Paradigm Shift

So it has been a while . . .

2010-06-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

I sit here on a Sunday morning with a contented baby playing at my feet. Wow, life has changed!

He is such a happy baby. He is the proverbial "easy" baby. He has been playing this way for the past half an hour at least. He is laying on his back, in his striped "Mommy Loves Me" pajamas, reaching up and grabbing at his toys that are hanging above him. He has toys hanging from links in a little jungle gym arc contraption. There's a bee, a purple star with a reflective mirror in the middle, a rattle, a soft tiger looking thing . . . just plain links. He grasps at them and is able to hold them in his grip. He's also using them to help pull himself onto his side — he's almost ready to roll over. He kicks his legs and alternately stops grasping at his toys to put his fingers in his mouth and suck on them a bit. He is the apple of my eye — he and his older brother and sister, of course.

During his pregnancy, I was fraught with fear: Would what happened last time happen again? Probably not, my mind reasoned, since what happened last time was such a freak, hardly-ever-happens kind of a diagnosis. Would something different happen this time? I made it to 12 weeks, when we could have an initial ultrasound and measure nuchal translucency. That was normal. Stress lessened, just a bit. Then I had a CVS . . . normal chromosomes (and it's a boy!). Stress lessened even more. The AFP test came back normal — now I was feeling pretty good. One last hurdle to get over . . . the "big" ultrasound. The one that checks for anomalies, the one at which we got our bad news last time. No anomalies! All I had to do then is to sit back and get round . . . and worry a bit. That worry never went away. Would something happen during delivery? Would I still come home without a baby?

Luckily — thanks be to God and the universe! — everything turned out as I had hoped it would, and here I am with him on this quiet Sunday morning. The house is tranquil — Daddy is sleeping as T gave him a hard time last night! The other kids were at grandmas for the night — and it is just he and I. He's playing with a plush blue elephant now, trying to grasp as many things at the same time in his tiny hands as possible. It is a joy to watch.

His brother is always in my mind, though. I like to think that their spirits were together for a while, playing together, in that nethertime before T's came to join us in this world, and that M is constantly with us, with him, watching over and protecting him in a special way. Protecting all of us in a special way.

T is my caboose. He's definitely the last of our brood. I cannot go through another tension filled pregnancy again. I worried with all of my pregnancies, to some degree, but his — for obvious reasons — took the cake. I cannot mentally do that again. I passed through the eye of the needle, and I'm grateful, but don't want to tempt fate again.

I'm Scared

2009-02-04T04:35:00.001-08:00

I know it has been a while since I wrote. Life gets busy and I think I'm a little depressed. I find it hard to get motivated to do anything I don't want to do.

I'm writing because I'm trying to purge some feelings and thoughts that are floating around in my head. For three days now I've woken at 3:45 in the morning. I cannot sleep past that. I'm facing fear and I'm trying to win, but I'm finding it difficult. My husband and I are thinking of trying again for a baby. After what's happened to us, I'm very scared of trying again and receiving a poor diagnosis (again). I don't want to get bad news. It isn't that I don't think I can handle it — I handled it when we got it the last time and I'm here now to be writing to you as I walk through it still. I just don't want to get it. And I'm assuming that I will. It is an asinine assumption. But then I get sad, and then fearful. And then angry at myself because I know I'm thinking really irrational thoughts . . . and I cannot stop this loop when it manifests itself at 3:45 in the morning.

So instead of laying there spiraling, I thought I'd get up and at least write about it and get it out of my head a bit.

Whatever.

Just . . . blah.

2008-12-01T20:39:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't written in a long time. The "high" I was on in my last post at work . . . yeah I'm not on that high now! I'm tired. I want Christmas vacation. Those few days of for Thanksgiving whet my appetite for some REAL time off.

That, and the holidays always make me depressed. I hate winter. If I didn't have kids I wouldn't decorate for Christmas. Especially this year. Call me Scrooge or whatever, but I just want to crawl into bed and slip into a half-asleep, half-wakeful but totally relaxed stupor. I don't want to think. I don't want to do anything. Depressed, yes. Yes, I am depressed.

I've been on the verge of tears all day. Just missing my baby. Hating the season. Missing my baby. Worried about should we try again. [Do you know that in my latest scenario I have myself dying in childbirth and my poor DH is now left to cope with raising three children by himself while dealing with his own grief over my death? That's sick. And that's how I think.] Missing my mother-in-law. Lazy and feeling bad about it. Feeling like I should do something and be productive. Feeling needy. Missing my baby. More worry. Letting myself feel overwhelmed. Everything. UGH.

I should do some grading tonight. But I'm not. I'm going to go downstairs and curl up with my True Crime: An American Anthology book and fall alseep on the couch (because I'm sick with a cold and am snoring and keeping the DH from sleeping). And I'm going to wake up and hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

At least I get to see my psychologist this week (Friday appointments). I missed last week because it was the Friday after Thanksgiving and no one was working who didn't have to. Including me. I was in bed in that stupor I so crave. Because then I don't have to feel. I hate feelings.

Work, Part III

2008-10-12T21:26:00.000-07:00

I've been on a total high at work lately. AND, I'm waiting for it to all come crashing down.

That's sick, but it is the way I am. Instead of playing the "Work What IF" Game, my psychologist said that I need to start making up a list of things I can think about should I find myself venturing into a seedy neighborhood in my head. Here's what's on the list so far:

1. Generate the (infinite) list of Fibonacci Numbers in my head one right after the other as far as I can go.

Mmm . . . yeah, that's as far as I got.

Do you know what the Fibonacci Numbers are? It is a number sequence that goes like this: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34 . . . The next number is the sum of the two previous numbers. It continues infinitely, and the really cool thing is how it relates to the arts, science, and nature. I'll elaborate: If you take a number and divide it by the number previous, you'll get a number that is around 1.6 . . . the further out in the sequence one is, the more precisely it will approach 1.6. This figure is known as the Golden Mean. The Greeks and the Romans really liked this ratio for engineering and architecture. One can see Fibonacci numbers at work in terms of how many leaves are on a stem, or how many spirals appear in a Nautilus shell, or how many seeds are on a seed head. Amazing, really. Visit this site http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/ if you want to read an exhaustive summary of it all. I don't teach math anymore, but it is a personal love. (And maybe I will teach it again some day . . . )

But as I said, work has been going swimmingly. I've been feeling uber organized and on top of everything. I astound my coworkers in my department with my techie skills and everything I do. They've told me, "You're amazing," and it gives me these brief moments of elation. I have a "to do" list two pages long, but it's keeping me on top of my game. I feel like I've been teaching some really great lessons and like the content is truly getting into my students' brains. Like we read this AWESOMELY great spooky thriller this week, "Three Skeleton Key" by George Toudouze, and they seemed to love it as much as I do. (Maybe they're just picking up on my enthusiasm, but whatever, I'm going with it.) Their parents report their kids like my class, which is a good thing. I'm making parent phone calls to help get students who aren't performing in gear, and the parents are appreciative. I'm earning mega brownie points by creating this super deluxe PowerPoint-ish presentation for the school bored, ahem I mean, board, for my principal. (It's not PowerPoint, but Apple's version of it, Keynote.) It is pretty damn awesome, if I say so myself, and it gives me a good reason to procrastinate grading writing (which I hate to do). Even Bitch Mom has had nothing to complain about and smiles when she sees me.

(I met Bitch Mom three years ago when she was, well, a BITCH to me. [See Work, Part II post for a total wrap up.] She was horrible and rude and I was new to the school and didn't know better but to LET HER be that way. Even though I had started my tenth year teaching that year and I should have said to myself, "been there, done that, Dulce, there are parents like this and you've had them before," I lapped up every criticism she had of me and thought, deep down, she must be right. I must NOT be the teacher I thought I was. It was actually so bad that I had to start up therapy again because I could NOT handle her [and a few of her cronies]. I had panic attacks and lost a bunch of weight and couldn't sleep . . . it was horrible. I took personally everything she said about me . . . and even now, as I have her younger child in my class, my immediate reaction to seeing her approach my classroom, or seeing her name in my email in-box, is to get immediately defensive and to shoot my guard up. It's like my own personal National Terror Alert status goes to RED immediately and I get this visceral feeling like I want to throw up.) <--- can you see why Dr. Psychologist wants me to work on this? And to get back to what my coworkers think about me . . . that's nice to hear those things about how brilliant they think I am, but I don't believe it. Deep down, the perfectionist in me knows that I'm not all that and that I'm really nothing to write home about. I could (and should) be doing it better.

And actually, I'm fine to work on work issues because I have to get over this. And it's nice to focus on work, because then I can live a little bit longer in Purposeful Denial, that place where I pretend nothing bad has happened to me, you know, like baby loss. I know Dr. Psychologist and I are coming to that neighborhood soon, and I'll be forced to vacate, but until then, I'm waiting for my Three Day Notice to Quit. I'm going to have to forcibly evicted.

We had parent conferences this past week, and they went well. Amazingly well. And I can't wait to show my principal this Keynote tomorrow. I know she'll love it, and I'll get those little positive strokes for my bruised ego that I so desperately need, all the while hating that I like to get them so much . . . ach!

Ah well, a few things to do before bed and then the race begins again.

Dressed In Black and in a Black Mood

2008-10-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

So two of my students asked me the other day, "Mrs. ___, is your favorite color black?" In a socratic way, I answered back with a question: "Why do you ask?" They told me that all they ever see me wear, with little exception, is black. Again, a la Socrates, I query, "So you're noticing a pattern, is that it?" Then they tried a different tact . . . "Are you emo, Mrs. ___?" I rolled my eyes. "Ah, no," I replied. Not wanting to tell them the REAL reason I wear black this year, I opted for the following "cover" . . . that even though as junior high students, I know that a school uniform (even the idea of it) is a fate they do not want to consider, my "uniform" is my black outfits. (Which are very cute, by the way.)

The last thing I want to do in the morning, I told them, is agonize over what I want to wear. I have two kids and myself to get ready in the morning. I don't want to spend the extra time and coordinate. So, to that end, I bought Eileen Fisher dresses and skirts to wear from Nordstrom before school started. I found a few extra things on sale at EileenFisher.com and some black leggings from Banana Republic. Everything is washable; nothing has to be dry cleaned. (Which I am also getting sick of.) And everything matches with the black pairs of Eccos that I have, Mary-Janes (two pairs, different styles), and a pair of sandals. Okay, so yeah, Eileen Fisher is more expensive than Ann Taylor Loft or regular Ann Taylor, but its also more comfortable and the money I'm saving in dry cleaning . . . well, it was added in advance onto the price of the clothes. And I love them. They're loose and drape my body so well. Very flattering. And, to be honest, there's room to grow in them should DH and I conceive, as we're going to try to do as soon as I get the okay. So for hiding a bump and keeping things on the down-low for as long as I can (instead of blabbing to the world as soon as I found out in past pregnancies) . . . anyways, her clothes are good for that. I'm gun shy and don't want to tell anyone (if I don't have to) until after that 20 week ultrasound, if I can hold out until then. [Even though I know that even that is no guarantee of anything either.]

But there's that other reason I wear black: mourning. It is, in my way, a means of honoring my lost son and acknowledging his loss in a public way without talking about it. (No one who knows about our loss wants to bring it up to me anyway.) As I put on my (awesome) black outfits in the morning, I think of him, though. It is my way of keeping his presence with me throughout my day and all its tasks. My colleagues and others I encounter don't know the specific reason for my monotonous hue choice this year, and maybe if they asked, I'd tell them the same "excuse" I told my students. It is, after all, partly true--about the dry cleaning and stuff. But it is also true that I miss my baby. And maybe it is very old fashioned and Scarlett O'Hara of me to dress in black as they did in once past to mourn a passing, but I like the idea of it. There's comfort in rituals, and this just happens to be one I like right now. And it isn't just my clothes. I even, at my last salon visit, had my stylist dye my hair black. (Okay, it's also got funky blond chunky streaks put in it, too, but you get the idea.) When I pass his Angel Day in the spring, after a full year has passed, then maybe I'll don my colorful clothes again and embrace the world. (Or maybe I'll shuck those because -- damn it -- they're the dry clean ones, and buy the colorful Eileen Fisher line instead of the black one.)

But for right now, I just need to sit in my cave -- go out and do what I need to do to function in the world -- but I need to sit at home and grieve. I know I need to live, too, but I need to grieve. So I go out into the world and live and take care of all of my responsibilities, which include being a mother to my two living children and a wife to my DH, but I do it while keeping the spirit of my son ever present in my mind -- call me "two face" if you will. At the very least, I look chic while doing all of this.

Did I also mention I'm in purposeful denial? I love it there. I don't have to feel anything. But that's for another post . . .

Dearest Michael . . .

2008-09-22T20:27:00.000-07:00

Today's the day you would have been born. The doctor scheduled your C-section for today, except that it didn't happen as we had all planned.

I miss you terribly. I wish we could have met today, and I could have held you in my arms and looked into your eyes as I did with your older brother and sister. Right after your brother and sister were born, after they calmed down a bit (because they cried when they were first born), there was a period of alertness, where they looked all around. We just stared into each other's eyes; I wanted that moment with you. I cried for you in the shower this morning, and I made sure to get your sister up early enough and ready for school so that we could make the 6:30 mass. I said prayers for you there, and I begged God to continue to hold you in his arms and to give me strength to make it through the day. I love that part in the mass, right before communion, where the priest is praying and he says, "Protect us from all anxiety and grant us peace in our day . . . " because that's what I want more than anything. I'm waiting for the grief to get less raw; it's slow going.

It comforts me greatly to know that you are there with Meema, and that she is there to take care of you for me until we meet again. I know she wasn't the Meema that liked to babysit, but I'm sure hangin' together in heaven is a lot different than babysitting down on Earth.

I wonder what your personality would have been like, and how similar you would look to your brother and sister. Would you have been easy going, like your brother? Or, would you have been more spirited and sometimes stubborn, like your sister? Would you have been spoiled, being the baby of the family? Probably! You would have been Meema's 18th grandchild . . . well, you still were. You just got to meet her up there with God rather than down here with us. She's a lot of fun -- ask her to sing for you!

Dearest Michael, you are never far from me. My mind thinks about you constantly. When I put my earrings on in the morning, I do it in tribute to you. I make myself look as becoming as possible in tribute to you. I have more compassion for my fellow citizen now than I have ever had in my life, thanks to you. You have made me such a better person in a myriad of ways: a better mother, a better spouse, a more patient and understanding teacher; more genuine and honest with my friends, sibling, and parents. I am more apt to give the common person I encounter on the street the benefit of the doubt--what pain do they carry? What burden do they seek to hide from the world? Because, as I have found, everyone has something that grieves them. My grief is the loss of you. I'm a little bit lost right now. I'm not the same person, nor will I ever be again.

I heard said that the greatest loss an adult could face was the loss of a child. I used to think, "I can't imagine that." I would try to, try to wrap my head around that concept, and I would shudder at the thought, but I didn't really know how right they were until it happened to me. I think the brain subconsciously blocks the pain of the loss from one's mind, because the emotions are so damning and overwhelming that I would truly be engulfed in sadness and go mad should I have to experience the them in their full realization.

I toasted you tonight. Daddy and I went out to dinner with Papa, since tonight is the night we would have had our usual Monday night dinner at Meema and Papa's. Uncle M is still staying with Papa, so we took him with us. As they were taking our drink orders, I asked for a diet Coke and two shots of tequila. Not a double, two separate shots. Papa laughed and wondered what got into me, but I knew what I had planned. When the drinks arrived, I toasted Meema, and then I toasted you. After downing both, I felt much better. But I was there to celebrate you and what you brought to all of our lives in the short time you were with us. I ordered dessert, and we all shared it. For once, we ate the entire Jumper's Mud Pie at Claim Jumper. We never do that. I know you were there with us. I know you were.

Michael, I love you. I miss you. I ache and grieve for you. I almost cannot find the words to express my loss adequately, as forcefully as I want to. Rest assured that you are with me always. Always.

Love, Mommy

Another death, and a Memoriam

2008-09-19T18:04:00.000-07:00

We experienced another loss in our family.

My DH's mom passed away on Thursday, Sept. 11. It was rather sudden; it wasn't as if she was sick and had been lingering on with cancer, or had just gotten out of a stay in the hospital. But it wasn't as if she was exactly healthy either. She had the usual ailments that came with being nearly 77: achy bones and a back that went out every once in a while. Problems with diverticulitis. She was on medicines for her blood, and had problems with her eyes. These things were complicated by the fact that she smoked and drank. Although she had quit smoking at one point for nearly two years, she had recently began smoking in secret. Obviously it wasn't a total secret, because I know and I am writing about it here, but it was a secret from my father-in-law. She used to drink wine in the afternoons and evenings, and had in the past few months switched over to bourbon. Let's face it: It is rough (and sometimes depressing) getting old.

Everyone has their character defects, and my mother-in-law was no exception. What follows is a list of the best aspects of her character, a description of what I appreciate most about her:

She was fun. She smoked (Marlboro red box) and drank and danced and sang! She knew all the old tunes, which she would sing with her brother (who just passed away in June), or by herself as she was cooking, or with her "baby" brother if he happened to be out visiting. Recently she donned her old tap shoes to dance with one of her granddaughters, my niece. We didn't share the same taste in wine, and I don't drink bourbon, but we could enjoy a drink together. She always started, and often finished, the daily crosswords in the paper. And she loved Yahtzee.
She arranged my wedding. Did I mention she gambled? She loved to gamble. Her game of choice was blackjack, and she also played the slots. I was in awe of her because she played dollar or even five-dollar slots, when I could hardly bear to part with a quarter or to even gamble at all. When DH and I were dating, Las Vegas was her destination of choice. As she got older, it was harder for her to get there, so she sometimes went to Stateline instead. Then, however, she began to opt for the Indian gaming casinos down in north San Diego County. But, she was more than willing to help arrange my wedding in Vegas, and it was an affair everyone enjoyed and still talks about. She had it all arranged within about three or four hours. She knew exactly who to call . . . I'm thankful.
She was honest and upfront. Upon my marriage, over the kitchen table one night, she said to me, "You can call me (her name) or you can call me Mom, whichever you feel more comfortable with." She was honest about the fact that she didn't necessarily want to babysit our kids, because she had been there, done that. Our DS was her eleventh grandchild, and she had already raised eight children of her own (yes, eight!). But she loved our children and, as they got older and were not baby-babies, she would volunteer her and my father-in-law's time so that DH and I could go out for a Japanese dinner or two. She didn't lie about the fact that she hated to clean, and was completely honest when she said didn't care what people thought about her dusty house, either.
She loved her children and family fiercely. She still attended her childrens' important functions, just as I attend the Christmas pageants and Back-to-School nights for mine. Grandma came to her grandchildren's dance recitals, soccer games, graduations, and class play performances. She indulged my children by making sure to keep their favorite flavors of ice cream (chocolate and vanilla) in the freezer, along with plenty of whipped cream and chocolate syrup in the fridge. She cooked my son's favorite meal for him nearly every Monday night, which we took to calling the "Monday Night Special." She remembered every birthday, and her refrigerator was plastered with pictures of all her seventeen grandchildren.
She was a good cook. There's something, well, very comforting about basic meals consisting of the four food groups. Before the food pyramid, there were the four food groups, and that's what her meals were based upon. There was always a meat -- DH's favorite was her pork roast that she would season with garlic and salt, and sometimes tabasco. (I watched her do it the last time, so I can cook it that way now, also.) Then there was a vegetable and some kind of starch, like mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, or noodles. The mashed potatoes she hadn't been too successful with lately, but at least it provided all of us a good laugh at the dinner table. My children eat broccoli because of her and love it. She introduced me to gumbo, and the red beans and rice of New Orleans, the town where she was born and raised. When I took over cooking Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago, I got to learn how to cook her fabled turkey stuffing; it never has tasted quite like the way she made it--I remember the first time I tasted it--but pretty close, if I do say so myself. I would devour her southern style green beans, cooked with bacon and a bit of onion when she made them, which wasn't often lately. I never figured out how she perfectly seasoned her tomatoes and cucumbers with vinegar and oil, but I loved those, too.
She was a great conversationalist. My DH, me, and his parents could sit for hours around the kitchen table talking about everything under the sun: old family stories, politics, work, movies or books, local news.
She was supportive of our decision to terminate our pregnancy, and I did not feel judged in any way for having made that choice. She went to my first appointment with me at the clinic when my DH couldn't make it in time. She let me talk about Michael when I felt like bringing the subject up, and did not try to minimize my pain when my tears started to flow, telling me (like so many others) "that it would all be okay." She just let me cry and say what was on my mind, her quietness more a way of saying "I'm sorry," which I knew she was. She was accepting and validating, never trying to change the subject to something less emotional or safe. I love her for that.
She played the violin . . . and, as her brother said at her vigil Monday night, "it is because of that violin that all of us are here." It is because of that violin, that I have the wonderful husband that I do. She taught herself how to play, and she became so proficient at it that she was offered a music scholarship at a university in Louisiana. It was there that she met my father-in-law, fell in love, and married him in 1953. They were married for 55 years. My husband was one of the wonderful products of that marriage, along with his siblings. Who knows the course life would have taken had she not determinedly decided to play, but I'm glad that she did. I now have two beautiful children of my own and an angel in heaven. In them, as well as in her own children and the other grandchildren, her legacy will live on.

Work, Part II

2008-08-23T17:18:00.001-07:00

Let me say that I really like where I work. Our school isn't perfect, but we have some committed teachers and a strong, fair, and caring principal and vice-principal. We have a very heterogeneous community of students, ethnically and socio-economically. We are really making some terrific gains in our test scores . . . there is a lot about which to be proud. I decided -- after about nine years at a different school -- to move to the school that I am at, and I have never regretted that decision. The first year was rough, though. It was my tenth year teaching, but it felt like my first in some ways.

For one thing, I had to get used to a new grade level's curriculum. There were worksheets and graphic organizers to make up and new projects to plan out, because the ideas that come with the teacher's edition are just that -- ideas. There's no handout that comes with all of the materials that really explains this terrific idea to the students--what's expected of them, how to complete the assignment, how they will be graded. At least, I've never really found the handouts that come with a new textbook adoption adequate, so I spend a lot of time adapting them or innovating them to fit for my students, my management style, and our district's grading rubrics. So I had to do all of that, and reacquaint myself with world history from roughly the Fall of the Roman Empire to the Age of Enlightenment (Africa, rise of Islam and Muslim Empires, medieval Japan, Tang through Ming dynasties in China, feudal Europe, etc.), and bone up on what language arts standards my students were to master at that grade level. (I teach both language arts and world history.) And everything I created was new; since I was teaching a new grade level, I couldn't simply open my file cabinet and take out last year's organizer and tweak it a bit for a new group of kids. It was all brand new.

Also, I would be piloting a new program at our school -- a technological component. Technology doesn't scare me, and I looked forward to working with the program. I love my computer and my gadgets . . . ! (What did p*** me off, though, was that the district wasn't giving me a lot of ideas about how to implement this program. Their idea of support was to tell me how to work the applications on the computer -- which I already knew how to do -- not give me some good ideas about how to integrate these programs with curriculum and standards. So I had to come up with these ideas on my own . . . but that's a long other story.)

Thirdly, of course, I needed to teach and assess. The assessing can take a LONG time . . . imagine 90 to 100 essays to grade with comments on each. It's a drag.

So I was doing all three of these concurrently . . . it left me working twelve-hour days sometimes, guilty for grading papers on the couch rather than playing with my kids at night, too tired to have sex with my husband, dead exhausted on the weekend.

BUT I WAS DOING A GOOD JOB, I thought. I really felt like I was being effective as a teacher, competent . . . I was having those good teaching days I talked about in the last post.

So imagine how assaulted I felt when a group of parents decided that I wasn't doing a good enough job! That I didn't know what I was doing on the computer, that their child wasn't doing enough writing, that I was not "challenging" their student(s) enough -- their child was bored and hated coming to my class! -- and that I was the most disorganized teacher they'd ever encountered. (The last accusation, that I was disorganized, was particularly wounding to me because I take pride in how clean and orderly my classroom is. The Type A teacher that I am, I put other teachers to absolute shame with how organized I am.) And did they confront me with these comments? No, they went straight to my new principal, who, upon hearing all of these comments, I felt sure was regretting she'd let me come to her school.

My anxiety started to rise. I was really worried. I thought I was doing so well. I felt like all was fine. It was a challenge, but I was meeting it all. I stewed and worried all weekend. (One particular mother, the straw that broke this camel's back, ranted for nearly 25 minutes at me on a Thursday evening, and we didn't have school the next day.) As the anxiousness increased, my eating and sleeping decreased. I probably even felt sick to my stomach and thew up a few times. (That's my MO.) I cried. A lot.

These parents touched a raw nerve in me. I felt so inadequate and caught completely by surprise. I hate being caught by surprise. [My HC was the mother of all (horrific) surprises.] At least let me worry about a few possible scenarios, so that if one of them happens, I at least have already thought out in a rudimentary way how I can cope. Couldn't they see how hard I was working? Obviously they didn't, so I would just have to work harder. Want challenge? Okay, I'll give you challenge. But then they complained it was too much. They were never satisfied. BUT, by the end of the year, I think I had proven myself. One mother, who wrote me a scathing email in October -- I burst into tears when I read it -- said, at the end of the year, "Thank you. You have really worked hard. I'm sorry we were so hard on you." But she was the only one.

It turns out that my principal has never regretted having me come to her school for a second. She never did, even when those parents were so vocal. She realized, I think, that they were a tough set of parents, because they were tough on her too, and not just tough about me. As the year progressed, we were almost able to joke about it: "Mrs. X called me today," she'd tell me, kinda rolling her eyes a bit. "Oh yeah? What am I doing wrong now?" I'd retort.

The thing is . . . and this is the second major reason, besides the HC and a school year abruptly cut short three months ago, that I am anxious to return to school. Because those students have younger siblings . . . and some of them will be in my classes again this year. Which means I will be interacting with those parents again. And that doesn't make me especially excited to return to work. I already feel like not only do I have to be "on guard" with my feelings at work concerning grieving my HC, but also I will have this constant defensiveness around them. Are you going to ask me snappy questions again? Will you greet me icily or will you deign to smile at me as you say hello? Am I still going to have to prove myself to you?

I knew these students were coming up through the grades. That's one of the things that excited me about being pregnant and due in September. I knew that I would be able to come back to school, introduce myself, and then take half of the year off and not have to deal with them until January. And then I'd be so blissed out by having a cute baby, who cared? I would only have to face them for half a year. I could do half a year. Now I have to do a whole year.

Ugh.

Work, Part I

2008-08-22T14:16:00.000-07:00

So I start work again soon. For me, work means "school" as I am in education. It is the last facet of the life I had before my HC that I haven't resumed. Picking it up again is causing me a little anxiety. I'm not having a full-blown panic attack about it, but I' worried that I could. It's just been on my mind a little bit more than I'd like it to be. Sure, knowing that I have to go back to work after a summer off never inspires the "jolly" side of me to come out, but I never usually think about it as much as I am now. I'm making sure to be really good and not to forget to take the Lexapro . . . because that will help prevent a high state of anxiety from completely debilitating me, rendering me non-functional just when I need to be functional.

On May 6 (the day I had my 20 week ultrasound), my doctor called me in the evening to let me know things looked bad. That's it. I haven't been to work since. In the beginning, I simply took the rest of that week off work so that I could attend the myriad of doctor and further testing appointments that come with a poor prenatal diagnosis. Then after that was all said and done, and our decision was made, I spent the next week anxiously at home, waiting for those appointments to be made . . . the ones that would separate me from Michael. I was trying to be optimistic, thinking that I could go back to work for the last two weeks of school. My thought was that work would be good for me, that it would bring structure to my days and keep my mind from going into the dark neighborhoods it has a tendency to frequent. (And it went there even before our HC.) The Nazis had this horrible phrase in the entrance gates to all of their concentration camps, "Arbeit mach frei," or "Work makes you free." And for me sometimes it does. I can get so drowned in the tasks that I need to complete, and I begin to work at almost a maniacal rate, that I am temporarily "free" from all of the other painful things that normally occupy my mind. The work drowns out my other sorrows.

It became clear, however, that going back to work was a ludicrous idea. I'd have to face students who remembered me round and could so clearly see now that I wasn't. I didn't want to answer any questions from the kids who didn't have tact enough to keep their questions to themselves. As for the kids who did have a sense of decorum and privacy, I didn't want to see the questions in their faces, even if they were never, ever going to give voice to them. They were there and I didn't want to confront those yet. I didn't want to see any co-workers, except the one or two that I absolutely trusted in my department. Only they could hear me cry on the phone as they called to check in on me. The rest I would see when I came back to work in the fall. I would get a fresh start in the fall. I would have the summer to grieve and to heal, and I could come back to work -- different from the person I was before -- cracked -- but less raw. So, instead, I began to work at home . . . on house things, almost like I was nesting for the baby I would never have. If school work sometimes set me free before, housework would now, damn it. I began to clean, clean, clean and paint, paint, paint . . . it helped me function and focus instead of sit on the couch and think too much. And now all that has to end because the other work beckons.

Did I mention that I think I'm a workaholic? Because I think I am. I can't decide if I just have an all-consuming job for ten months out of the year, or if I just work really, really hard and get really compulsive about it. But I'm good; that much I know on some level. I was teacher of the year at the school I was at previous to this, and I get lots of students who look me up as they are graduating or now that they're in college to say "hi" and let me know how much they learned, and colleagues like me and my principals have all said that I'm great. But I also worry tremendously that I'm not . . . that's the outward part of me that you don't see. The part that is suspicous of myself. That part of me that knows I can still do it better. I can reach another student, or figure out a better way to help make a connection, or maybe finally say the magic word that will inspire another to start turning in assignments (at all, much less on time.) Will you find out that I'm not really "all that"? Because I don't really think of myself as all that. But I do have great teaching days, and I love those days where I think that my lessons are going well, and I made that connection, and the kids were enthusiastic--even the ones who aren't normally. I'm thankful for those days.

I was speeding along like that, having pretty good teaching days two years ago, when I got sideswiped. In light of the poor prenatal diagnosis and HC -- now that was a KO -- no sideswipe will ever compare to that. But I took this one hard. And that's another of the reasons, aside from going back to work after a HC, that I am anxious. I will explain in Part II later.

Lazy Today

2008-08-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

It is Saturday at 12:25 and I am still in my pajamas and still in bed. I feel so guilty, but I have nothing I have to do. I could clean my kids' bathroom, or I could move some of the laundry that's on the couch up to its proper place. I could go run errands, but there's time enough for that tomorrow or Monday. So I'm indulging in watching some of my favorite crime shows: "Snapped" and "FBI Files" and "The Investigators," which I shuffle through randomly trying to watch all three at once. The reason for my laziness has to do with the fact that I woke up early this morning and couldn't fall back asleep. I got up and moved into the room in our house we call the playroom, because it has all of the kids' toys, to watch TV and (hopefully) fall back to sleep. No dice. I ended up watching all of Freedom Writers, one of those inspirational teacher movies that reminds me I will never be one of those teachers, much as I'd like to be. M got up and watched the ending of the movie with me, and we lay there together on the couch, her little body snuggled into mine, until it was time to put cartoons on and get chocolate milk. After chocolate milk we lay down again and snuggled and she watched cartoons. I dozed and she would periodically wake me up asking to change channels, but I am left with this lethargic dozed feeling that a good nap would shake. Instead I lay in bed and channel surf.

In about an hour, Dear Husband and I will take our Dear Children to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Both are excited to be going. Normally, they visit each Sunday, but tonight they are spending the night. This means they get spoiled: all the TV watching, video-game-playing, popcorn-and-ice-cream-eating they want. They'll probably go out to dinner, and maybe make a trip to either the toy store or the book store. My dear husband and I get to be two adults who go out to dinner and don't have to worry about if the restaurant also has a kids' menu. We don't have to play tic-tac-toe with crayons on a paper place mat. No, the restaurant we're going to has white table cloths! Afterward, we're going to see a movie and we get to go home and go to sleep -- well, some adult fun first (TMI!) -- without having to remind DS to change into clean underwear and cajole DD to brush her teeth well, not just suck on the toothbrush bristles. Yes, it will be a nice evening, our first alone as two adults since our heartbreaking choice in May. And tomorrow we might make it to church, or we might not, before heading back to my parents' house to pick up the kiddos.

As far as doing this whole Baby Dance again? Well, we are slowly and cautiously moving forward again. I'm still on The Pill, but I've started taking prenatals and an extra dose of folic acid. I have a call in to my OB/GYN to see if he wants to see me for an appointment first, or if we can just go ahead and start trying. And have we waited long enough, or should we wait longer? In case he says he wants to see me for an appointment, I've already made it for about a month from now. I'm exercising and watching what I'm eating, checking my blood sugar levels because I want to try to avoid the gestational diabetes that developed with Michael's pregnancy. W is getting ahead of himself (I think) talking about getting a bigger car for when the baby is here . . . I dunno . . . I think (the pessimistic one, I am) that we should wait until we have the baby at home before we go out to get a bigger one. Just cautious, I guess.

The Plan in Action

2008-08-10T06:57:00.001-07:00

I forgot to make this posting last week . . . here's how I put it on support site:

"On my way to Los Angeles International Airport today (LAX) to pick up BIL, I snapped this shot. Okay: (1) I know we're not supposed to talk on our cellphones while driving in California now, but they never said anything about snapping photos; (2) It was a little tricky and the driver was probably like, "Why is this flash going off in the car behind me?" -- it was my Canon, not my cell phone -- but OH WELL; (3) I couldn't drive AND flip the bird AND take the picture at the same time . . . SO I took the picture, and then I worked a little Photoshop magic tonight by taking the finger out of my first picture and putting it onto the new picture of the car and its bumper stickers. Also, I added a PINK arrow commenting on one of the stickers."

And to whomever the anonymous poster was before who told me that pink duct tape was vandalism: I know. That's why I personally will not use it. Ultimately, I am a total rule follower personality type and don't want to break the law. I carry it symbolically in my car, and I find  flipping off the sticker and taking a picture more expedient anyway. It was just an idea that hurting women came up with, and how we each decide to carry though with The Plan is up us.

Willing to Try Again

2008-08-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night (one of the few that I ever remember because my sleep is pretty crappy still) that I got pregnant accidentally, and it was sooner than the "three or four or five" cycles that my doctor said should pass before we tried again. And I was panicked because it was too early. I don't remember much else from the dream other than the anxious feeling of being pregnant. Not joyful. Apprehensive.

In the surreal three days that it took to complete my HC, I was already thinking about the possibility of trying to conceive again. Frankly, it scared the living s*** out of me, the possibility that I could get pregnant again and have to make another HC. (Because, of course, the way I think, it would happen again.) I sat there in the clinic, in my papery disposable "gown" waiting for unspeakable things to be done to my body. There were other girls in the room with me, waiting. One of them broke the uneasy silence of the room -- well it wasn't completely silent; there was a stupid TV on showing an episode of "Reba" that none of us were watching -- and voiced the question, "How long do you need to wait before you can try again?" I looked at her like she was nuts, and I said that I was done. "I'm not doing this again. I don't want there to even be a chance that I could experience this again." Pitifully, this was her first experience with pregnancy; her first go at it and the baby's diagnosis was Trisomy 18 (very non-compatible with life). I, with two living children, at least took solace in that; I could go home and hug them like I was never going to let them go. And I did, believe me.

I was surprised when, probably a day or two after my procedure had been completed, I had changed my mind! Should I try to conceive (TTC) again? And, if so, when? I was desperate for a baby. (Of course I wanted Michael.) Does DH want to try again? I tried to bring it up casually, but we both agreed that it was too soon to think about it. I dropped the subject, but I thought about it constantly. I prayed about it in church to God: Will you let me know when (and if) we should try again? I thought about going to see a medium; maybe she could say something that would give me some insight into what we should do. I kept my eyes open when I was out and about: when I encountered cranky kids or screaming toddlers I thought maybe God was telling me the two I had was enough. I noticed how restaurants just seemed to be set up for fours, not fives. Booths seat four comfortably; the rides at Disneyland seat four to a Alice in Wonderland gondola; Rockband is set up for four players . . . but my mind would fight back. "Yeah, but, we have room for six at our dinner table. And the kids wouldn't fight in the backseat of my car if the car seat with their cute brother or sister was put in the middle of them." Gradually, my maniacal mind settled down a bit and I even thought I would be okay if DH came back to me and told me he didn't want to try again. That would just be it. I could live with all of that.

But DH surprised me last Saturday night.

He had just returned from a week away from us. When he is away, he misses us (especially me) terribly. He is very "clingy" (in a good way) when he returns, so we spent much of the night talking in bed after the kids fell asleep. He said he had done some thinking, and he believes we should try again. He misses Michael a lot, but he thinks a baby would be good for us. He thought about what I had said, about wanting to experience a pregnancy together from beginning to end without having to be deployed or worrying about being deployed, as it happened with DS. He wanted to experience our child's life without having a deployment interrupt it, as it had for 18 months shortly after DD was born. The whole enchilada, so to speak . . . Michael was supposed to be the baby that helped that dream come to a fruition, except that the dream got dashed and all the other dreams that came with Michael were cut abruptly short. The threat of deployment is no longer in the picture--although with the Army I've learned never to count on anything too much, but DH has said he'll retire if he sees a deployment down the line. I just want that experience with my husband: a pregnancy that he's there for AND a baby to raise with me afterwards without having to take a hiatus for months at a time. He wants that, too. That and we just didn't want to end our childbearing on a sour note. A true bundle of joy, one more living child . . . that's the way I want to end. On a more positive note.

To say that I was very happy is an understatement. My mood was lifted. There is something to plan for and to look forward to, even though I know I'll be a nervous wreck. A naively blissful pregnancy is no longer an option for me. There's a lot to do to plan for this next one. A preconception appointment with Dr. OBGYN, which I've never done before. I always got pregnant and went in afterwards. I need to bulk up on Folic Acid. I need to lose weight and get healthy, which I've already started to do in case DH said he was willing. (And I'm doing it for myself, too, of course.) There's the grief to process . . . we're going to wait a bit, but at least we're on the same page as far as where to go from here.

Am I Guilty?

2008-08-05T21:40:00.000-07:00

I started seeing a new therapist today. It was our first session, and she asked me about what brought me to her, which -- right now, least -- is baby loss. One of the questions she asked me was whether or not I am feeling guilty. A good question, deeper than any my other psychologist asked me about my baby loss. Hence, why I decided to try a new psychologist (that, and some other reasons, but I digress).

So the answer is YES, I am carrying a lot of guilt around with me. In the session, I told the psychologist (let's call her Dr. P) that I was feeling guilty for feeling little pleasures lately, like enjoying listening to music loudly in the car as I drive and singing along. I don't often get to drive around sans kids, and when I do, I love to blast my music. It gives me pleasure, especially when it is summer time, a balmy night, and I get to drive around with the windows down with the music up loud (but not so loud that it bothers people in other cars -- I hate that!) It makes me feel good, but as soon as I realize I'm feeling good, a wave of guilt passes over me . . . like I should be mourning. I lost a baby. What happened was sad. It isn't right to feel good yet -- or is it?

I feel guilty that I didn't take my prenatal vitamins faithfully; they made me sick. I couldn't take them in the morning, or I'd be sick at work. Try barfing in front of teenage students -- mmm, not so good. I moved them to my bedside, trying to remind myself to take them at night before I went to sleep instead, but my bedside was so cluttered I often forgot. Or I was just so damn tired from being pregnant, I feel asleep at 7:30 p.m. and didn't wake up to do anything, including wash my makeup off and brush my teeth, let alone take a vitamin. Did that cause the Dandy-Walker, which led to hydrocephalus? I don't know. I'll never know, but I'm guilty that I didn't take that vitamin because maybe that was a cause.

I feel guilty I drank that Diet Coke -- the caffeinated kind. They say you're not supposed to have caffeine when you're pregnant, you know, but I had some. After I was through the first trimester, I switched from decaffeinated to caffeinated . . . it helped me wake up in the morning. After that during the day I drank sugar free Crystal Light and water . . . but the Diet Coke. I just couldn't stay away.

And I got my hair dyed . . . you're not supposed to do that, either.

But the choice itself? The choice to terminate? It is complicated. Given our disastrous diagnosis, the fact that our son would not live, or that if he did, he would have no quality of life, I do not regret our decision. There was no gray area with our diagnosis; it was not "iffy." It was pretty clear, according to the pediatric neurosurgeon, that there was no hope. (They have to leave a little window open to cover their butts, but we could read between the lines.) After all the diagnostic testing was done, it was evident to DH and I what our decision would be. Given the same scenario again -- God forbid! -- I would do the same thing. DH and I thought about the quality of life issue for Michael, about the lives of our living children and how they would be impacted, and about our marriage. We knew it would take a toll on our marriage, if not kill it, and neither of us wanted that.

No, I don't have any guilt that way . . . and yet I do. In my most forlorn moments, crying deeply in the shower -- which is the only private place for me to do so with two small kids -- I have cried out to Michael to forgive me. Way back on a really, really bad day (June 12) I posted that question on my support site: Does my dear angel son forgive me? I don't have an answer to that. That is where my guilt lies. I think so, if what I've heard and read about angels, spirits, and those who have "crossed over" is true. But I haven't "felt" his presence, in a dream or otherwise, so . . . I just don't know.

Does God forgive me? (I am almost certain so, but then convert-Catholic guilt factors in . . . I haven't been to Confession yet? So technically, I'm not absolved.) I still have to resolve the spiritual issues that surround my HC. I will; I'm working on that. It's almost like I'm "shopping" for a priest I can confess to . . . "Mmm, homily was a little too conservative today -- you're off the prospective Confession list!" And then again, do I really need to "confess" something that I know was the right thing to do? Weirdly, I feel like I do. I don't know why. Maybe it has to do with the sanctity of life, because it is sacred, you know? I never willingly wanted to make that HC. I was a good person with no good choices.

AF, Baby Loss Blogs & and an Earthquake

2008-08-01T08:42:00.000-07:00

The three of these combined do NOT make for a good day. Oh yeah, add in some ornery kids and a husband gone on business again, you've got the recipe for an emotional mine-field of a day.

Summer routine: Wake up, read news, read Heartbreaking Choice threads, check email, get ready to (1) go to Mass and/or (2) do a "project" around the house and/or (3) clean house and/or (4) do errands, etc. Tuesday was really no different, except that morning I was feeling especially lazy and the kids hadn't started acting up yet, so I navigated over to Glow in the Woods. I read one achingly frank and brutal account of one woman's loss, and I was off on a crying jag. I got up to take a shower, because it is in the shower that I can cry, off by myself alone, without having to have DS and DD see or hear me. I just looked up at the ceiling in the shower, crying more bitter tears, and whispering how much I hated being a part of this club--the baby loss club. I hate it. As the administrator of the HC site often says to newcomers, "Welcome . . . it's not a club that anyone wants to belong to, but we're glad you've found us." I'm glad I found them, too, but as many have said in response to a posting I made that day about how much I hate to be in the club -- and this is a response I agree with too -- I'd trade all of the new friendships I've made there for the chance to have my baby back healthy and not riddled with anomalies.

Nevertheless, after a good cry in the shower, I got out, toweled off, and began to get ready to take my kids swimming at the pool at my mom's house. Aunt Flo arrived, so that probably accounts for all my emotion this morning, too. F***ing hormones are just a force of nature that I constantly underestimate. I just couldn't stop weeping, though. I felt like Two-Face, the Batman villain . . . weeping quietly as I blew dry my hair in the bathroom, but then hastily wiping away tears and putting on a cheery act whenever DD or DS came around the corner to visit me for a minute to check on my progress. They already had their bathing suits on. What's the hold up, Mom? They're aggravating each other by this point, and pissing me off because I'm having to stop and go settle petty arguments. Sometimes in summer, we forego the naps. But not today, I think.

So finally we're all ready. We go downstairs to get sunscreen. I send the kids to get towels as I quickly make my "I hate being part of this club" rant post to HC, and then we leave. Except I forget the keys to my mom's house, so we need to come racing back to our house to get the keys. Serendipitously, DH calls at that same time and we are all able to talk to him while he is taking a break from a "war" simulation. The kids take the chance to act up "in front of him" on the phone, which I secretly enjoy, because there's always some part of me that says, "See? See how hard it is to be a single mom when you're gone?" And I'll be the first one to admit that I have very good kids and it hasn't been all that bad. But still. He talks sternly to them from wherever he is in Kansas, we say goodbye, and then we're off again.

EXCEPT now instead of forgetting keys, I get caught in our earthquake, said epicenter of which is only about 10 miles from my house. I was driving to my mom's house; I've never been driving when a bigger earthquake hit before. I thought that all of my tires were blown out, except when I looked down at my dashboard, there was no light showing I was having pressure problems. I slowed to a stop. The steel signal holders were shaking. An earthquake, I thought. I was afraid to drive through the major intersection I was approaching; I didn't want any signals toppling down onto our car. Things settled down; I continued driving, but I pulled into the shopping center on the other corner, where I saw numerous people standing outside, and asked, "That was an earthquake, right? There's nothing wrong with my car??" Yes, we had a temblor.

I proceeded to my mom's, and I checked her house for any fallen objects. Nothing, really, but some crooked pictures and a few toppled things. The family's heirloom clock on the mantle was okay, but I took it down in case of aftershocks. My brother gets that; I get my mom's sparkly (big) wedding ring (and other jewelry). We went swimming. The whole while, though, I tried to make contact with DH to let him know we had an earthquake and we were okay, but the system was overloaded. I couldn't get anything more than a random text through. The kids swam off some steam in the water, we went home, and they settled in for naps.

During naps, I took the time to search through my insurance network for a new psychologist. Before everything happened that led to our HC, I was musing on changing therapists, anyway. I felt like I wasn't accomplishing much, and I thought I needed a new, more directive therapist. Then, when our poor prenatal diagnosis came, and we made our HC, I thought, "Better to already be seeing a therapist rather than have to find one right now." It was just too overwhelming for me to face the day at that point, much less to think about trying to research someone new. But just the previous night, I was answering a 6-by-6, a series of questions posed by the moderators from Glow in the Woods, and I realized the questions I was answering were better than the ones my current psychologist was asking me. (See my answers here.) I want one who will give me "homework" and all that. One who is even more resourceful than I already am. One who will ask me questions I haven't already ask myself, or at least some one who will ask me what questions I'm asking myself and talk through the answers with me. So I spent the afternoon cross checking names of psychologists in my insurance network against those that are certified to perform EMDR, a form of therapy many on the HC site have tried and have found beneficial, and then making sure those psychologists that matched have experience with grief or postnatal issues. Then, I made calls to make sure they were accepting new patients and that they weren't philosophically opposed to abortion. (Because my current psychologist, even though I think she understands our choice, I'm not sure she fully supports it, being a full on Christian. Not that I'm NOT Christian -- I am -- but she's that kind, more evangelical and born-again.) I have an appointment with someone new on Aug. 5.

The kids slept late, so we ran errands late. We went to our NEW Target to get things, then to Home Depot to get paint (because one of my "projects" includes repainting the kids' bathroom). At Home Depot I texted DH that I was "buying paint, buying beer next" which immediately elicited a phone call.

"You okay?"

"Sure," I replied, because the kids and my nerves really had settled down by then. "I'm just going to finally get that beer we meant to get at the store this week and kept forgetting."

"Oh, okay, because I told the sergeant here that the kids have finally really pissed her off or they had another earthquake."

"No, no, they're better now . . . I just need to have a beer because it has been that kind of day."

And so I did.

My July 6-by-6 (And My First)

2008-07-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

One of the sites I visit about baby loss, Glow in the Woods, has a semi-regular feature where a series of six questions are posed and the moderators of the blog share their answers to them. Here are mine:

1. How would you describe your relationship to fear before and after the loss of your baby?

Unfortunately, fear and I go way back. I was, until that fateful day when we got our diagnosis, very motivated by fear. Now, I'm certainly not any less so. I hope I can get to the point (through therapy and just the simple life wisdom that comes through living) where I don't put off doing something because of what might happen. I tend to think in "doom is going to happen so I better be prepared for every possible contingency" sort of way. Like when I was pregnant with DS, my first, my husband happened to be deployed for "homeland defense" after 9/11. (I found out I was expecting a week after he left.) I was convinced that my husband was going to be killed, so that I would be left to raise my child on my own. And my child, by the way, was going to have a handicap of some kind, and I would be poor.

This is how I think. Really.

Actually, a friend, in a tongue-in-cheek, making-fun-of-me sort of way said, "Gee! I'm surprised . . . you actually are getting better!" Perplexed, I asked her how she could come to that conclusion, to which she replied that at least I hadn't killed myself off, too, making my child an orphan.

And I worried about the second pregnancy; this time husband was deployed AFTER my daughter was born when she was two months old, so I was convinced (again) he was going to die and my daughter would never know her father, and we would be destitute and have to live in a seedy section of town. And I would have to find a way to tell my DS that his daddy was dead.

Every time my husband goes off for Army work that requires a plane flight, I worry that the plane might crash.

Ironically, though I worry about everything, I didn't worry about Michael or fear anything would go wrong in his pregnancy. I'd had two successful pregnancies. I was completely blindsided. I was caught unprepared.

See? So even though fear and I are uneasy acquaintances, to me, in my tainted mind, it pays to be fearful . . . because at least one's prepared. At least you can start thinking in advance how to cope, instead of wondering how you're going to make it through this bomb that's just been dropped on your life.

2. Is your lost baby present in your life? In what way?

Everyday -- every moment -- he's with me. Mostly it is just in my thoughts; sometimes it is a little more tangible because I look at the envelope that I put aside with all of his paperwork inside: his ultrasound pictures, the notes I took during consultations with doctors; the insurance paperwork we got in the mail; the stick that I peed on that told me I was pregnant with him. I wish I felt his physical, spiritual presence, but I don't -- or haven't -- yet. But I think about him many, many times each day. And today I talked about him with my in-laws. And I told him just now as I was writing this that I miss him.

3. Tell us about something said or done after your loss that left you feeling nurtured or supported?

I can't think of any one thing in particular . . . a few things: just that I love it when my husband cries with me when we talk about Michael. It makes me feel like I am not alone in this grief, and it makes me feel closer to him; how my doctor and the pediatric neurosurgeon we met with were so "undoctorly" and warm, and went above and beyond through our whole ordeal of testing and diagnosis and afterward; how my best girlhood friend said just the right thing when she heard about our news, instead of the usual, "You're still young," and "You can have more."

4. Tell us something said or done after your loss that left you feeling marginalized or misunderstood.

I got pro-life propaganda in the mail . . . Enough said.

5. What's taken you a long time to do again? How did it feel, if you have?

I don't know what I can say to this; it's still all so new. It hasn't even been three months. Some things haven't taken as long to do again as I thought they would: playing music loudly and enjoying singing along to the songs in the car (although later I felt guilty for feeling good and enjoying the music); sex with my husband (it was emotional the first time because sex is so closely tied with pregnancy and procreation, but I enjoy the physical closeness now); visiting amusements parks (Hmm . . . I'm in the happiest place on Earth, but I'm not really happy; I just look like I'm happy to all the rest of you I quickly make eye-contact with in line.)

6. How would you describe yourself as a partner before, and after?

Before, my husband would tell you I was irrational and emotional, and I was self-absorbed. I think I'm still emotional (but understandably so, lately) and I know he'd say he's proud of my walk through this ordeal. He'd say he thinks I'm very strong. I'm still self-absorbed: worried about MY work and all the things I have to do, but I have a whole different perspective on that now. Work is work, and people are going to complain, and there's going to be stress . . . but you know, I really know now that there are worse things that could happen. I'd like to think I'm a better partner now, but you'd have to ask my husband to be sure. It's more clear to me how different we are, and that that's okay. I'd like to think I'm doing a better job attending to him as a wife, really being present with him, rather than being there in the same room with him but in a separate plane of existence. I've been doing more of my fair share around the house, and I hope he notices that. There's an ulterior motive to that, though: the mindless work keeps me physically and mentally busy and prevents my mind from going back into sad, dark neighborhoods.

The Plan

2008-07-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

Well . . . I haven't had a chance to carry it out! This is disappointing. I've been hawkish, looking for pro-life propaganda that I can cover up with pink duct tape and take a picture of, or just flip the bird at and take a picture of my bird finger in front of the propaganda. (See excerpt from previous post below for a description of The Plan.)

We also devised a little game for ourselves. One of the things that has been very painful for us to deal with -- other than seeing pregnant women everywhere, and other than seeing little babies in strollers -- is seeing Pro-Life stickers on cars. None of us made our decisions callously, so seeing stickers on cars that lumps us in with others who made abortions for other reasons, is hard. We decided we will do one of two things when we see such stickers: (1) Take a picture of our finger flipping off the sticker and post it to our online support site in a thread that others can add to [with their own pictures]; or (2) Cover up the sticker with pink duct tape [on sale at Joann's for $4.99] and take a picture of it to post to said site.

I went out and bought my pink duct tape yesterday; my camera has been in my purse/bag for about two days. I am on the lookout. Who will post first? I saw one sticker as W was driving along yesterday (he is home from Army) but, as we were moving, I was unable to carry out our plan. My eyes are peeled everywhere I go.

I guess drivers in The OC are very vain about their cars (yeah, okay, that includes me) and don't want to put anything on their car, much less inflamatory stickers. So, instead, I decided to "flip the bird" at some offending political appeal DH got in the mail this week. He was supposed to sign it and send it in to our state senators and our state representative, all of whom are Democrats. The senators in particular are very pro-choice. Whatever. Here's my pic:

I posted the pic and a description of "the game" to my Heartbreaking Choice support board in the Pro-Choice forum. We'll see what kind of feedback it gets.

Pregnant ladies everywhere

2008-07-23T09:08:00.000-07:00

OHMIGOD! Can I get a break?? Last night I saw them all over the place. Like a total of five or six. I saw THREE just while DH and the kids and I were sitting eating our frozen yogurt outside Golden Spoon. One was crossing the street when we were in our car. I assume everything is okay. They've passed that pivotal 20 week ultrasound. Is it a boy like mine was?

F***ing Hormones

2008-07-21T21:46:00.000-07:00

I hate hormones. I guess this is what happens when your nearly five and a half months pregnant one day, and then not pregnant the next day. Yeah, that can throw them out of whack. And then the first AF starts up, which means that I can start taking The Pill again, because I definitely cannot get pregnant anytime soon -- and I haven't decided if I even want to again -- and so what all of this means is that my face is a f***ing mess. I'm all broken out and it sucks. Wah. So there.

Talking About Grief with DH

2008-07-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

The good thing about summer and not having to work is that one can take care of things that come up at inopportune times, like late at night, and not worry about the need to wake up in the morning for work. It's okay to have a breakdown at midnight because I can sleep in (which means I don' have to wake up at 4:45 a.m.). And if the kids wake me up early at 6:30, and I'm still tired, I can take a nap. That's what happened yesterday.

Let me also say that I've been trying to decrease my Diet Coke consumption lately. Of course, when I was pregnant with Michael, if I drank any Diet Coke, it was caffeine free. And since I tend to be an anxious person, prone to panic attacks, well, caffeine isn't a good choice of a substance to put in my beverages. Especially lately, as I've been dealing with grief and my new life. But I still love Diet Coke, and I powered down 24 ounces of the stuff last night at my mom's when I took the kids over for dinner. I don't know what I was thinking. I should have known better.

DH asked me later that night, "You're up past your bedtime aren't you?" That's what two cans of Diet Coke at 5:30 p.m. does to me now, I guess. Mind you, my bedtime is normally like 8:05 p.m., which is about five minutes after we put the kids to bed. AND I hadn't taken a nap earlier. So the fact that I was still up and raring to go struck DH as highly unusual.

So I finally climbed into bed at around 11:15. I still wasn't tired. I needed to talk. I got teary right away. I was headed for a crying jag, but I had no worries because there was no work to wake up for.

Let me just say that DH pissed me off earlier in the week. It was over laundry and it was stupid, but I was still harboring anger. So I started off with this, but it led into the fact that I've been disturbed by the fact that in the past two weeks we hadn't been "connecting" as we had during and right after our whole baby loss debacle. We used to sit on the couch each evening after the kids were put to bed and cry or just talk about things, and we hadn't done that in a month, and I missed that. (For two weeks DH was gone for business, and the past two weeks . . . like two ships moving in the night.) So that broke the ice and we lay in bed talking a bit, "connecting" as I had wanted to, needed to. This led to me crying and telling DH about a dream that my Aunt shared about earlier at dinner, that she had felt my grandma's presence in the dream, and that because of the dream, she was certain that grandma and Aunt H (my grandma's sister) had reunited, because Aunt H had just passed this week. It was like a message that Grandma and Aunt H were okay. I was jealous; I wanted -- I've been praying for -- that dream that gives me the certain feeling that Michael is okay. I've even thought about going to see a psychic medium because I so desperately want a connection with Michael. I told DH that I missed Michael; I confessed I thought about him daily--many, many times each day. I probably think about Michael and how much I miss him as much as most men think about women and sex each day. It consumes my thoughts. I don't cry, necessarily, but he pops into my mind often. I said that I hoped he was in heaven with my grandma. That he was there with DH's Uncle J, who just passed, too. DH said he thought about Michael, too, but that it is a little bit easier to talk about him when the subject comes up, as it did when he was away on business for those two weeks. I felt better hearing from DH that he is still feeling the pain, too . . . that I am not alone in this walk I'm making down my new life path. And I agreed that it is getting easier . . . slowly, but it is. So it was a bummer conversation, and we both got depressed a bit, but we ended up laughing, too, and we were able to drift off to sleep. And I felt better because the connection was made again.

On Vacation, Day 2

2008-07-12T21:49:00.000-07:00

Due to hijinks the night before, because of which the kids didn’t get to sleep until after ten p.m., which is way past their normal summertime bedtime of about 8 p.m., and because hotel rooms have such good block-out drapes keeping the room dark, we slept in until nearly 8:30 on the second day of our vacation. We reflexively turned on the cartoons -- aside: they had NO Nickelodeon and, hence, no SpongeBob(!!!) at this hotel . . . can you believe that?!? -- and I got ready to take a shower so that we could all go eat breakfast. (Because you know you cannot go eat breakfast looking like a hag when you are on vacation.)

Breakfast was surprisingly good. We ate at the hotel restaurant, which we don’t normally do, but this was nice. They set up a deluxe-ish buffet thing. I was able to make the kids a waffle on a self-serve waffle maker, get them some milk to drink and cereal to snack on (they like it dry; the milk and cereal don’t necessarily go together in my kids’ minds), and yet have an omelet made for myself. (I know! I ate eggs! But I had the guy put so much “stuff” in them like onions, mushrooms, bacon, bell pepper, etc., etc., etc., that I cannot taste the eggs themselves.) After eating, we got in the car, had GPS guide us the two and a half miles to the aquarium, and got ready to see some fish!

We spent a lot of time there, about four hours, which is probably good enough for families with young kids. If I had been by myself, I probably would have closed the place down because I like to read the captions for everything but my kids, obviously, don’t. Actually, DS is beginning to read lots of things now, like signs and billboards when we’re out, but the captions on the exhibits were too difficult for him and academic and, well, it is summer, and who wants to read academic stuff in the summer except for teachers-on-vacation like Mom? Duh.

We saw lots of very high-interest fish like sharks, as well as other fish that were interesting like tuna. I found them interesting because, frankly, I didn’t know they could grow to be so large. The otters and penguins were their usual crowd-pleasing selves. The jellyfish were beautiful -- an assortment of both large and medium-sized and tiny -- and the school-swimming sardines were fascinating because I’ve never seen fish swim so uniformly like that. I’m used to seeing the odd one or two in a private aquarium in our doctor’s office, rather than a whole school.

It was around two p.m. when we exited the aquarium and found ourselves on Cannery Row. We were hungry, but it was too late to eat a big lunch, because then we wouldn’t be hungry for dinner, and too early to eat dinner, so, DARN, I guess we were locked in to going up the row a bit to get some ice cream sundaes at the Ghiradelli store. It was heartbreaking, but we had to do it. Dad had the regular ice cream sundae with vanilla ice cream, the kids each had a scoop of mint ice cream with rainbow sprinkles (can’t go without rainbow sprinkles!), and Mom had the mint sundae, which was mint ice cream with a hot fudge-y mint sauce . . . altogether, very mint. All was delicious, and the store opened right onto the bay. Down below were kelp beds where free otters (not the ones in the aquarium) were frolicking in the water. It was beautiful.

This is getting long, but oh well.

We went back to the hotel, ostensibly to take naps, but more hijinks ensued. Mom got huffy and threatened no swimming in the hotel pool until kids took naps, and that seemed to do the trick. (But then, of course, I was wide awake and could not sleep myself, so I visited my HC support site and made some postings.) After cursory naps, Mom took the kids down to the pool while Dad made a scheduled Army phone call. DS practiced his swimming and DD practiced her dunks and blowing bubbles, and when the fog started rolling in, Mom decided it was time to go in. After a quick clean-up for dinner, we made our way back to Cannery Row to a restaurant called Willy’s Smokehouse for dinner. We were lured in the by appeal of a kids’ menu and comfort food, and we weren’t disappointed. The meal was delicious. I had a brisket (which is not normally my favorite cut of beef; strictly a filet mignon girl here) that was AMAZING, and Dad got marinated, grilled pork chops topped off with a bleu cheese sauce and a potato salad that was tops. Mom’s meal came with BBQ beans that were merely okay . . . I think I do better . . . but the cole slaw was yummy and not too “wet” with mayo, and had the addition of some sunflower seeds for crunch. DS and DD devoured the quesadilla we got them (which doesn’t happen at Don Jose’s, mind you!) and ate about half of the macaroni we ordered, too. The macaroni was not just the gold Kraft stuff, but really good stuff -- almost like the made-from-scratch kind Mom makes. We opted to get desserts of the kids’ menu, but I have to say they were as good as any I’ve gotten of the adults’ menu at another restaurant.

Michael was with us (me, in my thoughts) all day long. I hope he enjoyed Monterey with us.

Back to the hotel for bed time . . . there was less hijinks to deal with tonight . . . to get ready for another day -- Day Three!

On Vacation, Day 1

2008-07-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

We left on a mini vacation to Monterey, CA, this week. We left on Wednesday and will return tomorrow. (I'm actually writing this from my hotel room in Monterey! DH brought his computer for work purposes.)

It has been a nice trip so far! After dropping off the dog at his "pet resort" on Wednesday morning, we hit the road. We weren't out to make great time; we took a relaxed trip up. And, when you have two kids, the only way to BE is relaxed on a long car trip like this one. And this is only Monterey! I don't know what we were thinking when we traveled to New Orleans two years ago, when DS was only four and DD was two. Demented? Probably, but we made it, so that I'm here writing this vacation round up.

But I digress . . .

The first stop we made was Ventura, at a Der Wienerschnitzel for hot dogs. We had been traveling for nearly three hours, and it was nearing noon, so we stopped. I knew we'd be nearing Santa Barbara in a bit, and I wanted to stop at the mission there. It is supposed to be the most beautiful of all the missions. I knew it also had a grassy area in front of the main chapel, which the kids could run around on to run off some steam. I was hoping, too, that I could visit the gift shop and maybe pick up a new cross for my collection. (When I joined the church, my mom bought me a beautiful tile and pewter cross, which we have hanging above our front door. We bought it at Mission San Juan Capistrano, but I haven't been able to find another like it since.) I saw plenty of tile crosses, but nothing that floated my boat. So, after snapping a few more photos (some of which DD actually cooperated in and smiled), we got back on the road.

Heading north on the 101, the next major city is Santa Maria. That was nostalgic for me passing through, because my paternal grandparents lived there for years. We have no reason to visit Santa Maria anymore, since they moved to Ohio to be near my aunt, who could closely watch over them and take care of them in their later years. And now, of course, they've both passed, so there are no ties left to this city that I spent many days in as I was growing up. The thing I always liked about Santa Maria was how WELL I slept there. I could nap for the US on cool, Saturday afternoons. My favorite afghan I inherited from my grandparents. It must have been the clean air. I don't know, but I just remember how deeply I slept.

On we passed through Pismo Beach, another town with ties for me. My grandma took me there when I was a kid. She was the kind of grandma that actually put on a swim suit and sat in the sand with you, or took a dip in the pool while you were in there, too. I remember digging for clams there, and finding sand dollars, and I told these stories to DS and DD as we were driving through toward San Luis Obispo. In San Luis we stopped again. First, we had some soft serve at the local Tasty Freeze, and then we went on to take a look at their mission. Theirs is nowhere near as extensive as Santa Barbara's, but they have a gift shop, too! Alas, I was stymied again in my search for a cross to add to our collection.

After San Luis we continued on our trek up the 101. We were making great time, passing more missions as we drove! (We didn't stop, though. One, Mission Soledad, was visible from the freeway as we drove, and it wasn't worth stopping for, if I could say so without being struck down!) We stopped quickly for gas outside of King City, and then drove toward Salinas, where we would leave the 101 for our trip toward Monterey. We arrived at our hotel and, after a few frustrations like the key not working in the hotel room door and the TV remote control being out of batteries, we settled in. DH looked for a suitable restaurant to visit for dinner: good, casual, and suitable for kids. He found a place called Hula's, and we were off.

Hula's was good, but it was HOT. It was cooler outside with the sea air blowing in off the bay than it was inside. We were almost sweating. It was also appropriately kitschy with tiki-themed frames on their Hawaiian pictures. There wasn't much of a kids' menu, but we settled on some chicken kabobs for the kids and a basket of sweet potato fries. We weren't sure about the sweet potato fries--weren't sure if the kids would like them, much less like them ourselves--but DH and I ordered them anyway. The good news is that they were delicious and we almost killed the half basket we ordered before our meals arrived. I had tiger shrimp tacos, which were good, and W had . . . something (I don't remember). It was good; I'm not sure, however, I would be dying to come back again when I came to town, like I am with the Corvette Diner in San Diego. After that, we walked a bit down to Cannery Row (three short blocks away), and then back to the hotel for bed time.

Hijinks ensued, as I kinda knew they would. There was a lot of giggling and shuffling around in bed. Even I started laughing after DD or DS used the toilet and the toilet started making noises as it filled back up again. Then DS announced he had a bloody nose, and it turns out that was due to DD stuffing her fingers up his nose! In the pitch dark of the hotel room he ran to the bathroom where we stopped the blood and cleaned him up. More sternly this time we said, "GO TO SLEEP!" and after a few more wiggles, we all were asleep. We had a big day tomorrow: Monterey Bay Aquarium!

This was the funniest thing I think I have ever read

2008-07-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

While visiting my online support site tonight, I was reading through old posts, especially those pertaining to Aunt Flo, which as I mentioned in a previous posting, arrived for the first time after our HC. Someone posted a thread with this letter in it. It won PC Magazine's 2007 Editor's Choice for Best Webmail Award Winning Letter. A woman from Austin, TX, sent it to Proctor & Gamble regarding their feminine products:

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings.

Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my underpants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an in-bred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happe n s during your customers monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying, jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by a bunch of drunken chimps. Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you freaking kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullsh*t. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi ____
Austin , TX

Background: THE Experience (Warning: Not Easy Reading)

2008-07-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

Here is what I wrote after my HC . . . about the procedure itself and my experience at the clinic.

Long post here . . . sorry!

So the new day is dawning, the house is quiet, and I cannot sleep, so I decided to--one day after the fact--post my experience on here in the hopes that other women in my same situation might gain from my experience. I did not, when I was lurking on here, see many stories like mine, but I know there are women on here in my same place.

So it was almost two weeks ago when I went in for my routine mid-pregnancy ultrasound. As this was my third (very wanted) child, and I had two healthy children so far (ages 5 and 3), I made my way to the appointment with no qualms. But, the ultrasound seemed to take a long time, and the technician was concentrating very much on one particular area of my stomach. I shrugged it off as the baby "not being cooperative" because that's the way the other two were too. I was told it was a boy (which my husband and I were hoping for), set off, sent a congratulatory text to DH, and went home . . . only to be called about an hour later by my doctor telling me there were significant brain anomalies.

Thus set off a round of more testing--a more detailed ultrasound, an amnio, a fetal MRI, only to confirm this was a baby with a severe brain malformation leading to an excess of fluid in the brain ventricles and, consequently, important parts of the brain not developing because of the fluid. The diagnosis was that this child would never have any awareness of us, if he even survived being born. We were DEVASTATED. I cried and cried and eventually became numb as we proceeded through the testing and appointments with specialists. My husband and I, though practicing Catholics, came to the decision that we could not allow our child to be born only to live a very limited existence, or to go through extra heroic, invasive, life saving measures in order to live (a limited existence) . . . so we decided termination would be the best parenting decision we could make for our baby.

Selfishly, we knew we were not strong enough emotionally to navigate what this would mean for the marriage (stress leading to divorce? It happens too often, and we did not want that); for our other children (less and less attention on them, because of the overwhelming needs of this baby); and our own emotions.

So thus began my appointments with the clinic where the termination would take place.

It was a bewildering experience. Because I was so far along, my procedure ultimately took three days. On the first day, there was an ultrasound and then then inserted some seaweed sticks called laminaria into my cervix to dilate it. I was also given a shot of something right into my stomach to stop fetal heartbeat. That was tough, not because it hurt me (I was so numb with grief I hardly felt any pain through this whole process) but because I knew what it was doing. Over the coming night, the baby's movements gradually stopped. The laminaria were uncomfortable, but as I went home and basically went to lay down, I didn't feel much.

The next day, I went back to the clinic. I had another ultrasound (to ensure fetal heartbeat had stopped--it had), and to insert more laminaria to dilate me further. As I understood from talking with the nurses, the sticks of seaweed are rolled up tightly, but that as they are in your body, they gradually enlarge, ultimately dilating the cervix so that the ultimate procedure is safer. This day, as the nurse was inserting the laminaria, I began to bleed, which was extremely upsetting to me. (Most women don't bleed.) There was a lot of blood. I began to worry that I wouldn't make it alive through the procedure, that I would bleed out during the experience, and that my DH and would lose not only the baby, but me, too. I began to worry that I wouldn't make it out of anesthesia the next day, with the same results. My mind and imagination were going to catastrophic places . . . it was horrible. I kept asking, "I'm going to be okay, right?" The nurses said yes, they were going to take good care of me. The thing is, all the literature they give you so that you are making an "informed choice" planted these things in my mind . . . particularly women that have had previous C sections, which I had, tend to bleed more and in less than one percent of cases, a hysterectomy needs to be done, etc., etc., etc. So, of course, my mind was going there. I was sure that I was going to be one of those "less than one percent" women.

(Because, after all, I was one of those "less than one percent" with a baby with Dandy Walker Malformation, but I digress.) Read on:

Nevertheless, DH and I went home, where I spent the evening, uncomfortably, in bed. I slept not a wink past 12:30, knowing what was coming in a few hours.

Yesterday, the last day, DH and I arrived at the clinic. Knowing that I bled the day before, they would have two attending physicians in with me during the extraction procedure, which made me feel better. I waited a bit with the other women there, all of us prepped for the same procedure. Waiting. It seemed endless, but once things happened, they happened rather quickly. I was brought back into the room, the anesthesia was given, and the next thing I knew, I was coming to in a nice recliner as my vitals were being taken. I slurred, "Thank you for taking good care of me," to the nurse, because I was immensely grateful that she had. As the nurse told me, I was only out for about ten minutes total, the actual procedure taking about two to three minutes. Very quick. I felt pain "down there," but it wasn't a sharp pain, just a dull crampy pain. I could live with that; actually, I had--when I was a teenager, I had horribly crampy periods, so bad I sometimes had to leave school. Nevertheless, we were encouraged to use the restroom if we needed, so I did, and I was pleased to see I wasn't even bleeding as much as the day before. I felt immensely better. Back in my recliner to fully come to, I also gave thanks to God for walking with me through the procedure and restoring me to consciousness and all my faculties.

I was in the recliner for a bit (about an hour) before they took out the IV and let me get dressed. I was then given medicine (antibiotics and something to help shrink the uterus and Advil for pain) and DH was summoned to drive me home. Once home, I drank a nutrition drink and laid down to (hopefully) sleep and watch TV. (A guilty pleasure of mine is to fall asleep watching TV.) Surprisingly, I only slept about an hour! My DH napped for longer than I did! I felt good enough for another car ride to go fetch my children from my mom and dad's--I was SO happy to see them and hug them, and it was after bringing them home that we settled in our bed with them and let them know that mommy's baby was now with God.

Overall, though a very bewildering experience, surreal even, it was for the best, and I don't regret our decision. Of the clinic, I would say that they acted very "business like," but then I would think that's appropriate for them too, knowing that it must be hard to see so many women come in like me and knowing what we're there for. The nurses and staff always would ask, "How are you?" and my best advice is not to say you're fine, because you're not. Be honest (as I was) and say, "I'm nervous" or "I've been better" or "I'm scared to death" and they will respond to that with a smile, and a pat on the back or a hug. I always got reassurance and compassion when I was honest about how I was feeling. I did try not to cry while there because my tears are copious and the kleenex was so crappy and industrial and worthless. Also, while I was waiting in the pre-op room with the other women on three successive days, we broke the ice and began to talk to each other. At first, we all avoided each other's eyes and didn't say a word, but then one of us spoke up, and then another, and then we began to talk, especially on that last day before the final procedure. It was immensely anxiety reducing, and we got to share a bit about how we felt bewildered and we talked a bit about our child's anomalies (because all of us were there not by choice, but because of our babies' conditions). Some of us already had children, and some were there because the first pregnancy went awry. (That especially broke my heart!) It may seem uncomfortable to break the ice, but I'm glad that once someone did (because it wasn't me!), I opened up and chatted because we all felt better talking about it than keeping it bottled up. We all knew we would probably never see each other again, and we would all deal with the decision differently and as best we could, but for the time being we were able to function as an impromptu support group.

I haven't cried since the procedure, and I'm not sure where the grief process will take me. But, I thank you for the support of this board in the last (almost) two weeks, and I hope I was able to offer some support to others here.

Suffice to say, I've cried much since all has happened, and they've been bitter, sorrowful tears. But I am gradually getting hope and putting this grief to work constructively; this Blog is proof of that.

Oh yeah, Aunt Flo arrived today

2008-07-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

This is the first since our HC in mid May. I guess I should be somewhat relieved, and I am on some level, because it means my hormones are stabilizing again and I am healthy. I have to say that I didn't know what to expect; I read many postings on my online support group, and they all varied widely. I could expect anything between "normal and not a problem" to "debilitating" . . . hmm. I was prepared for debilitating, but have been pleasantly surprised with normal and not a problem. Probably TMI for you.

I always expect the worst -- a TRUE pessimist -- and I am grateful when things don't go as I have (catastrophically) predicted. Funny . . . the only thing I didn't worry about was the fate of baby Michael -- why would I worry? I have two perfect children! -- but the universe dealt me a really bad hand. When I heard that diagnosis, I felt like I had been savagely beaten, pistol whipped, and left to find my way back out of the woods where I had been left for dead. How could I have not seen that coming? This one time I didn't worry . . . it came back to smack me in the face in a really big way.

My life is so different now. I have no more innocence. Horrible things happen. Many different, horrible things happen, and they can happen to me. They might happen again. My whole world -- my life's paradigm -- has shifted. Hence the name for this Blog. I do not see things -- the world -- the same way anymore. This is me, Version 2.0.

I met some friends and we came up with a plan

2008-06-30T15:15:00.000-07:00

So I belong to this support group online of other (mostly) moms who have had to make a Heartbreaking Choice like I did. It is an AMAZING site and it has been helpful ever since we got our poor prenatal diagnosis. However, I know the value of "real life" support groups, so that was one of the first things I had on my list of things to do upon recovery from my procedure. I asked a nurse that was helping me for the gestational diabetes I developed during the pregnancy to have a social worker friend call me with a list of groups through our hospital. She gave me the name of one, which I looked forward to attending. I showed up at the appointed date and time, only to find it had been disbanded for lack of a facilitator. I was, to say the least, devastated. I had really gotten my hopes up that I would be able to meet other people like me in my same situation; who knew exactly how I felt; and who could possibly give me some experience, strength, and hope until the next time the group met again. That I wouldn't be able to meet these people deflated me. I cried in the car on the way home. I love my online circle of women, but . . . I just knew there were people out there in my area who had had the experience I was seeking.

So I went online to the group, and I posted this:

dulcemija wrote:
So it has been about a week and a half since our HC. I was set to attend a grief support group in my area tonight, only I showed up and was not able to find it. Upon asking one of the people in the lobby where it was, I was told it hasn't met for many weeks because they don't have a facilitator.

I love this board, but I find it helpful to meet with people in person, too. I was bummed that it wasn't available and that alone made me start crying on the way home.

Anyone know of a support group in the Orange County, CA area?

Thanks for letting me vent.

Luckily, there were women who responded to my post and who were willing to make a date with me to meet in person.

And we met on Sunday!

Just to be able to talk to other women, without having to explain anything, without having to wonder if I can be totally honest or if I have to hold back for fear of offending someone, was a MIRACLE. When I said something, one or all would nod their heads with agreement, or add in their two cents' worth of experience. It was fantastic. We met for about two and a half hours; I was on a high as I drove home. I felt SO good. We agreed we would like to meet again, perhaps in September, and we will keep in touch in the meantime.

We also devised a little game for ourselves. One of the things that has been very painful for us to deal with -- other than seeing pregnant women everywhere, and other than seeing little babies in strollers -- is seeing Pro-Life stickers on cars. None of us made our decisions callously, so seeing stickers on cars that lumps us in with others who made abortions for other reasons, is hard. We decided we will do one of two things when we see such stickers: (1) Take a picture of our finger flipping off the sticker and post it to our online support site in a thread that others can add to [with their own pictures]; or (2) Cover up the sticker with pink duct tape [on sale at Joann's for $4.99] and take a picture of it to post to said site.

I went out and bought my pink duct tape yesterday; my camera has been in my purse/bag for about two days. I am on the lookout. Who will post first? I saw one sticker as DH was driving along yesterday (he is home from business) but, as we were moving, I was unable to carry out our plan. My eyes are peeled everywhere I go.

More later . . .

My Two Cents on a Few Things

2008-06-24T20:46:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't posted here in a few days . . . I guess I haven't felt that there was anything significant to write about. So here's my thoughts on a bunch of things. Some of the things I have to say are actual copies of postings I made on a site that I visit for support. Here goes:

(1) There's the pregnancy ladies that I see out and about when I'm doing errands. Some of them are so big they're about to deliver, and I think [a] how lucky for them that they obviously haven't received a poor prenatal diagnosis . . . the baby in there is normal . . . mine wasn't and I'm horribly jealous; or [b] Mija, what are you thinking? The baby in there might not be normal but she's carrying to term. Stop jumping to conclusions that all is fine and have pity, for *** sake!

(2) Dear daughter, DD, asked me yesterday, "How is your baby feeling mom?" I was kinda taken aback, and every time she asks me questions in her newly-four-year-old about the baby I get a little heartsick, but I tried to answer in an upbeat manner. I said, "Well, I think he's doing pretty good, considering he's with God, and that's a great place to be." She agreed. She asks me a question about once a week, and at first I started crying, but yesterday was a milestone that I didn't.

(3) In response to a woman who posted about how sad she was about that today was her due date, I wrote: "My heart aches for you and I am thinking of you. I am not at my c-section date (what I was going to have) yet, but I am not looking forward to it. I know, though, that these wonderful people on here will help me through it. Wishing you peace and a freedom from anxiety about your decision."

(4) In response to the post, "How is your husband grieving?" I wrote:

dulcemija wrote:
I also want to say "thank you" to J- for his 2 cents . . . it helps!

As for my DH, from the second we got our poor prenatal diagnosis, he was there for me. We were "in it together" as LeLe said. Since I was so non-functioning and emotional, he got to be very action-oriented, which was good for him. He is very much a "take care of things" kind of DH. We held it in all day and faced what we needed to face, but as the sun was setting and all tasks were done for the day, we would sit together on our living room couch and talk and/or cry and let it all out--let out all we felt we couldn't around other people in the "normal" world. It was the same in the days that he was home with me right after our HC. He took bereavement leave at work, so we were home and could talk and do things together, and he could calm me down when I was crying those bitter tears. We knew, and we talked about the fact that, we had to be completely open and honest with our feelings and just say stuff out loud rather than keep it in our own heads (where mine usually resides when I'm not emoting), otherwise we wouldn't not get out of this on the other side for the better.

We're a little over a month out from our HC, and things are settling down a bit. I took off work for an extended time, so I've been home and will be until August. In my time at home during the day is when I'll cry . . . I don't want to cry in front of him. Sometimes he feels like he needs to fix it and make me stop, when I just need to cry. But, like the deal Depal and her DH came up with . . . I'll tell him, "I had a bad cry today." That day almost two weeks ago when I felt like I was feeling pretty good and then had the floor dropped out from under me . . . he came home and I immediately told him, "I need to sit with you. I need you to hold me. I had a Very Bad Day today." Likewise, one day when he was driving home and he saw something that just triggered something for him, he did the same. He came home, and he said, "I just need to hug you for a while. I had a trigger."

I am the one who is downloading grief podcasts and researching an "in real life" support group in my area and finding this site . . . I tell him about all that I do. I asked if he wanted to attend the support group with me in a few weeks (no); I told him about our site, which he thinks is great, but which he didn't show an indication to wanting to join. I guess I keep "checking in" with him . . . ? He doesn't show much of an interest in that stuff; he prefers to play his video games, which I know is his way of dealing with stuff. (Luckily, I knew that before this all happened . . . he's even tried to extoll the benefits to me of gaming thinking it would help ME(!) deal with things . . . so, okay, I have Guitar Hero III and The Sims now, which I actually DO enjoy playing.)

I still think I'm the one who will tend to bring up and start the "talk" more, but he will talk once I do. And, on his trigger moments, he'll start the talk with me, which makes me feel so good that I can be of comfort to him because I know it is hard to talk about. But all the other stuff, I just keep asking if he wants to be a part of it every once in a while.

I don't know if that helps.

(5) In response to a woman struggling with anxiety and panic after her HC, I wrote:

dulcemija wrote:
** TTC, LC mentioned ***

Hi there . . . (HUGS) . . . I *hate* anxiety SO much . . .

Like A_, I have lived with it for most of my life. I had my first devastating panic attack at 17 as a freshman in school, and it flares up BADLY every so often (mostly when I go off of my antidepressant for some reason), culminating in a complete shutting down of my body--no sleep, no eating, crying and shaking constantly. It's horrible. I'm so sorry. I know how you feel. I can live with depression, but when I am in a heightened state of anxiety, I just want to crawl out of my body, if I could.

I do not treat my anxiety with a anti-anxiety because they are very habit forming. I am VERY afraid of becoming addicted to something like that, as I have alcoholism in my family background. So, because of that, I started way back with a prescription for Prozac, which worked for me very well up until about a year and a half ago. The ADs are not addictive, so I felt better taking it. (I took it for nearly 10 years.) The times I have stopped taking Prozac included "important" things like when DH and I were thinking and trying to become pregnant with our son, to name one. I stopped taking it knowing by OB would probably want me off any drugs during the pregnancy. For a while I was fine, but the anxiety came back so badly--and to be honest, there WERE other things going on, too, like DH being deployed a week after I found out I was pregnant, which didn't help matters--that I resumed taking the Prozac after I was through the first trimester, and was on it from conception to birth through my second pregnancy of my daughter, with the knowledge and recommendation of by OB, and both children (thanks be to God!) are beautiful and happy and show no effects of me being on the med. (Total run-on sentence, but oh well.)

I am currently on Lexapro, because Prozac suddenly stopped working for me in Oct. of 2006, and I was back into one of my complete breakdown modes. We switched to Lexapro, and I feel great. Neither it nor Prozac are "happy" pills . . . for example, I feel the grief of my HC terribly, but I can focus on doing things that are right for me and healing for me, which I wouldn't be able to if I were off of the AD. If my DH and I decide to TTC again, however, I will probably stop Lexapro, at least through the first trimester, because I just don't want to take any chances again, you know? I don't know, it's something by OB and I would have to talk about, but my feeling is that I would want to temporarily stop for a bit during the critical first trimester when the neural tube things are developing (since ours was a neural tube malformation with our HC), and just hang in there as much as possible drug-less until birth.

Like some of the other ladies on here have mentioned, I also see a psychologist. Before our HC, it was once a month, sort of a maintenance for issues I was working on, but after HC it has been once a week as I begin to process what happened and work through grief. I, too, have to keep myself busy with things like housework and "projects" so that I don't think too much about things. I catastrophize everything, if given enough time to think . . . like in my time off work since the HC I've finished up a few art projects I was working on here at home; I made some Roman shades for my dining room, read books, cleaned out the garage today . . . It's a fine line for me because when I'm working, I tend to veer toward being a work-a-holic, which is NOT good . . . so I am constantly striving for balance. I think it is a good idea that you get out once a day; another one of the things I did to give myself structure was to get up and showered and dressed each day at the same time I would have had I still been going to work, but instead of going to work, I went to do my errands and to church for daily mass (we're Catholic). I am also a big believer in support groups, which is why I am here online. As I mentioned above, I have alcoholism in my family of origin, so I have been a faithful attender of Alanon for many years, and it works. (I've stopped attending regularly for a while, because it doesn't address my special needs right now.) I knew it would be a lot more difficult to try to find a support group for our special kind of loss, which is why I am so grateful this board is here. It serves that purpose for me, although I am still going to try to attend a perinatal loss group soon. (Their next meeting isn't for a few weeks, and who knows? It might not "work" for me, but I'm going to try.) I was so dismayed to find there WASN'T a support group in my area for this anymore, in fact, that I posted on here to see if anyone from this board who lived in my area wanted to meet up, and we are this Sunday!

Like A- also said, I have tried to find Podcasts online that help, too. When I can't sleep in the night (which because of anxiety is a normal happening for me), I listen to the podcast. The one that I found on iTunes that I've been getting some help from is called "Healing the Grieving Heart" and it is for parents who have lost a child, doesn't matter what means. Some of the podcasts don't "fit" me, but they do have many that address perinatal loss and grieving in general -- including how the sexes deal differently with grief, which seems to be a theme on here today -- and those have helped too. (Thanks A- for the guided meditation tip!)

I don't know . . . I have just found that I HAVE to be resourceful and try to use a lot of different resources. I have the meds, but I do a lot of "work" besides with therapist, podcasts, support groups, etc., that I found a balance of all that works for me.

I am keeping you in my mind and wishing you a freedom from anxiety and fear . . .

For those of you who do no know what these acronyms are, TTC means "trying to conceive" and "LC" means "living child". For some of the people on the board I visit, they are so grief stricken that reading posts about people who have living children (when they couldn't not) is too sensitive, so it is a warning to them that they can avoid a potentially emotional post. "DH" stands for "dear husband."

(6) Lastly, in response to "Is God Mad At Me?" I wrote:

dulcemija wrote:
S-,

I, too, am Catholic and struggled with this question. I find it a little weird that I would feel guilt over this question because I actually wasn't raised Catholic; I joined the church when I got married because DH is from a very Catholic family. I embraced the church, though, and we are very observant. (We did attend a Methodist church for a while as a child, and I was very God/spiritual anyway before becoming Catholic.) I think, though, that Catholicism has not a whole lot to do with my guilt . . . I'm just a moral and ethical person, who was always raised with the idea that this kind of a decision is NOT one to take lightly. And, this is not something I ever thought I'd be faced with. Other women, yes. Me? No.

I don't think God is mad at us at all. Not at all. Here is how (a little over one month out) I've begun to reconcile things in my mind: (1) If God did not want us to have the option of making the choice to begin with, He would not have let us know about our diagnosis. That is, our diagnosis was severe hydrocephalus because of an extreme Dandy Walker malformation; our baby had virtually no cerebellum, and the rest of his brain was hardly more than just fluid. I know of at least one other family whose son was born with hydrocephalus, except they didn't know until he was born. They had no option to choose because God didn't give them one or want them to have that one. (2) There is that part of me, though, that still feels like I did something wrong, even though it was the best possible decision we had. In that case, I am reminded that at the beginning of every mass, we are asked to call to mind our sins and ask that God forgives us. That applies to me . . . I ask for God to forgive me. I know that I will be forgiven if I ask with a true heart, and I do ask at each mass. (And I've been going nearly every day.) I don't necessarily see what I did as a mortal sin, like the Church does, but I am sorry that I had to make the choice. (3) I do feel the need to go to the sacrament of reconciliation, but I'm not sure when. I'm very scared of what the priest will say! (Even though the other posts above have shown the priest to be compassionate, I'm afraid he won't be with me and DH. That's just my fear.)

I *love* the perspective K- offered above about how God feels our pain because He had to make the decision to lose His son for the ultimate good, too. Ultimately, I feel that. I do feel like God knew this was part of my life plan, and now he is holding my hand through it.

I forgot to add one last little thing:

dulcemija wrote:
Forgot to add . . .

I do take communion when I go to mass. I haven't waited to participate in confession before I did that which, I know, may be seen as a bad thing. But the way I see it is, communion is a way for me to get the strength of God physically into my body. I know that God's strength is getting me through this, but communion (taking the body of Christ into my body) is a physical, tangible proof of that for me. That's one of the things I pray to Him after communion, a prayer of thanks to Him for the eucharist, that through the eucharist He and His strength have physically come into my body and will help me through my day. And, since I have asked for forgiveness communally (and in a personal way too) before mass, I am acceptable to receive communion. Does all that make sense?

Just my thinking . . . take what you like and leave the rest.

More on Catholicism

2008-06-16T19:00:00.000-07:00

So I was talking about my "take what you like, leave the rest" viewpoint on Catholicism. I am actually very religious; I read the Bible and various books about the saints and Mary almost daily. I've been attending daily mass almost, well, daily since our HC (heartbreaking choice). It makes me feel better.

(I started off my prayers in church before mass the same way I always do [see the first post], with the added thanksgiving for a safe plane ride on Sunday for DH, who is traveling on business.)

The things that I don't necessarily subscribe to are the church's teachings on social issues, like homosexuality, contraception, and, obviously, abortion. I've always been quietly pro-choice, never vocal to anyone in my beliefs. Let's be honest: It's a divisive issue, and I don't want to get in an argument about it nor do I want to feel like I have to defend myself. And, although I support a woman's right to choose, I always thought it would never, ever be my choice. I was very wrong. Getting a catastrophic prenatal diagnosis changed all of that.

I've struggled with my choice and whether I should seek forgiveness from the priest (participate in confession) and, through the sacrament, God. I've only been to confession once, and that was so I could have first communion and confirmation. I haven't been back since. DH has probably been to confession as many times as I have, and he was raised Catholic! (Okay, that's an exaggeration, but you get the idea -- he never goes.) Every mass starts off with a moment where we ask God to forgive our sins, and in my own personal conversations with God, I've asked for forgiveness. In my mind, I've demonstrated remorse, so I don't know why I've suddenly become "Catholic" enough to want to participate in confession, when I completely flaunt other teachings of the church. Where has this "Catholic guilt" suddenly come from? The homily today at morning mass was about confession, in a sense, so I still remain intrigued by the idea of "confessing" my HC. The thing is, it was the right thing to do; I don't think I've sinned in that sense. As someone wrote on a grief board I visit for others who've made HCs: I am a good person who had no good choices. That's all I regret, that I had to make the decision, not the one that I made. I can be proud of the fact that I chose to spare my child a lifetime, if he even got that, of suffering and pain. I look at it like there was a DNR (do not resuscitate) on my child, just like there was on DH's uncle.

I don't know . . . the jury's still out.

In any case, today was a good day. Even though DH is gone for the next two weeks on business, the kids and I had a great day. DS wasn't even acting depressed (like he normally does) that DH was gone. We did a video iChat tonight before I started writing this post. Having the ability to actually talk face to face, albeit via computer, is a great thing!

I know this looks bad . . . (and random other things)

2008-06-14T16:18:00.000-07:00

(Regards to picture at left) . . . I have to say, really, that half of those are root beer bottles. Yes, the other half are beer bottles. DH and I are finding a beer in the evening takes the edge off. I don't consider myself a drinker, but after losing our baby, well, it relaxes me at night. Not every night, just nights of trying days. We've had some this week.

* * *

DH's uncle died Thursday evening. As I was writing my first post, probably. He was a very smart man, crotchety and opinionated in his old age (who isn't?), a doctor for a profession. DH and his brothers and sisters went to Dr. W as children and youth, and played with his children, their cousins. The huge family is less one more member now, and that's sad. The rosary is on Monday, and the actual funeral on Tuesday. I probably will not go to either because DH is leaving for business for two weeks and I will have no one to watch DS and DD. (I don't want to take them.) DH said probably, given everything that's happened to us in the past month, he wouldn't have gone even if he was going to be home. We're just sick of being sad and crying; for sure there will be plenty of that there.

* * *

For those of you who are Mac users, of which I am! (proudly), you may use iWeb, which is a handy program for creating one's own website. I have created one for our family. Unfortunately, I don't post to my family blog there as often as I'd like, but I do post big things, and this has been a big week for us. DS promoted from kindergarten and we celebrated DS and DD's birthdays last weekend. I also recently put up a slide show and write up about a quick day trip our family made to Legoland. As I was going through and updating our site with pictures and blog commentaries, I happened upon one I forgot I made: "Baby No. 3 is on the way" and it shocked me when I saw it. I didn't know what to do with it. I left it up there, posted all the new stuff I wanted to publish, and then left the computer to go upstairs and take a nap. I just took it down before continuing this blog; I don't want to dishonor Michael, but seeing it up there is too painful for me to deal with--because he's not on the way anymore. Under the "Our Family" section, I did leave a picture of an angel and wrote "Michael, angel" under the names of our other two children.

I have read on other blogs and postings how other women deal with the question, "And how many children do you have?" How do I answer that now? I like the feisty ones who say, "I have two living children" to intrusive, bitchy askers (kind and friendly women I would never say that to) and just let the implication of what they've said hang in the air. I'll keep that in mind when I encounter nasty, thoughtless people. I guess I've been considering myself a mom of three, it's just that one of them was born an angel instead of to me on earth.

* * *

I went to mass this morning. Since I have been home on disability and emotionally healing more than physically healing, one of the things I've incorporated into my routine to keep me busy is nearly daily attendance at mass. Catholics have the luxury of attending church every day if they want -- not just Sundays and a bible study during the week -- but actual church every day, and I've been doing that. I start off the morning by making the kids' lunches, take dear daughter to school, do an errand or two (or none, just going to Starbucks and working on crosswords) before heading over to the 8:30 service. Because our week was so busy this week, I didn't get to go any day Monday through Friday, so I resumed today. All the "regulars" I've come to recognize through my own attendance were there, and a few more, possibly because it is a weekend day.

In case you're wondering, yes, I am Catholic, and I did have a (medical) termination of a pregnancy. And I haven't had any problems returning to church. I did perhaps, the first mass back -- wondered if I should go to perform the Sacrament of Reconciliation first (confession) -- but I see the church as there to give me strength, and so I go there to get it. I have confessed privately to God, and God knows my pain . . . whether or not I will "confess" to a priest, I don't know. I don't feel the need to, as I've had these conversations with God already and each mass starts off with a request from God anyway to forgive us of our sins.

I guess you could call me "pick-and-choose" Catholic, and I suppose I am this way because I was not raised in the church. I joined when I married DH eight years ago, and I did it because I wanted any future children of ours to have one faith to follow rather than try to wonder what they should be -- "Gee, dad is Catholic and mom is . . . spiritual, so, um, . . ." So I don't have a lot of qualms about not following the dictates of the church to a T.

More on that later . . . we're getting ready to go out to Father's Day dinner.

Uhhh.

2008-06-13T07:01:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been hit by a ton of bricks. The eyes flickered open and the sunlight of the day poked its way in. Another day. A better day, hopefully. My eyes are so swollen from crying yesterday. I got a good night's sleep thanks to Zolpidem . . . once I dropped off I didn't stir. Blissful ignorance for eight hours.

More to come later on other developments yesterday ...

Positives, then some negatives

2008-06-12T19:00:00.000-07:00

So I want to start off with a bit of a gratitude list before I move on to all that I find crappy in my life right now.

1. I love my dear husband, whom I will call DH for (dear husband). I am so grateful for his love and his strength, and the fact that we have an awesomely strong marriage. He is an amazing dad and my best cheerleader lately.

2. I love my two beautiful children, DS (dear son) and DD (dear daughter). I am grateful they are healthy and happy children.

3. I am grateful for my parents, for being great parents, and for being supportive, and that they, too, are currently in good health.

4. I am grateful for my in-laws, DH's parents, for their support and for their current good health. I am happy to say that I feel I have a great relationship with my in-laws. Not all DILs can say that!

5. I am grateful for my good job; I have job security. It provides me health insurance. I get paid a nice living . . . I have a wonderful home that DH and I feel comfortable in, that we fill with nice things. I get to shop in more upscale and "trendy" stores for gadgets and clothes and things that I like and want; my kids lack for nothing. We take nice vacations; we have a sizable nest egg in the bank. I love my car.

I go through this mantra nearly daily as I say my prayers at mass in the mornings. I've taken up attending the morning mass, nearly every day. I offer this gratitude list up to G-d before I start making my petitions to Him. I feel like I should say "thanks" before I offer up my lamentations and complaints. It's only fair, right?

So today was a Very Bad Day.

I was filled with grief today. It has been nearly a month since we said goodbye to Michael, our son who never got to be born. I live with grief every day now, but today it hurt more than it has been.

Here's why:

I went in to work today. I had some loose ends to wrap up upon the end of the school year (I'm in the education field). As soon as I received our poor prenatal diagnosis a little over a month ago, I took off work. At first, it was just a week, until we got more news about the extent of of our poor diagnosis -- just how bad was it?? -- and then when it became clear that it was really bad, and what our choice needed to be, I decided to take off at least until the end of May. Physically, I'd be able to return to work by then (and it might be good for me to keep my mind off the devastation at hand), telling others we'd simply "lost" the baby, but emotionally, who knew? I might feel "up to it" or, as it turned out, maybe I wouldn't. So I said "fuck it" to those last two weeks after Memorial Day and I've been off healing emotionally . . . but the world still keeps going and work matters beckoned. My co-workers -- JM, JP, LH, and KC -- have been amazingly helpful taking care of what they could at work for me, but ultimately, there's some things I just needed to do. So I came in to do them.

The problem was that a another coworker of mine there, too, and she'd just had a baby in March. And she had her baby with her. He's a little over two months old now. I held it together while I was doing what I needed to be doing . . . and I did smile at him and say "hello" to her, but it killed me. All I could do was look at him and think about how I was supposed to have a son, too, in a few months' time. And he was perfect and cute and beginning to make smiles for people other than his mom and soothing himself as he sat in her arms . . . I couldn't take my eyes off of him, but I couldn't bear to see him either.

And then people started coming up to me, who haven't seen me in the past month, and who know what has happened, that we "lost" the baby, and who come up to me with these looks on their faces -- with a sort of pity on their visage -- who say, "How are you?"

How the hell do you think I am? Do you WANT me to tell you how I really am? Really? Are you prepared for the emotion that's going to come out of my gut and my eyes and my mouth? Can you handle it?

("How are you?" is such a loaded question, and I know that now more than ever. It is this fake cordiality that people ask without even really caring about the answer.)

And I start crying. Because the baby is there and I'm still focused on what I want and what I'm not going to get and then there is this question looming there and their pitying eyes. I have various answers . . . "It depends on the day," or "Better than some, not as good as some," or sometimes I can even say how I am, I just shake my head. And then there was one who didn't know I "lost" the baby, and I had to tell her. I thought everyone knew, that it had been spread quietly through hushed word-of-mouth through our ranks.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I know she feels bad that she had her baby there and I was there and she knew I lost mine, and I tried not to start crying in front of her, but I did.

I cried all the way home. I cried for the next two hours. And then I calmed myself a bit. I read other women's blogs. I visited my online support site for moms and dads and families who had to make the same heartbreaking choice DH and I did. I got the courage to start this blog and actually start writing about this new life of mine.

(I thought about a blog before, that this could be a way for me to process my grief. Part of me didn't want to write about it, because through writing about it, I would have to face it and all my feelings. I didn't think I could go there because the feelings are just too much. But what the hell . . . they're swimming around in my head constantly. At least this way I could write them down, get them out, and move on to the next that pop in my head.)

DH came home and I was able to get a bit of time with him while DS and DD were playing to be honest with him and let him know that today was Not a Good Day, and I got to let him hug me while I weeped and tell me things are going to be okay.

Because, ultimately, that's all I want. I just want to know that everything is going to be okay. Because I don't believe that myself yet. That the grief won't go away, but it will deaden and it will be bearable.

So as I was reading other blogs, we got a call. DH's dear uncle is in the hospital, waiting for Extreme Unction, commonly known (for non-Catholics) as last rites. DH raced to the hospital to be with his parents, siblings and cousins -- many of them, remember we're Catholic -- only to call me but a half an hour later telling me he couldn't stay there in the hospital. It was just too painful to be in such a medical setting with our own loss so recent. He was on his way home, crying as he spoke . . . it was my time to be the cheerleader and to be the strong one. So much crying, on his part and mine . . . I have really begun to loathe crying. I hated it before, but now . . . we both really hate it. What can I say?

So here we are, both of us drinking a beer. Alcohol helps; I'm not a drinker, and I'm worried that I have had a beer (or if we are at a restaurant, something appropriately full of alcohol and fruity tasting) nearly every night with, or after dinner, for the past week and a half. But it just relaxes me. Even though I've been at home with nothing to do but laundry and cleaning, reading and watching TV, surfing blogs and other internet sites . . . so I should already BE relaxed . . . I don't know, the beer just takes the edge off. It is that fuzzy, buzzed "ahhhhhhh" feeling that I'm just liking. I stop feeling the grief so badly for the hour that it takes for the alcohol to process through my system, I guess. And that's comforting. Tonight, also, will be (probably) a sleeping pill night because I'm still reeling from crying so much and I know I won't sleep well. My OB prescribed it for me about two days after we got the poor prenatal diagnosis because I was going crazy with anxiety and panic and was sleeping but two hours a night. I haven't felt the need to take one more than a few times since our loss, but tonight is one of those nights. I don't have problems falling asleep, but at least this will help me to stay asleep instead of fitfully toss, which is my normal modus operandi, and which I can, most other nights, deal with.

DH is playing a computer game which helps him get out of his grief and distracts him. It is his way of coping.

I should take up gaming. I have Sims and Guitar Hero.

Will go for now . . . DS and DD are wanting their nightly treats and then it is time to get ready for bed. And for me, at least, sleep will bring a few hours of blissful unconsciousness. Tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett says, and I deal with it tomorrow.