Friday, November 6, 2009


I just received a call informing me that Brooklyn has been denied for her Synagis shots for RSV this year.

Apparently, our insurance changed its' criteria this summer and decided that babies with "congenital anomalies" would only be approved for Synagis during their first 12 months of life, regardless of how long those congenital anomalies continue to cause them problems.

I am so upset that I can't quit crying. I am ready to rip my hair out from the frustration. I have been jumping through hoops trying to get my HIGH-RISK daughter an H1N1 vaccination for a month now, with absolutely no success. No one has them. Not here, not Dallas. My only offer has been to give her one with thimerosol (mercury) in it. I think not. We've already had our autism scare and are dealing with delays as it is. I thought for sure when I took Brooklyn to see one of her specialists at Children's Medical that they would have the vaccinations. Nope.

I am absolutely terrified. Every day brings more news stories about the virus, more children dying. Every time a local child has died, the media has made a big deal out of stressing that the child "had a compromised respiratory system." I know why they do it. It's supposed to comfort parents of healthy children, and that's all well and good, but what about us parents of babies and children who do have those "compromised respiratory systems." Thanks for adding to the panic and anxiety and fear we already had.

I'm becoming more and more of a hermit with Brooklyn with each passing week. We don't go to anyone else's house. Birthday parties? I think not. Anything indoors with multiple people, I don't want her there. Stores, malls, restuarants, I am freaked out. I don't want to take her anywhere anymore. I'm just too scared. My anxiety level is ridiculous. Outdoor things seem less threatening to me. We took her to the pumpkin patch two weeks ago, but I didn't want her to touch anything. We went to the zoo on Halloween, and I was alright most of the time, but when we went in the penguin house, where it was warm and humid and crowded and seemed like a germ breeding ground, I wanted Brooklyn out of there as quickly as possible. I make up excuses why I can't go places with my friends. We are quickly becoming prisoners in our own home.

Can someone please give my little girl a break? I just want her protected from all of these horrible things going around.This doesn't seem like too much to ask.

The Synagis coordinator said that she is going to try to get Brooklyn's pulmonologist to appeal the ruling. So all we can do at this point is hope and pray for a positive outcome.

Monday, November 2, 2009

These moments

I like
the weekend mornings
when it is just she and I.
I wake up to get her from her from her crib and she smiles at me,
offers me her bink and says in her high-pitched little singsongy voice,
"hap-py, hap-py, hap-py, hap-py!"
She stands up, reaches out for me, and I pick her up.
"Good morning, Baby Bear!," I say, "Did you sleep good?"
She answers by giving me sweet baby hugs and kisses.
There could not be a better start to a day.

We head to the kitchen, where I make her a morning bottle.
The two of us go to the couch so that she can have her breakfast.
She still lets me hold her like a newborn baby when she takes her bottle.
We snuggle,
just she and I,
in our pajamas.
She lays her head against my chest,
I rest my cheek on her head,
and we curl up under a blanket together.
I notice that she drinks her bottle slower than she does at other times.
If I move my head the slightest bit,
she snuggles her body closer against mine,
pushing her head underneath the curve of my neck.
She is showing me that she wants to be close to me, too.
She likes our morning cuddle times as much as I do.
I am glad, because these moments seem so few and far between these days.
My baby girl is growing so quickly,
she is so busy,
she has so much to learn,
so much to explore.
She rarely has time to let her mommy hold her close,
no matter how much I crave it.

I cradle her warm, soft body in my arms.
We gaze into each other's eyes.
I stroke her silky soft hair,
I kiss her smooth forehead
and her plush, chubby cheek.
A dozen times,
a hundred times.
I tell her how much I love her
a thousand ways,
a million ways.
That she is my everything,
as if that could describe it fully.
The truth is, I can never find the perfect words
to tell her just how much of a miracle she is.

Then, all too soon,
breakfast is done,
and she reaches up to give me a kiss
before she toddles away
to find her next adventure.
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