MIRACLE GIRLS

CRISIS IN THE NICU - THE STORY OF ABBY'S SURVIVAL

I ran down the hospital corridor, the doctor’s words echoing in my mind—“You need to get back to the hospital right away.  We’re losing her.” When my husband Bert and I arrived back at the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, we stopped short.  Two of my babies clung to life, and the third was slipping away. Several doctors stood around little Abby’s incubator, their faces drawn. The nurses who’d tended to her for weeks choked back tears. I had no reason left to hope. This is goodbye.

Critical Abby in early stages of E-Coli Infection

Not so long before, I’d given up hope of becoming a mother. My first marriage had ended when I was in my mid-20's.  It was nearly twenty years later by the time I remarried.  A fertility doctor told Bert and I that we only had a two percent chance of getting pregnant naturally, so I decided to undergo in vitro fertilization. Surprisingly, it worked the first time around.

Then came the sonogram. I was pregnant with identical triplet girls! After the initial shock, I began picturing my family walking on the beach, the five of us hand in hand. The girls dressed in white sundresses, kicking at the surf. As if God was helping me make up for lost time.

Less than five months into my pregnancy, I collapsed at work. As I was being rushed to the hospital, I started to bleed heavily. The bad news kept coming. I had a placental abruption where my placenta had separated from my uterine wall. Then the triplets contracted fetofetal transfusion syndrome and weren’t getting the same amount of nutrients. Later I developed gestational diabetes.  I prayed that I’d make it to seven months so the girls would have a better chance at life. But by six months, they were ready to come out. Two days after Valentine’s Day, Abby, Bella and Simone were born 15 weeks premature. They weighed less than 4 1/2 pounds… combined!  Abby was the smallest at 1 pound, 5 ounces.

Abby and Bella underwent surgery for perforated intestines, followed by heart surgery. Simone’s lungs were collapsing. Abby needed three blood transfusions. Each procedure produced new complications. Bert and I practically lived at the hospital, praying non-stop by their incubators and watching helplessly while the nurses administered rounds of painkillers, steroids and antibiotics. At one month old, Bella and Simone were critical, but stable. It was Abby who we were losing. On top of everything else, she’d contracted an E. coli blood infection through her central I.V. line that sent her body into septic shock.

Abby in Septic Shock

Now I had to ask the one question I didn’t think I could endure hearing. The doctor on call was a visiting neonatologist—he practiced at the hospital only one week out of the month, but he’d been following my girls’ case closely.  

“Isn’t there anything else we can do?” I said.

 “Medically speaking, no,” he said. “We’ve done everything.”

“So that’s it?”

He hesitated. "I think you should do Kangaroo Care."

I’d spent enough time around the maternity ward to have done kangaroo care many times—holding each girl skin-to-skin. I figured he was just giving me a chance to say goodbye.  But the doctor insisted that wasn't the case. “We don’t fully understand kangaroo care,” the doctor admitted. “When we've done all we can medically, sometimes a baby just needs to know someone loves them so they know there's something worth fighting for." 

I looked down at Abby. What we needed was a miracle. The slightest intake of breath was a struggle for her. Her entire right arm was an open wound, burned by the sodium bicarbonate she’d been given to balance her toxic levels. Her fragile skin looked ready to burst.  She had ballooned to twice her size from all the fluids pumped into her fragile little body. It hurt to look at her. She was dying before my eyes.   

Maybe kangaroo care wouldn’t heal her. It seemed so basic after all the doctors had done, all that technology and knowledge. But it was a chance to say good-bye. I’d hold her close so she’d know I loved her. One last time.

The nurse placed Abby in my arms and wrapped a blanket around us. I was afraid I might hurt her. I held her gently against the warmth of my skin, and sang to her “You Are My Sunshine."  It’s okay, Abby. If it's too hard you don’t have to hold on any longer.

My tears flowed as I said goodbye.  But suddenly a voice inside me said, tell her to fight.  I whispered to her, You are so loved.  Your sisters need you.  Your papa needs you. I need you. Don’t go, my sweet girl, fight. I felt my words go through me to her.  I held her for an hour, feeling the tiny thump, thump against my chest.  Next it was Bert’s turn.  He closed his eyes, cradling her close.  She looked so small against his bare chest.  “Stay with us, Abby,” he whispered.

The nurse put Abby back into her incubator. We huddled around and watched her vitals. Come on, Abby. Her blood pressure started to rise. Her oxygen levels were stabilizing. Her heart rate was too. You can do it, Abby!

It took several days before Abby was completely out of the woods.  Several nurses confessed to us that Abby was the sickest baby they'd ever seen survive. 

We continued doing Kangaroo Care as often as we could.  After more than thirteen weeks in the intensive care unit, we brought the girls home—all three of them.  The doctors couldn’t explain Abby’s recovery. “You do all you can medically. Sometimes, though, it takes a different power,” one of the neonatologists said.  

Love is that power. I have no doubt whatsoever that love brought Abby back from the very brink of death when all else failed and all hope was gone. It was love that gave my daughter life. 

Abby at 20 months old with her papa

DOC STERN'S CABIN

REDISCOVERING MY PIONEER HERITAGE

The stress of my life was beginning to overwhelm me, so I made a decision.  For the last four and a half years it had been all about my triplet daughters, my husband and my work.  It was time for me. 

Lack of sleep or any form of relaxation was draining the life out of me.  I realized if I didn’t take better care of myself I might not be around for my children when they needed me later in life.  I liken it to the announcement they make on airplanes… “Please put on your oxygen mask first before assisting your children.”  For me it was a survival decision.  If I became incapacitated my family would suffer too.  A start to this new attitude was letting my BFF, Sherry, whisk me away for a girl’s weekend getaway last weekend to Sabino Canyon in Tucson, Arizona.  Little did I know at the time that I would also re-discover part of my heritage.

My mother was born and raised in Tucson before being swept off her feet by my father and moving to California. My maternal grandparents settled in the small dusty town in 1920, just eight years after Arizona became a state.  They were true pioneers. 

My grandfather, Al Sterns, was a chiropractor… the first ever licensed in the state of Arizona.  Back then most people thought chiropractors were quacks.  His patients were always grateful for his treatments, but they couldn’t always pay.  So my grandfather was often paid in chickens, eggs or vegetables.  Al and my grandmother, Eunice, had seven children, two boys and five girls.  My mom was the youngest girl.  After having their first child their young family lived in a tent while they built their first house by themselves… rock by rock. 

In the 1940’s when my mother was 11 years old, her family purchased a small piece of land on Mt. Lemmon, just north of Tucson.  Over the years they hauled up rock and sand from the riverbeds down in the valley.  The government was clearing land to widen the road, which provided them logs.  With the help of the Sterns kids and various relatives they eventually finished their small summer cabin made of rocks and logs.  I vaguely remember visiting the cabin a couple of times as a small child.

My mom as a young girl

However, none of this was on my mind as Sherry drove us south from Phoenix to Tucson.  She had planned everything including booking a lovely two-bedroom guesthouse.  And it was Sherry who suggested a day trip up Mount Lemmon the day after we arrived.  It wasn’t until we were nearly to the top of the mountain that I thought of my grandparents cabin.  I called my mother but she wasn’t much help with directions.  However, my aunt who still lived in Tucson gave us a general idea of where it was located. 

Off the main highway we bounced along a dirt road for several minutes.  I recognized the cabin right away.  It looked medieval up on a hill amongst the pine trees… like a small rock castle.  

It had a For Sale sign out front.  The windows were boarded up.  It had been neglected for some time.  However, I was impressed with how sturdy it was.  Nothing was knocking this cabin down.  The walls were made up of large, smooth river rock, beautiful quartz rock and a few logs.  A large heart shaped rock sat in the center of the fireplace wall. 

I called the realtor on the sign.  Only two people had ever owned the cabin, my grandfather and the current owner.  Up in Mount Lemmon they still called it “Doc Sterns Cabin.”  

Doc Stern's Cabin back in the day

I was enchanted by this strong symbol of my descendants.  I had long admired my mom’s incredible strength and work ethic.  Now I imagined her as a pre-teen hard at work slapping cement between the rocks, scraping the bark off of the logs, attaching tiles to the roof.  She had passed this strength onto me. 

Doc Stern's cabin today

Even though at times my life seems like more than I can handle, I knew right then I would find the strength to stay strong... with the help of God’s grace and power, my inherited fortitude and by keeping a big heart in the middle of it all.

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

MY JOURNEY TO BECOME A FEMALE SPORTSCASTER

“I want your job!”  It’s a comment I get A LOT.  Many want my job, but few people are willing to put in the hard work to get there.  A steady stream of young aspiring female sports reporters contact me wanting advice on how to do what I do.  Most of them cringe when I tell them my story.

A job in sports media may look glamorous, but it involves a lot of groveling.  Dealing with egomaniac narcissists isn’t always fun.  Forget a social life or having weekends and holidays off.  Your life revolves around the sports you cover.  Some hopeful sports reporters I counsel seem mainly interested in rubbing elbows with professional athletes.  There are also the occasional young women I advise who are passionate and knowledgeable about sports.  It’s rewarding to be able to pay it forward to those with the right passion.

Twenty plus years ago I was like the latter.. dreaming of a career covering sports.  Growing up in Southern California, I spent countless hours with my brother and father watching our beloved Los Angeles Lakers and Dodgers.  I studied broadcasting at Pepperdine University, but was clueless as to how to get my career started after graduating.  Back then women in sports media were an anomaly.  I knew I needed to start in a small television market, but wondered who would hire a female for a sports department of one.

I wrote letters, actual letters not emails, to the only women I saw covering sports on television, Linda Cohn at ESPN and Lesley Visserat CBS Sports.  Amazingly, Ms. Cohn called me one week later.  She was gracious and encouraging.  Her advice was to never pass up an opportunity to be in front of the camera or be involved in anything sports media related.  She also stressed the importance of networking.  Ms. Visser wrote back with similar advice.  The fact these successful women would take the time to encourage me gave me a big boost of confidence.

I quickly got internships at the ABC Channel 7 sports department in Los Angeles and at Prime Ticket (which became Prime Sports, which became Fox Sports.)  I had a full-time job as a travel agent and then as a marketing assistant at the Los Angeles Clippers, but spent most of my evenings at my internships.  I enticed the production crews with cookies and lasagna to allow me to jump in front of the camera on set and in the field.  It took some time, but I eventually had a decent looking resume tape.  I constantly scanned the industry magazine, Broadcast Media, for job postings.  Over time I collected a two-inch thick file of rejection letters. 

It wasn’t until I suffered a broken heart that I finally went all out.  I was desperate to prove to myself and to the man who broke my heart that I was capable of achieving my audacious dream.   It was my “TV sports career or bust” tour. I put my belongings in storage, packed up my car and started driving.  I targeted the Pacific Northwest as my region of choice to land my first television job. 

The Internet was in its early stages.  There were no station websites.  I looked up television stations in a directory and called new directors as I drove through the small towns of Redding and Yreka, California, Medford, Oregon and Yakima, Washington.  I asked for five minutes of their time to introduce myself and drop off a resume tape.  Some news directors were too busy to see me, others gave me a few minutes.  None had any openings.

I ended up in Portland, Oregon where a college friend lived.  My meager savings were running out so I took the only short-term job I could find, working at a temp agency.  I ended up answering phones at a construction site.  Not my dream job.  However, one day I was looking through the classifieds in the local newspaper and spotted an ad for a television reporter.  A cable station in Vancouver, WA was hiring for their small budget newscast.  They were also looking for a sports reporter/anchor.

I got the job and finally had my first on-camera television job.  It was part-time and only paid $7.00 an hour, but it was a start.  During the year I was employed at Columbia Cable I also worked as a waitress, a nanny, a shoe salesperson and a radio reporter.  Television didn’t come close to paying the bills. 

When I got desperate for a full-time gig I hit the road again.  The news director at KEZI-TV, the ABC station in Eugene, OR agreed to meet with me.  He didn’t have any openings, but was friendly and liked my resume tape.  Before leaving I asked if I could call him occasionally to check his job opening status.  I called every other Thursday at 3 p.m.  We developed a friendly rapport over the next few months.  Then one day he called me for the first time.  His weekend sports anchor wanted to move into news.  Was I still interested in a job?  Absolutely!

After three years in Eugene honing my craft covering two PAC-10 schools and an NBA team, the Portland Trailblazers, I was fortunate enough to land a job in Phoenix, Arizona, a top 20-television market.  Thanks to networking I’m in my 15^th year at FOX 10. 

This is my advice to those who want my job.  Do everything you can to prepare yourself to take advantage when an opportunity presents itself.  Pick a region or area with small television markets to focus on.  Don’t wait until there is a job opening to show your potential boss you want to work for them.  Small market news directors have so much employee turnover they already know who they want to hire before the job is even posted.  Don’t be in a rush to work in a big market.  Make your rookie mistakes where your audiences are smaller.  Keep the dream alive.  Persistence plus passion= payoff. 

  

  

RUNNING A SLEEP DEFICIT?

SLEEP DEPRIVATION CAN MAKE YOU SICK

I’ve discovered firsthand how effective sleep deprivation can be as a torture method.  Before becoming a mother I prided myself on good sleeping habits.  I’m not embarrassed to say I slept 9-11 hours most nights.  Call me lazy, but I have no doubt it’s the single biggest reason I’ve looked ten years younger than my age the past two decades.  Those years caught up to me though since becoming pregnant and giving birth to triplets.

A sleep study in the United Kingdom reported that after a week of getting less than six hours of sleep a night they found changes in over 700 genes in their subjects.  Sleep deprivation has been linked to obesity, heart disease and diabetes.  It also has serious affects on the immune system and your body’s ability to respond to stress.  The need for sleep varies between individuals, but it is recommended we should sleep an average of 7 to 8 ½ hours per night.

In another study, this one done by the National Center for Biotechnology Information, they found sleep is important for body restitution.  Similar to re-booting a computer, sleep helps the body with energy conservation, thermoregulation and tissue recovery.

My sleep deficit started a few weeks prior to having an emergency cesarean section at 24 weeks, six days (15 weeks premature).  I was hospitalized with a host of complications 19 weeks into my pregnancy.  I’m convinced nurses, God bless them, are taught in nursing school to never, ever let their patient sleep more than two hours at a time.

The hospital’s sleep torture was nothing compared to when my triplets came home after 13 ½ weeks in the Neonatal Intensive Care (NICU).   Sleep became more precious than a Faberge egg.  My girls were on oxygen and wore heart monitors for the first few weeks they were home.   By the time I got all three fed and changed it was almost time to start all over again.  All too often one of their heart monitors would have a false alarm.  And wouldn’t you know it, it was always around 3 a.m.  On a good night I was lucky to get two separate 45-minute nighttime naps.  After a couple of months I was walking around like a zombie… a zombie prone to having fits of uncontrollable sobbing.  Other mothers of multiples I met through a support group assured me “this too shall pass.”  And eventually it did.

In my research I discovered after President George W. Bush’s administration was criticized for water-boarding detainees suspected of terrorism they switched to other methods, sleep deprivation being one of them.  A report in The Justice Campaign wrote that Guantanamo’s sleep deprivation torture was called Operation Sandman or Frequent Flyer Program.   Detainees were deprived sleep up to six days.  It went on to say sleep deprivation lasting more than 48 hours produces hallucinations.  An article in USA Today detailed how the CIA stepped over their bounds when trying to get information out of terror suspects after September 11^th.

My daughters finally began sleeping through the night when they reached about seven months old... thanks to an Infant Sleep Trainer.  My husband called her “The Baby Whisperer.”  She was a Godsend.  She took care of the girls all night for several nights in a row.  She helped us get them on a feeding and sleeping schedule.  Soon after we hired her, my daughters were sleeping twelve hours a night from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.  She was expensive, but worth every penny.  It was heaven after the hell my husband and I had been through.

Unfortunately we fell back into sleep purgatory when they were about 3 and ½ years old.  It seemed like overnight they became afraid of the dark, fearful of monsters in their room.  Especially Abby who is mildly developmentally delayed.  There were several weeks where I’d be woken up about every 90 minutes… up to five times a night.  My husband travels extensively for his job, so he would get at least a few nights of peace and quiet each week.  I, on the other hand, never got a break.  I tried everything I could think of to get them to let me sleep.  I got them a nightlight and said bedtime prayers.  I begged them and bribed them with stickers and treats even threatened to put them in a crib in their timeout room (our guest room).  Nothing worked.  It was hard to focus.  My work suffered, I was exhausted all the time.

Now several months later I'm managing, but still not getting enough sleep.  My wakeup visits decreased after I discovered a magical clock that looks like a traffic light.  When the red light is on they are supposed to stay in their bed.  A green light means they are allowed to get out of bed and come in Mommy and Daddy’s room.  It works about 2-3 nights out of the week.  Enough to keep my sanity and probably my job.

The most important thing I’ve learned through all of this is the need to take care of myself.  I now have no guilt giving my daughters electronics so I can take a decent nap on my days off, even if it means the laundry or dirty dishes have to wait.  I also have a girl’s weekend getaway planned for this weekend... the only item on the agenda is to relax by the pool.  I’m also looking at possible dates for a spa day.  By taking care of myself I will not only be a better mother right now, I will improve my chances of being there for my daughter’s until a ripe old age.  And the agony I’ve gone through the past few years will be a distant memory.

WEEK IN THE LIFE OF A SPORTS REPORTER & TRIPLET MOM

WHAT DOES MY WEEK LOOK LIKE?

Here's a sneak peak into what a typical week is like for me as I juggle my broadcasting career while raising triplet girls.  I am married though you won't see my husband.  He typically travels during the week for his job, so I do a lot of things by myself with the girls on my "weekend."

DOES BASEBALL DESERVE A HOLIDAY?

A HOLIDAY FOR BASEBALL?

Baseball’s Opening Day a holiday?  My first thought was it must be a gimmick or PR stunt.  But there was former major leaguer Ozzie Smith on television fronting a petition signed by 100,000 people to make Major League Baseball’s Opening Day a National holiday.  This was no joke.  I’m actually writing this post while sitting in the press box at Chase Field for the Arizona Diamondbacks home opener. against the San Francisco Giants.  I feel the excitement in the air… groundskeepers prepping the field like worker ants, players getting ready in the clubhouse talking about the butterflies in their stomach.

Sure baseball is America’s game, but come on.  We already have plenty of holidays… ten if you’re counting.  Plus this season there was more than one Opening Day.  The Diamondbacks and Dodgers opened the regular season in Australia more than a week before Arizona’s home opener.  And while most teams opened the season Monday, March 31^st, the Yankees and Astros didn’t have their opener until Tuesday.  The White House appropriately responded by saying it would take no action because the petition was “outside our strike zone.”  They continue to have a sense of humor on Pennsylvania Avenue.  I’m sure President Obama has more important issues to address.

You might ask, what’s wrong with another national holiday, it’s one more chance to avoid working.  Perhaps I’m down on the idea because it would mean there’s yet another holiday I have to work.  I’m a fan of baseball… not necessarily fanatical, but I have plenty of fond memories of the baseball growing up.  The Dodgers in the 70’s and 80’s… Steve Garvey with his Popeye arms crushing a homerun or Kirk Gibson doing his famous homerun trot limping around the bases while pumping his arm.  You tend to get jaded when sports becomes your job.  Don’t get me wrong I still love sports, but going to a sporting event now feels like work rather than a fun way to past the day away.  It certainly does not feel like a holiday to me.   

In the past few decades, football has taken over as a true love of a majority of sports fans in America.  Baseball is scrambling to stay relevant.  Major League Baseball spent nearly $26 million dollars advertising in major media last year, according to the Kantar Media unit of WPP.  This is compared to just $11.9 million spent in 2011 and $18.7 million in 2012.

For years there has been conversations about Super Bowl Monday being a national holiday.  Where would it end?  A holiday for all NBA Finals Game Seven’s or the day after the Oscars.  What if the ESPY’s are more your style?  If any event is that important to you it’s best to plan ahead and take a vacation day.  Calling in sick is another, more desperate option.  Let’s leave the holidays to those who’ve made a indelible impact on our country.  Sports are games after all and even the greatest athletes will never be carved into the side of Mount Rushmore.

Key words: MLB, Baseball, Holiday, Petition, Opening Day