Too Much Awesomeness

The plan

I'm not afraid of giving blood any more.

When I think about all the ways my life has changed in the past year, I always think about the big, obvious ways.  And then I find out I have to have more blood tests and think 'Weird.  A year and a half ago, I would have been filled with dread.'   Everything changed, I guess, big and small. 

Will I ever overcome my fear of dentists?  No, I will not, so let's not even bother talking about that.

More tests.  That's the first thing that came out of meeting with the RE.  Some of these tests I think have already been run, but he wants to run them himself.   Fine.  Who cares.  I've met with five doctors in the past year, all of whom have run their own tests and send them around to each other. So more tests, you say?  OK, I'm in.  Do what you gotta do.

He's trying to figure out if something's wrong with me.  Low level weirdness on autoimmune tests that have been done.  Low level weirdness on thyroid tests that have been done.  He suspects that my body is attacking any babies that grow in me, but that whatever I have is some weird combo of things that don't readily show itself in testing. 

I think I stopped listening after he talked about my body possibly rejecting the baby.  That thought makes me sick.  I do not have a poker face.  Twice in the meeting, the doctor stopped and asked me if I'm okay.

I did not say I'm okay.  "It's fine," I said.  "I can handle it.  Let's keep going."

And so he told us more.  An hour and a half worth of more.  I don't remember most of it.  My husband was there with me, he can fill me in on anything else that was said that's important.  My husband will also be reading the documents in the emails the doctor sent as a follow up - Documents with titles like "Why Your Eggs Are Too Old to Have a Healthy Baby", "Why Your Body Hates You and Your Babies", "Have You Considered That You're Kidding Yourself and This Will Never Happen?"

OK,those are actually my mind's interpretation of the titles of the documents.  But why bother reading things that will just stress me out more?

So we're here, doing this, hoping for the best.

"I think he can help us get pregnant.  He has a plan and this is the start of the plan," my husband said as we left the appointment.

I smiled and agreed.  A plan.  It's nice to have a plan.

But what I kept to myself is this: So he can help me get pregnant.  What then?  How do we know that baby won't die too?  Getting pregnant would be wonderful, but it's only the beginning.  It's probably the least stressful part.

I smiled and agreed to the plan.

And then I cried in my car all the way back to work.

 

Some nights you just need a cupcake

We're going to the fertility doctor tomorrow.

Making the appointment made my husband feel better about things.  It makes him feel like we're moving one step closer to our dream. 

It made me feel worse.  It's not that I have anything against fertility treatments.  Anything to get us there.  It's more a part of a feeling that hits me sometimes - "How the f*** did I end up here?  How is this my life?"  I thought it would be easy.  Instead we're the people who are dealing with "unexplained" secondary infertility.  Instead I held my dead baby in arms. 

What the F?!

So here I sit.  With a cupcake.  Yum, cupcake.

 

 

Bereaved Mother's Day

Yesterday was International Bereaved Mother's Day.   A day set aside to remember women who have lost their children. 

Or, as I like to call it, every single day of my life! 

I think about my own baby every day.  And every day I think about the other women, the women just like me, who have also lost their children.  There are so many times that I've felt so disconnected from people in the real world.  My reality changed, and it's become harder for me to relate to "normal" people.  I won't bother to define normal.  If you're here, then you pretty much know.

But those times when I feel lost and alone, I know that I can go online and find support.  I hate that there are so many women who have been through this loss.  But I don't know if I could have gotten through this without every single one of them.  Of YOU!

You have remembered my daughter, my lovely Margaret, with me.  Halfway across the world, you have lit candles in her memory.  You have asked her name and sent her love. 

You have shared the names of your children with me, your sons and your daughters, gone too soon.  And by doing that, you have made me feel like my daughter, too, is not alone.  My heart finds comfort in the idea that just as we have found each other, they have found each other too.

I almost wrote, "It isn't much, but it helps."

And then I realized that it is a lot.  And it means everything.  Thank you.

 

You Are Always With Me

The book "No Death No Fear" by Thich Nhat Hanh was recently recommended to me.

It's on my reading list, which is long.  I've been reading a lot of light and fluffy YA lately.  Helps keep  mind distracted.

But I like this, apparently a quote:

When we lose someone we love, we should remember that the person has not become nothing.  'Something' cannot become 'nothing' and 'nothing' cannot become 'something'....  matter cannot be destroyed.  In the same way, our beloved was not destroyed; she has just taken on another form.  That form may be a cloud, a child or the breeze.  We can see our loved one in everything.  And smiling, we can say, "Dear one, I know you are there very close to me.  I know that your nature is the nature of no birth and no death.  I know that I have not lost you; you are always with me."

Indeed.  She is always with me. 

 

Is letting go possible?

My husband is better at letting things go than I am.  This is obvious in so many ways.  But it's very obvious when it comes to the baby.

I've been carrying my hurt and anger, nuturing it and letting it grow.  It's always at the forefront on my mind - what did this person do when we went through the worst time in our life?

Him:  "Do you want to get together with Emma and Steve?" 

Me:  "Did she ever mention the baby to you?"

Him:  "I don't remember."

But I remember.  When I ask what they said or did, it's completely rhetorical.  I know exactly who did what.  It's so etched in my heart that it's hard for me to relate to the fact that he truly doesn't know.

I have felt very separate and isolated from most of the people that we used to know.  I've pulled away from people - even those who have reached out to me - and have then felt more separate and isolated. 

I know that it is me, not them.  Sometimes people said things that hurt me.  Sometimes they said nothing at all, and that hurt me.  Sometimes they said the kindness and most thoughtful things, and I was so hurt that it didn't matter.  I didn't feel like I could speak the language of small talk any more, so didn't want to talk to anyone. 

I'm starting to try to let this go, all this hurt and anger. 

It's hard. 

 

It's all around me

There's pregnancy and babies all around me these days.  Friends, acquaintances, coworkers.  It seems like everyone is having babies.

It gets me down some days.

And on those days, I try to remember that there's loss all around me, too.  But the loss is silent.

My new coworkers don't know my story.  I'm not keeping it a secret, but it's not something that I feel comfortable bringing up with new people out of the blue.  I'm sure there will come a time when I share my daughter with them, but it's opening up such a piece of my heart that I want to be careful of the circumstances.

So as I look around and see the baby stories and pregnancies, and I feel my heart break a bit, I remind myself that there are other loss stories around me, too.  I just don't know them. 

It makes it a little easier.

 

 

Yum. Quesadillas

It's probably one of the worst things you can eat. But, dang, I LOVE a quesadilla.

Dr Who to the Rescue?

I think maybe I've lost it.  At least that's why my husband thinks. 

I got a little teary while we were out walking our dog last night.  Crying, even getting a little teary in public might be one reason for people to think you're nutso.  But my husband's getting kind of used to it.  And he tries.  Oh, he tries so hard. 

My husband:  I'm so sorry.

Me:  I know.

My husband:  Is there anything I can do?

Me:  I want a time machine.  I want to go back in time. 

My husband:  That doesn't exist.

Me:  How do you know that?  Maybe that's what they want us to think, to keep us from going back in time.

My husband:  You've been watching too much TV.  It doesn't exist.

And he's right.  I do watch too much TV.  But I love TV.  And I remind him of Doctor Who, and his ability to hop in the Tardis, and travel forwards, backwards, anywhere and FIX THINGS.

My husband:  Even Doctor Who knows you can't change what happened.  There are no episodes of Doctor Who changing the past for someone's personal benefit.

That shuts me up for a while, while I tried to think of an example.  I couldn't.  My memory is terrible.  And I fear that he might be right.

And so what if that some days there is a little part of me that holds out hope that someday I'll meet Doctor Who, and he'll put me in his Tardis and we'll travel back in time and save my baby.

Some days are bad days.  And on those days, even a ridiculous fantasy is better than nothing at all.  Even a ridiculous fantasy that I know is totally a fantasy, because there is no Doctor Who and no Tardis and no time travel and no bringing her back, because she's gone forever.  But sometimes that's just too hard and sad and awful.   So on those days, so what if I let myself pretend. 

 

And sometimes it hits like a truck

I'd been doing okay for the past few weeks.  Excited to start my new job.  It felt like a new beginning, a new chance, like things were going to start to get better.

I was floating along for weeks.

And then it ended.  The pregnancy of the co-worker, who rubs her belly and shares happily about the first kicks, the baby's movements.  As well she should, as I did just over a year ago.  The other co-worker who announced his wife's pregnancy.  The settling into the job and realizing that while it's a great job & I love it, it will still have the frustrations and challenges of any job.  The belief, the certainty, that I just knew that I would be pregnant again by this time; I am not.  It's getting hard to hold onto the belief that I will be again.

And missing her.  Sometimes it just hits so hard.

I had been looking at memorial jewelery on the internet, and found a site that imprinted hand and footprints on lockets.  I loved the idea, although we have never opened our memorial box to see the prints.  I liked the idea of being able to wear them.  And then, driving home, it hit me again.  I never saw her feet.  I love, love, love baby feet.  They are one of my favorite things - the tiny sweet and chubby toes.  But in our confusion, our grief, and shock, it never occurred to me to unwrap her.  And now I will never, ever see my daughters feet.  Never.  Ever.

I cried all the way home, and have been crying on and off all day.  Her sweet little feet.  I miss them.  I miss her so.

 

Too Soon for Tears?

I started my new job a week ago today.  I love it.  The people are nice.  The work is interesting, and even fun.  My commute is about 30 minutes shorter each way.  That's an hour of my day that I'm getting back every week.  I couldn't be happier about it.

And yet.  And still.  I cried. 

The day I started, one of my new coworkers announced her pregnancy.  She was surprised, and never even planned to have kids. 

And I felt my heart break a little.  It broke separate for my feelings for her.  I am happy for her.  I can only imagine the shock she must have felt, and she's a smart funny person who will be a great mom.  

I know the issues are mine.  I miss our little girl so much, and wish so much that we had one on the way.  It makes me feel like such an ass that my feelings are so mixed up with fear, jealousy and longing; that being around her makes me uncomfortable. 

But I don't know how not to feel these things.  And so off to work I go, hoping for the best.