I have a new respect for people who suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. This is debilitating. My obsession with mold continues, and if anything, is getting worse. I wake up in the middle of the night and imagine mold hiding behind the bedroom walls, pumping through the heating system, stealthily creating spore after spore in our beloved Tiki Room. I try to get a hold of my mind, to remind myself that lots of women live in moldier conditions than I and manage to have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies.
And then I start thinking about lead and chlorine in the water.
I fight my mind in the darkness, watching the sky finally, finally start to lighten as the middle of the night chemicals loosen their hold on my system and the alarm clock finally, finally rings.
Bruno rolls over, opens his reluctant eyes into my staunchly wide-awake ones and mutters, "Why are you up?"
He doesn't know what to do with me. Neither of us do. I've never fought something like this. It is so much bigger than me, and I can feel it has the power to swallow me up. I get up and make breakfast, make it through breakfast, and then Bruno leaves for work and then it starts again.
"Is moss toxic"? And my hand reaches for the mouse, the gateway to the devil's playground, and I'm googling and reading horror stories. Well, not about moss. Moss, it seems, is safe, even desirable if you are building a Japanese Garden. But from moss, I go back to mold, and I start to suspect my windowsills, and the corners of the closets, and now I am looking up air purifiers, but there is a question about those that use ozone, and are the HEPA ones really just pushing the spores and dust mites around or are they actually effective?
The strongest part of me manages to close the google window, and send an e-shout out for help. I write my cousin, who's been through similar challenges. She writes back, quite clearly, "It's not the mold".
Somehow this one simple sentence actually soothes. Right: it's not the mold. This is me looking to control something, sublimating all my feelings onto this one topic. I remember, from my Psych 101 class, that houses frequently represent bodies, at least on the dream-scape. I am obesessing that my house is toxic, and what I really fear is that my body is toxic. That it won't support these little souls who are trying to make their way through me and into this world. I am trying desperately to control my house because I don't seem to be able to control my body.
I still spent the better part of the afternoon fighting against thoughts of mold. But I feel just slightly better armed for the fight.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Sheesh.
I can't get out from under the grip of this one. I know we've been warned that holidays are hard, but Valentine's Day couldn't possibly count, could it?
All week, I've been racing around: auditions, students, classes, dates with new friends and with family. Today, Fri, I finally had a daytime with no appointments. Just a little time to luxuriate in some stillness.
The stillness, it seems, is where the pitfalls hide.
I haven't been able to stop crying all day. I'm still fighting that racing train feeling and I feel like my head is going to pop off. I can't find comfort in anything: not in reading, or resting, or eating, or writing. I know I should have left the house, but it is pouring outside and I just couldn't muster it.
On Wed, I received an e-mail from a local casting director/friend, asking if I were available to participate in a performance on Monday night. It is a hip organization, and I was really excited to be thought of and included.
I invited a few friends and family, and over the next few hours starting to feel a deep sense of panic: had the casting director actually offered me a part, or was she just checking my availability? I was pretty sure she was inviting me to do the show, but I couldn't drop my sense of panic. I felt this bizarre sense of depression and guilt, as if I'd jumped the gun and counted on something I shouldn't have, or like I was so eager to have something good in my life I had imagined it into being and it was all a facade.
I realized this was the same thing we went through when Bruno got his new job: we didn't tell anyone about the job until he'd completed the first day of work. We no longer trust that good things that are promised will actually come to pass. I was experiencing the same thing now.
I decided to put myself out of my misery and just call the casting director. She was lovely and told me all about the part she had picked out for me.
Ahhh.
And you'd think that would be the end of it, but all day I haven't been able to unfunk. I'm sure it the weather isn't helping, and do you know what: I think that stupid Hallmark holiday coming up tomorrow is affecting me.
Sheesh.
I can't get out from under the grip of this one. I know we've been warned that holidays are hard, but Valentine's Day couldn't possibly count, could it?
All week, I've been racing around: auditions, students, classes, dates with new friends and with family. Today, Fri, I finally had a daytime with no appointments. Just a little time to luxuriate in some stillness.
The stillness, it seems, is where the pitfalls hide.
I haven't been able to stop crying all day. I'm still fighting that racing train feeling and I feel like my head is going to pop off. I can't find comfort in anything: not in reading, or resting, or eating, or writing. I know I should have left the house, but it is pouring outside and I just couldn't muster it.
On Wed, I received an e-mail from a local casting director/friend, asking if I were available to participate in a performance on Monday night. It is a hip organization, and I was really excited to be thought of and included.
I invited a few friends and family, and over the next few hours starting to feel a deep sense of panic: had the casting director actually offered me a part, or was she just checking my availability? I was pretty sure she was inviting me to do the show, but I couldn't drop my sense of panic. I felt this bizarre sense of depression and guilt, as if I'd jumped the gun and counted on something I shouldn't have, or like I was so eager to have something good in my life I had imagined it into being and it was all a facade.
I realized this was the same thing we went through when Bruno got his new job: we didn't tell anyone about the job until he'd completed the first day of work. We no longer trust that good things that are promised will actually come to pass. I was experiencing the same thing now.
I decided to put myself out of my misery and just call the casting director. She was lovely and told me all about the part she had picked out for me.
Ahhh.
And you'd think that would be the end of it, but all day I haven't been able to unfunk. I'm sure it the weather isn't helping, and do you know what: I think that stupid Hallmark holiday coming up tomorrow is affecting me.
Sheesh.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
CPR
This is proving to be a really tough time. They warned us in the grief group that grieving is not linear: you don't start feeling better and just continue in a straight line until you feel like yourself again. And those stages of grief they tell you about: they don't come in any order, and you never really finish any one of them, except the last one. They just keep circling about and drop in on you randomly.
This week has been all about anxiety. It's just awful. From the moment I open my eyes (often at 4am or earlier), I feel like there is a train running inside my head. I feel slightly breathless, and like if I am not in constant motion doing several things at once, everything is going to go to hell. Even when I am right in the thick of it, getting the things done that I have deemed important, I still feel like I am running in front of a train and I just have to keep moving, keep moving. I try to take deep breaths, to tell myself I'm doing great, to remind myself that nothing is wrong (well, nothing new is wrong). Doesn't stop the train feeling.
I've also been plagued by overwhelming sadness. I'll be in the car, driving to the gym, and I'll just start sobbing, out of the blue. I have started thinking more often about my pregnancy with the boys, about my pride and excitement knowing they were thriving inside me. Even in the hospital, when the writing was on the wall, I couldn't see it at all: I only had eyes for my sons. For their squirming fish movements, for their ultrasound escapades, for their nightly game of Marco Polo when the nurses would try to do their heart monitoring. My little Mer-men.
And I am still in complete disbelief that this wonderful idyllic story ends in complete crash and burn tragedy. That my sweethearts are no more. It is just about the loneliest thing in the world, even amidst all the love and support that I am lucky enough to have. I am deeply, profoundly lonely without my innocent, fabulous boys. And I'm beginning to suspect that part of me always will be.
Whenever I get too lost in this loneliness, I drive on over to my brother and sister-in-law's house, and dive into their children. Today I shocked the Nanny by showing up completely unannounced: she is new and has never met me. Sophia answered the door and shouted: It's Auntie Lisa! Clattering, clamoring, and now Max and Spencer join her at the door, along with the perplexed Nanny. "Hi, I'm Eric's sister Lisa. Sophia, am I your Auntie Lisa?" "YES!" "Max, am I your Auntie Lisa from this side" (as I turn to the side) "YES!" "Spencer, (as I turn completely around) am I your Auntie Lisa from the butt-side?" Huge laughter and screaming: yup, I said butt.
And so on and so forth. Today we played lots of make believe. Max decided to be Mr. Obama (I kept saying President Obama, but he didn't catch on), and dictated that I was Michelle, and Sophia and Spencer were the girls. I was impressed. Next they switched over to being dogs: I fed them imaginary treats and taught them tricks. Spencer did an impressive impression of a dog begging for treats. I gave him imaginary hotdogs and he was thrilled.
Lots of hugging and tackling and I regret to say licking (remember the dog game) later, and the sadness was beaten back a bit. Someday, years from now, I'm going to have to thank these gorgeous children for the CPR they do weekly on my soul.
This week has been all about anxiety. It's just awful. From the moment I open my eyes (often at 4am or earlier), I feel like there is a train running inside my head. I feel slightly breathless, and like if I am not in constant motion doing several things at once, everything is going to go to hell. Even when I am right in the thick of it, getting the things done that I have deemed important, I still feel like I am running in front of a train and I just have to keep moving, keep moving. I try to take deep breaths, to tell myself I'm doing great, to remind myself that nothing is wrong (well, nothing new is wrong). Doesn't stop the train feeling.
I've also been plagued by overwhelming sadness. I'll be in the car, driving to the gym, and I'll just start sobbing, out of the blue. I have started thinking more often about my pregnancy with the boys, about my pride and excitement knowing they were thriving inside me. Even in the hospital, when the writing was on the wall, I couldn't see it at all: I only had eyes for my sons. For their squirming fish movements, for their ultrasound escapades, for their nightly game of Marco Polo when the nurses would try to do their heart monitoring. My little Mer-men.
And I am still in complete disbelief that this wonderful idyllic story ends in complete crash and burn tragedy. That my sweethearts are no more. It is just about the loneliest thing in the world, even amidst all the love and support that I am lucky enough to have. I am deeply, profoundly lonely without my innocent, fabulous boys. And I'm beginning to suspect that part of me always will be.
Whenever I get too lost in this loneliness, I drive on over to my brother and sister-in-law's house, and dive into their children. Today I shocked the Nanny by showing up completely unannounced: she is new and has never met me. Sophia answered the door and shouted: It's Auntie Lisa! Clattering, clamoring, and now Max and Spencer join her at the door, along with the perplexed Nanny. "Hi, I'm Eric's sister Lisa. Sophia, am I your Auntie Lisa?" "YES!" "Max, am I your Auntie Lisa from this side" (as I turn to the side) "YES!" "Spencer, (as I turn completely around) am I your Auntie Lisa from the butt-side?" Huge laughter and screaming: yup, I said butt.
And so on and so forth. Today we played lots of make believe. Max decided to be Mr. Obama (I kept saying President Obama, but he didn't catch on), and dictated that I was Michelle, and Sophia and Spencer were the girls. I was impressed. Next they switched over to being dogs: I fed them imaginary treats and taught them tricks. Spencer did an impressive impression of a dog begging for treats. I gave him imaginary hotdogs and he was thrilled.
Lots of hugging and tackling and I regret to say licking (remember the dog game) later, and the sadness was beaten back a bit. Someday, years from now, I'm going to have to thank these gorgeous children for the CPR they do weekly on my soul.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Coming Clean
A bunch of you wonderful, caring readers contacted me after my most recent post and told me how sorry you were that I was still suffering so. And I thought: this isn't quite fair, I haven't let them know the whole story.
So I talked it over with Bruno, and we decided it was OK to come clean. There is a little bit of fear that people will start to feel that we are pathetic, or jinxed (we frequently have to fight those feelings in ourselves). Or that they will simply feel we are too much, and back slowly away.
I'm just going to trust that those are our own private manias, and keep telling our story.
So, here is Chapter Two: The Miscarriages.
Yup, that is plural, folks. If you can believe it, we have had the beautiful good fortune to have been pregnant twice in the short six months since losing the boys, and I have miscarried both pregnancies.
It's funny how those pronouns go, isn't it? We've been pregnant. I've miscarried. My internal voice is quite clear who's to blame here.
And there's a ton of blame flying around. Mostly Bruno and I blaming ourselves. It is nearly impossible not to, and the creativity involved is quite extraordinary. Bruno thinks he must have done something awful at some point and is now being punished (wouldn't we all love to know what acts sweet, dependable Bruno considers the finalists in the "punishment inducers" competition). Me, I'm going for my own jugular: during this latest pregnancy, I had an audition/callback for a show in Berkeley and I'm convinced I lost the baby because the Universe sensed that I would like to do the show, and decided that since I still haven't settled into wanting motherhood to the exclusion of all other wants, I don't deserve it.
Lately, I've set my sites on external causes. Yesterday, I fired off an e-mail to my landlords entitled: "Two miscarriages/MOLD!!!" Oh yes I did. I quoted them all sorts of internet sources citing mold as a cause of miscarriage, and I insisted they get someone out here to test our house. I also googled "California drinking water, miscarriage" and found all sorts of horrible things about chlorine and its by-products, things the Britta filter doesn't remove. And I found out that you absorb even more of this stuff through your morning shower than through the five or six glasses of water you drink each day.
At that point I had to stop reading. Folks, I am in the Rabbit Hole. I see the sky above me, and I see the long drop with no bottom below me. And I don't understand how we are supposed to live with this world where taking a shower can hurt our unborn children. How much do you do and where do you draw the line and say I can only control what I can control? (Or in the case of organic, hormone-free, free-range, grass-fed beef: what I can afford?)
On the reality plane, we have talked to our doctors and they say: no, it is not anything we did, thought, ate, drank or breathed, and no, we did not try too soon: my body is perfectly ready to accept another pregnancy. Their best guess is that, given my age, I just had bad luck and had two genetically bum eggs in a row and my body took care of itself and shed what would have been an unhealthy pregnancy. They are perfectly optimistic that we will have the family we seek, and they have lots of ideas for how to proceed next to optimize our chances.
Doesn't really help with the 4am voices, but it is good to hold in the back pocket and trot out in the saner daylight hours.
Meanwhile, you will find a whole slew of new posts scattered through this blog: while all this was unfolding, I wrote posts but kept them in draft form. I am now publishing them to keep the blog journey complete. They are:
WAHHHHHH!! 11/28/08
How Quickly They Forget 12/2/08
Over Before It's Begun 12/14/08
The Beat Goes On 12/15/08
Bye 12/17/08
Miserable 12/18/08
That Said, 1/26/09
This Will Not Be Pretty 1/28/09
As always, thanks for the loads of support, and thanks for continuing to believe for us as we keep muscling through this journey. -LJKM
So I talked it over with Bruno, and we decided it was OK to come clean. There is a little bit of fear that people will start to feel that we are pathetic, or jinxed (we frequently have to fight those feelings in ourselves). Or that they will simply feel we are too much, and back slowly away.
I'm just going to trust that those are our own private manias, and keep telling our story.
So, here is Chapter Two: The Miscarriages.
Yup, that is plural, folks. If you can believe it, we have had the beautiful good fortune to have been pregnant twice in the short six months since losing the boys, and I have miscarried both pregnancies.
It's funny how those pronouns go, isn't it? We've been pregnant. I've miscarried. My internal voice is quite clear who's to blame here.
And there's a ton of blame flying around. Mostly Bruno and I blaming ourselves. It is nearly impossible not to, and the creativity involved is quite extraordinary. Bruno thinks he must have done something awful at some point and is now being punished (wouldn't we all love to know what acts sweet, dependable Bruno considers the finalists in the "punishment inducers" competition). Me, I'm going for my own jugular: during this latest pregnancy, I had an audition/callback for a show in Berkeley and I'm convinced I lost the baby because the Universe sensed that I would like to do the show, and decided that since I still haven't settled into wanting motherhood to the exclusion of all other wants, I don't deserve it.
Lately, I've set my sites on external causes. Yesterday, I fired off an e-mail to my landlords entitled: "Two miscarriages/MOLD!!!" Oh yes I did. I quoted them all sorts of internet sources citing mold as a cause of miscarriage, and I insisted they get someone out here to test our house. I also googled "California drinking water, miscarriage" and found all sorts of horrible things about chlorine and its by-products, things the Britta filter doesn't remove. And I found out that you absorb even more of this stuff through your morning shower than through the five or six glasses of water you drink each day.
At that point I had to stop reading. Folks, I am in the Rabbit Hole. I see the sky above me, and I see the long drop with no bottom below me. And I don't understand how we are supposed to live with this world where taking a shower can hurt our unborn children. How much do you do and where do you draw the line and say I can only control what I can control? (Or in the case of organic, hormone-free, free-range, grass-fed beef: what I can afford?)
On the reality plane, we have talked to our doctors and they say: no, it is not anything we did, thought, ate, drank or breathed, and no, we did not try too soon: my body is perfectly ready to accept another pregnancy. Their best guess is that, given my age, I just had bad luck and had two genetically bum eggs in a row and my body took care of itself and shed what would have been an unhealthy pregnancy. They are perfectly optimistic that we will have the family we seek, and they have lots of ideas for how to proceed next to optimize our chances.
Doesn't really help with the 4am voices, but it is good to hold in the back pocket and trot out in the saner daylight hours.
Meanwhile, you will find a whole slew of new posts scattered through this blog: while all this was unfolding, I wrote posts but kept them in draft form. I am now publishing them to keep the blog journey complete. They are:
WAHHHHHH!! 11/28/08
How Quickly They Forget 12/2/08
Over Before It's Begun 12/14/08
The Beat Goes On 12/15/08
Bye 12/17/08
Miserable 12/18/08
That Said, 1/26/09
This Will Not Be Pretty 1/28/09
As always, thanks for the loads of support, and thanks for continuing to believe for us as we keep muscling through this journey. -LJKM
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Is it really only Tuesday?
I feel like I've lived enough life already this week that surely it must be Friday.
Sorry for the long delay in publishing: I'm getting my ass kicked emotionally, and haven't been making it to the blog. I suppose that is exactly the time to write, so I'll try to be better.
Here's where I'm at right now: I find it so hard to tolerate that there is some sort of grand design or scheme at work here. First, I feel like raging against a G-d that is so narrow that he can find no better way than the loss of children to teach some lesson. Second, it makes me feel cursed or jinxed or plagued.
I'm trying to make my way toward the idea that bad stuff is relatively random: pain and grief and disease and war and loss aren't visited upon us to punish us, they are just out there and everyone gets smacked by something before they get off this ride.
Now, the choice is what we do with the experience. Do we let it turn us permanently bitter, do we let it isolate us from those we love, including G-d, or do we instead wrestle with the angel to find something to pull from the experience, some way we can be better in honor of what was lost. So that nothing gets wasted. A sort of emotional recycling? It's not easy, being green. ;)
That's all I got right now.
Meanwhile, I find myself slammed back to the beginning of my grieving process. I am short with everyone, including those I am really relying on right now like my sister-in-law and my Dad (who is pursuing the whole Ben Hur Moving Co. claim for us). I am also dragging my body through workout after workout, trying to strip the remaining reminder of the sons who aren't here. I like working out, but this is something different, some mania.
People keep telling me to nurture myself right now. I'm not sure how. When I slow down I get all weepy, and I've been all weepy for like 6 months now. I'm a little spent with all weepy.
Can you believe it has only been six months since the boys were born? It feels like another life time ago. So so strange.
More soon. -LJMK
Sorry for the long delay in publishing: I'm getting my ass kicked emotionally, and haven't been making it to the blog. I suppose that is exactly the time to write, so I'll try to be better.
Here's where I'm at right now: I find it so hard to tolerate that there is some sort of grand design or scheme at work here. First, I feel like raging against a G-d that is so narrow that he can find no better way than the loss of children to teach some lesson. Second, it makes me feel cursed or jinxed or plagued.
I'm trying to make my way toward the idea that bad stuff is relatively random: pain and grief and disease and war and loss aren't visited upon us to punish us, they are just out there and everyone gets smacked by something before they get off this ride.
Now, the choice is what we do with the experience. Do we let it turn us permanently bitter, do we let it isolate us from those we love, including G-d, or do we instead wrestle with the angel to find something to pull from the experience, some way we can be better in honor of what was lost. So that nothing gets wasted. A sort of emotional recycling? It's not easy, being green. ;)
That's all I got right now.
Meanwhile, I find myself slammed back to the beginning of my grieving process. I am short with everyone, including those I am really relying on right now like my sister-in-law and my Dad (who is pursuing the whole Ben Hur Moving Co. claim for us). I am also dragging my body through workout after workout, trying to strip the remaining reminder of the sons who aren't here. I like working out, but this is something different, some mania.
People keep telling me to nurture myself right now. I'm not sure how. When I slow down I get all weepy, and I've been all weepy for like 6 months now. I'm a little spent with all weepy.
Can you believe it has only been six months since the boys were born? It feels like another life time ago. So so strange.
More soon. -LJMK
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
This Will Not Be Pretty
ARRGH! I am so tired of the nay-sayers being right! I am tired of Doctor Gloom and Doom, and Nurse Depressing always winning. I know they don't want to win. But they keep doing it anyway, don't they. Isn't it time for the dreamers to win one? For the long shot to carry the day.
If you hadn't guessed, I have miscarried again. I just can't f-ing believe it. I just can't believe the Universe is this mean. I mean, honestly, is anyone at the helm up there?! Really, we needed more than just losing our boys? That wasn't enough of whatever the hell this is, whatever storm we are supposed to be weathering or life lessons we are supposed to be learning. I surrender. I surrender!! Now will you just stop?!
When I called the nurse today to find out what my latest numbers were, she came back and said, "Lisa, I am so sorry. I don't have good news for you. Your beta number is 8.6"
I'm thinking, Beta number? Oh, that must be different from Hcg. That must be like lbs to kgs or something. That's why it went from 234 to 8.6.
"I don't know what a beta number is" I replied. "I'm calling to find out my hcg number".
"Beta/Hcg: it's the same thing".
I can now feel my blood pulsing in my face. This can't be happening. Not again. Come on. Really? This is our story?
"But I still feel pregnant. I'm hungry all the time: it wakes me up at night. And I'm tired and moody." It sounds weak as I hear myself saying it, pleading with this nurse to somehow reverse the facts.
"We can re-run the test, if you'd like, " she offers.
"With a beta level of 8.6, if I pee on a home pregnancy test, it would come out negative, right?"
"Yes, that's right".
I get off the phone and run to find the box under the bathroom sink that I hoped I'd never have to use again. I pull out the remaining test and with shaking hands yank off the plastic wrapper.
Three minutes later, the test reads, "Not pregnant."
I'll spare you the description of me sinking to the bathroom floor, where I discover our bathmat needs a good washing. And of all the ensuing wailing and nashing of teeth and weeping phonecalls to Bruno at work, and to the family and friends that knew. You know the drill. You've seen it from me before.
I'm not sure I'm off the mat yet. I did get some sleep, and I did shower and I did chew my way through my toast and coffee; for those of you who know Bruno's coffee you know I mean it when I say chew. And I suppose I am sitting here trying to crack a joke.
But my spirit is still on the bathroom floor. It doesn't want to get up. It wants to spite the Universe: "Fine, you want to put me through hell? I do not accept. You do this to me, you lose me. I'm staying right here. You just go on without me, you bastard"
You all know me. You know I'll f-ing get up off the mat. I was born and raised to be that kind of good girl. But, I can tell you this: this time, it's not going to be pretty.
If you hadn't guessed, I have miscarried again. I just can't f-ing believe it. I just can't believe the Universe is this mean. I mean, honestly, is anyone at the helm up there?! Really, we needed more than just losing our boys? That wasn't enough of whatever the hell this is, whatever storm we are supposed to be weathering or life lessons we are supposed to be learning. I surrender. I surrender!! Now will you just stop?!
When I called the nurse today to find out what my latest numbers were, she came back and said, "Lisa, I am so sorry. I don't have good news for you. Your beta number is 8.6"
I'm thinking, Beta number? Oh, that must be different from Hcg. That must be like lbs to kgs or something. That's why it went from 234 to 8.6.
"I don't know what a beta number is" I replied. "I'm calling to find out my hcg number".
"Beta/Hcg: it's the same thing".
I can now feel my blood pulsing in my face. This can't be happening. Not again. Come on. Really? This is our story?
"But I still feel pregnant. I'm hungry all the time: it wakes me up at night. And I'm tired and moody." It sounds weak as I hear myself saying it, pleading with this nurse to somehow reverse the facts.
"We can re-run the test, if you'd like, " she offers.
"With a beta level of 8.6, if I pee on a home pregnancy test, it would come out negative, right?"
"Yes, that's right".
I get off the phone and run to find the box under the bathroom sink that I hoped I'd never have to use again. I pull out the remaining test and with shaking hands yank off the plastic wrapper.
Three minutes later, the test reads, "Not pregnant."
I'll spare you the description of me sinking to the bathroom floor, where I discover our bathmat needs a good washing. And of all the ensuing wailing and nashing of teeth and weeping phonecalls to Bruno at work, and to the family and friends that knew. You know the drill. You've seen it from me before.
I'm not sure I'm off the mat yet. I did get some sleep, and I did shower and I did chew my way through my toast and coffee; for those of you who know Bruno's coffee you know I mean it when I say chew. And I suppose I am sitting here trying to crack a joke.
But my spirit is still on the bathroom floor. It doesn't want to get up. It wants to spite the Universe: "Fine, you want to put me through hell? I do not accept. You do this to me, you lose me. I'm staying right here. You just go on without me, you bastard"
You all know me. You know I'll f-ing get up off the mat. I was born and raised to be that kind of good girl. But, I can tell you this: this time, it's not going to be pretty.
Monday, January 26, 2009
That Said,
I always said that the only way you can successfully keep journal writing going, is if you forgive yourself from the obligation to "catch up" the journal when you fall behind. Otherwise, once you have a break in your writing, you never want to sit down to write again.
That said, I feel compelled to do a little emotional catch up: I need to go back to when I had just miscarried Curly Five, while Bruno was in Japan. To be honest, I'm not sure I've ever been so low in my whole life. Even when we lost the boys, I was cushioned by huge amounts of shock and I was with Bruno, to whom I clung as if we were the twins. I think the loss of the boys came on me in waves: my mind protected me from experiencing the whole loss at once.
With this loss, I was without my buddy, it took me a while to call out to my family for help and I had no cushion. Instead I had the weight of everything that had already happened, everything we had already lost crushing into this fresh wound. I wandered around the house, literally wailing like a bad Greek tragedienne. A dear friend called and left a message, "I hope you are doing OK". I called back and ranted into the phone, "Of course I'm not OK, I am not remotely OK, I am nothing even approaching OK. I am a highway for little baby souls to die in and everything is pain and everything is blood, blood, blood...." She told me I sounded almost Joyce-ian. She got me to pause for air, and in that pause I heard what she had just said, and it made me laugh. Thank G-d for dear smart old friends.
Bruno came home, and we mourned together, and then time marched relentlessly on with holidays and parties and the New Year forcing itself into being. We squeezed in a few doctors appointments, one with our Ob/Gyn, and one with a perinatologist who specializes in cervical issues.
The perinatologist was maybe the most confident man I've ever met, for the good and the bad. I suppose you want someone like this on your team, but his confidence also led him to make a statement that set me back quite a ways, emotionally. He is completely convinced that if he performs a cerclage (a stitch in the cervix, done at 12 weeks of pregnancy), we will have a 90% chance of encountering no cervical problems again. Fabulous. He went on to say that because we were in small town Oregon when we had trouble, there was no one there with as much experience as him, no one with enough confidence to push back Pedro's bag of waters and perform an emergency cerclage. But now we had happily found our way into his fold, and he wouldn't let us out of his sight, and we would be fine.
OK. Gulp. Let me get this straight, Dr. Ego: if we had been in San Francisco and under your care, my sons wouldn't have died? And since when is Portland "small town Oregon". I immediately flashed back to early conversations from Oregon where my parents and brother and sister-in-law were angling to get us medivac'd to Stanford. I believe someone even suggested renting an RV and paying a nurse and driving me down to the Bay Area. And we told them all to leave us alone, that we were fine and receiving excellent care. And we were just going to quietly wait it out past all the trouble. And everything was fine, for three weeks, until it wasn't anymore.
Now, since that conversation, my Ob/Gyn told me that he knew of three emergency cerclages Dr. Ego had done in the last three months, and not one of them worked. But the damage was done to my psyche, and waves of fresh guilt lapped at my mind all through the holidays and well into the New Year.
Meanwhile, for these first two weeks of the 2009, I'd been harboring a secret fantasy that I was pregnant again. I knew it was nearly impossible, and that it must be some sort of mind game I was playing to get myself through. I started to bleed last week, and I picked up some medicine my Ob/Gyn wanted me to take after the return of my period. And all the while, I couldn't shake my fantasy. The first day I was due to take the medicine, I put it off all day, thinking: I'm pregnant. I finally confessed my little delusion to Bruno, who told me to take a store bought pregnancy test, just in case.
It came up pregnant.
I called the emergency hotline, was told NOT to take the meds, and to show up for a blood test to confirm the pregnancy. The test the next morning confirmed it, with Hcg levels of 70. Come in tomorrow for another test, they asked. Elevator going up: Hcg level of 98.8. Come in for another at the end of the week. Hcg level 234. They told me they think it is a little low.
OK, now you are just being mean.
The levels are more than doubling every 72 hours. What the hell good does it do to freak me out? There is no difference in treatment, no matter what the numbers. Nothing to do but think good thoughts, and see what is in store for us at the 6 week ultrasound. Which is next week.
Wish us luck.
That said, I feel compelled to do a little emotional catch up: I need to go back to when I had just miscarried Curly Five, while Bruno was in Japan. To be honest, I'm not sure I've ever been so low in my whole life. Even when we lost the boys, I was cushioned by huge amounts of shock and I was with Bruno, to whom I clung as if we were the twins. I think the loss of the boys came on me in waves: my mind protected me from experiencing the whole loss at once.
With this loss, I was without my buddy, it took me a while to call out to my family for help and I had no cushion. Instead I had the weight of everything that had already happened, everything we had already lost crushing into this fresh wound. I wandered around the house, literally wailing like a bad Greek tragedienne. A dear friend called and left a message, "I hope you are doing OK". I called back and ranted into the phone, "Of course I'm not OK, I am not remotely OK, I am nothing even approaching OK. I am a highway for little baby souls to die in and everything is pain and everything is blood, blood, blood...." She told me I sounded almost Joyce-ian. She got me to pause for air, and in that pause I heard what she had just said, and it made me laugh. Thank G-d for dear smart old friends.
Bruno came home, and we mourned together, and then time marched relentlessly on with holidays and parties and the New Year forcing itself into being. We squeezed in a few doctors appointments, one with our Ob/Gyn, and one with a perinatologist who specializes in cervical issues.
The perinatologist was maybe the most confident man I've ever met, for the good and the bad. I suppose you want someone like this on your team, but his confidence also led him to make a statement that set me back quite a ways, emotionally. He is completely convinced that if he performs a cerclage (a stitch in the cervix, done at 12 weeks of pregnancy), we will have a 90% chance of encountering no cervical problems again. Fabulous. He went on to say that because we were in small town Oregon when we had trouble, there was no one there with as much experience as him, no one with enough confidence to push back Pedro's bag of waters and perform an emergency cerclage. But now we had happily found our way into his fold, and he wouldn't let us out of his sight, and we would be fine.
OK. Gulp. Let me get this straight, Dr. Ego: if we had been in San Francisco and under your care, my sons wouldn't have died? And since when is Portland "small town Oregon". I immediately flashed back to early conversations from Oregon where my parents and brother and sister-in-law were angling to get us medivac'd to Stanford. I believe someone even suggested renting an RV and paying a nurse and driving me down to the Bay Area. And we told them all to leave us alone, that we were fine and receiving excellent care. And we were just going to quietly wait it out past all the trouble. And everything was fine, for three weeks, until it wasn't anymore.
Now, since that conversation, my Ob/Gyn told me that he knew of three emergency cerclages Dr. Ego had done in the last three months, and not one of them worked. But the damage was done to my psyche, and waves of fresh guilt lapped at my mind all through the holidays and well into the New Year.
Meanwhile, for these first two weeks of the 2009, I'd been harboring a secret fantasy that I was pregnant again. I knew it was nearly impossible, and that it must be some sort of mind game I was playing to get myself through. I started to bleed last week, and I picked up some medicine my Ob/Gyn wanted me to take after the return of my period. And all the while, I couldn't shake my fantasy. The first day I was due to take the medicine, I put it off all day, thinking: I'm pregnant. I finally confessed my little delusion to Bruno, who told me to take a store bought pregnancy test, just in case.
It came up pregnant.
I called the emergency hotline, was told NOT to take the meds, and to show up for a blood test to confirm the pregnancy. The test the next morning confirmed it, with Hcg levels of 70. Come in tomorrow for another test, they asked. Elevator going up: Hcg level of 98.8. Come in for another at the end of the week. Hcg level 234. They told me they think it is a little low.
OK, now you are just being mean.
The levels are more than doubling every 72 hours. What the hell good does it do to freak me out? There is no difference in treatment, no matter what the numbers. Nothing to do but think good thoughts, and see what is in store for us at the 6 week ultrasound. Which is next week.
Wish us luck.
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