Keep breathing...

**This took place back in 2012. This is our story about getting pregnant with our Olivia...

The couple weeks following the reduction are a blur. We didn't answer the phone, didn't want visitors and leaned on one another during every waking moment. I did everything in my power to keep my emotions in check and would allow myself the smallest of moments to fall apart. I would sit in the shower and let my tears flow, but I wouldn't let myself get hysterical. Every time I would cry I could hear Dr. B tell me to keep it together, for Baby C.

Once the worst days were over family started pouring in. We had meals coming from every other family member. Peter drove the hour to have dinner in my bed with me. Carrie and my Aunt would drive to my favorite restaurant and bring me my favorite pasta. Taylor would lay in my bed trying time after time to make me laugh. Don's sister brought over music and movies to help lift our spirits. My mom would make meals and clean for us. We received cards, cookies baskets, fruit baskets, chocolates, flowers- and the list goes on. . Don's parents constantly brought groceries. His Aunt Robin would sit and chat with me for hours. Every single thing that every single person did for us didn't go unnoticed. We were and still are so thankful for everything everyone did to help make our lives a little easier.

There was one particular visit that stood out the most. My Dad.

My Dad and Shai brought over dinner and a bunch of groceries one night. He was the last to come visit. He didn't rush because he knew I needed the space. Don and Shai sat downstairs so my Dad and I could be alone. He sat at the bottom of my bed and we just looked at each other. No words.

My Dad has always been the "there's no crying in baseball" kind of Dad. If you ran to him crying as a kid he would always say, "cut the tears. talk to me like an adult." Not insensitive though. My Dad probably has the biggest heart in the world, but he raised us to be tough, independent. He can find a solution to every problem- in his eyes, nothing is impossible.

So, I laid in my bed looking at my Dad. My heart was racing a million beats a minute. I wanted to crumble. I wanted to throw myself on the floor and kick and scream until all of the pain ran out. I wanted to be 10 years old again and have my Dad make every ounce of pain go away. I didn't want to be a grown up. I didn't want to be going through what we were going through. It hurt like hell and I needed my Dad to tell me what to do...how to do it.

"Cry."

I didn't say a peep.

"Cry. It's ok to cry. Cry."

And that's all it took. At that moment I fell apart. I needed to. I understood that I needed to keep it as together as I could for Baby C, but I'm not a robot!

"Life is a bitch, damn it. This sucks. If I could take it away for you I would, but you've got this. You're strong enough. You'll get through this."

I knew he was hurting for me. I hated that.

My Dad and I talked for a good hour. About life, God, pain, hurt, the future. Everyone who came to visit and offer their kind words and support helped a great deal, but it was the conversation with my father that was the turning point. He told me that after I was done crying to start enjoying the reality that at the end of the day, I was still pregnant. After all that we had been through we deserved to enjoy the pregnancy.

Every week following the reduction we had an appointment at Rush, sometimes two or three- mostly for ultrasounds. I was on full best rest, but was obviously aloud to make the trip to and from appointments. Because I was in the second trimester I could no longer see Dr. B. He only had medical privileges through the first trimester. Moving foward I was to flip flop between our high risk doctor and my OB.

I didn't mind so many appointments. The ultrasounds helped calm my fears for the most part and it was a good reminder that I was still pregnant. I guess that sounds funny to most people, but every day since the miscarriage I would pass blood clots each time I went to the bathroom or sat in the shower. And every time I would pass a clot, I would inspect to see if it looked abnormal or suspicious. Going to the bathroom was a constant fear and reminder to not take this pregnancy for granted.

About a month after the reduction we were starting to feel more hopeful that this pregnancy would make it through the initial high risk phase. I went to my OB for blood work and ultrasound not knowing really what they were looking for. To be honest, I lost track of all of the tests and learned to only worry if the doctor told me there was something to worry about. A couple days after the blood work I received a call from my doctor.

"I got your results back. I am comfortable saying that I don't think there is anything to worry about, but legally I have to report the results to you. One of the levels came back elevated showing a possible hole in the neck and spine."

"When you say, hole, what exactly does that mean?"

"A hole. An opening."

"WHAT THE FUCK!!??"

"No, no, no. I am telling you that I don't think there is any room to worry. Come to my office for a level 5 ultrasound and we'll go from there."

"What do you mean there's nothing to worry about!? There is a hole in my baby's neck and spine!!!"

"Courtney, the blood work is most likely picking up one of the other babies." (Keep in mind I was still carrying all 4 babies. I never passed Baby D from the miscarriage and Baby A & B were still present from the reduction).

I drilled her. I didn't understand what she was getting at and I was on the verge of passing out. I thought this was it. Was she telling me there was nothing to worry about just to make me feel better? Does a hole really mean a fucking hole!? Every ounce of cool I had was completely lost. I wanted answers and I wanted them now. I wasn't waiting for another damn ultrasound.

"The test is most likely picking up another baby."

"Why? How do you know? And why does another baby have a hole in their spine!?"

"Because those babies are deteriorating."

And just like that the wind was knocked out me. Oh my God. Deteriorating?? Oh my God. My babies. Deteriorating, in my belly, at this very moment. I could barely breathe. The visual was too much to handle. D-E-T-E-R-I-O-R-A-T-I-N-G. Deteriorating. OH. MY. GOD. NO!

I barely uttered another word. I hung up with her and called Don hysterical. Then I called our high risk doctor. After hysterically telling the nurse about my conversation with our OB, she told me to come in.

When the doctor came in he told me I looked pale as a ghost. I told him I couldn't take much more. Does baby C have the hole or is it true, the other babies are deteriorating?

He was very upset with our OB. He told me that he purposely didn't order that test for reasoning that it would of course pick up results from the other babies. He said there was nothing to learn from the test and that he didn't agree with our OB's decision to move forward with the test. He then gave me an ultrasound to show me the spine and neck of Baby C. No holes. He printed a few pictures and told me to call him any time I needed another ultrasound to calm my nerves. I appreciated the offer, and took him up on it a couple of times.

Ultrasound appointments kept me breathing throughout the pregnancy. Two of the ultrasound techs were familiar with my situation that they would show me Baby C and tell me to look away while they evaluate the other babies. Because those babies were still in my belly, they still had to report the size and no heartbeat. Most times I would look at the wall and cry, but the picture I held in my hand of Baby C usually helped soothe the sting.

We eventually made it out of the high risk phase from the reduction. It was the end of February and we still had months to go. I prayed to God that Baby C would make it full term and the remainder of the pregnancy would be less eventful and less tragic.