Breaking the Surface

Last night I dreamt I was at a big pool, a pool I didn't recognize, with a bunch of female friends. The friends were mostly in the pool already, far from where I stood on the edge. They beckoned me to come join them. I took the plunge and dove in, but as I turned up to surface, I found that some force was keeping me down. I concentrated all my strength into turning my head up and moving toward the surface, but it was like it was iced over: I absolutely couldn't break through. I was getting lost in the blue, beginning not to know which way was up or down, which way had air. I finally backed up and found a place where I could surface, and came gasping up for air. My first emotion was fury, fury with the owner of the pool for not more clearly outlining the dangerous sections of the pool. Then I looked over to my friends, still so far away in the center of the pool, and wondered why I was the only one who had had trouble getting in the pool, had run into such danger. And I wondered how, and whether, I would ever make it to where they were.

So I guess right now, I'm in the middle of my dive, waiting to see whether I'll have trouble surfacing again, whether I'll run into the cruel, unyielding ice, or whether I'll gracefully, effortlessly break the surface and begin to breath again.

Pisser

After such a happy post yesterday, I'm tempted not to put this one in at all, or at the very least to try to come off as slightly more sane by waiting a day or two before I admit to it. But what the hell: if you haven't figured out that this journey is a wicked roller coaster by now then I haven't been doing a good enough job of depicting it.

Whooooooosh! (that's the sound of the roller coaster descending from a height, leaving me screaming my head off)

Today was a less than stellar day. I suppose it truly started last night, when I had trouble sleeping. My typical action, when I find myself tossing and turning, is to do what Bruno calls "resetting": I get up, go pee, and come back and try start over with sleeping. I must have reset no fewer than 20 times last night, and the more I went to the bathroom, the less I had to use it, which made me get paranoid about feeling like I had to pee but not being able to, which quickly spiraled into fear that I actually had a urinary tract infection which would cause my cervix to shorten.

I was practically in hysterics by the time Bruno's alarm went off.

Made it through breakfast, called the doctors office, and was told to come on in for a pee-test to see if I had an infection. Gathered my stuff to leave, then went to the bathroom and...DAMMIT!! Prego brain strikes again: peeing is the last thing you want to do when you are heading to the doctors office to go pee in a cup. And now I've left myself the perfect excuse to doubt the results of the doctors test, because of course that pee will be too new: there won't have been time for the bacteria I know must be there to have built up a detectable level in my bladder. (The pee doesn't have to be held in the bladder for any amount of time for the test to work. The nurses have told me this over the phone, but what the hell do they know, right?)

Is the roller coaster at the bottom yet?

Go the doctors, pee in the cup, and of course the test comes back negative. The nurse calls me into the back to tell me this, and what do I do? I start to cry. She nabs the doctor, throws us both in the doctors office and asks me to tell the doctor my symptoms. I don't have any symptoms; I'm just a paranoid freak!! They are both incredibly sympathetic, and the doctor even offers to check my cervix for me to put my mind at ease. He is alone in the office today and his waiting room is full of pregnant women who have appointments, and I just can't do it to him or to them. I thank him, but tell him I'm sure everything is fine and I'm just having a tough day. I shuffle through the waiting room with my head hanging over my chest, and burst into tears by the elevator.

Oh, this is just so hard.

Every little thing has the potential to open my cervix. Every little pain is a potential contraction. Every new sensation is a possible symptom of pre-term labor. I am so so scared of losing this pregnancy too. I think in a weird way, this may be a backlash to having come out on the blog. I got a whole slew of congratulations e-mails, which was honestly what I was hoping for: just a little moment of normalcy and celebration, of not letting my previous tragedy take away all the joy of being pregnant again. But it has also left me feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed, and, according to the laws of superstition, poised for another public crash and burn.

I try to remember that this is a different pregnancy. That my doctors have a great new set of plans. But the flaw in the plans is that they all rely on my being able to report the symptoms properly, to call in if I start having contractions or feel a,b, or c symptom. But am I up to the task? Will I know a real urinary tract infection if it happens? Recognize a contraction as different from the way my stomach feels when I get over zealous with the kale? The doctors can't do this part; neither can Bruno. This part, the first line of defense, is all on me.

I so wish they could just put me to sleep for the next six months, monitor my body and do whatever they need to it, and wake me up when the babies are good and properly cooked.

Oh, this roller coaster is such a freakin' pisser.

Theme Song

I just got back from my prescribed 20 minute walk of freedom. And while I was out, the gray California winter sky opened, and a drizzling rain started. Kids scattered from the park I was walking through (aren't I lucky to have two parks within my 20 minute walking radius!), but I looked up at the fuzzy gray sky, and out at the strong tall Eucalyptus trees and the beautiful oaks which still have their scarlet leaves on them, and started to sing. And as I walked and sang and listened to the lyrics, with one hand on my heart and the other on my belly, I think I found my new theme song for this next section of the journey:

I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin',
Singin' in the rain

Out

I've been delaying doing this for a few weeks, partly out of superstition, partly out of fear, partly out of a lack of any ideas for a graceful way to do it.

But I do want to do it, partly out of desire for the support of you my dear readers, partly out of eagerness to keep chronicling my journey and in a less cryptic way, partly out of the knowledge that it is time to admit and embrace what is going on.

So, perhaps I'd better just rip the band-aid off and come out:
I'm pregnant again.

One more band-aid:
It's twins again.

OK. There it is.

Pause for a moment of celebration:
(whoo hoo!! way to go!!! yeah!!!!)

Pause for a moment of gravity:
(whoa, twins again. wow. my gosh. whew.)

Here is the back story: I'll be thirteen weeks pregnant tomorrow, about to exit the first trimester. It has been a wonderful, terrifying, challenging three months. First, the exhilaration of the first blood test: we're pregnant!!! Next the suspicions with the second blood test: OK, the numbers are doubling like they're supposed to, but don't these numbers seem awfully high? Awfully like TWIN numbers. Then the terrible two week wait till the first ultrasound, to see if there is a heartbeat (or two). This is where we had out last two losses, so we were half waiting for the bottom to fall out the whole time. But at that 6 week appointment, there was the sac, and the fetal pole, and the heartbeat. And the sac and the fetal pole and the heartbeat. Twins. The room was so quiet. We were incredibly grateful to be pregnant, to have another chance, but we were positively terrified that my body made twins again. So many memories, so much higher risk.

But, the doctors assured us, we know so much more now. We know the things to look out for, and we can take so many steps to give this pregnancy an excellent chance of making it to safety. The next two weeks were filled with Dr's appointments to set baselines, make plans, reassure the prospective parents. I am being "co-managed" by an OB who has a great deal of experience with twins and high risk pregnancies, and by a perinatologist who, in addition to being the world's most confident man, specializes in cervical issues. I see one of them every two weeks: more frequently if there are problems.

And since nothing can be simple....Bruno went to Europe on a business trip when I was 8 weeks pregnant, and a few days later I woke up in the middle of the night covered in blood. I was oddly calm about the whole thing. I thought: OK, I should be panicking that it is over, they're out, and I've lost another pregnancy, but I really don't think that's what's happening here. I went to the Dr's office in the morning, accompanied by my (at the time) very pregnant sister-in-law who offered to hold my hand, and lo and behold, the babies were both fine, dancing around on the ultrasound, oblivious to the sky falling around them. The Dr. told me I had a tear in the uterine lining, a threatened miscarriage. He said it could go either way, and asked me to stay in bed for a week.

Well, I take threats from no miscarriage! Step in village: my wonderful Mom and Dad, and friends from around the globe came out in droves, literally and virtually, to keep me fed, entertained, sedentary and hopeful. And a week later, the problem had resolved itself. Phew.

Until week 10, when it happened again. This time, Bruno was in the country and we were given a different explanation for the bleeding: placenta previa, only they don't really call it that when it happens in the first trimester: one of the kids' placentas was low in the uterus and was connecting with the cervix and causing bleeding. This time the prognosis was good (it almost always resolves happily) but the prescription was the same: back to bed for a week.

And at the end of that week, with the bleeding once again abated (now my 11th week of pregnancy), we had a surgery: a cerclage, a stitch in my cervix meant to try to keep the disaster that happened last time from happening this time. The surgery went well, the stitch is in place and looking good, and my cervix is looking long and strong. Major hurdle overcome.

And that brings us to now. Monday starts my thirteenth week, so Christmas Day will be the first day of my second trimester. The doctors are being super conservative with my case. They have asked me to greatly restrict my activity. Acting is out until these children safely arrive. As is leaving the house for the most part: I've been granted a 20 minute walk per day, and while I am technically allowed to leave the house, my doctor put it to me this way, "Every time you leave the house, ask if it is really necessary". He also told me, "If anybody else can do something for you, let them". This pretty much takes laundry, dishes, housecleaning off the table. But with those chores also go cooking, gardening, and driving: things that give me pleasure, keep me sane.

Bruno and my family and friends have been absolute angels: my Mom brings dinner over several nights a week, and my Dad came over one afternoon and let me talk him through how to make my favorite bean soup for me. Bruno practically doesn't let my feet touch the floor. I'm ripping through books (any and all suggestions welcome) and have plans to bulk up my Croatian vocabulary and re-learn Calculus. And I can still tutor, thank goodness.

Emotionally, we are feeling a little more hopeful now than we were from weeks 6 to 11. Those weeks were plagued by doubt, distrust, memories upon memories upon memories of our sweet boys, our time in the hospital, our actions on the cross-country trip. I re-dream their birth; Bruno re-remembers the sound of Pedro's water breaking. We are so so scared of not getting these guys to a safe gestation. But at a certain point, you just have to acknowledge the fear and your good reasons for it, and then find your way to surrender to the path ahead. We are doing everything we can to make this pregnancy different from the last time. Now we have to sit back, stay calm, and see what unfolds. And hope that it all works out.

Studying

I have a student, the child of some dear friends, whom I am tutoring as a general homework helper. This is outside my usual ken, and I suddenly find my mornings are spent reading up on Genghis Khan, or reminding myself the conjugations of Spanish verbs (oh, once upon a time I read literature in this language), or happily, almost guiltily re-reading Catcher in the Rye.

This is not the only area in my life in which I am studying. I haven't been in perfect health lately, and the doctors have asked me to spend some time in bed. And so I find myself studying stillness. Learning how to find contentment inside the walls of my home. Practicing release: the letting go of expectations, the abandonment of forward motion. Learning to accept help.

And honestly, I am not going so gentle into that good night. I am fussing and railing and making mistakes. I am bristling against the change, weeping with embarrassment and loss of control. I am failing to let go, carping from my bedroom perch about which clothing does and does not go through the dryer and which fat content of cottage cheese I prefer. My idiosyncrasies, normally private and easily managed by me are now horribly revealed and making life more difficult for all involved. And by all involved I mean....

Bruno. Poor overworked Bruno, working a full day at work and coming home to cook for a bedridden cranky wife.

Now, on the other hand, let's be clear: yesterday I had to sit still and watch while Bruno rearranged my pantry because I hadn't arranged it properly, apparently. So now, all our vinegars are on one shelf (never mind that the shelf is so crowded you can't get to any of them without knocking the others down), and the second shelf items now fit together snug as puzzle pieces, a marvel of efficiency (except the neatly lined, and possibly alphabetized cereal boxes block the spice wheel from being able to turn). I am studying to let go and smile. And continue smiling when I hear that later in the week he'll be rearranging the fridge contents.

I'm going to have to study harder :)

Bed in Summer

OK, I admit it: I'm a big 'ol grouch today. I'm over-tired and under-slept and under-stimulated and over-indulged and it is a beautiful fall day and because I am supposed to be "taking it easy" this weekend, I am inside looking out and feeling grouchy!! I think not having had my tea yet today might have something to do with it too.

I am reminded of a poem I loved as a little girl, about a child who had to go to bed when the sun was still shining. It took place in summer, when the days were long, and bedtime fell before the sun did. The illustration showed a child sitting in his pajamas in front of a window, watching summer leaves dancing in the light, lamenting the fact that his lot was to go to bed. I have always been struck by that poem, by the comedy of how unfair life can be, of how the seasons stretch and shorten regardless of our wants and needs, of the unseen, unyielding hand of the rule-maker.

I identify with the boy in the pajamas. Of looking out at all the life and, more, the potential, still going on while he remains separate, coping with the rules of his life. I've always hated to miss anything. And I want so many different things out of life that I always felt I was missing out on something. Heading to bed when another part of me wanted to play.

Sometimes, as an adult, I've enjoyed the perversity of going to bed when the world was cue-ing me to go out: pulling down the shades to watch a movie on a sunny afternoon, climbing into bed in the smack middle of a weekend day, cranking the A.C. and donning a sweater in the height of summer's heat. Defiance. Control.

But mostly I've felt the limits of the window and the side of it I'm on, and a mix of guilt and confusion, wondering whom I should be taking my cues from: the outside world or the internal rule maker. I feel the advantages and losses in both choices.

Here, by the way, is the poem:

Bed in Summer, by Robert Lewis Stevenson.

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

Bend

This week I threw a party to watch my network TV debut, only the network switched the airing dates of the episodes and I discovered only hours before the party that my episode would not in fact be airing that night.

I handled the change, the disappointment, the embarrassment much better than I would have pre-boys. At first I was aghast, and I panicked tearfully for a few minutes. And then I started composing a comic e-mail to let everyone know, started designing funny quips with which to greet my guests at the door, even briefly entertained the idea of making a faux-trauma episode in my backyard with a tripod and a video camera and playing that. I just bent in the direction the wind was blowing and went with it.

And we had a great party.

As friends from different parts of my new life met and talked, I felt proud of all I've accomplished in this last year or so. My next door neighbor, the air traffic controller, chatted with my parents, who dropped in from their home just down the road in San Carlos. My dear friend from HAND, a criminologist, enjoyed chatting with my SF and East Bay actor friends. My husband enjoyed swapping South America stories with one of my favorite Bay Area playwrights, and I caught up with friends of Bruno's, who have now become friends of mine. The room was abuzz with talent and interest and good-will and variety, and I felt proud to call all these people friends.

I can remember how distraught I was about leaving NYC. How I felt my life was ending. And then lives actually ended, my sons', and I learned how to be less brittle. To avoid breaking by bending. To take and appreciate the gifts in front of you. To draw strength from them to protect yourself against the storms at hand. To rage along with the storm if you have to, but to avoid rigidness at all costs. Bend to carry the load, bend as low and deep as you need to, just don't snap. Someday, the storm will abate, the load will lighten,and you'll straighten up again.

After all, you never know what may be right around the bend.