Work, Part I

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.

Willing to Try Again

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?

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.

Background: THE Experience (Warning: Not Easy Reading)

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.