't how I ever imagined motherhood would be.</span></div>
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<i style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I’m told I have to name what I’m feeling, ride the waves and let it out.</b></span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span></i><i style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I’m told there is no timetable for grief and it charts its own course.</b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I’m told grieving losses is not the same as complaining. </b></span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>I’m told that healing is happening when I can feel joy and grief at the same time.</b></span></i></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I sit, holed up in a coffee shop on the same sunny,
summer day that was very nearly our last four years ago, it feels right to
reflect on how far we’ve come. We’ve lost so much
personally and as a family, but we’ve also gained and grown so much too. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was struggling a few weeks ago leading up to today (which seems to be my typical response to anniversaries so far), especially the week following my grandfather's death two weeks ago. In so many ways, it felt like that first
year of survival when Nanny died. Then after a few days, the heaviness lifted almost overnight.
Life went on… because it has to when you are caring for a little person. There
are meals to prep, loads of laundry to wash, lego towers to build, hugs to give and bedtime routines
that take over. The rest is pushed aside until you can't ignore it anymore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I woke up this morning and for the first
time in four years (and my seventh crack at these days overall), a survival anniversary felt like any other day. Then Postpartum <a href="https://www.postpartum.net/learn-more/postpartum-post-traumatic-stress-disorder/">PTSD</a> set in a few hours later like an involuntary reflex. I can channel it like I’m doing now, but I can’t control when or how it strikes. Every innocent look at the clock was a reminder today. At 9am,
I was gasping for breath in the stairwell. It's 10am. I was being wheeled out
of my office on a stretcher and felt like a parade float around this time. It's 2:30pm. I
was hearing the words “<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-9-can-i-go-home-yet.html">we suspect you have a pulmonary embolism</a>.” right about now. So much came flooding back. Like how my mom was waiting for my ambulance to
arrive at the hospital. The look on her face while I was being unloaded. How I told my husband not to bother coming to the hospital because he was working in Pennsylvania that day and everything was fine. We were just being extra cautious. How my
husband didn't listen to me and arrived shortly after. Y</span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">ou never thought I'd say this: thank you for not listening to me that day.</span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"> I started remembering a conversation from a year or
so ago, when he recounted his frantic call to his sister on his way to
the hospital that day. How he feared he was going to lose both of us. His life could be so different.</span><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-11-know-signs.html">I know so much more now</a>. I cringe when I
think back to how uneducated I was about the maternal health crisis during my pregnancy. I was in the dark and so deep in denial that anything could be wrong. I'll never stop shouting about the warning signs of complications, because I’ve read
their stories, heard their names and seen it up close myself. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve seen pictures of the babies and families they left behind. </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve met their families at memorial events. <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-10-i-am-survivor.html">We were so close to being counted among the</a> lives lost in this crisis... so incredibly close. I can almost touch it. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I reflect on this day, along with the
weeks and months that changed our life far beyond having our first baby, I realize how incredibly
miraculous it is that <i>Nathan and I</i> are still here. I’m so glad the world has a
little Nathan who loves all things yellow. What would the world be like without this sweet, affectionate little boy with such a big personality? I’m so thankful I get to snuggle with my
little man and watch him grow up. So, so thankful. </span></div>
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<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Four years ago today, the first ball
dropped and so much began to unravel. </b></span></span></i><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Four years ago today, the first of two
second chances emerged and a wild journey began.</b></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjG0mwFLQNM-rlVrqdVcDOSw_5cQsJvDD36bfrFUwZ3aYVsKBrXdngF3Fpa7ewY14ywbfFLqPJZs3D91wgbdjt2eMEtCuKZPPLes6HRL5ebEKhmjDfK9ZBeT_cxNR6_zsSdDbE20dJKCZ/s1600/CCattell-+Family110217.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjG0mwFLQNM-rlVrqdVcDOSw_5cQsJvDD36bfrFUwZ3aYVsKBrXdngF3Fpa7ewY14ywbfFLqPJZs3D91wgbdjt2eMEtCuKZPPLes6HRL5ebEKhmjDfK9ZBeT_cxNR6_zsSdDbE20dJKCZ/s200/CCattell-+Family110217.jpeg" width="133" /></a><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This isn’t how I would have written our
story. If I had my way, it’s fairly certain my draft would have been much closer
to a fluffy, feel-good, chick-lit beach read. I suppose that is one of the
lessons in all of this too. Every good story has escalation of conflict, plot
twists and an eventual resolution. There is also a beginning, middle and end. We
are developing characters somewhere in the messy middle. I'm confident that someday we’ll see
the whole story and all the complexities and intricacies will finally make sense. Now more than ever, I’m thankful I’ve never been the Author of our story. W</span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ithout question, I never could have written something as intense or compelling.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">#maternalhealth </span></span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">#wecandobetter</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Mood: Pensive</span><br /><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Music: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/album/5f6Eu9QtujgGggq5qbbycV">Vance Joy- Nation of Two</a></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">New to The Heart of Home? Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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Related posts about maternal morbidity, survivorship and pulmonary embolism:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html" style="color: #f1001c; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Part 8: Crisis Strikes</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-9-can-i-go-home-yet.html" style="color: #f1001c; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Part 9: Can I Go Home Yet?</a><span style="color: #797a7c; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , "freeserif" , serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> </span><br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-10-i-am-survivor.html" style="color: #f1001c; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Part 10: I Am A Survivor</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-11-know-signs.html" style="color: #f1001c; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Part 11: Know The Signs</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, Survivor Support Group Leader and has shared her patient story with the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.
</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-74811729158297975252019-02-28T14:00:00.002-05:002021-03-17T23:02:00.841-04:00To The On-Call OB Who Dismissed Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKZd8Q3s7ap2QDaLKo8l552tHE14X1sU57Ktm_v3DNcED_edI2y79IyIP7KnaGnmCyalSsJfi5DJRfGm1fmRIom74IYsaU9xLiCr5kzhA-jmI15KndJBWKX7iPzl9k4ebiwEglsM5tkNc/s1600/Trauma-+my+past3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1393" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKZd8Q3s7ap2QDaLKo8l552tHE14X1sU57Ktm_v3DNcED_edI2y79IyIP7KnaGnmCyalSsJfi5DJRfGm1fmRIom74IYsaU9xLiCr5kzhA-jmI15KndJBWKX7iPzl9k4ebiwEglsM5tkNc/s320/Trauma-+my+past3.jpg" width="278" /></a>February 10, 2019</div>
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Dear Dr. Benson*,</div>
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You came to mind earlier today and I figured its long
overdue that we talked. I know we saw
each other in passing a few times during my appointments with Dr. Fields* that
first year after my son was born, but we’ve never had the opportunity for
dialogue beyond exchanging pleasantries in the hallway of your practice. I suppose I am mostly to blame for that after
moving on to my obstetric surgeon’s practice.
Leaving wasn’t personal, but it also kind of was. I felt my surgeon would be the best person to
answer all my questions since she and her team were the ones who patched me
back together when all hell broke loose.
And seeing you in the hallways saying hello like nothing had happened,
well, it was getting harder for me, but I digress.</div>
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My son had a 104 degree fever two days ago that prompted a
visit to his doctor on Friday. She
determined he had an ear infection and prescribed amoxicillian. All seemed to be well until he developed a
rash on his upper arms last night. Of
course, I was on high alert considering he has anaphalactic allergies to a few
things already, but the rash wasn’t anywhere else on his body and it
disappeared shortly after his bath. When
the rash appeared on his face this morning, I knew it was time to call her. Eerily, my off-hours call on a Sunday morning
went to his doctor’s colleague, who is on call this weekend. </div>
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<i>And I thought of
you. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/02/our-story-part-16-dark-days.html#more">similarities</a> sent a shiver down my spine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thankfully, the on-call doctor returned my call immediately. She advised that we stop the amoxicillian because he may be having a reaction to it, and that I give him benedryl. Knowing his history,
she told me not to panic and that I should call her immediately if anything
changed. If he developed a fever or the
rash did not go down in a reasonable amount of time, I shouldn’t hesitate to
call her again. In addition, she instructed
us to come into the office to see her the following morning. </div>
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<b><i><u>Then something amazing happened:
she called me again an hour later.</u> </i></b><i> </i>She wanted to know how he
was doing and asked me to send photos of the rash to her cell phone. I was blown away! I was so touched by how attentive she was,
and then I realized why and my heart sank.
This is what a normal off-hours response to a patient’s concerns looks
like. This is the type of follow up I needed
when I called six days postpartum complaining about persistent abdominal
pain. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Our experience with my son’s doctor is a stunning contrast
to the one I had three years ago, and I know that is hard to read. Maybe you think about it a lot too. I hope you do. I hope it has prompted you to change the way
you respond to off-hour calls from patients.
It’s my greatest hope that my case has made a difference at your
practice, but we’ve never had that conversation so I have no way of knowing. I often think about my calls to you
during those 24 hours and all the time that was lost. I can still hear
your voice so clearly over the line. I’ll
never know the answer, but I used to speculate about what you were doing during
that time. Were you knee deep in
deliveries that weekend and the severity of my medical history wasn’t at the
forefront of your mind?
Or were you like me and falsely believed that once delivery was over,
all of the troubles I faced were over too?
But the fact remains, I was a high-risk postpartum patient on blood
thinners with a c-section and prenatal<a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html"> pulmonary embolism near-miss </a>under my
belt. If there was ever a patient to err
on the side of caution with, I was her. <i><b>If denial and delay affected me, what is the
response to women without such a complicated history?</b> </i>That thought stops me in my tracks. Are there others?<i> </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I was a first time mother with no experience in the
postpartum period and the c-section was my very first surgery. I had no idea what to expect as far as pain
or recovery time. Something instinctual
told me that what I was feeling wasn’t right though, which is why I called you. I’ve since learned I should have trusted
myself and my body more than I did at the time because the red flags were there. Forget the phone calls, when I was in so much pain that I couldn’t physically care for my baby anymore, I should have gone
straight to the ER. I didn’t want to
believe I was facing yet another serious medical issue so soon after my pulmonary
embolism episode. I was in denial too. </div>
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The consequences from <i><b>our
denial and delay</b></i> will stay with me for the rest of my life. I remember kissing my son goodbye for what I
thought would be the last time. I missed
the entire second week of his life. The
crushing feeling from all this isn’t something you just get over either. Yes, I walked away alive, <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/someone-i-used-to-know.html">but not unscathed</a>. There will always be an
alternate reality to our lives, one in which the “what if…” means my husband is a widower and my son is motherless. The
gratitude I feel is something fierce but so are the questions that linger. What if I went to the emergency room after
that first call? Would it have affected
my outcome? Would it have been less
severe? Would we have been able to go on
to have more children? Would I have
emerged from all of this less traumatized?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqt1E7T8W-lBcU2UR2R5XObuhyphenhyphenmznaRyG5dfhRd3blzW7vIAq7GnZGpD3jRIFRYIMJ17UFmDb2Ol0djGRmr_3vFtjX6B8qZ7fjM-Kuk4ymbSNKjHU2UsvnmszxSYFw3K8gJkCV_HrBK_j/s1600/trauma.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqt1E7T8W-lBcU2UR2R5XObuhyphenhyphenmznaRyG5dfhRd3blzW7vIAq7GnZGpD3jRIFRYIMJ17UFmDb2Ol0djGRmr_3vFtjX6B8qZ7fjM-Kuk4ymbSNKjHU2UsvnmszxSYFw3K8gJkCV_HrBK_j/s320/trauma.jpg" width="320" /></a>When I gave my son the benedryl for the hives, tears started
rolling down my cheeks. After all we’ve
been through, I am still waiting for the next shoe to drop even three years
later. My pulse spiked because I can’t
shake the thought that after all my little family has survived, we could lose
him in an instant. The hypervigilance I
feel about my own health absolutely transfers over to him too… I don’t feel
like I can ever fully let my guard down.
I’ve learned to live with that constant fight-flight or freeze. It hovers somewhere in the background most
days, but it’s most definitely still there.
It has become our new normal. At
times it makes me feel like a battle-tested warrior and there are other times
that it just makes me so incredibly sad. Our journey to parenthood and the
after has been exponentially harder than I ever thought it should be, but I’m determined to give it purpose by helping
future families navigate around the rocks we hit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I do miss Dr. Fields* and the staff, especially Dana*. I felt so much support from them during my
battle with <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/03/our-story-part-2-diagnosis.html">infertility</a>, my miracle pregnancy and then after the pulmonary
embolism episode. Dr. Fields* helped me
get through a lot of it and I will never forget <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-7-i-will-tell-of-his.html">her glee</a> the day I walked into the office pregnant. Maybe someday we
can join forces against this beast called maternal mortality and
morbidity. We can work together to implement
protocols for healthcare providers in line with the <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/01/improving-maternal-health-and-safety.html">STOP-LOOK-LISTEN</a>
campaign. We can educate patients and
prepare them to recognize an emergency quickly.
We can hold a <a href="http://www.heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms</a> blood drive. I fear the recoil which is why I haven’t
reached out yet, but I would love nothing more than this. I really hope we can make this a reality someday, so more moms like me can walk away.</div>
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Until then,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Casey<o:p></o:p></div>
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* names changed to protect privacy.<br />
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<b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, Survivor Support Group Leader and has shared her patient story with the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-16325191579585357322019-01-15T07:00:00.000-05:002019-01-16T19:29:43.781-05:00Hitting Back On A Common Postpartum Phenomenon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYq-xU5Li2E5xrdZzOZO9jRXFCse3gbT5qh_P-y0blOJPY47BYqxGiVETOI_ZJMTbjA7DGqVJQ1FqzBt4prORaF5jLqZKdh92gP_I4dMirznQeUiw3w9Tq2Od0LkQxZUl_8HW-fPAMeQKs/s320/Book+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe you've had this experience too: coming home from the hospital after delivering a baby and feeling like you are not as prepared as you thought you were. Parenthood is so much harder than anyone said. No one receives a comprehensive education on how to be a new parent, and you might often say "nobody told me about this!"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt that sentiment myself in many different ways. No one told me how determined and deliberate I needed to be with breastfeeding. No one told me how time consuming pumping would be, especially in the beginning. And then there are the obvious ones: no one told me about the rates of maternal mortality and morbidity in this country! No one told me about the warning signs of life-threatening pregnancy and postpartum complications! Who knows if that knowledge would have helped me seek medical attention sooner and changed the course of my near-misses. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since the very beginning, I have wanted to reach future moms and share the things I wish I knew before the nightmare of a lifetime unfolded. I had no idea how I would begin to take on such a task. I started where I could, with maternal health themed blood drives and it is the reason why I have been so open about our experience. No one said "hey, here are the symptoms to look out for. Make sure you seek immediate medical care if they occur." I wish they had! I've always wanted to turn around to warn the future moms and to help make things better for them, because sadly, many will face similar catastrophic circumstances too.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So when Ginger Breedlove asked if I would be interested in contributing to a book for first time families preparing for, or navigating, the first six weeks of parenting, I had to do it! The book covers many critical issues confronting the first few weeks of parenting. </span>There is a large gap in new parent education. <span style="font-family: inherit;">The fifteen co-authors are experienced professionals with personal experience in a variety of disciplines and a shared commitment of supporting families of newborns. Each chapter is written to stand alone, with the book covering an array of topics, including how to be vigilant in the era of rising maternal mortality rates in the United States. The book is designed to be read a chapter at a time as you need to know with the goal of helping every reader gain confidence, coping skills, and an increased sense of calm through those first six weeks. I was given free rein to write about my personal experiences with near-miss survivorship and what I thought could help expecting families weather perinatal complications. To say this project aligned with my advocacy goals is an under</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: transparent; display: inline; font-family: inherit;">statement, and if I’m not mistaken, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a> is the first book of its kind to directly address maternal mortality and severe morbidity head on. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I could not be more grateful for the opportunity to reach so many expectant families, to work alongside an advocate like Ginger Breedlove (President of </span><a href="http://www.marchformoms.org/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">March for Moms</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">, Founder of </span><a href="http://www.growmidwives.com/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Grow Midwives</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> and former President of the <a href="http://www.midwife.org/">American College of Nurse Midwives</a>) and so many other hardworking contributing authors with a shared mission of helping new families navigate early postpartum. </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">#NobodyToldMeAboutThat makes a great shower gift or just-because-gift to expecting families and covers an array of topics including breastfeeding, newborn sleep, returning to work, unexpected outcomes, childbirth as a woman of color and the warning signs of complications.</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> Working on a project like this with experts in their fields three years after my near-misses is special. If you had told me that I'd be sharing intimate details of our struggle with the world like this back then, I wouldn't have believed you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a></b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Available on Amazon</a></b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Published in November 2018</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<b style="background-color: #cccccc;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></b> <b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Excerpt from my chapter on Near-Miss Survivorship</span></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></b> <b><span style="font-family: inherit;">This Isn't How It Was Supposed To Be</span></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Education about the warning signs of perinatal complications was lacking in <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">my own preparations despite all the reading I was doing during my pregnancy. I am a patient who was heavily affected by what many in the maternal healthcare world call the “twin demons.”</span></span></blockquote>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Delay and denial were highlights in the <a href="https://www.propublica.org/series/lost-mothers">ProPublica “Lost Mothers” series</a> as two of the biggest factors leading to preventable maternal mortality. In short, denying the existence of a problem delays treatment and this can dramatically affect the outcome of severe maternal morbidity. </span></blockquote>
<div>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Tragically, there are cases where people do not have a timely and accurate diagnosis, even when they do seek medical treatment. I have read dozens of stories where symptoms of perinatal complications were dismissed by the patient or the healthcare providers and resulted in death. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">As patients, we cannot rely solely on our providers; we have a responsibility to educate ourselves about the risks and to be vigilant too. We are our own best advocates. We know our bodies best. If something doesn't feel right and there is not a reasonable explanation for the symptoms you are experiencing, take a moment to name it and then go to the Emergency Room. Do not hesitate to get that second or third opinion. Keep asking questions and pushing for answers. I wish I had been more proactive in that regard. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Battling a silent killer was not something I anticipated during the last days of my second trimester. My symptoms were subtle at first. I noticed that scaling the stairs in our two-story home winded me late in my fifth month of pregnancy. We attended a barbecue one Saturday afternoon and I felt like it took me such a long time to walk from the car to the backyard. I was out of breath by the time I reached the patio despite walking at a snail’s pace. Shortness of breath crept in so stealthy that I dismissed it as a normal part of pregnancy. A few days later, my blissful pregnancy turned into a high-risk nightmare. At 24 weeks pregnant, I barely escaped the clutches of one of the leading causes of sudden maternal death: pulmonary embolism. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">Because it was so unexpected, I didn’t see the danger in my situation immediately, or even in the early aftermath. Gasping for breath and nearly collapsing in the stairwell at work were not enough to alarm me; I was ready to go to my desk and start a new work week because my symptoms dissipated within 20 minutes. Thankfully, there were people around me that recognized the seriousness of my situation. I credit several of them for their role in saving my life and the life of my unborn son that day. The co-worker who came to my aid immediately when she saw I was in distress, the director who called the on-site emergency response team, the volunteers on the team who urged me to go to the Emergency Room out of an abundance of caution. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">I was in denial because I was healthy, and the baby was hitting all his milestones. What could possibly be wrong? Denial easily could have cost me my life that day. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote style="margin-top: 1em;">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: inherit;">After a decade of infertility, I would have done anything to safeguard my unborn son; however, I did not have that same sense of apprehension about my own health.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We greatly appreciate your purchase and review. This book has the potential to help so many new families and we are very excited to be hitting back on the phenomenon of "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a>". </span><br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A huge 'thank you' to my husband, Adam, for his incredible support and understanding of why I need to work on projects like this. For his willingness to continually be a main character in a harrowing, cautionary tale that isn't easy to hear or read over and over and over again. For his partnership in life and love... for being an amazing husband when I was at my worst... for being the best dad to our miracle boy... and for understanding how deeply this experience has affected me and our family. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another huge 'thank you' to my mom, Barbara, for being an enormous support since I first called to tell her something was wrong. She moved in with us for five or six weeks the day my husband took me to the ER. She help us care for our newborn, kept an eye on me after discharge and ensured I got the rest I needed by being our night nurse so I could begin to heal inside and out. She also has been my child care provider in a pinch when projects like this come along, allowing me the opportunity to hole up in Starbucks with my laptop for hours over the course of many days. Without her help, I wouldn't have been able to write this book chapter. We are lucky and blessed to have you in our lives. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm also reminded about the big chance I took with turning my crafty blog into a chronicle of our experience. Remember when I said <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/02/our-story-preface.html">I felt called to start writing</a> back in 2016? I wonder if this is part of the reason why.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Beauty from ashes, indeed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships. She is a Patient Advocate, <a href="https://heroesformoms.com/">Heroes For Moms Ambassador</a>, Survivor Support Group Leader and has shared her patient story with the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/patient-stories/caseys-story/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> and co-authored <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobody-Told-Me-About-That/dp/1790133637/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Nobody Told Me About That</a>. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-72693345393964883372018-08-29T06:30:00.000-04:002018-08-29T06:30:10.767-04:00Our Story Part 18: Even Unto Death<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I listened to two albums on repeat for most of my early
recovery. I heard the song <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0XRlNZbQFE">Georgia</a></i> by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dream_Your_Life_Away">Vance Joy</a> on Sirius radio the
week before Nathan was born and downloaded the album a day later. I don't know what it was about it that resonated with me even before all of the postpartum drama began. Maybe it was the anticipation of delivery, knowing that it was high risk thanks to the blood thinners I was on. There are so many lines on that album that
ended up aligning with my battle in such a profound way. Grief.
Heartbreak. Suffering. I’m sure he never thought a maternal near-miss
survivor would extrapolate so much from what is very clearly a break-up
playlist. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other album was </span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inheritance_(Audrey_Assad_album)">Inheritance</a></i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> by <a href="http://www.audreyassad.com/">Audrey Assad</a>. I remember breaking down in my driveway
with my infant sound asleep in the backseat of the parked car when I first
heard </span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://youtu.be/Grz3Hxw9GWU">His Mercies Are New</a></i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> and </span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAfp8vg4Jz8">Even Unto Death</a></i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">. They became a part of how I
processed the trauma and a way that my heart overflowed with gratitude when I couldn't quite articulate my thoughts and feelings about everything yet. Little did I know
the melodies and lyrics would float along with me and bring me right
back to those days long after they were gone.
If you have ever wondered how I dig up the emotion and rawness for most
of my writing, it's a combination of music and my piecemeal journaling from the early days. It’s amazing how they have the power to dredge it all up so easily. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This is what I have been waiting two and half
years to write. My mind has played
through it millions of times. The
thoughts. The feelings. The great uncertainty of whether or not I was
going to have the privilege of raising the sweet little miracle I had prayed and pleaded for for more than a decade. How would I
even begin to tell this part? Then after
more than a year of avoidance, I listened to <i>Even Unto Death</i> on a whim and
I knew. Everything came flooding back
with a vengeance. </span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">October 12, 2015, about
5am<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The doctors soon came into my SICU cube and told me I would
need surgery to find exactly where I was bleeding and that hopefully they would
be able to stop it in time to save my life.
“<i>I have a new baby to get home
to. I don’t have time for this</i>.” I
thought to myself. It was then that the
gravity of what I was facing began to sink in: I might not make it home again.
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I can only assume the doctors told my husband more than they
told me simply by his response.
He sat at my bedside unable to speak much, clasping my hands with hot tears
streaming down his face. I had never
seen him like this. The excruciating
uncertainty of our future manifested across his face as he held my hand over
the railing of my hospital bed. Here was
a man trying to be strong for his dying wife, trying to hold it together enough
to be a rock for me even though his mind raced around with heartbreaking
thoughts. Was he destined to be a
widower with a newborn after all we had struggled through to bring this sweet
baby into the world? Is this where the
story- OUR STORY- would take a
dramatically tragic turn? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus, the very
thought of You. It fills my heart with
love<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus, You burn like
wildfire and I am overcome<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lover of my soul, Even
unto death <o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">With my every breath I
will love You<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">My heart started to flood with all kinds of awful thoughts
like how could my son possibly grow up without a mother? <span style="background: white;"> Is my husband destined to raise him alone
after all of this? What would he
do? My gosh, would he move in with my
parents for help? Who would take care of
Nathan? Who would sing the songs I
wanted to sing to him? Who would kiss
his little head a thousand times a day? Who
would rock him to sleep every night? <b><i>Lord,
are you really going to rip my family apart and leave my boys all alone? </i></b><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="background: white;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">As my husband held my hand
in the dim light, I prayed out loud to benefit us both - I prayed for
protection and wisdom for the doctors- wisdom and skill far beyond their human
abilities- just like I had done the week before when I was being wheeled to the
operating room for my emergency c-section. Obviously, I knew this time
was so much different. It was far more
serious with painfully frightening consequences- <b>my life was literally riding on the
success of this surgery.<i> </i></b>And I
guess that reality should have really freaked me out but I just could not reckon how
God would allow me to die now. It may
sound like a completely crazy thought process, but how on earth could a story so
full of so many miracles have such a stinging ending? How could that
possibly give God glory? And wasn’t that
what all of these miracles were about anyway? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I remember it so
clearly. With tears in my eyes, I turned
my gaze toward the corner of my SICU room and it might as well have
been audible. It was that very moment
that God met me right there and reminded me of one of His telegrams from our
infertility journey- not just the phrase but the image as well. He <b><i>burned</i></b> that image on my mind.
"God didn't bring you this far to abandon you now." I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing it. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was such a simple
reminder but it immediately lifted such an enormous burden from me. As the saying goes, “meditating on God’s past
provisions gives us strength and hope for the future” and knowing how far God
had brought us already was exactly what fueled my faith that somehow everything
would be okay. I didn’t know what God
would allow. I didn’t know how this
would end but if my death was the next part of our story, He gave me the
assurance- </span><b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><i>He promised me!</i></b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> - that my boys would be taken care of. I knew that I was no longer an indispensable
part of ensuring that happened anymore.
I guess in that moment, I recognized that my role had always been
finite.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus, You are my only
hope and You, my prize shall be<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus, You are my
glory now and in eternity<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In my darkest hour, In humiliation<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will wait for You. I
am not forsaken<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">A few minutes later, Doctor
Wade* came in with a stack of papers in her hand. I barely remember what she said but I’ll
never forget when I heard “<i>We might need
to give you a hysterectomy if we can’t find the source of the bleeding.”</i> I was stunned! My mouth may have dropped and hung open for a
few seconds. Here I had just given life
from the very organ that they were preparing to take. Removing my uterus and surrounding organs
would essentially throw me into menopause a week after delivering my son. “<i>We
need you to sign this form consenting to it, if needed</i>” she said. I looked at her wide-eyed and said “<i>You do whatever it takes. Let’s do this</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 107%;">I always wondered what it
must be like being wheeled down the sterile hallways of a hospital to the
operating room. And especially in cases when life hangs in the balance, how
do the patients feel? Is it surreal? Is it frightening? Are
they overcome with anxiety and emotion? What
are they seeing and thinking when the anesthesia mask is placed over their nose
and mouth and they take their last conscious breath? </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As my gurney wheeled past my husband, I wondered if this would be the last time he saw me alive. Would he play this part over and over again in his mind? For me, it was peaceful. Frighteningly beautiful and peaceful. I remember being really calm, so calm that the nurses commented on it to us both afterwards. Simply put, <b>I had </b></span><b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">no fear of what lay ahead or behind</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">. It was like Jesus was the
one that had been pushing my gurney down that hallway, gently whispering in my ear that
everything would be okay because He was there.
I wasn't </span><span class="il" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">crying</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> outwardly. I wasn't begging the doctors to let me
live, but my soul was quite literally </span><b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><i>pouring <span class="il">out</span> like
water</i></b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> to the One who had the power to save me! My soul was groaning</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> to none other than my Jesus! If I didn’t wake up on this side of Heaven, I
knew I would be in His presence and somehow, someway, He would bring my boys
through this terrible, awful mess. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Oh, I lose my life.
Oh, my breath be taken<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will wait for You; I am not forsaken<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One thing I desire is
to see You in Your beauty<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You are my delight.
Yeah, You are my only<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 107%;">While being wheeled in, I
felt like God was asking me “<i>Whatever the
outcome, will you still love Me? If I
take you from your only son, will you still love Me?</i>” I didn’t understand why any of this was
happening but it was easy. </span>My
answer was yes! “<i>Lord, I don’t have the faintest idea of what You are doing but I trust
You. In a few hours, I will either see
my baby boy again or I’ll be seeing You.
Whatever the outcome, it is well with my soul. I’m ready to meet you if that is what comes
next.</i>” And those words running
through my mind caught my breath. It was
the second time in less than 4 months I had said them.<span style="background: white; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The operating room was much bigger than I imagined. The nurses moved me to the operating table
and began prepping me for surgery. One
of the them was annoyed I still had my sleep bra on and wanted to cut it off
with a pair of scissors. “<i>But I like it.”</i> was my response. Another nurse stepped in realizing that the first
nurse had been harsh. Maybe I wouldn’t
wake up from this surgery to ever wear it again but I suppose she thought it
best to give the dying new mother some dignity in her last conscious moments. She said “<i>If
we move these tubes, we can take it off and I’ll put it in this bag for you</i>.” I didn’t think I’d ever see it again even if
I did come out of this but I appreciated her kindness. “<i>Thank
you.”</i> I said. Then she slowly turned around
with a mask in her hand and said “<i>I’m
going to put this over your nose now.
Take deep breaths and count to ten.</i>”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t think I made it past three.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even unto death, I
will love You<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">With my every
breath I will love You<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jesus, The very
thought of You<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The very thought of
You…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: </span>Did I really just put that into writing? There aren’t words for this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAfp8vg4Jz8">Audrey Assad- Even Unto Death</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Stay Tuned for Part 19: It Just Got Real</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Previous Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/03/part-17-WaitingAndFading.html">Part 17: Waiting and Fading</a></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on our story!</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*names changed to
protect privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8HdolXLrAcgr5Ga77npIsrynQGkdnfFCqOY9S594yHVis7r558yTq0CkPm2bhMqpLkYT2njSo-LkSLEtHFUm9GcA_Vh3FBFhy4uLVRbzFshOrniNpvcBgVJVA-NcvwDS6di-Zty8BGPO/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8HdolXLrAcgr5Ga77npIsrynQGkdnfFCqOY9S594yHVis7r558yTq0CkPm2bhMqpLkYT2njSo-LkSLEtHFUm9GcA_Vh3FBFhy4uLVRbzFshOrniNpvcBgVJVA-NcvwDS6di-Zty8BGPO/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-89265941594854555582018-08-15T06:30:00.000-04:002019-01-15T14:20:06.923-05:00Someone I Used To Know<div dir="auto" style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><u>November 21, 2017</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I ran into her in the
middle of the baking aisle and my first instinct was to give her a hug.
It’s been more than two years, yet seeing her again made it feel like it was
yesterday. It took a second for her to place me; we were in the grocery
store after all, and then the gaze of recognition set in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>“Oh my gosh! How
are you? Wow, you look great!” </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">All it took were those
last three words for a mixed bag of weird, sad and heavy to set
in. Of course, I know she meant well. Most of the weirdness was
on my end. Everyone who says it means it
as a compliment but her acknowledgement of the changes she saw in me physically
would feel so much different if they were because of a new set of fitness
classes I had been taking. Or running. Or a</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">nything really.
Anything but the real reason behind the drastic transformation standing before
her. I could feel the tears welling up the second the words left her
lips. </span></div>
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<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>“Um, thanks... it was
because of the stress” </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wanted to say
it. I wanted her to know losing 50 lbs on top of the pregnancy weight
wasn't on purpose, like knowing that seemingly insignificant fact would somehow
paint a clearer picture of what I had been through. I just smiled weakly instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am pretty sure she knows some of
the details of my harrowing ordeal but she played it off like she didn’t.
My status at my former job has been shrouded in mystery for a long while because
of protocols and policies. And I get
it. I really do, but I feel like my former coworkers have been kept in the
dark for far too long. I told her what
happened and then her eyes glazed over. Maybe she didn’t hear me over the
soft rock playing overhead through the grocery store. (<i>Has anyone else
noticed they are starting to play much better music these days? Maybe
it’s just me.</i>) I guess I was waiting for a reaction from her but it never
came. When we parted, I felt like I had said too much. I always say
too much. Then somewhere in the middle of the produce aisle, I heard His
voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>“It’s okay to show
them your vulnerabilities.”</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I admit it's hard for
me to do. God has told me this plenty of times before this interaction but
I loathe the feeling that rolls in after I’ve let my guard down a little too
low. I know this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is rooted in our
society's success driven, rat-race culture. Success is built on perceived
strength. Survival of the fittest! Why don't I have it all together yet? And while her eyes got sad when
I told her “They don’t want me back. I’m not the same as I was before.",
the sound of this truth uttered out of my own mouth reverberated in my ears. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m not the same as
before. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let’s take it a step further
and be even more real: NOTHING is the same as it was before. I know it's true and yet it's such a hard and
bitter pill to swallow sometimes. I’d be doing myself and the
maternal health awareness cause a huge disservice if I acted like my
near-misses haven’t shaken me to the core. How seriously are people going
to take what I'm saying about the crisis if I can’t be honest about the long-lasting
physical, psychological and emotional impact they have had on me and the
vulnerabilities they’ve left in their wake? Yes, I’m not the same
because of the intense sleep deprivation and mommy-brain that has crept in
like a dense fog but it’s also so much more than that. It’s like the
razor sharpness I once had is gone too. Where I was once strong, now I
would be weak. I used to feel confident in my ability to juggle one
hundred things all at once, especially at work.
I thrived on it. The
troubleshooting? I craved the challenge. Being able to handle it all <i>and do well</i> was a rush sometimes. I know I don’t have what it takes to do that
anymore. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><u>Present Day</u></b></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This frightening
reality that I have felt since my hemorrhage solidified when I met with my
surgeon again after two years this past December. She asked me how my memory was because- of
all things- she remembered that I said I was having a really hard time remember
things early on in my recovery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“I still feel like I’m in a haze a lot. I joke around with my husband that it’s because of oxygen deprivation.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">She shot me a look and then sat down. It's always bad when they sit down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>“When there is massive blood loss, your body
concentrates the blood volume to your heart to keep it pumping. You may have experienced <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cerebral_hypoxia">cerebral hypoxia</a>.” </i></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">She continued softly,</span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"> “Did any of your doctors ever do a brain
scan? It's also possible that you had a mild stroke because of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disseminated_intravascular_coagulation">DIC</a>.”</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Good freaking grief. My eyes got wide and I felt like all of the muscles in my body froze as her words hung in the air. What the heck happened to me? </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">How the heck is this my life? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you’ve been
following along over <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">the last two years</a>, you know that my faith has played an
enormous role in getting me through the single most challenging time of my
life. Truth be told, it’s still helping
me limp along through the innumerable questions that have surfaced since my unborn son and I were carried out of my office on a stretcher.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why did God allow this to happen?</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why has the aftermath to be so
cruelly challenging too?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What am I supposed to learn from all of this?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is there even a purpose to it?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I could easily list
one hundred more questions like these.
If you are honest with yourself, you probably have a long list swirling
around in your mind about a hardship you’re facing too. There is a lot of vulnerability in admitting to
it and even more when we allow other people to see it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And this begs the question: What if we were a little more transparent about
what we are struggling with? I’m
guessing we would find more commonality than expected and it would be
refreshing to know we weren’t the only one wrestling through some really hard
things. I think it would start to blur
our differences and maybe even make it easier to give other people grace when we feel wronged. Perhaps that is one of the purposes in suffering to begin with: God is doing His greatest work in our hearts through our deepest vulnerabilities. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">There is a swelling storm</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And I'm caught up in the middle of it all</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And it takes control</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Of the person that I thought I was</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">The {girl} I used to know</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">But there, is a light</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">In the dark, and I feel its warmth</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">In my hands, and my heart</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Why can't I hold on?</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It comes and goes in waves</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It always does, it always does</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">We watch as our young hearts fade</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Into the flood, into the flood</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">The freedom, of falling</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">A feeling I thought was set in stone</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It slips through, my fingers</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm trying hard to let go</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It comes and goes in waves</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It comes and goes in waves</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And carries us away</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Through the wind</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Down to the place we used to lay when we were kids</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Memories, of a stolen place</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Caught in the silence </span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">An echo lost in space</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It comes and goes in waves</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">It always does, it always does</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">We watch</span><span class="S0KpLd">…</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: There is beauty in brokenness, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKlgCk3IGBg">Dean Lewis- Waves</a></span><br />
Stay Tuned for Part 18: Even Unto Death<br />
<b><br /></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Previous Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/03/part-17-WaitingAndFading.html">Part 17: Waiting and Fading</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on our story!<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnL7aS-oUk-S5v-iyJA9RvZy8r6SiM3WjfRW4QxfCt75Cqg7Zfgjr_gAMST3G_ZCjzMAYuZWy9dTeowNvFAuhD7rGP8rbRezOis9kM4M-33pd-ucoop7SUZik0-YGPUFq8RxitNvZLB6k/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnL7aS-oUk-S5v-iyJA9RvZy8r6SiM3WjfRW4QxfCt75Cqg7Zfgjr_gAMST3G_ZCjzMAYuZWy9dTeowNvFAuhD7rGP8rbRezOis9kM4M-33pd-ucoop7SUZik0-YGPUFq8RxitNvZLB6k/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing about her experiences to give hope to women in the midst of their own hardships. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-59124107669821220412018-08-01T06:00:00.000-04:002018-08-01T06:00:02.813-04:002018 March For Moms Rally in Washington, D.C.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaRsVm9NZPlyKqha8LCxUKJ96o3fNhnbGYwcV1FVlcDrbLQG6hb8cTriF9QPa-mMlsUEkjOO9QeefxyIa3bYnSGtrffZ8LuV_BldNKyRF_pCm3Ocf_c81s2tuk7EgxUYgkKHgOUa5Qgok/s1600/M4M-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="960" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaRsVm9NZPlyKqha8LCxUKJ96o3fNhnbGYwcV1FVlcDrbLQG6hb8cTriF9QPa-mMlsUEkjOO9QeefxyIa3bYnSGtrffZ8LuV_BldNKyRF_pCm3Ocf_c81s2tuk7EgxUYgkKHgOUa5Qgok/s640/M4M-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I realize the <a href="http://www.marchformoms.org/">March for Moms</a> was nearly three months ago
but I still want to give a quick recap of my time in D.C. because it was a great weekend!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">First, let me start by saying this was the first time I left
my son overnight since my hospitalization in 2015.
This was a HUGE step for me because the last time I left him, I
didn’t know if I would ever come back.
It felt strange to leave on purpose and it was so hard kissing him
goodbye because so many things from that day came flooding back like a tidal
wave. It felt fitting that this first
time being away from him was to meet with other maternal near-miss survivors and lend
my voice to the chorus of women affected by the maternal health crisis in the U.S. In some ways it felt like I was coming full
circle, or at the very least, turning another corner in my ongoing journey with
this crazy experience. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieyZEsPtyRYkMg37Q0hN1-I0lowVFbVEvzwtbUYLCYN7JsUWSFasDuBHdn7rywln90Nir696ObqhxMakodJtHoBDrwKUrJTl22JVCP_oG75n4Z3RrgPMLtLffv5LXfkv7HoLSldmKZ8pEz/s1600/M4M-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieyZEsPtyRYkMg37Q0hN1-I0lowVFbVEvzwtbUYLCYN7JsUWSFasDuBHdn7rywln90Nir696ObqhxMakodJtHoBDrwKUrJTl22JVCP_oG75n4Z3RrgPMLtLffv5LXfkv7HoLSldmKZ8pEz/s640/M4M-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by: Ariane Audet of the Faces of Postpartum Project, May 2018</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And what a wonderful thing it was to meet other survivors and
hear their stories in person! Our
retreat crew had survivor moms from New York City, Maryland, Virginia, North
Carolina, California and New Jersey! I admit, it was odd sharing so many intense and intimate things with people you’ve technically just met
in real life, but it goes to show you how strongly our <a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/mnmsurvivors">online survivor community</a> has bonded us. We got a few
crazy-eyed looks from our servers and Uber drivers thanks to the main topic of
conversation- maternal morbidity and blood loss! I think every single one of us in attendance
needed blood transfusions. And the nine ladies pictured above? Collectively, we needed 127 units of blood products to help us survive. Just let that number sink in for a minute. ONE HUNDRED TWENTY SEVEN. None of us ever
wanted to join this tragic club, but the camaraderie of this shared experience is nothing short of amazing. I feel like I’ve known these women for years
and years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Many of us have channeled our grief into advocacy efforts
and it was something special to be standing shoulder to shoulder on the
National Mall with each other and some of the biggest names in the Maternal
Health movement. Fellow MNM Survivor Support Group Administrator, (seriously, we need better titles than this!), Founder of the group and my partner in crime with retreat planning- Marianne commented that it was surreal walking up to the large stage with <a href="https://www.propublica.org/series/lost-mothers">Propublica’s ‘Lost Mothers’</a> image emblazoned across the banner with the U.S. Capitol in the
background. And it was… to know we are a
part of a movement so much bigger than ourselves and to know we are striving to
make a difference for the moms that are sure to come after us… it was very moving. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblfhSj6AOvDwGGdbd_4uWsU-ovSyEXqy_mfiWTQoAspCiIZ5v_jxXv6iD2QqkVwNvI_mwQWHaVv91yPZTjK7gJvoST4pR0d7Q8Anl5n6arpO3n-OoHmiPNFN6lveTEe48VIcZKoygJrnQ/s1600/M4M-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="960" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblfhSj6AOvDwGGdbd_4uWsU-ovSyEXqy_mfiWTQoAspCiIZ5v_jxXv6iD2QqkVwNvI_mwQWHaVv91yPZTjK7gJvoST4pR0d7Q8Anl5n6arpO3n-OoHmiPNFN6lveTEe48VIcZKoygJrnQ/s640/M4M-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of March for Moms, May 2018</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9Y__SHHjNMUGC2LjTUrHC9G12AuXezl-K9nvW_bjttvztsPqz7X-NW1VgmAaaN_lwUSyna50vT68po7FbyKN6VAf8J8yu60oGzuiXIQ0minSj7iZ9sRySoDQSEV8EdbjwD0_D8SqDaZR/s1600/M4M-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9Y__SHHjNMUGC2LjTUrHC9G12AuXezl-K9nvW_bjttvztsPqz7X-NW1VgmAaaN_lwUSyna50vT68po7FbyKN6VAf8J8yu60oGzuiXIQ0minSj7iZ9sRySoDQSEV8EdbjwD0_D8SqDaZR/s640/M4M-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of March For Moms, May 2018</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One of the most haunting images for me from that weekend is
this picture below. We visited the
White Ribbon Alliance table along the edge of the rallying area and they asked us to write one request we had to improve
quality maternal healthcare services on the white board they provided. At first, I thought “<i>sheesh, just one? Where do I
start?</i>” and then it just flowed and flowed and flowed.
It’s like this simple white board campaign tapped into a deep well of
lifelong maternal health advocacy goals I have hidden away. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The event photographer, <a href="http://sallymorrowphoto.com/">Sally Morrow</a>, saw me writing feverishly on my white board and said “</span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">I want to take your picture when you are done.</i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">” Oh boy. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWblQlg5ST8tzcu41Kduedhht9CXzFY9vv9WmmEMIfOsGkzR5_mzzJUQ1o8UUKuAl78e4XjKDtyrJBYcRVbYNE_BfGEFHfc1k_2HNj1PREwb_1MF_9Nq2h_w-7HbPEIo9Ky-X574kN7QQ/s1600/M4M-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWblQlg5ST8tzcu41Kduedhht9CXzFY9vv9WmmEMIfOsGkzR5_mzzJUQ1o8UUKuAl78e4XjKDtyrJBYcRVbYNE_BfGEFHfc1k_2HNj1PREwb_1MF_9Nq2h_w-7HbPEIo9Ky-X574kN7QQ/s640/M4M-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Sally Morrow Photography, May 2018</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just writing “<b>LISTEN TO ME!</b>” didn’t feel like enough. And had I left only those three words on my board, well, this image wouldn’t have nearly the amount of impact and power behind it. That’s honestly how I feel about my story in some aspects. Yes, I can say give blood. Yes, I can say that doctors need to listen to their patients. Yes, I can say patients need to advocate for themselves better. But without the reasons behind why I am so passionate, these efforts fall hopelessly flat. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And truth be told, a part of me hopes the on-call OB that dismissed me three times sees this image someday and throws up in her mouth.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, it’s me.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Again.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m still here.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I understand what happened and it’s not okay.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can do better.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Your patients</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> deserve better.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I deserved better.</span></i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I remember initially holding up my board with kind of a weathered smile and as
I heard the clicks and looked up to see the stage and Capitol in the background,
I lost it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">How is this my life?</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">How am I standing on
the National Mall at a maternal health rally with a survivor shirt on? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">How do so many awful things happen to one person?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I kissed my baby goodbye that day and God help me, </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I will stand on my head until my dying day to help ensure that women receive the care they rightfully should have. I will be back at the March for Moms next year and hopefully for many, many more years to come. And I hope to see more moms like me </span><span style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">stand in that
same spot on the National Mall with their little, white signs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because it will mean they survived too. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: They're never going to survive, unless we get a little crazy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWmaoQWX6Ws">Seal- Crazy</a></span><br />
Stay Tuned for Part 18: Even Unto Death<br />
<b><br /></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Previous Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/03/part-17-WaitingAndFading.html">Part 17: Waiting and Fading</a></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on our story!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<b><br /></b>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8HdolXLrAcgr5Ga77npIsrynQGkdnfFCqOY9S594yHVis7r558yTq0CkPm2bhMqpLkYT2njSo-LkSLEtHFUm9GcA_Vh3FBFhy4uLVRbzFshOrniNpvcBgVJVA-NcvwDS6di-Zty8BGPO/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8HdolXLrAcgr5Ga77npIsrynQGkdnfFCqOY9S594yHVis7r558yTq0CkPm2bhMqpLkYT2njSo-LkSLEtHFUm9GcA_Vh3FBFhy4uLVRbzFshOrniNpvcBgVJVA-NcvwDS6di-Zty8BGPO/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-8460300485580703022018-07-18T06:00:00.000-04:002018-07-18T06:00:10.010-04:00Turning Over A New Leaf<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been an incredible slacker with my blog lately. I knew it had been a long while <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/03/part-17-WaitingAndFading.html">since I last posted</a> but when I counted four posts over the course of the last year, it made
me really sad. It’s not because of <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/02/same-song-second-verse.html">a lack of things</a> going on- <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/01/improving-maternal-health-and-safety.html">far from it actually</a>- I guess I’ve taken to Instagram
a lot as my place to process and share news in real time.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shortly after <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/06/this-isnt-how-it-was-supposed-to-be.html">my classmate died</a> last year, I stumbled on her
<a href="http://loganlo.com/">widower’s blog</a> and still check in from time to time to see if he’s written
anything new. His posts aren’t literary masterpieces ready for publication, but yet, in a sense they are because they are raw and real. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there was checking in with my little old blog and wondering why the heck I’m not writing anymore. It
dawned on me that the rawness is what I crave here. I often wish I had used my blog more to process in real time but I guess the nature of my experiences also made me hesitate and make a bit of sense of it all myself before letting the world in. <br />
<br />
I think
my biggest hurdle has been my initial goal to catalog my experiences
chronologically. It’s also my perfectionist
mentality- and the quest for accuracy and precision- that has been drilled into
me over the course of 15 years by the never ending review processes of working in biotech. I write something and then I sit on it
because it’s <i>not quite</i> ready for
prime time yet. Sigh. I kid you not; there are dozens and dozens of
blog posts and thoughts just waiting to see the light of day.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, friends, I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m getting ready to let an awful lot out and in ways I can’t even believe I'm about to post publicly. <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">My story</a> will continue but all of the side
musings and tidbits are coming out in between too. It’s not going to be perfect but I can assure
you, it will be the honest ramblings of a near-miss survivor. <br />
<br />
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</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Let's Do This</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzR396-pRT8">Vance Joy- Lay It On Me</a></span><br />
Stay Tuned for Part 18: Even Unto Death<br />
<b><br /></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Previous Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/03/part-17-WaitingAndFading.html">Part 17: Waiting and Fading</a></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on our story!<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1S-iSfuSywgRZXE-uqJP5v3Z4IOeSDhmV6ufRBHTin9ul5g2z7SQq6UW_3YKiFkERXj2n8DEZpv13WDW1Pgkb4NMOstcLAGyMQWXazTrIzTO-Qg_5O44GecIW5Uivv-CZ-mojiPwMdMLu/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1S-iSfuSywgRZXE-uqJP5v3Z4IOeSDhmV6ufRBHTin9ul5g2z7SQq6UW_3YKiFkERXj2n8DEZpv13WDW1Pgkb4NMOstcLAGyMQWXazTrIzTO-Qg_5O44GecIW5Uivv-CZ-mojiPwMdMLu/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of their hardships and to shed a light on the Maternal Health crisis plaguing the United States. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-56272043703413797662018-03-07T06:00:00.001-05:002020-10-11T00:39:38.373-04:00Our Story Part 17: Waiting and Fading<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0iG7teOMEYHOgY-qacZ2NJvXbLR7yvwvoiItgfz4AxoDOlg8YblEUIAp0iFsbVT3BYWVVXbhZXKOZ_wzumx5zbEuZO8iwkD2DzUGjEx3unzvdiTkWjJrE4VbEUYk9Jz8EoeW3sk9BG2M/s1600/part+17c.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="892" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0iG7teOMEYHOgY-qacZ2NJvXbLR7yvwvoiItgfz4AxoDOlg8YblEUIAp0iFsbVT3BYWVVXbhZXKOZ_wzumx5zbEuZO8iwkD2DzUGjEx3unzvdiTkWjJrE4VbEUYk9Jz8EoeW3sk9BG2M/s320/part+17c.png" width="320" /></a>This post has been a long time coming. If you have been following along over the last two years, you've probably noticed there is a huge gap between Part 16 and 17. Thanks to super vague hospital discharge papers, I didn’t know exactly what procedures I had, how much blood I lost, how much blood I received or where my internal bleeding originated. Every doctor appointment since my hospitalization has provided snippets of the unknown, new information gleaned during routine medical history assessments, leaving me with even more questions and a lack of answers. I think it was a combination of my doctors not wanting to overwhelm me with all of these facts during such a fragile time early on and my inability to register what they were telling me. I was so deep in survival mode that I inadvertently shut out a lot. Even now, random bits of conversations I had with doctors from the confines of my hospital bed will come back to me.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Before writing this, I felt I had to know more of the details and somehow that would help me pull the heavy things up again. I always knew these next few posts would be- by far - the most challenging to write and I wanted to convey what a tremendous battle it was. Maybe it’s my scientist brain craving the accuracy. Maybe it's to finally quell the naysayers. Maybe it’s something else entirely. All I know is that a mixture of avoidance and life delayed me from making my way to the medical records office at the hospital. And if I’m honest with myself, a big part of me was afraid of what the records would say. Was it as bad as I remember? Was it much worse and God protected me from knowing too much too soon? Does knowing the answer really make a difference about the way I feel about my trauma anyway? <o:p></o:p></div>
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This past November I trekked to the hospital to find out, or at least have a giant stack of papers in my possession to begin piecing together what happened more clearly. I was surprised that the woman standing outside the office with her two year old in a stroller was still just as shell shocked as she was the day she left the 6<sup>th</sup> floor. As I retraced some of my steps and reoriented myself with the building from an entirely different vantage point, I realized that feeling is likely never going away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When the kind man handed me a box instead of a packet an hour later, reality began to set in. I cried walking back to my car. <i>I have a freaking box!</i><b> </b> It took me another two months before I had the courage to crack it open. When I finally felt brave enough to look at the records, I only got to around page 50 of 1000 from the first of three hospitals before I had to stop. Reading phrases like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emergency_Severity_Index">“acuity level 1”</a> and <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4260305/">“massive transfusion protocol”</a> was chilling but I pressed on, sifting through the pages and pages of transfusion documents too, tearing up when I realized I was infused every 40 minutes leading up to my surgery. My mouth dropped when I got to my surgeon’s notes.<br />
<br />
I learned a lot that afternoon but what struck me the most was that I really already knew. I didn’t need to read the Emergency Room vitals that showed at 1:32pm my blood pressure was 55/43 and then sixteen minutes later at 1:48pm it was 37/25. I didn’t need to read the details to know that I had been crashing that afternoon. My body knows what it survived. The rest of me is just catching up. Blocking out the specifics was my coping mechanism and I now believe it was God’s way of giving me what I could handle in small increments, knowing the weight of all of this at once would certainly break me.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><br />
</b> <b>October 11, 2015, about 4pm<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br />
</b></div>
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Once it was confirmed that I was bleeding internally, it became clear that the biggest hurdle to keeping me alive was to stabilize my blood pressure and coagulation. Since I had <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-10-i-am-survivor.html">two pulmonary emboli during my pregnancy</a>, I was still on the blood thinners postpartum. The risk of a <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-11-know-signs.html">blood clot</a> is already high after delivery, even more so after a c-section surgery, and my history of PEs made this risk exponentially greater. In the days after <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/10/our-story-part-14-birth.html">birth</a>, my pulmonologist switched me from an injectable blood thinner (enoxaparin) to an oral medication (warfarin) which is known to be erratic in the early stages of therapy. He did this for two reasons: first, the oral medication is a teratogen (causes birth defects) and obviously was not a safe option for me to take until after delivery. Second, it would be a huge quality of life improvement not having to stick myself with a needle twice per day. While my levels on the oral blood thinner were initially within the therapeutic range when I was discharged after my c-section, it spiked to around double the anti-coagulation within the days that followed. I now had a supratherapeutic INR.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Reversing the effects of the blood thinner was no easy task. I was put on an IV drip to help stabilize my blood pressure and then the ER doctor started me on multiple transfusions. I received whole blood, packed cells, plasma and platelets. I received so much, I honestly didn’t know how many bags I received of each. For two years we have estimated it to be around 6-8 units which is one of the reasons why the medical records blew my mind. At the very least, I received more than double what we thought.<br />
<br />
When I tell you that blood donation saves lives, it is one of the reasons I am sitting here writing now. It sounds trite to say that ‘<i>blood donations save lives</i>’ but at least <b style="text-decoration-line: underline;">SEVEN LITERS OF BLOOD</b><b> </b>gave me a shot at surviving multiple conditions that made up the perfect storm of a maternal catastrophe. That's more than my entire blood volume and that's just what I know of from the first 50 pages of my records. We are a little family of three, in part, to the selfless blood donors who took the time to give of themselves. And now the lifesaving gift of their blood will run through my veins for the rest of my life. Why am I a relentless advocate for blood donation, you ask? This is why. <br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
There was a lot of uncertainty and waiting that day and night. Waiting for blood test results and scan results. Waiting for heavy narcotics to ease my excruciating pain. Waiting for a room. Waiting for the doctors to decide on the path forward that gave me the best chance of going home to my baby again. Waiting for them to figure out how I could survive this. </div>
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<br />
I was moved to an open space with three other people in the ER because another trauma patient arrived and needed the unit I was previously in. I thought that was a good sign… I must be improving if I’m not in trauma anymore. My husband followed and then my sister arrived to sit with us while my mom took care of our son at home. They tried to keep me in good spirits and took great care of me while my nurse managed a double patient load. Initially, the doctors hoped that reversing the blood thinners would be enough for my blood to clot on its own but time indicated otherwise. One of the CT scans revealed I had two potential areas where I was bleeding and when they told me where, I was not surprised. The scans showed the two places I had been experiencing the most pain for over 24 hours. The scan also helped me to realize how deep in the woods I really was. The nurses had to lift my body from the gurney to the scan table and being completely horizontal felt like my body was being sawed in two! <o:p></o:p></div>
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An hour or so later, I was wheeled from the ER to a new ward. My room was very small and dark and it could barely fit more than three people at a time. My husband and sister were there to help me settle in and that was when I heard the words “surgical intensive care unit”. Two doctors from the OB/Gyn group introduced themselves soon after and told me they would make a final determination about their plan for surgery after seeing the results from my next blood draw. They urged my husband and sister to go home and get some rest and assured Adam they would call him if anything changed. My sister left around 10pm that night and Adam lingered until midnight or so.</div>
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That was the night I met Addison* and she was a sweetheart of a nurse. She, too, was in a unit that was understaffed and had four critical patients when she should have only had two. She was so kind in helping me to get a pump so I could try to keep my milk supply going- as crazy as it sounds, one of my biggest concerns was losing my supply because I was away from my son for so long. She made sure I was comfortable and had a pain reliever that was working because the previous hydromorphone dosage wasn’t cutting it. I fell asleep for what felt like hours thanks to a nice dilaudid bolus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I woke up, my husband was back at my bedside holding my hand and his face was wet. Confused, I asked him why he was back so soon. I had no idea what time it was but I figured it was only 4 or 5am. </div>
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Him: (tears streaming) The doctors called me and told me to come now.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Me: Well, that can’t be good.<br />
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<i>Well I, I've got a lot to say<br />
And I'm scared, that you're gonna slip away<br />
And you, you've got this wide-eyed gaze<br />
And a smile, that you'll carry through your days</i><br />
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<i><br />
The things that I thought would last<br />
Well they're fading, they're fading</i><br />
<i><br />
</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: This is even worse than we thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImnM8rDA1SU">Vance Joy- Wasted Time</a></span><br /><br /></div><div>
Next Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2018/08/our-story-part-18-even-unto-death.html" target="_blank">Part 18: Even Unto Death</a><br />
<b><br />
</b> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Previous Post: <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/02/our-story-part-16-dark-days.html#more">Part 16: The Dark Days</a></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on our story!<br />
<br />
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<b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</div>
Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-64394617998748954272018-02-13T06:00:00.000-05:002019-02-20T20:34:34.780-05:00Same Song, Second Verse<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdpDqeuE5kByWT7_ZgCZclCcNRY9tbUPc0ikgAdZ767SW2qc_Z3iJUzmtuRS8hkX3hHFBJQZ7kYKVrvct41UsRiINeOrf58xLEJO7iYx2QpeIFUVnERAa1vh4eykUjIJ_C0Jrm7eBXaJp/s1600/Same+Song+Second+Verse-+Feb+2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdpDqeuE5kByWT7_ZgCZclCcNRY9tbUPc0ikgAdZ767SW2qc_Z3iJUzmtuRS8hkX3hHFBJQZ7kYKVrvct41UsRiINeOrf58xLEJO7iYx2QpeIFUVnERAa1vh4eykUjIJ_C0Jrm7eBXaJp/s320/Same+Song+Second+Verse-+Feb+2018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
still vividly remember the first time I walked down the now familiar corridor
to the elevators. I was so slow and the 40 metal staples, embedded in my wounded flesh like a zipper, pulled
and twisted with each step I took. I grumbled to myself when an elderly
person passed me. After all, I was young! Why was this so
hard? Maybe I wasn’t tough enough after all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Come on, I said. Get it together. </span></i></span><br />
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You don’t need a wheelchair again. <o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Gosh,
this hallway seems to go on and on.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are times I wish I had the
foresight to write what I was going through in real time. There are so many things I have wanted to
share that I’ve held back because I wanted my story to be chronological. For some reason (I blame the science brain), I
felt like if it wasn't in order, there is no way anyone could ever understand. Ridiculous, I know. So, when I tell you I have dozens and dozens
of half written blog posts waiting to see the light of day, I’m not even
kidding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I drove to yet another hematology
appointment earlier this morning, I realized I have to let all of this out. Certainly, I write to encourage my readers to
lean on God but I also write for myself too.
I probably write for my own benefit far more than I initially intended or believed. It’s cathartic. It’s literally saved me thousands and
thousands of dollars in trauma therapy bills and as the story continues to
unfold, I want to be able to tell it. I want the depth of emotion, fear and
uncertainty to ebb and flow just as it does in my every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">After
two and a half years of appointments, it finally dawned on me.</span><span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space">
As much as I’ve healed physically and emotionally, t</span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">he aftermath of my near-misses is never going away.</span><span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space">
I’m not talking about the grief either. I already know that has set up
camp and is here to stay. </span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">I
don’t know why it took me this long to fully realize the long term physical
impact but when my hematologist said “You need to let us know in advance about
any procedure you have in the future.”, I could actually see it reverberating
20, 30, even 40 years from now. Every procedure. </span></span><i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;"><b>Every
battle with a yet-to-be-named enemy. </b> </i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Maybe
that doesn’t seem significant on the surface but with a family history chock
full of heart disease and various cancers, procedures like a catheterization or
angioplasty suddenly become even scarier. </span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">All of
this time, I have been wrongly compartmentalizing. I didn’t just have an obstetric emergency.</span><span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">Even
if you removed all of my non-essential organs, the problem persists.</span><span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">Pregnancy
may have brought the issue to light but it didn’t end when I delivered my son.</span><span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space">
And it didn’t end when the doctors cut me open, patched me back together and
sent me on my way. A few weeks ago, </span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">I was
reminded that “</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">For the life of the flesh is in the blood” (Leviticus 17:11)
by one of our blood drive supporters. </span>I have a problem with the very thing
that sustains life. How can that not affect <i>everything?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLemUVLqZZcgcnc3KShIhmHrMDWTtj2h816o9BOGKTB7bU4_rVKwUxjWCCxJ4EpmU13mLYl_4Av0cYjCewtsPxZZKR_j_AiV1CWgd7wYcOq4nLlV7KCJxItV7SGT4l1hZmxC81T2uz7sk/s1600/Same+Song+Second+Verse+2-+Feb+2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLemUVLqZZcgcnc3KShIhmHrMDWTtj2h816o9BOGKTB7bU4_rVKwUxjWCCxJ4EpmU13mLYl_4Av0cYjCewtsPxZZKR_j_AiV1CWgd7wYcOq4nLlV7KCJxItV7SGT4l1hZmxC81T2uz7sk/s320/Same+Song+Second+Verse+2-+Feb+2018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="m8015714805116217354apple-converted-space" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Truth
be told, the appointments are getting old. I am tired of trekking in and out of Specialist's offices with little more than a reminder card for my next appointment. While I’m thankful that no
stone will remain unturned as my hematologist investigates the potential
underlying cause(s) of pulmonary embolism, postpartum hemorrhage and
disseminated intracoagulation (DIC), the lack of answers is frustrating.
I know someday the d</span><span class="m8015714805116217354s1" style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">octor visits will diminish and I may get
a temporary reprieve until the next health issue strikes- which is hopefully
many decades from now- but either way, it seems ridiculous to me that I am
destined to rehash my near-miss history even when I’m 60 or 70 years old.
The complications will stalk me to some degree long after my little one has
grown. They will always be lurking in the shadows preparing to swallow me whole
again should the opportunity arise. </span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">So
much was taken away during those five months that we struggled to survive that
it is disheartening to come to terms that the effects will still be felt decades
from now. Gone are the dreams of a
larger family. Gone are the early moments of motherhood that I will never
get back. Gone is the possibility of closing this tragic chapter for good and moving forward without any lingering effects. Maybe I should have seen this coming but I didn't.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I
gathered my things and headed to the elevator in the medical school academic
building, I paused in the vestibule and noticed the railroad tracks again, this
time from a different vantage point. It’s true my medical gauntlet
doesn’t fit neatly in a box. It certainly hasn’t been sealed up tightly
and tied with a bow, content to stay confined within one frightening chapter of
my life. No, it’s determined to thread its way through them all now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span class="m8015714805116217354s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1">The
elevator dinged and I walked away from the sun soaked windows overlooking the
tressel. Another train thundered past
and a moment later I found myself in the long corridor once again. Click, click, click. My boots echoed on the tile floors. It’s funny how this hallway brings back so
many strong emotions and memories with it.
I don’t remember how many times I’ve been down it but I walk much faster
now. I let those words sink in. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="m8015714805116217354s1"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I walk much faster now.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="m8015714805116217354p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We should all be so lucky. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on previous posts!<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mood: Look How Far We've Come</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Music: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSW3TRwrmWc">Vance Joy- Snaggletooth</a></span><br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b>About the Author: Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</b>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-30046226873122565092018-01-14T07:00:00.000-05:002018-01-14T07:00:13.154-05:00Improving Maternal Health and Safety<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZ-kFoxIt-3cUScZ-aedMY_Eg9pT0deKg_SBUmZ1cZhp0zFNrEgBzWxSnJjU79h2MH56JHjkS8e_hPLE8njt9Y786vCuyBS7EJvFBniIt6zC36ECw0isaPceEoWiocFgvY3F3Xv3jlsEv/s1600/Instagram_square_green+block.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZ-kFoxIt-3cUScZ-aedMY_Eg9pT0deKg_SBUmZ1cZhp0zFNrEgBzWxSnJjU79h2MH56JHjkS8e_hPLE8njt9Y786vCuyBS7EJvFBniIt6zC36ECw0isaPceEoWiocFgvY3F3Xv3jlsEv/s320/Instagram_square_green+block.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #444444;">On January 23, 2018, New Jersey families will be one step closer to having increased maternal health awareness, helping to ensure that fewer woman will lose their lives or experience catastrophic illness as a result of pregnancy or childbirth. All hospitals, healthcare providers, professional associations and New Jersey residents are invited to participate in the campaign to raise awareness regarding the rise in the incidence of maternal deaths in the United States. According to the Pregnancy Mortality Surveillance System, U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, between 1993 and 2013 (the most recent year reported), maternal mortality rates have increased nearly 56% in the U.S. Unfortunately, New Jersey is not immune to some of the same issues that we see across the country. By creating what appears to be the first Maternal Health Awareness Day in the nation, the state is recognizing the importance of ensuring all women have safe pregnancies and proactively helping women and their families by empowering women’s voices throughout the birth process, providing increased education for women and their family members and implementing safety bundles through New Jersey’s participation in the national <a href="https://www.acog.org/About-ACOG/ACOG-Departments/Patient-Safety-and-Quality-Improvement/What-is-AIM">Alliance for Innovation for MaternalHealth</a> (AIM). As a two-time Maternal Near-Miss Survivor, I am proud to support Maternal Health Awareness Day by co-hosting a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/603982686659414/"><b>Blood Drive</b></a> with Woodside Chapel <a href="http://www.mops.org/">Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS)</a> to send more families home as healthy as possible.”</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">The genesis of Maternal Health Awareness Day began six years ago when Tara Hansen, a healthy 29 year old, died six days after giving birth to her first child from an infection that went unnoticed and uncontrolled. Tara’s husband, Ryan, created the Tara Hansen Foundation in 2012 and has been working ever since to raise maternal health awareness and to improve communication between patients, healthcare providers and family members. “Tara was the only person who knew that something was wrong and she repeatedly told those caring for her,” explains Hansen. “But all clinicians assumed Tara’s problems were part of her having just given birth. Asking providers to </span><a href="http://www.rwjms.rutgers.edu/RURWJ_SSLAnmatedPDF_FIN/html5.html">Stop, Look, and Listen!</a><span style="color: #444444;"> when a woman says that something is wrong can help to save lives.”</span><br />
<div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">The Tara Hansen Foundation, Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School and Rutgers New Jersey Medical School, along with the New Jersey Section of The American Congress of Obstetriciansand Gynecologists (ACOG), the New Jersey Obstetrical and Gynecological Society, the Association of Women’s Health Obstetric and Neonatal Nurses (AWHONN), theNew Jersey Affiliate of the American College of Nurse Midwives (ACNM) actively supported the<a href="http://www.rwjms.rutgers.edu/RURWJ_SSLAnmatedPDF_FIN/html5.html"> Stop, Look and Listen!</a> initiative and the development of a Maternal Health Awareness Day in New Jersey for January 23 of each year. These groups met with State Senator Joseph Vitale in June 2016 to ask his support and he agreed. The proclamation for Maternal Health Awareness Day in New Jersey was signed by Governor Christie on May 11, 2017. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34OawNrC01xJYhQ4qfiycaqErpFtye9dZn94jVjzOR6n0nYIjKSu5I1APmxek7L_Ovc9axKbWbBbxnJYVd-c95lZUdOem8qgOmsot3bxWtmCZZiz1TPfPkLQmSw5r7eLRyOAw0IfaRneG/s1600/Instagram_mom%2526baby_v1_landscapeB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="1080" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj34OawNrC01xJYhQ4qfiycaqErpFtye9dZn94jVjzOR6n0nYIjKSu5I1APmxek7L_Ovc9axKbWbBbxnJYVd-c95lZUdOem8qgOmsot3bxWtmCZZiz1TPfPkLQmSw5r7eLRyOAw0IfaRneG/s640/Instagram_mom%2526baby_v1_landscapeB.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">“The objective is to increase maternal health awareness for all residents of the state including providers of women’s healthcare services, the general public, legislators, insurance company executives and other interested parties,” explained Joseph Apuzzio, MD, vice chair of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Women’s Health at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School. </span><span style="color: #444444;">“It was apparent from our discussions at the New Jersey Maternal Mortality Meetings that our detailed reports which included recommendations and suggested improvements for the more common pregnancy related maternal death issues often went unacted upon.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">Members of the New Jersey Multidisciplinary Maternal Mortality Review Committee have also sought ways to decrease maternal mortality in New Jersey. The committee voiced concern that maternal health awareness and problems such as pregnancy related and pregnancy associated morbidity and mortality are often not on the “radar screen” of providers of obstetrical services, the general public, family members, legislators and insurance companies. That all consider pregnancy a happy event for all and don’t think about potential problems. So The Tara Hansen Foundation initiative was supported by the committee and the multidisciplinary professional associations. “I cannot overstate the importance of empowering women’s voices in the management of their healthcare,” states Gloria A. Bachmann, MD, director of the Women’s Health Institute at Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School. “We have worked very hard to bring awareness to this issue which is now being embraced by the professional organizations, the community, and the hospitals.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILajXA900TlSgPg4R_O2U2-GxZCwePfOPTfm5O-2PETzxUOPlXa3Lm-02ZvqYxYdTeaaRQQbDmaoRerNgNjhXFm1VAknICnh_yHVVQpz8mSyA0xh1c-N1qRL9pT92E1U_zrLfC0g986Px/s1600/Instagram_square_moms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiILajXA900TlSgPg4R_O2U2-GxZCwePfOPTfm5O-2PETzxUOPlXa3Lm-02ZvqYxYdTeaaRQQbDmaoRerNgNjhXFm1VAknICnh_yHVVQpz8mSyA0xh1c-N1qRL9pT92E1U_zrLfC0g986Px/s320/Instagram_square_moms.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #444444;">“Community awareness of this issue is vital. As they say, it takes a village, and we believe that everyone plays a role to ensure a healthy pregnancy” states Robyn D'Oria CEO of the Central Jersey Family Health Consortium. None of this would have been possible without their support and the support of the New Jersey Hospital Association. The foundational work they have done in the maternal health arena has helped to make this statewide initiative viable by facilitating all participants across health systems and across the health professions to come together in the best interests of women and their families. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">Are you ready to join the Maternal Health movement? It is as simple as rolling up your sleeve to donate blood. Please consider joining us at the<b> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/603982686659414/">Blood Drive</a></b> or visit another collection location near you. Let’s make January 23rd a day that helps to change the course of Maternal Health in the U.S.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*Research and quotes used with permission from the Rutgers Robert Wood Johnson Medical School. #123forMOMS</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjui8z6MWHR3jhORjnXe9it3IAl3Jk_Sw3hQOpfsqT4lUHQ6AYtsAl1eUa5OVvdSohXj8PWYfVta5j4bYbxu30Myhl2XJyIZBn_6CZVso_n9kQPhEAYS12zy4iO9AKJMCfHKIsL5WgyAAZl/s1600/author+box2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjui8z6MWHR3jhORjnXe9it3IAl3Jk_Sw3hQOpfsqT4lUHQ6AYtsAl1eUa5OVvdSohXj8PWYfVta5j4bYbxu30Myhl2XJyIZBn_6CZVso_n9kQPhEAYS12zy4iO9AKJMCfHKIsL5WgyAAZl/s200/author+box2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the throes of hardship that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</span></div>
Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-61707857561885197002017-06-20T12:18:00.000-04:002018-02-14T12:57:43.611-05:00This Isn't How It Was Supposed To Be<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExhzynMpUMEqIuVzsu-6Di3WDwfA8EIG3iJnHJQhNsgHc3HSIs8ZF5uVm6Vupz5il5sdlLXFspvQdhhxLabbM7GPqgjQiRpoMdbn3BFrgshy_fMNkAsoR-1fT3XHhJOpqMQFhL1_uOwv_/s1600/Golden+Falcon+Soccer-+1987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="1600" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExhzynMpUMEqIuVzsu-6Di3WDwfA8EIG3iJnHJQhNsgHc3HSIs8ZF5uVm6Vupz5il5sdlLXFspvQdhhxLabbM7GPqgjQiRpoMdbn3BFrgshy_fMNkAsoR-1fT3XHhJOpqMQFhL1_uOwv_/s320/Golden+Falcon+Soccer-+1987.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Falcons- 1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Late last month, I
heard the news that a former classmate had died.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">She was 38.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I haven’t seen her since our days playing high school soccer but my
memories of her go all the way back to the 1</span><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">st</sup><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> or 2</span><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">nd</sup><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> grade.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I guess I felt a connection to her again
after so long when I learned she also gave birth to her first child one month
after me and after a string of losses due to infertility.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Both of our boys coincidentally share the
same name and similarly, she was rushed to the ER one week after delivery. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But instead of
pregnancy and delivery related complications like me, she was diagnosed with
brain cancer and given 18 months to live. I often saw updates on how she
was doing and vividly remember the first night I started to pray for her while
I was recovering myself. I prayed she would get
the same news I got: "You've been through hell but it looks like you're
going to make it." The news seemed to get worse for her.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">She endured repeated surgeries and rounds of research
drugs that may or may not have been working. She fought hard for the
chance to see her miracle baby learn and grow and while she got the chance to
hear the sweet sound of laughter from her one and only son, the doctors had
been right.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Brain cancer stole the hopes
and dreams of a new mother and left a gaping hole in a young family.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Her story was one of
the catalysts of my survivor's guilt during my early recovery. Even now,
I think about her often. I think of her during ridiculously mundane moments like when I
stop for an iced coffee with my son wrapped around my hip before a play date or
when I lift his gaze to the sky and point to the full moon rising above
the horizon. She never got to do these
things with her boy. She missed so much
of her son’s life while she was still alive. I wonder if the glimpses
she had of him from the confines of her bed comforted her or made her pain
exponentially worse. I know the intense grief of being away from your
child when you aren’t well. Not seeing my
newborn son for those eleven days while I fought for my life was by far the
most crushing part of my ordeal and yet she endured this repeatedly and for much
longer stretches over those eighteen months. Why
am I able to walk away from my fiery trial when my biggest fear became her reality?
I shake my head at the unfairness of it all, the unfairness of her diagnosis, the unfairness of future plans that will go unfulfilled and the unfairness of a young boy who
will grow up without his Momma. It cuts
me to the core because it so easily could have been me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">This
isn’t how it was supposed to be!</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">These amazing bodies
that heal themselves weren't meant to betray us like this. New mothers aren’t
supposed to fight for their lives after delivering life. They certainly
weren't meant to start their battle with a dormant brain cancer one week after
delivering a long-awaited miracle baby. The timing is just so awful; it's unnecessarily cruel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">God, where are you? This isn't how it was supposed
to be for them!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why are you allowing this?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why aren't you intervening??!?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why do some moms like me live and others
don't?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I confess that I have
been angry at God at times because of things like this. I run through all of the questions and admit
to the shameful arrogance of demanding an answer from the God of the universe
for the horrifying things that have happened to the people around me. I’m perplexed by the stinging and unexpected contradiction
of women dying while trying to give life.
And honestly, I feel like the suffering from things like medical conditions,
mental illness, diseases and infertility are just the tip of the iceberg
because there is unspeakable suffering humanity has brought on itself. There is abuse of all kinds, neglect, murder,
genocide, civil war and brutal regimes that target their own people. The list can go on! There is such incredible suffering in this
world and it has permeated every facet and walk of life. There is no escaping it. Over the last four years, God has been patient
with me as I grapple with the huge range of human suffering and vent my frustrations to Him. He has been gently impressing this idea on me
over and over again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This
isn’t how it was supposed to be.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222;">It is sadly comforting to know that God’s heart hurts too. Just as Jesus saw the bitterness of death and
wept when Lazarus died in John 11, He is still moved by the suffering of His
creation today. God aches watching the
wretched chaos sin has unleashed on the perfect world He originally formed.
As it pains a parent to watch a wayward child reap the harvest of bad
decisions, so too God grieves for us. My
heart is weighed down by the few things I see and hear in my day to day life; I
can’t imagine the depth of His sorrow knowing He sees all of it. Our suffering reminds Him that death is the
consequence of our sin, that sin has twisted every good thing He made, how it's
grown exponentially, multiplied and overtaken all of humanity and impacted all
of the world’s systems like the cancer it truly is. Our suffering reminds
Him that sin not only affects all of us spiritually but how the ramifications
of it also impact our bodies biologically, mentally and emotionally. It's when I start on my tirade of how unfair
life is that I hear God’s gentle voice of rebuke. Then a different set of questions come to
mind because our suffering brings our innate need for Jesus to the
surface. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You want to talk about our bodies betraying
us?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You want to talk about life being unfair?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then look no further than
the The Perfect One who was made sin for a fallen world. It is the ultimate unfairness. As I meditate on Jesus
being sent to die for sins He did not commit, I wonder if He turned His tearful
eyes toward Heaven while He hung on the Cross and whispered the same words to
God the Father that I do sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This
isn't how it was supposed to be. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Who has believed our report?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And to whom has the arm of the Lord been
revealed?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For He shall grow up before Him as a tender
plant,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And as a root out of dry ground.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He has no form or comeliness;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And when we see Him,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is no beauty that we should desire Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He is despised and rejected by men,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was despised, and we did not esteem Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Surely He has borne our griefs<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And carried our sorrows;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet we esteemed Him stricken,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Smitten by God, and afflicted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But He was wounded for our transgressions,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was bruised for our iniquities;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And by His stripes we are healed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">All we like sheep have gone astray;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We have turned, every one, to his own way;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of
us all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Isaiah 53: 1-6</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<b>Mood: </b> hopeful sorrow<br />
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<b>Listening To: </b><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/bathing-beach-ep/id1213091747">Bathing Beach EP, Novo Amor</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on previous posts!<br />
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<b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near-Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest adventures and creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-40863827937531476652017-06-05T07:00:00.000-04:002018-02-14T12:57:54.644-05:00Meeting Doctor Mills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">With my <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html">Pulmonary Embolism Survival Anniversary</a> and the <a href="https://www.crowdrise.com/WalkToStopTheClotNYC2017">New York City Walk to Stop The Clot</a> coming up in less than two weeks, it is high time I posted about some other #stoptheclot related news from earlier in the year. I had every intention of writing about this months ago, but you know... life with toddlers. :)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you have been following my story at all, you know the Emergency Room Doctor was crucial in the discovery and diagnosis of my <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-9-can-i-go-home-yet.html">bilateral pulmonary emboli</a> when I was 24 weeks pregnant. I shudder to think about what life would be like for my husband right now if we weren't fortunate enough to have a doctor who recognized the symptoms of blood clots. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Up until now, you've known him as Dr. Mills. Because I was sharing my story online and had not asked permission to use his real name, I wanted to protect his identity (and the identity of all of the healthcare professionals I have written about so far) but i</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">n late January, <a href="https://www.tapinto.net/towns/somerville/articles/grateful-mother-has-reunion-with-somerville-docto">his role in my story became very public</a>! In honor of Blood Donor Appreciation Month, the hospital set up a meeting and I enjoyed a rare opportunity that few survivors ever have. My family and I met with Dr. Marc Milano, (aka: Dr. Mills) for the second time to thank him for saving my life and the life of my unborn son. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><u>A Big Thank You</u></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Soon after Nathan was born, I sent birth announcements to all of the doctors who treated us and wrote a note of thanks for their amazing efforts to help us survive. One of those announcements made its way to Dr. Milano but being able to thank him in person as a family of three- and under much better circumstances this time- was </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">special. The tiny, unseen patient from our days in the ER was now a toddling one year old full of energy! So many of those raw memories from the </span><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-8-crisis-strikes.html" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">pulmonary emboli episode</a> came flooding back that afternoon. <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I tried not to tear up during the meeting but how do you even begin to thank the person who was instrumental in saving you and your miracle baby? Dr. Milano’s persistence, thoroughness and determination is one of the reasons my son and I are walking around today. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course, my son had no idea what all of the fuss was about. Someday he will. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
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<b><u>The Blue Bag of Swag</u></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few days before, I decided I wanted to give something to Dr. Milano. I had no idea what would be appropriate or meaningful so I reached out to my contacts at the <a href="https://www.stoptheclot.org/">National Blood Clot Alliance</a> for help. When I presented him with a gift bag, he said something to the effect of “You didn’t have to do this.” as I expected. All I said was “You’ll understand when you see it.” A special thanks to Judi for not only providing #StopTheClot swag but sending TWO shirts to make sure Dr. Milano would get the correct size. He loved it!</span><br />
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<b><u>June Marks Two Years</u></b><br />
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As I rapidly approach the second anniversary of the <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/04/our-story-part-9-can-i-go-home-yet.html">PE near-miss</a>, I'm still filled with a gratitude that can't really be articulated well. I hope the intensity of that gratitude never fades as the years go on. It blindsides me during ordinary moments, silly things like walking into Starbucks for an iced coffee with my son nestled on my hip with his little arms clinging to me like a koala. It creeps in as I watch his eyes slowly close and his body surrender to sleep in the dim light of his nursery every night. Gratitude makes my heart want to sing when I see him horsing around with his Dad. I almost missed all of this. And unless you have teetered on the fence between life and death, it's hard to put the depth of this feeling into words. There really are no words to describe it. I look at my son and remember and replay so many of those hard moments. I remember the countless <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2016/05/our-story-part-10-i-am-survivor.html">pleas and prayers from my hospital bed</a> that this sweet little boy growing inside me would live! And to see him thriving... to be alive to experience all of the joys and hardships of motherhood every single day- this is living! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running with joy because we survived pulmonary emboli!</td></tr>
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<b><br /></b><b>Interested in supporting <a href="https://www.crowdrise.com/teamcattell">Team Cattell</a> in NYC later this month? Click <a href="https://www.crowdrise.com/donate/project/teamcattell/caseycattell/0">here</a> to join or donate.</b><br />
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<b><br /></b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span>Click <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html">here</a> to catch up on previous posts!<br />
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<b>About the Author:</b> Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</div>
Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-31066720205060548752017-04-27T07:00:00.000-04:002018-04-25T19:08:45.220-04:00When God Says No Instead of Not Yet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was a warm, spring evening at my nephew's end of the year school concert. We stood outside eagerly awaiting the kids to join their families after an adorable program. My little one, only 8 months old at the time, was fast asleep on my chest in the baby carrier. It wasn't long ago that I stood in this very spot at a previous concert, feeling so incredibly alone and very aware that I was the only woman of childbearing age without a child </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">in attendance</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />I remember the gut wrenching feeling of those days. After all, there were many days that I put on my brave Auntie face so I could be a part of my nephew's lives knowing the experiences I lovingly shared with them could very well be the closest I ever got to having children of my own. I remember babysitting the boys with my husband and rocking my youngest nephew to sleep in the dark with tears streaming down my face all the while soaking up a small portion of his sweet baby love knowing this could be it! That despite my millions of prayers and pleas for a family, whether biological or not, God may not give me the desire of my heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am so thankful that God heard those prayers and intervened mightily! I gave birth to our miracle two years later after a hard, long fought battle with infertility and a host of life-threatening pregnancy and postpartum complications. Yet, even as my son rested in the heaviness of sleep on my chest that evening, I felt the grief of infertility flooding back all over again. I saw at least five very pregnant moms wrangling their children in the school yard and I felt such an intense loss. I will never be one of them thanks to the conditions that nearly killed me. <br /><br />While the pain of secondary infertility is very real, I am the first to admit it doesn't come anywhere near the despair of primary infertility. The difference is that I can rest in the gratitude of my one and only son. I still get to do motherhood even though it is so far removed from how I envisioned it or planned for it to be. And even though I hold the greatest earthly blessing God could ever give to me, my heart still aches in the same place it did before my miracle came along. There is still grief. There is still the same involuntary flinch every time I see a new pregnancy announced or hold a new baby. Maybe the feelings are numbed a little bit more than they used to be. Through it all God is still teaching me to trust Him with my whole heart. His ways are not my ways and while I will never understand why He has allowed so much cruel sorrow to infiltrate my life, I know He still loves me. He's still teaching me how to be content with what He's already provided. He's still teaching me how to wait on Him when the road seems so incredibly hopeless. He's still reminding me to walk by faith and not by sight. Maybe the real question is "Now that you've seen the other side, what will you do with it?" Perhaps that is the very purpose to the pain.<br /><br />To the woman reading this who can't even try for a baby- whether it's primary or secondary infertility and whatever the reason- if you are feeling the intense grief I described I want to encourage you. God is using your heartbreak in a huge way whether you realize it or not. He is revealing something mighty about His character and love for you. And while I completely understand that it doesn't feel like that right now, I promise when you are through this storm (and someday you will be), you will look back and see His hand at work in you and your circumstances. You will see how He carried you through. He may very well be working on a greater miracle in your life far beyond what you could ask for or imagine. That doesn't take away the grief, but perhaps it will provide some peace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After all... He's in the business of doing the impossible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Other posts in the #NIAW series: </span><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/2017/04/listen-up-infertility-isnt-choice.html" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">Listen Up: Infertility Isn't A Choice</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">See previous #NIAW posts </span><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/infertility-2.html" style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif;">here</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">New to The Heart of Home? </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Start</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story_22.html" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">here</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>About the Author: </b>Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son.
If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en" rel="nofollow">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell" rel="nofollow">Twitter</a>.</span>Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040012252477637047.post-31458448866142808372017-04-26T20:00:00.000-04:002017-04-27T08:59:19.728-04:00 Listen Up: Infertility Isn’t a Choice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My husband and I were newly married and had it all figured out. We would start trying for a family by the time our fifth anniversary rolled around. We would have four children, raise them in a house on a beautiful, one acre property with a white picket fence and a dog. Maybe we would have a pool too, maybe not. We figured we had some time to decide on that. We had so much time to figure it all out. That was fifteen years ago and life hasn't exactly gone according to our plan. Not even close.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So often, the vision young people have about their future is entirely trouble free. No one plans on anything tragic. No one hopes for a laundry list of diseases or medical conditions. No one ever thinks they will struggle to achieve their dreams. But for one in eight couples, the struggle to start a family is very real. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This week is <a href="https://infertilityawareness.org/">National Infertility Awareness Week</a>, a campaign to spread the word and reduce the stigma by bringing attention to the details, issues and costs surrounding all ways people can build a family. When I heard this year's theme was "<a href="https://infertilityawareness.org/about-niaw/niaw-theme/">Listen Up!</a>", it sounded a bit aggressive at first but maybe that's what we need. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So often, I </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">hear judgement dripping from younger women about an older mom. I cringe because I am simultaneously that young woman who thinks she knows how her own story will end and I am also that battered, older mom who knows that the war for a family isn’t pretty. Experience is the best teacher, right? I am guilty of saying things like:</span><br />
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<b>Then: Oh, I'll be a young mom.</b><br />
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<i>Now: I hope you're right and your body cooperates.</i><br />
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<b>Then: Oh, we are going to have a big family.</b><br />
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<i>Now: I hope pregnancy comes easily for you.</i><br />
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<b>Then: I will be DONE having all of my kids by the time I'm thirty!</b><br />
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<i>Now: I hope that choice is yours to make when the time comes.</i><br />
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<b>Then: Why are they waiting so long to have kids? </b><br />
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<i>Now: You have no idea how this waiting is killing us. </i><br />
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It pains me to think how my words back then could have impacted someone in the throes of infertility. You see, no one thinks or expects infertility to set up shop outside their own front door. No one expects it to bust down that door like a freight train and wreak havoc on every plan you ever made for your life. Infertility is not even a consideration until you are staring it in the face wondering how on earth your plans went so horribly wrong. As a young person, I, too, was under a cloud of ignorance that a family would come easily for us. <br />
<i><br />I never planned to be a first time mom at thirty-six.<br /><br />I never expected to wait FOURTEEN LONG YEARS for a baby.<br /><br />And I sure as heck never thought I'd join the ranks of women in the two time maternal near-miss club.</i><br />
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Life has a way of blazing its own trail despite your perfect mapping skills. It is not my intention to give you anxiety about the probability you'll encounter infertility but the fact of the matter is that one in eight women will. Let that sink in. <b>One in eight.</b><br />
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To the women who are nose to nose with the beast of infertility, I want you to know that you aren't alone! I get it. I used to be there and someday you'll be able to look back and say that too. This pothole stricken road won't be forever. I know it feels like a never ending nightmare of a road trip most of the time. It will end someday… maybe not how you think, but it will end.<br />
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To the women who are blessed to have their families when they are young, please resist the temptation to categorize or label the women around you. Their circumstances may not be a choice. Be thankful for the gift of fertility knowing that so many of us fight for it every day.<br />
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To the younger women who think it won't happen to them, I hope you are right. I hope you never, experience the heart wrenching cycle of grief that comes every 28 days and often lasts for years. Before you cast judgement or look down on that older mom, just remember, you are one diagnosis away from being like her. You could also be one in eight couples who struggle with infertility.<br />
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<a href="https://infertilityawareness.org/about-niaw/niaw-theme/">Listen Up! </a> Infertility is never a choice.<br />
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New to The Heart of Home? Catch up on our story <a href="http://www.theheartofhome.net/p/our-story.html">here</a>.<br />
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<b>About the Author</b>: Casey Cattell struggled with infertility for more than a decade before giving birth to her son, Nathan, in 2015. She is a two time Maternal Near Miss Survivor writing to give hope to women in the midst of hardships that challenge their faith. She also enjoys sharing her latest creative exploits. Casey and her husband live in the Northeast, USA and in their downtime like to explore new places and hike with their young son. If you liked this post or were encouraged by it, please consider passing it on. Find Casey on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_theheartofhome/?hl=en">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caseycattell">Twitter</a>.</div>
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Casey Cattellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11595923253528922948noreply@blogger.com0