Kaila Mugford

I cannot even begin to describe to you the roller coaster we have been on. Last week we hit our lowest of lows when we got the news about the possibility of having placenta accreta. And this week?  We finally had a victory. On Tuesday, my maternal fetal medicine (MFM) doc called to tell me that our next genetic test results came in. I'll get to those in a minute. After a bit of conversation about that and the next steps we will be taking there, she moved on to the placenta accreta. I currently see two sets of physicians- MFM and my regular OB. The news we got last week came from my OB, and although we do appreciate his wanting to prepare us for the worst case scenario, my MFM doc was none too happy to hear the fear that had come out of that appointment for us. "Kaila, I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt, you do NOT have placenta accreta. I have done all of your ultrasounds and I would have made sure to tell you if I had seen it. Please. I do not want you to worr

The last week has been...rough. And I'm okay, but I'm not okay.  We've been here before. In this "okay but not okay" place. Everyone has at some point or other in their lives. Three times that feeling has really stood out for me- when pregnant with Sam, pregnant now with Gabriel, and that third time was 2.5 years ago. It's not really a secret, but not something I think I've shared this publicly either- Jamey's and my marriage nearly ended around the time we moved here. We moved in a desperate attempt to save it, and I can stand here today and tell you that it was the very best thing we could have ever done. The pain of leaving our home in Ohio was intense, but there would be no home left if we had stayed.  We both had a very poor outlook on life in 2015. We carried emotional baggage and neither one of us knew how to resolve conflict in a healthy way. When we moved here, all I could do was cry that I had left behind "everything I loved

I'm not even quite sure where to start with this, because Jamey and I are still in a little bit of shock (and we didn't even think that was a possibility at this point). We've had quite the week. We celebrated Jamey's birthday on Wednesday, and it was such a good day. It felt so normal, so relaxed. I took the kids and we chose gifts, a little cake, and balloons that morning. I cleaned the house, set up the kitchen table with his "surprises." He got home, we sang Happy Birthday...and poor Mira threw up on the floor. Jamey spent his birthday this year cleaning up vomit and helping hold his 4 year old over a trash can while she threw up every 20 minutes for 6 hours.  So that was fun.  I know that's just normal, it's the time of year, all kids get sick, but our big problem was that Jamey had taken off Thursday to go with me to my maternal fetal medicine and ob/gyn appointment. We had childcare lined up for both kids, but Mira was supposed to b

I'm surrounded by people. And I feel so very lonely.  Our house has had a revolving door these last 3 weeks. It's been wonderful meeting new people, seeing old friends, and embracing in extra long hugs.  But the ache is growing.  Each day that passes is another step closer to the birth and death of Gabriel. And yes, there is a chance that death will precede birth. There's a chance he'll come next week, or maybe a month...or possibly 2 or 3 from now. We wake up emotionally drained, but still needing to face the demands of each day. I don't even want to think about what life would look like without our community right now, but thankfully I don't have to. The meals, the prayers, the texts, even the tags in funny Facebook posts, they bring joy. Our lives are currently shadowed with grief, but sunshine does peek through the clouds. I answer what feels like a million questions each day (most of them from my 4 year old on what kind of snack she can

I wish I could make this pretty. I wish I could say all I feel is peace and gratitude for all the good in my life right now. But I'd be lying. There are some peaceful moments, yes. And I do feel immense gratitude to those who have come alongside us in support and in love to help us through. But I mostly freaking hate this. My sweet fixer husband, he regularly asks me, "What can I do to help you right now?" Nothing. There's nothing you can do. Unless you can find a way to help me leave my body, find a way to not be me today, there's absolutely nothing. Stop asking, please. The only thing I want is unfixable, unsolvable. There is only One who can solve this, and He didn't fix it the way I wanted to last time. Oh, I know how I sound. I can throw myself an excellent pity party. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I don't stay there forever, and the party is just as fun as it sounds, but I sometimes do it anyway. Jamey are I have been kid