It's been the kind of night that started with a relaxing look on Facebook, that degenerated into a hot shower with sobs, tears, and a swollen face from so much crying.
I've been carefully following the story of a local 2-year-old boy who was hit in the head about 6 weeks ago by a large tree branch that fell on him as he played in the yard of his daycare facility. Total. Freak. Accident. He has severe brain injury--I'll just put it that way. About two weeks after that terrible event occurred, a 4-year-old boy in another part of the U.S. was also pinned by part of a tree that fell on him while he played in his grandparents' backyard. Another case of terrible timing--freak accident all the way. He seems to have sustained even greater brain damage, caused by lack of oxygen for a VERY extended period of time. The 4-year-old boy was discharged home today. Initially he was intubated, and according to the parents, when the day and time came to extubate him, they had fully prepared themselves for him to pass. BUT, instead, he breathed on his own. His vitals stabilized and he got stronger. Of course, the one thing that doesn't know how to fix itself and regenerate--the brain.
Ah, the brain. In my opinion, it's our true life force. It is what makes us who we are. And so they took their baby home today and will continue to pray for a miracle--a miracle of full healing. Without that miracle, they have been told their child will remain in the state he is currently in--unable to move, swallow, eat, or see clearly.
And as I read the blog, and watched the online news story, I felt horrible for the parents, and imagined their lives and their possible future with their son. And then, selfishly, I began thinking about my own daughter. We chose a different path for Addison. She was born with severe brain injury, most likely the result of a cord injury. Total. Freak. Accident. Twenty-or-so hours after she was born, they intubated her because her breathing and posturing suggested she may have had a brain injury, and they feared she might (as the neonatologist put it) "forget to breathe." Once we had our test results and diagnosis of Severe Hypoxic-Ischemic Brain Injury, and had a good picture of her prognosis (never moving beyond the vegetative state she was born in), it was not even a tough decision to put her into hospice care and let her die. Yes, let her die meaning starve her to death while pumping her full of pain meds in the hope that she didn't have any pain (if she was even capable of feeling pain).
As I read this boy's story, and hear from the parents that withholding feeds through the feeding tube is NOT an option for them, I wonder what the difference is between us. I think it's that they believe in miracles, and we do not. Not even a little bit. Neither my husband nor I believe in a god, a higher power, or a spirit that lives beyond this world. In my mind, your brain is your soul. It keeps all your information, knowledge, creates feelings of pain, compassion, joy, and everything in between.
But I also wonder if it's because Addison never opened her eyes. I wonder if I would have felt differently if she had stared out into forever with her beautiful blue eyes. I wonder if I would have looked deep into them and hoped that she could see me and know me. I wonder if I would have hesitated and hoped that things might change for her. Although I don't believe in miracles--I do believe that traumatic brain injury is incredibly complex, and that individual reactions to the physical trauma vary greatly. I wonder if that played a role in our so-called "easy" decision to let her go. Because when I saw the picture of this little boy with eyes open, staring off with a blank stare, I try to see what's behind those eyes. And if I look hard enough, I could let myself believe I see that he's seeing me back. I wonder if I would have felt that with Addison. I wonder.
But the fact is that she didn't open her eyes. But she did breathe on her own. There was no dramatic moment of removing the breathing apparatus and saying our goodbyes as she struggled to breathe. I cannot imagine how that would feel. Ours was a somewhat slow process...just waiting day by day to see how long she could go without fluids before she succumbed to death. It's sick to think about it. It makes me sad and angry. It makes me angry that 3+ years later I think of her every day and wish I could turn back the clock. Of all the stupid mistakes, bad relationships, dumb things I've done in my years of life, I wouldn't change any of them. But if I could go back in time to the day before Addison stopped moving, I would do it. I would go back to October 26, 2009 (back an extra day, just to be safe), and I would demand a c-section. I would be so drastic as to cut my abdomen to the degree where they would HAVE to do a c-section. I would save my daughter's life.
We're coming up on Christmas, and with an eager 6-year-old and a sweet jolly 21-month-old, there is much planning and celebration around the holiday. And it's the feeling of actual feelings that bring the pain to the forefront, I think. We hung our stockings, and we hung one for Addison. I can't bear not to hang it. But all the fun traditions have become less fun after Addison died. It's easier just not to feel much--to get stuck in the mundane boring life stuff and feel nothing, than to feel the happiness and the pain that goes with it. And it's not fair to my beautiful living children that I feel this way. To feel that sometimes I have to muddle through when I should be doing things with a cheerful heart. I know I will do the very best I can, and that is all I can promise.
And as this holiday season comes into full swing, I will continue to follow the lives of these 2 young boys and their families. I will not pray for them, for that would be futile. But I will think of them and hope for the very very best. And that, too, is all I can do.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Addison at 3
Life is good. I have a ridiculously bright 6-year-old little boy Calvin, and a spunky chunky 20-month-old little boy Ryder. Our boys love each other so much, it warms my heart. But I can't help but feel like our family was totally ripped off when Addison died. She would have turned 3 on 10/28/12. It was a Sunday, and our family was out running errands and such. I mentioned to Calvin that Addison would have been 3 that day, and he said, "well can we go to her brick so I can hang the butterfly chime in the tree?" I thought it was a brilliant idea.
There is a nearby cemetery with a Children's Garden. We got Addison a brick with her name, birth date and death date, which is part of the walkway in the garden. There are 2 trees in the garden, from which various chimes and ornaments left by loved ones hang. Calvin painted a butterfly chime for Addison MANY months ago, but we haven't been to the cemetery since last year when it was placed. So, while my husband stayed home with the baby during nap time, Calvin and I made a trip to her brick, hung her chime in the tree, and laid a pink rose from our garden (interestingly, the ONLY rose in our garden) on her brick. It was sweet of him to think of his sister. This is a boy who points out photos of Addison around the house and tells Ryder, "this is your big sister." It was very sweet, visiting her brick, but I didn't cry. I didn't cry until November 3rd, the night before the anniversary of her death.
I like to torture myself, so I waited until everyone in the house was asleep, then I watched the photo montage video the Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep photographer made for us. The music alone makes me weepy. Then I posted something on Facebook about the night she died and my memories of handing her off to the funeral director. The next day I showed Chris the post and he completely broke down. He shook with sobs in the way I haven't seen since the week Addison was alive.
These days I've given up on the traditional therapy route. We go to the annual Walk To Remember, we light a candle on October 15th, and I speak on parent panels during bereavement training at 2 of the hospitals in our area (one where Addison was born). Other than that, I take my anti-depressant, work out a few times a week, learn new crafty things on Pinterest, focus on the family that remains, and let time tick by. Time does seem to help the wound not be so tender to the touch.
It's hard to think about how our lives would be different if Addison was here. She's not, and she never will be. But she has a place in our family that will not just seal itself off and disappear. We will hang a stocking for her this Christmas. Calvin will continue to teach his baby brother that we were supposed to be a family of 5--not 4. And life goes on. xoxo
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Two Years
I have such a hard time putting my feelings into words these days. In so many ways I can't believe it has been two full years since Addison was born and then died. The experience of losing her has definitely taken its toll on me physically and emotionally. I think I'm finally in a place where life should be feeling more "normal," what with an ever-growing 8-month-old baby cutting teeth, crawling and cruising; and a 5-year-old who often acts like he's 12. I've got my hands full, just like every other normal mom. But I really feel anything but normal.
Many of my relationships have suffered over the past couple of years. I'm just so damned self-centered; it's all about MY loss, MY sadness, MY anxiety, MY hole in my heart that can never EVER be filled. I'm sure it's incredibly exhausting to even want to be there for me after all this time. I definitely turned inward in dealing with all the Addison-related emotions, and I wonder if I'll ever learn how to unwrap myself again. My marriage has suffered the most, I think. We've been riding the train of never-ending emotions, hoping it would come to a stop in the Station of Life Satisfaction and Happiness once our rainbow baby was born. But I guess it's not that simple.
And now our precious baby Ryder is 8 months old and growing, growing, growing himself right out of babyhood. He lived. We made it through pregnancy and even through most of the big SIDS-risk months. He seems to be developing normally, and he's really just such a sweet, happy, fat guy who smiles at darn near everything. He's adorable and I love him so much, and his big brother absolutely ADORES him. And I think this is really all I ever wanted, right? But I'm still torn up inside, and half the time I don't know why. I don't know if I miss Addison, or if the experience of losing her ruined my naive notion that a person could live happily ever after, or what. And it's not that I'm Boo Hoo Sad anymore. I'm just...empty in a way. Living, going through the motions, attempting to find my happy moments. But just here.
I think I'm going to stop right here because this post is going nowhere. I think I just needed to get it out. Maybe my meds need to be readjusted after all. Maybe I just don't know how to be a happy person, and I need someone or something to blame. Because it just doesn't escape me how much I have to be happy about. I am a very lucky girl....a very lucky girl who is still missing something, even 2 years later.
Many of my relationships have suffered over the past couple of years. I'm just so damned self-centered; it's all about MY loss, MY sadness, MY anxiety, MY hole in my heart that can never EVER be filled. I'm sure it's incredibly exhausting to even want to be there for me after all this time. I definitely turned inward in dealing with all the Addison-related emotions, and I wonder if I'll ever learn how to unwrap myself again. My marriage has suffered the most, I think. We've been riding the train of never-ending emotions, hoping it would come to a stop in the Station of Life Satisfaction and Happiness once our rainbow baby was born. But I guess it's not that simple.
And now our precious baby Ryder is 8 months old and growing, growing, growing himself right out of babyhood. He lived. We made it through pregnancy and even through most of the big SIDS-risk months. He seems to be developing normally, and he's really just such a sweet, happy, fat guy who smiles at darn near everything. He's adorable and I love him so much, and his big brother absolutely ADORES him. And I think this is really all I ever wanted, right? But I'm still torn up inside, and half the time I don't know why. I don't know if I miss Addison, or if the experience of losing her ruined my naive notion that a person could live happily ever after, or what. And it's not that I'm Boo Hoo Sad anymore. I'm just...empty in a way. Living, going through the motions, attempting to find my happy moments. But just here.
I think I'm going to stop right here because this post is going nowhere. I think I just needed to get it out. Maybe my meds need to be readjusted after all. Maybe I just don't know how to be a happy person, and I need someone or something to blame. Because it just doesn't escape me how much I have to be happy about. I am a very lucky girl....a very lucky girl who is still missing something, even 2 years later.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Still missing Addison
My laptop crashed somewhere around June. My desktop picture for the past 18 months or so had been one of Addison. When I got my replacement laptop, I put a photo of Calvin and Ryder on it. A couple of weeks ago, Calvin (now 5) asked why I threw the picture of Addison away. I told him I didn't throw it away--I just replaced it with a picture of him and his baby brother. He said I should have Addison there instead, so I let him pick a photo of her. He did, and it was the same one I had for all those months. She has her pink blanket with an "A" on it--the same one Calvin has in his room.
Fast forward to this past Saturday night. Calvin was very tired. It was warm that day, and he had his first soccer game, and there was a lot of excitement surrounding that. He snuggled up on the couch with me and, out of the blue, started talking about Addison and how sad he was that she doesn't get to grow up. He said,
"sometimes I think if Addison could have grown up, she would look like A [his 5-year-old cousin]." I told him I thought maybe she would have, too, and said that I was sad along with him. I reminded him how lucky we are that we have Ryder now. And a few minutes later he snuggled up against me and started wimpering, and said something I couldn't understand. He repeated it: "I want Addison." When I put Calvin to bed soon thereafter, he was adamant that his A blanket was on his pillow, with the "A" against his cheek.
I wonder if Calvin gets as pissed with me as I get with other people when I tell him that everything is okay because we have our baby brother now. I sure hope not, because I hate those stupid platitudes still.
I live in a strange place now. I'm coming up on Addison's 2 year birthday, and I've been an emotional mess again (or still--depending on who you ask). I have been through so much in the past 2 years, and am SO VERY GRATEFUL to have my sweet baby Ryder, but he just doesn't replace Addison. And I knew he wouldn't. It's just that I didn't know I would still have moments of such raw emotion this far out from her birth and death. I thought I would feel better and more healed than I do at the 2 year mark.
I wish I could scrap 2009 from my memory completely. Truly, I wish I never got pregnant with Addison, and that's the horrible truth. I would happily take it all away from my personal life experience if I could, because nothing good has come from it. I haven't started any societies or charities or 5ks in memory of her. I'm not a better, kinder, gentler person because of watching my baby die. I still sweat the small stuff because that's what I like to think I can control. I know even more vividly now that nothing I say can take the pain away from people who are suffering personal tragedies. And I know that losing Addison has in no way granted me amnesty from future loss and heartache. And that is probably the worst part.
So since I'm stuck with the reality that she WAS born and she DID die, I want to share her. But being almost 2 years out, it's probably expected that I should be performing at 100%. I should pretty much be "over it," especially since I was lucky enough to have my rainbow baby. I wish I could be over the really painful part, but I'm not. I still miss her, and I still want her, too. And I wish someone--anyone--would ask me how I'm doing and say her name out loud. Addison. She did exist and she did have a name.
Fast forward to this past Saturday night. Calvin was very tired. It was warm that day, and he had his first soccer game, and there was a lot of excitement surrounding that. He snuggled up on the couch with me and, out of the blue, started talking about Addison and how sad he was that she doesn't get to grow up. He said,
"sometimes I think if Addison could have grown up, she would look like A [his 5-year-old cousin]." I told him I thought maybe she would have, too, and said that I was sad along with him. I reminded him how lucky we are that we have Ryder now. And a few minutes later he snuggled up against me and started wimpering, and said something I couldn't understand. He repeated it: "I want Addison." When I put Calvin to bed soon thereafter, he was adamant that his A blanket was on his pillow, with the "A" against his cheek.
I wonder if Calvin gets as pissed with me as I get with other people when I tell him that everything is okay because we have our baby brother now. I sure hope not, because I hate those stupid platitudes still.
I live in a strange place now. I'm coming up on Addison's 2 year birthday, and I've been an emotional mess again (or still--depending on who you ask). I have been through so much in the past 2 years, and am SO VERY GRATEFUL to have my sweet baby Ryder, but he just doesn't replace Addison. And I knew he wouldn't. It's just that I didn't know I would still have moments of such raw emotion this far out from her birth and death. I thought I would feel better and more healed than I do at the 2 year mark.
I wish I could scrap 2009 from my memory completely. Truly, I wish I never got pregnant with Addison, and that's the horrible truth. I would happily take it all away from my personal life experience if I could, because nothing good has come from it. I haven't started any societies or charities or 5ks in memory of her. I'm not a better, kinder, gentler person because of watching my baby die. I still sweat the small stuff because that's what I like to think I can control. I know even more vividly now that nothing I say can take the pain away from people who are suffering personal tragedies. And I know that losing Addison has in no way granted me amnesty from future loss and heartache. And that is probably the worst part.
So since I'm stuck with the reality that she WAS born and she DID die, I want to share her. But being almost 2 years out, it's probably expected that I should be performing at 100%. I should pretty much be "over it," especially since I was lucky enough to have my rainbow baby. I wish I could be over the really painful part, but I'm not. I still miss her, and I still want her, too. And I wish someone--anyone--would ask me how I'm doing and say her name out loud. Addison. She did exist and she did have a name.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
A Terribly Late Tale (this time with a happy ending)
I am a pathetic blogger, and that’s the truth. The short of the story is that I have an almost-6-month-old baby boy, Ryder, who is absolutely delicious! Big brother Calvin, 5, is completely in love with Ryder. Below is the note I put on Facebook the day after Ryder was born. Why I couldn’t take that extra step and just post it on this blog is completely beyond me; I have no excuse. (Ryder stayed in the NICU for about 48 hours after he was born, and although it took a good 4 weeks of pumping and feeding, I finally got him on the breast. )
Life is good BUT.
I still miss Addison, who was born 22 months ago today. Lately I’ve been having more difficulty with my emotions surrounding Addison, and balancing the happiness I feel in having my 2 boys, with the sadness I feel in losing my daughter. This is going to sound strange, but sometimes I forget that Ryder is Ryder, and not Addison. Like, I was looking at Halloween costumes online the other day, and I saw a boy/girl costume combination, and thought that it would be perfect for my kids. And a split second later, I remembered that I don’t have a boy and a girl—I have 2 boys. It’s almost like my brain forgets that I lost her, and Ryder is a different person. Even as I type this, my throat is starting to get scratchy because I could burst into tears at any moment. The tough thing is that I know there would be no Ryder if Addison hadn’t died. And the cuter and sweeter Ryder gets (and he is just the best baby ever), the more I wonder what Addison would have been like. And that makes me feel incredibly guilty, because I love Ryder so much, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything—not even Addison. I just wish I never lost her in the first place. God, wouldn’t that have made my life so much simpler?
Anyway, that’s what’s going on. My baby is amazing and I love him more every day. And my dead baby is still dead. And I miss her so much. So very much.
Posted originally on 3/3/11
Thanks to everyone for all the support and love. I went to the hospital late last night because I didn't feel Ryder moving as well as he usually does at that time of night. I thought I might be overreacting, but based on what happened to Addison after the same type of feeling, I had no shame in showing up at L&D. During the first hour I was there, he had a pretty good heartrate deceleration that led them to keep me overnight for monitoring. The little monkey had another decel with a slow recovery, which brought the doctor in to review the strip and discuss a game plan. We agreed with the doctor that, based on my history, we should just do a c-section. Ryder had the cord wrapped around his ankle, so that was likely the cause of the decels. It was a huge relief to hear him cry when he came out. He was born 3/2/11 at 3:35am and weighed in at 6lbs 13oz and was 19" long--not bad for exactly 36 weeks. Ryder will likely stay in the NICU for a few days, but he is doing well. Chest x-rays were good and labs were normal. He's getting a low level of oxygen through a cannula (the little under-the-nose thingy) due to low O2 saturation levels, and is on a 48-hour course of antibiotics as a precaution. He's not eating yet, but getting IV fluids for now. I'm busy pumping so I can be ready to feed when he's ready to eat. I got to do skin-to-skin for a few hours this evening and he was rooting around, sucking on a binky (I was SO tempted to let him have what he really wanted), looking around, and showing lots of personality. Of course it's disappointing that Calvin can't come see him (flu season) and we can't have him in our room like a "normal" baby. But I am just SO incredibly thankful to have him safe on the "outside," to see how well he's doing, and know he's going to be just fine. But that doesn't stop me from keeping my fingers crossed that he makes it to our room before I'm discharged on Saturday. And a HUGE shout out to the awesome staff at Northside Forsyth. At this point everyone knows about Addison and they have all been incredibly supportive--including helping me break the rules by going to see Ryder only 6 hours after his birth. It has been an awesome experience so far. And of course I am enjoying a very speedy recovery, so I can't ask for much more. Thanks again for all the well wishes and positive thoughts--it means the world to me!
Rebecca
Monday, February 21, 2011
Counting Down to Something
It's been so hard to sit down and write about what's going on in my head. I don't want to give my anxiety a voice, but it's so overwhelming right now. It sounds ridiculous, but my anxiety seems so unmanageable at times that it's easier to just sink into a near-depression and accept that this baby will die, too, and if he lives, it will just be a happy surprise. It sounds sick and wrong, and I don't know how else to manage the terrible thoughts as we tick down the last 2 weeks before the amnio and hopeful c-section the next day (scheduled at this moment for 3/8/11). I want to be hopeful, but it scares me to feel that way. I don't know that I can live through Ryder dying like Addison died. I'm afraid to put a nursery together, although we bought a new Pack-N-Play tonight for him to sleep in during those first few months. I need a new mantra, but instead I will just keep busy (my doctor won't take me off work anyway), continue to breathe, and see what happens. Please live. Please be healthy. Please let me be your mom.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
I'm obviously a very emotional pregnant person
**WARNING: This post is full of the rants of a post-loss pregnant type (me). It's long and includes dialogue that is likely only interesting to me. Attempt to read at your own risk! :-)
Reader's Digest Version: I'm just about 29 weeks, c-section scheduled (after MUCH drama) for 3/9/11. I have an excess of amniotic fluid (28cm), but peri didn't see any digestive blockages in the baby, so we will just "watch it" like we do with everything else. I'm trying to stay sane during my last 8 weeks of pregnancy, and hoping all this time and effort results in a living, healthy little boy.
The Long Version: The good news is that I have a c-section date of March 9th (37 weeks according to them, 37+4 according to my LMP). It seems both just around the corner, and so far away at the same time. I had a traumatic appointment with my OB two days ago. I hadn't had a visit for 5 weeks, and I actually didn't see him the last time I was there. So, to be fair, he hadn't seen me in about 9 weeks. When the nurse took me to the room she said, "Oh, it's so nice to see you. I was thinking about you yesterday and how you were doing." My BP was good, my weight (ugh!) they did not hassle me about although I gained 10 (TEN!!!!) pounds in the past 5 weeks. Damn holidays! Threw on the doppler for a couple of seconds--read in at 130. "Looks great," she said. Dr. M came in and said, "okay, I guess it's time to schedule your c-section." Of course, I was completely excited to set a date. He said, "okay, so what about the 24th?" I must have given him a weird look, because he said, "The 24th of March. You're due March 30th." I was in such shock, my eyes welled up with tears and I said, "but I thought we had discussed 36 or 37 weeks." He said, "not unless you want an amnio." I said, "yes, yes, I thought that was the plan. Remember, my daughter died at 38.5 weeks?" By this time the tears had started squirting out of my eyes. He closed my chart and his calendar, and sheepishly said that he would call the perinatologist and work it out. I told him him, "I'm just caught completely off-guard by this. I really need for us to all be on the same page. I promise that I won't be pregnant at 38 weeks. I will take a knife to my abdomen and land myself in the E.R. by that point." He passed me a tissue and said, "we'll get this worked out." I left the office totally overwhelmed, confused, and frustrated, and completely fell to pieces. I was beyond stunned.
Flashback: When Chris and I met with this OB when I was like 6 weeks pregnant, based on Addison's birth and death, he offered up the care plan for this pregnancy. It looked something like this: More frequent monitoring, being followed closely by the perinatologist, Non-Stress Tests beginning at week 34, Amnio at 36-37 weeks and if all was well with that, delivery shortly thereafter. Now, 29 weeks into the pregnancy, this douchebag starts acting like I made the whole thing up. Trust me--I wish Addison had been a figment of my imagination. I wish I didn't live through that hell. I wish that I didn't question my every move now, and question the very ability of this baby within me to actually SEE the outside of my womb. So, I decided there were two possibilities: 1) He is changing the game plan completely; 2) He has no fucking idea who I am, and didn't even glance at my chart before entering the room to greet me. Wow. Neither option is very patient-friendly.
And after taking about an hour to compose myself (literally), I decided we would see what the perinatologist had to say. Luckily, I had an appointment with him 3 hours later, and Chris was planning to meet me there. Pretty immediately, the peri told me that he had spoken with Dr. M, and they set an amnio date for 36+9 and the c-section for the next day, assuming all looked well. I said, "he totally forgot who I was, didn't he?" He wobbled his head and, although it was evident he didn't want to throw his colleague under the bus, made it wordlessly clear that that was the case. There is more to the peri visit, but I feel a strong need to make a rant about my experiences with the so-called medical professionals I have dealt with over the past years.
My mom was a L&D nurse for about 30 years before deciding to go back to school to get her Masters degree. She is a Certified Nurse Midwife and works within an HMO wherein she does some time in the office for OB- and GYN-type issues (paps, 6 week delivery follow-ups, prenatal care, etc) and also does deliveries in a hospital setting (24 hour shifts). So she kinda knows about the business of babies--both the prenatal care, and actually delivery. She does get disgusted, at times, with how many of the OBs seem to just whip in and out of patient rooms, while the midwives give much more personalized care.
When I became pregnant with Calvin (late 2005) I was referred, by 2 co-workers, to a male OB within my insurance plan. They both loved him; I thought he was okay. At the end of the day, what the hell does an OB do anyway, unless you need a c-section? At 40+6 I cried my way into being admitted into the hospital, after being in prodromal labor for the past 2 days. Calvin wouldn't tolerate pitocin (decels with every "good" contraction), my cervix refused to dilate beyond 3cm, and I ended up with a c-section by an unknown doctor in my OB's practice. It was done under general anesthesia, by the way, because my epidural gave out on my left side, and they couldn't get a spinal in. Good times. Despite going home with a perfect baby, I had a level of mourning due to the type of delivery. I recently ran across some video of my husband, 2 of my sisters, and my mom in the nursey with Calvin during his first bath. That all happened while I was still unconscious in the recovery room. At the time, I thought the whole situation was terribly unfair, but I eventually came to terms with it.
And then I moved across the country to Georgia, and got pregnant in 2008. I was referred to a female OB by Chris' 2 cousins, who both delivered with her--one via c-section and one vaginally. She seemed very sweet, and had good bedside manner, and when the baby had no heartbeat around 10 weeks, she did the D&C. So when I got pregnant with Addison in early 2009, I decided to see her again. The care was fine (I was a very low-maintenance patient, as most of my questions were answered by my mom). All I wanted was a scheduled c-section, and to be awake for the delivery of my daughter. Jokingly, I always said (not directly to my doctor), "Can you cut a straight line? Great--I'm in!" My c-section was scheduled for 38+6. And then, a couple of weeks before the "big day," my OB noticed that I was scheduled for a day under 39 weeks. I was advised they had a new office policy wherein c-sections could not be scheduled earlier than 1 week before their due date without good cause. I was ONE DAY earlier than 39 weeks, but it didn't matter. She changed the c-section to 39+3. I cried (again), but there was nothing I could do. I ended up being a moot point because the night of 38+3 I ended up in the hospital due to decreased fetal movement. Addison was delivered the next morning via c-section, by an unknown doctor in my OB's practice, and taken to NICU. The rest is history.
When I got pregnant this time, I didn't know who to see. I didn't want to see my last female OB again, mostly because of insensitive things that were said by a few of the other OBs who did rounds in the hospital while I was still in-patient after having Addison. I felt like they were not in contact with the Neonatologist at all, and didn't really have a vested interest in what happened to Addison. They were purely concerned with making sure I felt they weren't at "fault" with what happened to her. I felt there was a lot of ass-covering going on, and it made me feel, in a roundabout way, that they would rather have me blame myself for what happened to Addision, than to even think about the POSSIBILITY that their practice was responsible for the outcome. I know there is no blame to be placed with my OB or her practice, but I couldn't tolerate how I was treated after the fact. I knew I couldn't go back there.
The nurse with the peri's office (I was followed closely with Addison because I was of "advanced maternal age"), who is sadly no longer there, referred me to the practice I am currently seeing. Dr. M had been given good reviews by his patients, he delivered at the sister hospital where I had Addison (I don't want to go to the same hospital this time), he was close, affiliated with the same peri practice, and within my insurance coverage. All that sounded good enough to me. And, again, what the hell does an OB do other than cut a straight line at c-section time? All they do is WATCH. I had a subchorionic hemorrhage. We watched. I now have an over-abundance of amniotic fluid. We will watch. The LEAST he could do is fucking glance at my chart before he walks in to see me. The patient. The one who pays his bills. I have lost faith in him, but I feel I have no choice but to continue on because I'm so close. I really hope he CAN cut a straight line.
After a horrific experience at the hospital last time, and then watching Addison die. After hearing everyone involved (and not involved) attempt to cover their ass so they don't get a lawsuit slapped on them. After reading so much about cold cap therapy and wondering, endlessly, if that would have saved her. After suffering through my own slips in referring to this baby as "she" instead of the "he" that he is. After the subchorionic hemorrhage, bleeding so much for so long, almost losing hope. After just wishing for and wanting for this baby. I'm just spent, emotionally. I want to hope, I want to feel peace that he is okay. I don't think I'll be able to feel that until he's here and I can see with my own eyes that he is healthy.
Reader's Digest Version: I'm just about 29 weeks, c-section scheduled (after MUCH drama) for 3/9/11. I have an excess of amniotic fluid (28cm), but peri didn't see any digestive blockages in the baby, so we will just "watch it" like we do with everything else. I'm trying to stay sane during my last 8 weeks of pregnancy, and hoping all this time and effort results in a living, healthy little boy.
The Long Version: The good news is that I have a c-section date of March 9th (37 weeks according to them, 37+4 according to my LMP). It seems both just around the corner, and so far away at the same time. I had a traumatic appointment with my OB two days ago. I hadn't had a visit for 5 weeks, and I actually didn't see him the last time I was there. So, to be fair, he hadn't seen me in about 9 weeks. When the nurse took me to the room she said, "Oh, it's so nice to see you. I was thinking about you yesterday and how you were doing." My BP was good, my weight (ugh!) they did not hassle me about although I gained 10 (TEN!!!!) pounds in the past 5 weeks. Damn holidays! Threw on the doppler for a couple of seconds--read in at 130. "Looks great," she said. Dr. M came in and said, "okay, I guess it's time to schedule your c-section." Of course, I was completely excited to set a date. He said, "okay, so what about the 24th?" I must have given him a weird look, because he said, "The 24th of March. You're due March 30th." I was in such shock, my eyes welled up with tears and I said, "but I thought we had discussed 36 or 37 weeks." He said, "not unless you want an amnio." I said, "yes, yes, I thought that was the plan. Remember, my daughter died at 38.5 weeks?" By this time the tears had started squirting out of my eyes. He closed my chart and his calendar, and sheepishly said that he would call the perinatologist and work it out. I told him him, "I'm just caught completely off-guard by this. I really need for us to all be on the same page. I promise that I won't be pregnant at 38 weeks. I will take a knife to my abdomen and land myself in the E.R. by that point." He passed me a tissue and said, "we'll get this worked out." I left the office totally overwhelmed, confused, and frustrated, and completely fell to pieces. I was beyond stunned.
Flashback: When Chris and I met with this OB when I was like 6 weeks pregnant, based on Addison's birth and death, he offered up the care plan for this pregnancy. It looked something like this: More frequent monitoring, being followed closely by the perinatologist, Non-Stress Tests beginning at week 34, Amnio at 36-37 weeks and if all was well with that, delivery shortly thereafter. Now, 29 weeks into the pregnancy, this douchebag starts acting like I made the whole thing up. Trust me--I wish Addison had been a figment of my imagination. I wish I didn't live through that hell. I wish that I didn't question my every move now, and question the very ability of this baby within me to actually SEE the outside of my womb. So, I decided there were two possibilities: 1) He is changing the game plan completely; 2) He has no fucking idea who I am, and didn't even glance at my chart before entering the room to greet me. Wow. Neither option is very patient-friendly.
And after taking about an hour to compose myself (literally), I decided we would see what the perinatologist had to say. Luckily, I had an appointment with him 3 hours later, and Chris was planning to meet me there. Pretty immediately, the peri told me that he had spoken with Dr. M, and they set an amnio date for 36+9 and the c-section for the next day, assuming all looked well. I said, "he totally forgot who I was, didn't he?" He wobbled his head and, although it was evident he didn't want to throw his colleague under the bus, made it wordlessly clear that that was the case. There is more to the peri visit, but I feel a strong need to make a rant about my experiences with the so-called medical professionals I have dealt with over the past years.
My mom was a L&D nurse for about 30 years before deciding to go back to school to get her Masters degree. She is a Certified Nurse Midwife and works within an HMO wherein she does some time in the office for OB- and GYN-type issues (paps, 6 week delivery follow-ups, prenatal care, etc) and also does deliveries in a hospital setting (24 hour shifts). So she kinda knows about the business of babies--both the prenatal care, and actually delivery. She does get disgusted, at times, with how many of the OBs seem to just whip in and out of patient rooms, while the midwives give much more personalized care.
When I became pregnant with Calvin (late 2005) I was referred, by 2 co-workers, to a male OB within my insurance plan. They both loved him; I thought he was okay. At the end of the day, what the hell does an OB do anyway, unless you need a c-section? At 40+6 I cried my way into being admitted into the hospital, after being in prodromal labor for the past 2 days. Calvin wouldn't tolerate pitocin (decels with every "good" contraction), my cervix refused to dilate beyond 3cm, and I ended up with a c-section by an unknown doctor in my OB's practice. It was done under general anesthesia, by the way, because my epidural gave out on my left side, and they couldn't get a spinal in. Good times. Despite going home with a perfect baby, I had a level of mourning due to the type of delivery. I recently ran across some video of my husband, 2 of my sisters, and my mom in the nursey with Calvin during his first bath. That all happened while I was still unconscious in the recovery room. At the time, I thought the whole situation was terribly unfair, but I eventually came to terms with it.
And then I moved across the country to Georgia, and got pregnant in 2008. I was referred to a female OB by Chris' 2 cousins, who both delivered with her--one via c-section and one vaginally. She seemed very sweet, and had good bedside manner, and when the baby had no heartbeat around 10 weeks, she did the D&C. So when I got pregnant with Addison in early 2009, I decided to see her again. The care was fine (I was a very low-maintenance patient, as most of my questions were answered by my mom). All I wanted was a scheduled c-section, and to be awake for the delivery of my daughter. Jokingly, I always said (not directly to my doctor), "Can you cut a straight line? Great--I'm in!" My c-section was scheduled for 38+6. And then, a couple of weeks before the "big day," my OB noticed that I was scheduled for a day under 39 weeks. I was advised they had a new office policy wherein c-sections could not be scheduled earlier than 1 week before their due date without good cause. I was ONE DAY earlier than 39 weeks, but it didn't matter. She changed the c-section to 39+3. I cried (again), but there was nothing I could do. I ended up being a moot point because the night of 38+3 I ended up in the hospital due to decreased fetal movement. Addison was delivered the next morning via c-section, by an unknown doctor in my OB's practice, and taken to NICU. The rest is history.
When I got pregnant this time, I didn't know who to see. I didn't want to see my last female OB again, mostly because of insensitive things that were said by a few of the other OBs who did rounds in the hospital while I was still in-patient after having Addison. I felt like they were not in contact with the Neonatologist at all, and didn't really have a vested interest in what happened to Addison. They were purely concerned with making sure I felt they weren't at "fault" with what happened to her. I felt there was a lot of ass-covering going on, and it made me feel, in a roundabout way, that they would rather have me blame myself for what happened to Addision, than to even think about the POSSIBILITY that their practice was responsible for the outcome. I know there is no blame to be placed with my OB or her practice, but I couldn't tolerate how I was treated after the fact. I knew I couldn't go back there.
The nurse with the peri's office (I was followed closely with Addison because I was of "advanced maternal age"), who is sadly no longer there, referred me to the practice I am currently seeing. Dr. M had been given good reviews by his patients, he delivered at the sister hospital where I had Addison (I don't want to go to the same hospital this time), he was close, affiliated with the same peri practice, and within my insurance coverage. All that sounded good enough to me. And, again, what the hell does an OB do other than cut a straight line at c-section time? All they do is WATCH. I had a subchorionic hemorrhage. We watched. I now have an over-abundance of amniotic fluid. We will watch. The LEAST he could do is fucking glance at my chart before he walks in to see me. The patient. The one who pays his bills. I have lost faith in him, but I feel I have no choice but to continue on because I'm so close. I really hope he CAN cut a straight line.
After a horrific experience at the hospital last time, and then watching Addison die. After hearing everyone involved (and not involved) attempt to cover their ass so they don't get a lawsuit slapped on them. After reading so much about cold cap therapy and wondering, endlessly, if that would have saved her. After suffering through my own slips in referring to this baby as "she" instead of the "he" that he is. After the subchorionic hemorrhage, bleeding so much for so long, almost losing hope. After just wishing for and wanting for this baby. I'm just spent, emotionally. I want to hope, I want to feel peace that he is okay. I don't think I'll be able to feel that until he's here and I can see with my own eyes that he is healthy.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Addison at One Year Old
First of all, thank you so much for your messages letting me know that you care about me and how things are going. It just means so so much to have you girls out there thinking about me and shooting your good thoughts into the universe.
Addison's first birthday was October 28th. I geared up for the day, knowing it might be tough. I went to work and had a therapy appointment scheduled for that evening. I decided that I would honor Addison by having a good day, and I actually did. I feel like I've done a lot of work in the past several months to become more emotionally healthy. As much as I want to hold on to Addison, and perhaps even linger in her space, I have realized that I have to let go--just a little bit--in order to keep on living. My therapist does sand tray therapy (go ahead and Google it--I know you want to). When I first started seeing her, just a couple of months after Addison died, she wanted me to do a sand tray to honor her. I wasn't ready by any stretch of the imagination to do one. I felt I would be saying a permanent goodbye if I did one. But as Addison's birthday approached, I felt like I was ready to honor her, not as "closure," but simply as a way to remember her in a positive way. After therapy, I picked up a little birthday cake, and after dinner we lit her candle and ate her cake. Calvin is still terribly confused by why Addison had to die. He says he used to love her THIIIIIIIIS much, but now he loves her just a little bit, because she left us. I think none of us understand why she had to leave so soon.
And about 2 days after her birthday came my semi-breakdown. I became temporarily obsessed with researching cool cap therapy in full-term infants. I still have so much anger and frustration about how the doctors dealt with Addison before and after she was born. When I went to the hospital because she wasn't moving, they never did an ultrasound. They didn't push for an emergency c-section. When she was born, they told us she simply lacked surfactant. Twenty-four hours later we found out the wretched truth--that she had pretty much choked herself out in utero but didn't finish the job. Part of me feels that had they immediately taken her that night via c-section and started cool cap therapy, she might have had a chance at life. But then my brain takes over and considers the possibility that even if they COULD have gotten her from "brain dead" to simply "severely cognitively handicapped," that would have been no good. But sometimes my heart doesn't want to listen to my brain. I just have so many questions that will never be--can never be--answered. The "what ifs" do the worst damage. And I think that's what I'm trying hard to work on--moving past the coulda shoulda wouldas and into reality. What happened to Addison, happened, and as terrible as it is, nothing can be done to change her fate. And life marches on with or without me. Painful as it is, I must continue to choose to keep moving on with life. Not only for me, but also for my husband, my living child, and my unborn child.
I'm 22 weeks pregnant with a little boy. Calvin is beside himself with excitement, although he does ask from time to time if this baby will live or die. He wonders the same about himself, and I try to reassure him that he has MANY years left on this planet. Oh how I hope I'm right. This pregnancy has been physically easy, but mentally tough. I have struggled with a subchorionic hemorrhage that initially caused me to gush blood while we were on vacation in Florida during Labor Day weekend. And after that, the SCH continued to grow, and even very-temporarily forced me on bedrest. After a short reprieve, I bled horrendous amounts for 2 straight weeks and thought for sure I was losing the baby. But at my perinatologist appointment last Friday, the hemorrhage was no longer identifiable on the ultrasound. For the first time, I had a glimmer of hope that this pregnancy would actually result in a living, healthy baby. I can't picture holding him or bringing him home (that seems WAY too optimistic), but cerebrally, I imagine that he might live.
It's nice to feel the baby kick, but in a way it is terrifying, because now I've assigned myself the full and total responsibility to keep him safe. I will need to do my kick counts and be aware if he stops moving for too long, and act accordingly. As diligent as I could possibly be, I know I can only do so much to keep him safe, but the pressure we put on ourselves can be tremendous, can't it?
And so is my constant internal battle between holding onto Addison and living in the empty space she left that I fill with tears and sadness--and living in the here and now. The reality that my future does not include Addison breaks my heart. The reality that I can't picture her as the toddler she should be, because she will forever be trapped as a one-to-seven-day-old infant, is enough to cause me to be institutionalized if I dwelled on it long enough. There is no reason that this terrible thing happened, no silver lining in the cloud of despair, but even so, I am trying to accept her life and death as part of my own life story. She will always have her place in our family and in my life, but it can no longer be center stage.
Addison's first birthday was October 28th. I geared up for the day, knowing it might be tough. I went to work and had a therapy appointment scheduled for that evening. I decided that I would honor Addison by having a good day, and I actually did. I feel like I've done a lot of work in the past several months to become more emotionally healthy. As much as I want to hold on to Addison, and perhaps even linger in her space, I have realized that I have to let go--just a little bit--in order to keep on living. My therapist does sand tray therapy (go ahead and Google it--I know you want to). When I first started seeing her, just a couple of months after Addison died, she wanted me to do a sand tray to honor her. I wasn't ready by any stretch of the imagination to do one. I felt I would be saying a permanent goodbye if I did one. But as Addison's birthday approached, I felt like I was ready to honor her, not as "closure," but simply as a way to remember her in a positive way. After therapy, I picked up a little birthday cake, and after dinner we lit her candle and ate her cake. Calvin is still terribly confused by why Addison had to die. He says he used to love her THIIIIIIIIS much, but now he loves her just a little bit, because she left us. I think none of us understand why she had to leave so soon.
And about 2 days after her birthday came my semi-breakdown. I became temporarily obsessed with researching cool cap therapy in full-term infants. I still have so much anger and frustration about how the doctors dealt with Addison before and after she was born. When I went to the hospital because she wasn't moving, they never did an ultrasound. They didn't push for an emergency c-section. When she was born, they told us she simply lacked surfactant. Twenty-four hours later we found out the wretched truth--that she had pretty much choked herself out in utero but didn't finish the job. Part of me feels that had they immediately taken her that night via c-section and started cool cap therapy, she might have had a chance at life. But then my brain takes over and considers the possibility that even if they COULD have gotten her from "brain dead" to simply "severely cognitively handicapped," that would have been no good. But sometimes my heart doesn't want to listen to my brain. I just have so many questions that will never be--can never be--answered. The "what ifs" do the worst damage. And I think that's what I'm trying hard to work on--moving past the coulda shoulda wouldas and into reality. What happened to Addison, happened, and as terrible as it is, nothing can be done to change her fate. And life marches on with or without me. Painful as it is, I must continue to choose to keep moving on with life. Not only for me, but also for my husband, my living child, and my unborn child.
I'm 22 weeks pregnant with a little boy. Calvin is beside himself with excitement, although he does ask from time to time if this baby will live or die. He wonders the same about himself, and I try to reassure him that he has MANY years left on this planet. Oh how I hope I'm right. This pregnancy has been physically easy, but mentally tough. I have struggled with a subchorionic hemorrhage that initially caused me to gush blood while we were on vacation in Florida during Labor Day weekend. And after that, the SCH continued to grow, and even very-temporarily forced me on bedrest. After a short reprieve, I bled horrendous amounts for 2 straight weeks and thought for sure I was losing the baby. But at my perinatologist appointment last Friday, the hemorrhage was no longer identifiable on the ultrasound. For the first time, I had a glimmer of hope that this pregnancy would actually result in a living, healthy baby. I can't picture holding him or bringing him home (that seems WAY too optimistic), but cerebrally, I imagine that he might live.
It's nice to feel the baby kick, but in a way it is terrifying, because now I've assigned myself the full and total responsibility to keep him safe. I will need to do my kick counts and be aware if he stops moving for too long, and act accordingly. As diligent as I could possibly be, I know I can only do so much to keep him safe, but the pressure we put on ourselves can be tremendous, can't it?
And so is my constant internal battle between holding onto Addison and living in the empty space she left that I fill with tears and sadness--and living in the here and now. The reality that my future does not include Addison breaks my heart. The reality that I can't picture her as the toddler she should be, because she will forever be trapped as a one-to-seven-day-old infant, is enough to cause me to be institutionalized if I dwelled on it long enough. There is no reason that this terrible thing happened, no silver lining in the cloud of despair, but even so, I am trying to accept her life and death as part of my own life story. She will always have her place in our family and in my life, but it can no longer be center stage.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Giving hope a chance
Chris and I met at the perinatologist's office yesterday. I was terrified; he looked pale and frightened. We compared stories of our drives over--we both felt like we could pass out at any moment. The anxiety level was sky high. It didn't help that the perinatologist's office is INSIDE the hospital where Addison was born.
After a 45-minute wait, it was our turn. I recognized the tech from our appointments when I was pregnant with Addison and we started chatting. She started to remember us as well. The doctor certainly acted as if he knew who we were. He was kind, compassionate, and at the end of the appointment told me to call him anytime. And I believed he meant it.
But what I really want to write about is the total and utter RELIEF that I now feel. What an emotionally exhausting visit! The nuchal translucency result looked good--likely no Down's. Anatomically, the doctor said everything looked normal. The blood results for other issues will be back in a week or so. The subchorionic hemorrhage was obviously still there, big, looming, scary...but he seemed certain it would resolve with time. And he got the money shot. He thinks we're having a boy. We are thrilled. We know that nothing is 100%, nothing is totally certain, I will never feel completely confident that we're brining home a healthy child in March. But I am ready to feel cautiously optimistic. I'm ready to HOPE. And for me, that's a really big deal.
PS: Thank you all for your loving, supportive comments. It really touches me to know that you are there are rooting for me.
After a 45-minute wait, it was our turn. I recognized the tech from our appointments when I was pregnant with Addison and we started chatting. She started to remember us as well. The doctor certainly acted as if he knew who we were. He was kind, compassionate, and at the end of the appointment told me to call him anytime. And I believed he meant it.
But what I really want to write about is the total and utter RELIEF that I now feel. What an emotionally exhausting visit! The nuchal translucency result looked good--likely no Down's. Anatomically, the doctor said everything looked normal. The blood results for other issues will be back in a week or so. The subchorionic hemorrhage was obviously still there, big, looming, scary...but he seemed certain it would resolve with time. And he got the money shot. He thinks we're having a boy. We are thrilled. We know that nothing is 100%, nothing is totally certain, I will never feel completely confident that we're brining home a healthy child in March. But I am ready to feel cautiously optimistic. I'm ready to HOPE. And for me, that's a really big deal.
PS: Thank you all for your loving, supportive comments. It really touches me to know that you are there are rooting for me.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
White Knuckling
I feel like I'm hanging on by a thread. I don't know exactly how far along I am (about 12 1/2 weeks) probably because I'm too scared to get attached to this baby. Frankly, I don't know if it's alive or dead right now. But I'll find out in just about exactly 12 hours. I will see the perinatologist tomorrow. Finally. And then I will see if there is still a heartbeat. I will also see if one of my scariest thoughts has become reality (some terrible genetic fuckup with the baby). VERY secondarily, we may find out if this is a girl or a boy. But, really, I can't even get that far in my head because I don't know if we will even see a live fetus. I have absolutely no instinct about this baby; my instinct has failed me in the past, anyway, so why would I trust anything I feel? I had another pretty decent bleed a few days ago, and I've been spotting very dark blood nearly every day for a week. I just don't feel good about it. I'm nervous. Okay, I'm downright terrified. And so I wait, but not much longer. I hope I can sleep tonight.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Life or Death? Please let it live.
We were at Disney World in Florida for Labor Day weekend. Calvin is 4, and just barely over 40 inches tall, so he was able to ride a lot of the fun rides.
Sunday morning when I wiped there was a tinge of brownish blood. I thought...well, here we go. Either I'm going to lose this baby or not. No more blood the whole day. We enjoyed ourselves at Magic Kingdom and tried not to think about what might happen.
I've actually never had bleeding or spotting during a pregnancy. None with Calvin or Addison; none when I had a missed miscarriage in 2008 at about week 10. They just found there was no heartbeat during a routine check-up. But I know it's not a great sign, even if it's not always prelude to disaster.
Today we were scheduled to fly back home to Georgia at 6:30pm. I woke up around 8am and felt a small gush; I thought maybe I had peed myself. In the bathroom I ended up bleeding quite a bit of red blood. I inspected it and saw a few small clots. It's pretty much the last thing I wanted to see. My intuition failing me, all I could rely on was my instinct to get home so I could get to a hospital. Unfortunately, Labor Day is not the day to get a flight easily changed. So we were stuck.
We decided to go to a hospital to get checked. After nearly 4 hours, we got an answer. It's a subchorionic hemorrhage measuring 4.2 x 3.7 x 2.5cm. The good news is that the baby is alive and measuring right on target - 10 wks 6 days. I was told I could travel home (and we just made it back) but was instructed not to carry anything heavier than my purse. Of course I had been schlepping Calvin around all weekend when he got tired of walking.
The bad news is the unknown. At this point, it can go either way. Either this baby will make it, or it won't. And even within that simplistic-sounding statement, there are so many either/or scenarios. My big fear is the genetic fuckup. Either there will be one or there won't. I'm not "allowed" to talk about fear and anxiety to many people in my real world. They don't want to hear it, and make me feel as if I am creating my own destiny by fearing the worst. If I had that much control over my world, Addison would be alive and healthy and I wouldn't have to be going through another fucking pregnancy right now.
So I'll see my doctor tomorrow. I'll call when his crappy-office-hours office opens at 9am. I literally have 3 days available to take off from work for the rest of the year. I don't even care. Sometimes life takes a priority to work. And this is one of those times.
It's hard to let myself feel all these feelings, so I'm not. Not yet. I fear I will have a literal nervous breakdown if I lose this baby. I just don't want to lose it. I just can't go through it. I don't want to have to explain to Calvin why another baby died, when we just had the guts to tell him there is another baby in my tummy. I don't want to waste more time on pregnancies that don't equal babies. Damnit, I want this baby to live and thrive and grow and be born healthy. Hey, Universe, is that too much to ask for?
Perhaps.
Sunday morning when I wiped there was a tinge of brownish blood. I thought...well, here we go. Either I'm going to lose this baby or not. No more blood the whole day. We enjoyed ourselves at Magic Kingdom and tried not to think about what might happen.
I've actually never had bleeding or spotting during a pregnancy. None with Calvin or Addison; none when I had a missed miscarriage in 2008 at about week 10. They just found there was no heartbeat during a routine check-up. But I know it's not a great sign, even if it's not always prelude to disaster.
Today we were scheduled to fly back home to Georgia at 6:30pm. I woke up around 8am and felt a small gush; I thought maybe I had peed myself. In the bathroom I ended up bleeding quite a bit of red blood. I inspected it and saw a few small clots. It's pretty much the last thing I wanted to see. My intuition failing me, all I could rely on was my instinct to get home so I could get to a hospital. Unfortunately, Labor Day is not the day to get a flight easily changed. So we were stuck.
We decided to go to a hospital to get checked. After nearly 4 hours, we got an answer. It's a subchorionic hemorrhage measuring 4.2 x 3.7 x 2.5cm. The good news is that the baby is alive and measuring right on target - 10 wks 6 days. I was told I could travel home (and we just made it back) but was instructed not to carry anything heavier than my purse. Of course I had been schlepping Calvin around all weekend when he got tired of walking.
The bad news is the unknown. At this point, it can go either way. Either this baby will make it, or it won't. And even within that simplistic-sounding statement, there are so many either/or scenarios. My big fear is the genetic fuckup. Either there will be one or there won't. I'm not "allowed" to talk about fear and anxiety to many people in my real world. They don't want to hear it, and make me feel as if I am creating my own destiny by fearing the worst. If I had that much control over my world, Addison would be alive and healthy and I wouldn't have to be going through another fucking pregnancy right now.
So I'll see my doctor tomorrow. I'll call when his crappy-office-hours office opens at 9am. I literally have 3 days available to take off from work for the rest of the year. I don't even care. Sometimes life takes a priority to work. And this is one of those times.
It's hard to let myself feel all these feelings, so I'm not. Not yet. I fear I will have a literal nervous breakdown if I lose this baby. I just don't want to lose it. I just can't go through it. I don't want to have to explain to Calvin why another baby died, when we just had the guts to tell him there is another baby in my tummy. I don't want to waste more time on pregnancies that don't equal babies. Damnit, I want this baby to live and thrive and grow and be born healthy. Hey, Universe, is that too much to ask for?
Perhaps.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
It Lives
My first OB appointment was a major test of emotional strength...which I failed horribly. But the bottom line is that I'm not as far along as I thought, so that is apparently why my symptoms seemed to disappear last week. It's actually more likely they never fully had developed.
I'm happy to say that I'm good and nauseated now. Sick as ever. Puking my guts up and still wanting to heave again. I never thought I would be happy about that, but I am. As of today I am apparently only 6w4d. We saw an ultrasound of a bean and a pretty steady 119 heartrate on Friday. According to the size of the bean, I apparently ovulated on day 19 of my cycle and had a definitely positive test just 12 days later. That is so incredibly odd, but whatever. I didn't really know it was possible to get a positive reading so early. In fact, I was getting the really faint images of the "line" just 9 days after the alleged conception. My period was due and I thought I was further along than that, otherwise I would have never been testing so early. My cycles are still effed up, but I obviously ovulate (even if on wonky schedules) and I'm still as fertile as ever.
So, I had a breakdown in the exam room (after the first ultrasound with a crappy machine and before being ushered into the Ultrasound Room with the good machine and a tech) and I was just sobbing and telling my husband something to the effect of, "I can't lose this baby; I can't go through this again." It was almost like I was watching myself from a distance in that moment. I want to be positive and say it's all going to be okay. I want to at least give this thing a chance, in my head, to turn out well. I am going to try. I really am.
And my poor new OB. I have been the most low-key, low-maintenance OB patient EVER in the past--even through my missed miscarriage. But now this poor new guy is going to have to endure me in my "new normal" state. But he said all the right things, and took us in his office after the exam, and patiently went over the game plan of how we will attempt to avoid a dead baby this time around. All I can say is, GO TEAM!
I'm happy to say that I'm good and nauseated now. Sick as ever. Puking my guts up and still wanting to heave again. I never thought I would be happy about that, but I am. As of today I am apparently only 6w4d. We saw an ultrasound of a bean and a pretty steady 119 heartrate on Friday. According to the size of the bean, I apparently ovulated on day 19 of my cycle and had a definitely positive test just 12 days later. That is so incredibly odd, but whatever. I didn't really know it was possible to get a positive reading so early. In fact, I was getting the really faint images of the "line" just 9 days after the alleged conception. My period was due and I thought I was further along than that, otherwise I would have never been testing so early. My cycles are still effed up, but I obviously ovulate (even if on wonky schedules) and I'm still as fertile as ever.
So, I had a breakdown in the exam room (after the first ultrasound with a crappy machine and before being ushered into the Ultrasound Room with the good machine and a tech) and I was just sobbing and telling my husband something to the effect of, "I can't lose this baby; I can't go through this again." It was almost like I was watching myself from a distance in that moment. I want to be positive and say it's all going to be okay. I want to at least give this thing a chance, in my head, to turn out well. I am going to try. I really am.
And my poor new OB. I have been the most low-key, low-maintenance OB patient EVER in the past--even through my missed miscarriage. But now this poor new guy is going to have to endure me in my "new normal" state. But he said all the right things, and took us in his office after the exam, and patiently went over the game plan of how we will attempt to avoid a dead baby this time around. All I can say is, GO TEAM!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Trusting Myself
I'm fighting the paranoia. I'm approaching 7 weeks pregnant (maybe) and yesterday I had a definite "it's dead" day. I don't see the doctor until Friday, so I have no choice but to wait it out until we can see if there is a living baby in there. And, of course, I'm not so naive to think that seeing a heartbeat this early will equal a living baby in 30-something weeks.
I had a 10-week missed miscarriage before I got pregnant with Addison. From the beginning of that pregnancy I felt that something was wrong. I said out loud, on multiple occasions, "either this is the best pregnancy ever, or I'm going to lose this baby." I had seen and heard the heartbeat at 6 weeks; who knew it was going to disappear over the next month. Well, I kinda did.
And then with Addison, I had a feeling like everything would be okay. As sure as I was that the one before was going to fail, I knew that pregnancy would last. And I was right--for the most part. I mean, she died, of course, but not until much much later.
And now here I am. And I don't know what to think. Because I can't trust myself. I can't trust my intuition. I can't trust my body. I can't trust the natural process of a baby growing and thriving and being born. Part of me says, this is a boy. I can feel it. The other part of me says, this baby will never even live long enough to become a baby. (It would help if I would just puke already!!) And so I wait.
Poor Chris is more paranoid than I am because I'm giving all sorts of crazy signals because I'm so confused. I think he's already emotionally preparing for going in on Friday, finding no heartbeat, and scheduling the D&C. It's not like we haven't been down that road before.
I'm glad I have a very busy job because the days go by quickly and my mind is occupied the whole day. It keeps me from grabbing my boobs constantly to assess tenderness levels, or attempting to determine whether I have any smell aversions developing.
Anyway, blah blah blah. I bore myself to tears. I hate worrying, even though it was in my nature even before losing Addison. And now that trait is set in stone.
I had a 10-week missed miscarriage before I got pregnant with Addison. From the beginning of that pregnancy I felt that something was wrong. I said out loud, on multiple occasions, "either this is the best pregnancy ever, or I'm going to lose this baby." I had seen and heard the heartbeat at 6 weeks; who knew it was going to disappear over the next month. Well, I kinda did.
And then with Addison, I had a feeling like everything would be okay. As sure as I was that the one before was going to fail, I knew that pregnancy would last. And I was right--for the most part. I mean, she died, of course, but not until much much later.
And now here I am. And I don't know what to think. Because I can't trust myself. I can't trust my intuition. I can't trust my body. I can't trust the natural process of a baby growing and thriving and being born. Part of me says, this is a boy. I can feel it. The other part of me says, this baby will never even live long enough to become a baby. (It would help if I would just puke already!!) And so I wait.
Poor Chris is more paranoid than I am because I'm giving all sorts of crazy signals because I'm so confused. I think he's already emotionally preparing for going in on Friday, finding no heartbeat, and scheduling the D&C. It's not like we haven't been down that road before.
I'm glad I have a very busy job because the days go by quickly and my mind is occupied the whole day. It keeps me from grabbing my boobs constantly to assess tenderness levels, or attempting to determine whether I have any smell aversions developing.
Anyway, blah blah blah. I bore myself to tears. I hate worrying, even though it was in my nature even before losing Addison. And now that trait is set in stone.
Monday, July 19, 2010
For one night only
After I gave Calvin a kiss goodbye this morning, he said, "Mommy, when you have a baby in your tummy I will kiss your tummy and the baby will like it." I told him there was no baby in there, but I would let him know if there ever was. Then he said, "But everyone has two babies." I guess he meant two LIVING babies.
I related this story to my co-worker this morning and then commented with a sigh, "I wish he knew something I don't know."
Ovulation testers were a total bust this past month, but I'm still 3 days late for my period. We did manage to have sex on day 16 and day 20 of my cycle. I never saw a clear "ovulation" reading on the damn sticks, although the closest I came to seeing the pink line darker than the control line was day 20. Day 16 was just for fun. I complained to my mom's voicemail this weekend about my frustration with my cycle, where's my period, am I ever going to have normal cycles again...and she responded with a voicemail wherein she actually said the words: "just throw out the ovulation sticks, relax, make love every other day, and it will happen." Seriously?
I thought she knew better than to say crap like that--at least to me.
Well, turns out my whining was for nothing, because 5 pregnancy tests (3 brands) later, I finally got a reading I could trust 100%. Thank goodness for digital pregnancy tests. Yeah, I have a college degree but can't tell if it's a "real line" or an "evaporation line." I guess I've become one of those "4 out of 5 women" they talk about in the commercial who can't accurately read a pregnancy test. Doh!
So, for this one night only, I am going to bask in the glow of happy that I feel. Tonight I will not stress about possibly losing this pregnancy or finding out some terrible news about the fetus down the road. I will not worry about brain damage or cord accidents or SIDS or genetic fuck-ups. I will let go of fear and anxiety for this one moment and just be...well...happy.
I related this story to my co-worker this morning and then commented with a sigh, "I wish he knew something I don't know."
Ovulation testers were a total bust this past month, but I'm still 3 days late for my period. We did manage to have sex on day 16 and day 20 of my cycle. I never saw a clear "ovulation" reading on the damn sticks, although the closest I came to seeing the pink line darker than the control line was day 20. Day 16 was just for fun. I complained to my mom's voicemail this weekend about my frustration with my cycle, where's my period, am I ever going to have normal cycles again...and she responded with a voicemail wherein she actually said the words: "just throw out the ovulation sticks, relax, make love every other day, and it will happen." Seriously?
I thought she knew better than to say crap like that--at least to me.
Well, turns out my whining was for nothing, because 5 pregnancy tests (3 brands) later, I finally got a reading I could trust 100%. Thank goodness for digital pregnancy tests. Yeah, I have a college degree but can't tell if it's a "real line" or an "evaporation line." I guess I've become one of those "4 out of 5 women" they talk about in the commercial who can't accurately read a pregnancy test. Doh!
So, for this one night only, I am going to bask in the glow of happy that I feel. Tonight I will not stress about possibly losing this pregnancy or finding out some terrible news about the fetus down the road. I will not worry about brain damage or cord accidents or SIDS or genetic fuck-ups. I will let go of fear and anxiety for this one moment and just be...well...happy.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fear with a capital F
I was in the shower this morning when it hit me. The memory of holding Addison for the last time. Of course, I didn't know it would be the last time. And even in that moment, Chris and my mom and my sister Sarah and I all discussed how good she looked--that she would seemingly hold on forever and make this even more difficult for us all. It seemed at that time the state of limbo we were in--with her being alive but not really, just waiting patiently in the hospice for death to come--was the worst it could possibly be. That once she died, we could get about the business of mourning and get past this terrible thing. For the longest time, I had this idea in my head that I couldn't shake--the idea that I could have "closure." I'm realizing there is no such thing. People talk about starting new chapters in their lives, moving on, looking ahead. It's an illusion. It doesn't really happen like that. This so-called closure is actually a slow, painful drift through time, punctuated by strong floods of shit that knock you off the lifeboat you were barely clinging to in the first place. At least, that's how it's feeling for me these days. One of those shitstorms hit me this morning in the shower. I had that guilty, horrible feeling again because I actually WANTED Addison to die once I learned of her condition and prognosis. To then have her around one day--one minute--one second longer--just seemed to cut the wound deeper. During the visits I had with her those days that she was "alive" I held her, rocked her, breathed her in, memorized her, and told her to let go because there was nothing to fight for. A brain dead baby born in a coma has nothing to live for. No hope. No future. So we pumped her full of morphine and hoped that she would somehow forget to breathe. Quickly. I thought during those days how pathetic it is that we don't allow for euthenasia in this country. We can put down a dog who is suffering, but not a human. For Addison, it would have been the most ethical, loving and kind thing to just end it for her. I felt that way then; I feel that way now; and I will live with the guilt forever for having these feelings. I can justify them in my head, but to be a mom with those feelings toward her own daughter...well, that is unforgiveable. The week she lived was hell, and my life has become hellish ever since. Perhaps I will choose to punish myself forever for hoping, during those horrible days, that she would just die already.
I know, now, that I can never replace Addison. I would never even want to try. I think in those first weeks and months after she died I subconsciously thought I could replace her in a way. Like, if I just got pregnant and had another baby, it would create a wrinkle in time that would undo Addison altogether. With 8 months of grief under my belt, I'm now fully aware of the emotional trials and tribulations I will likely endure during a future pregnancy. I follow enough blogs to know there is no such thing as a "happy ending" after losing a child. I turned 36 a few days ago. I thought I would be done having babies. And yet, our family seems incomplete without 2 living children. I realize that the overwhelming emotion I have surrounding a potential future pregnancy is fear. That's not even a strong enough word to accurately describe how scared I am--about everything pregnancy related. I know too much. The door has been opened and I have entered, against my will, a world that I never even wanted to know really existed.
And yet, I've begun peeing on sticks for the first time in my life. I've been pregnant 3 times. I have timed sex 0 of those times. I've certainly never peed on a stick to figure out likely ovulation. But I'm getting older, and the fear that I won't be able to get pregnant "by chance" is one of my oh-so-many fears:
I'm afraid I won't be able to get pregnant.
I'm afraid to have a daughter to show me what Addison could have been.
I'm afraid to have a son, which would mean never raising a daughter.
I'm afraid the pregnancy will end early.
I'm afraid to have a c-section too early.
I'm afrait to wait too long and having the baby die before birth.
I'm afraid the baby will have a chromosomal disorder due to my age.
I'm afraid I will have to make a real choice about the future of my unborn baby.
I'm afraid the baby will be born with severe problems.
I'm afraid the baby will die of SIDS.
I'm afraid I will lose everything I currently have and everything I don't even have yet. I'm just plan afraid.
Forget grief and rage and guilt (the standards I've been feeling). Overwhelming fear is the current overriding emotion right now. And even with fear in my soul, I have to do it. I don't want to wait. Even without trying to get pregnant, I'm scared. So I guess I'm not choosing to face the fear; I'm choosing to continue down my path in spite of it. And what if....everything worked out. What if I got the line on the stick and conceived and got the line on the "other" stick weeks down the road and the baby lived and thrived in my womb and it was born healthy and lived to be able to tell me "I love you." What if. I will still mourn our loss of Addison. And I know our family will never be complete without her. But such is life. I have no other choice but to continue living in spite of the pain and fear. I guess I'll just shoot good thoughts out into the universe. Universe, would you please cut me some slack?
I know, now, that I can never replace Addison. I would never even want to try. I think in those first weeks and months after she died I subconsciously thought I could replace her in a way. Like, if I just got pregnant and had another baby, it would create a wrinkle in time that would undo Addison altogether. With 8 months of grief under my belt, I'm now fully aware of the emotional trials and tribulations I will likely endure during a future pregnancy. I follow enough blogs to know there is no such thing as a "happy ending" after losing a child. I turned 36 a few days ago. I thought I would be done having babies. And yet, our family seems incomplete without 2 living children. I realize that the overwhelming emotion I have surrounding a potential future pregnancy is fear. That's not even a strong enough word to accurately describe how scared I am--about everything pregnancy related. I know too much. The door has been opened and I have entered, against my will, a world that I never even wanted to know really existed.
And yet, I've begun peeing on sticks for the first time in my life. I've been pregnant 3 times. I have timed sex 0 of those times. I've certainly never peed on a stick to figure out likely ovulation. But I'm getting older, and the fear that I won't be able to get pregnant "by chance" is one of my oh-so-many fears:
I'm afraid I won't be able to get pregnant.
I'm afraid to have a daughter to show me what Addison could have been.
I'm afraid to have a son, which would mean never raising a daughter.
I'm afraid the pregnancy will end early.
I'm afraid to have a c-section too early.
I'm afrait to wait too long and having the baby die before birth.
I'm afraid the baby will have a chromosomal disorder due to my age.
I'm afraid I will have to make a real choice about the future of my unborn baby.
I'm afraid the baby will be born with severe problems.
I'm afraid the baby will die of SIDS.
I'm afraid I will lose everything I currently have and everything I don't even have yet. I'm just plan afraid.
Forget grief and rage and guilt (the standards I've been feeling). Overwhelming fear is the current overriding emotion right now. And even with fear in my soul, I have to do it. I don't want to wait. Even without trying to get pregnant, I'm scared. So I guess I'm not choosing to face the fear; I'm choosing to continue down my path in spite of it. And what if....everything worked out. What if I got the line on the stick and conceived and got the line on the "other" stick weeks down the road and the baby lived and thrived in my womb and it was born healthy and lived to be able to tell me "I love you." What if. I will still mourn our loss of Addison. And I know our family will never be complete without her. But such is life. I have no other choice but to continue living in spite of the pain and fear. I guess I'll just shoot good thoughts out into the universe. Universe, would you please cut me some slack?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
6 months
You would be 6 months old today. I still feel empty and broken and alone here without you. True, I am surrounded by people--by your dad and brother especially--but I turn inward. Time stands still now that you're gone. I have no desire to diet, to exercise, to shed the rest of the mid-section goo that was supposed to be naturally depleted by "the breastfeeding diet." Perhaps I want to look as shitty on the outside as I feel on the inside. But I think that's over-thinking it. I think I just feel awful and dead and don't give a shit about much at all. And my appearance falls squarely within the category of Who Cares. I don't look forward to seeing new sights or doing new things or going new places. Addison, I think of what you would look like--who you would be becoming now--with all your crawling and babbling and new rice cereal eating. I wonder if you'd have a mouthful of teeth like Calvin did at this age, and if your hair would be thin and fair--curly or straight. I can hardly take the teeter-totter of emotions I feel between trajedy and apathy; it's not a broad range of emotions, for sure, but the only ones I feel. The huge sense of loss that words cannot adequately describe versus the total apathy for what life has to offer. I teeter one way, then I teeter the other. Usually I force apathy because feeling anything is just too much. Out there in the world, I don't think they really know what's going on within me. It's all I can do sometimes to not shut down completely. The rest of our family needs me, after all; I probably need them, too. All I know is that without you here, having them here is the only thing that keeps me going day after day after empty day. I really thought 6 months would feel differently than it does. I thought it would feel less...horrible, I guess. But there is one thing I know for sure: I miss you and love you and wish you were here where you belong.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Mommy....
...baby Addison's belly button was like a raisin.
...baby Addison flew away like a butterfly.
...I wish baby Addison could sit in the backseat with me.
...that is daddy and you and baby Addison (looking at her urn).
Yes, Calvin. Her belly button was like a raisin. Maybe she did fly away like a butterfly. I wish she could sit back there with you, too, sweetie. Yes, that is daddy and me and baby Addison. But I'm glad I have you.
I just miss her. And he would have been the best big brother ever.
...baby Addison flew away like a butterfly.
...I wish baby Addison could sit in the backseat with me.
...that is daddy and you and baby Addison (looking at her urn).
Yes, Calvin. Her belly button was like a raisin. Maybe she did fly away like a butterfly. I wish she could sit back there with you, too, sweetie. Yes, that is daddy and me and baby Addison. But I'm glad I have you.
I just miss her. And he would have been the best big brother ever.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Dreams
I've always been a big dreamer--the night kind, that is. My whole life I have had vivid, disturbing dreams that I remember on a consistent basis. In my most recent disturbing dream from this week, the final scene was me finding my 3 1/2-year-old son's body in a clear plastic body bag in a park, along with a man's drivers license. I did not recognize the man, but the ID apparently belonged to the person who did terrrible things to my child, the climax of which was taking his life. And in my dream I actually uttered the words, "well, it could be worse." When I woke up, in that hazy-dazy in-between asleep and awake, I remembered those words and knew that they meant it would be worse to NOT know what happened to him and/or who was responsible. Like if he just disappeared one day into thin air; became a missing child. Seriously, what kind of sick mind creates images like that and scenarios like that and justifications like that? It's time to turn off Nancy Grace.
I obviously have a major fear of losing my only living child. I've always been kind of protective, but it's natural and easy to be protective of such a young kid. I'm wondering how I'll do as he gets older. I don't want to be one of those crazy controlling parents, and I know I can't protect him forever from every bad thing in the world, but I would like to think I can. All I can do is keep my eyes open, be vigilant, aware, teach him to do the same (without creating fear in him), and hope for the best. I really hope he lives a long, healthy, happy life. Isn't that what I hoped for Addison, too?
I had a very long dream the night before Easter. The short version is that I was given a bird to care for while the owner (a woman who was kind of like my sister-in-law, kind of like my aunt--I don't know who she was supposed to be) was away. At times the bird was small and hung out in the hoodie of a sweatshirt I was wearing. At times it became bigger, baby-sized, and I held it as such. And long story short, a sapling appeared on a branch through the window, and it hopped onto the branch. I tried to grab the bird, small as it was in this scene, but it bit me. And then it flew away. And I was forced to tell the unknown woman/owner what had happened. That I lost her bird. And there was another side-story about me throwing away some kind of plaque she had that recognized the adoption of this bird. Or something like that. Well, once the bird flew away, somehow I felt it was reasonable to discard the plaque. I donated it to Goodwill, actually. And then I realized my mistake and went to retrieve it, but the owner realized how important it was to me and used this as a bargaining chip. He demanded a huge sum of money in exchange for it. The whole thing was very convoluted, and there is so much more to the story. In the morning I related part of the dream to my husband, who said, "wow, your brain is trying to work through some issues." But I don't know how my brain thinks these kinds of dreams are helpful for the lucid, awake me. Even if, on a subconscious level, they're helpful and I'm processing my issues, remembering them once I'm awake leaves me feeling sad and disturbed and helpless.
Many days I feel like I'm getting worse--not better. Time is supposed to make this pain more bearable, right? I'm supposed to eventually come to terms with this unbelieveable thing that is now part of my personal history. I'm supposed to take this most wretched thing and twist it into something I'm grateful I was able to endure, and find the good in it. Right? I'm so NOT even close to any of that shit. My therapist tells me that wallowing in the pain of my loss for a bit is fine, but marinating is not helpful. My question is: what about drowning?
I obviously have a major fear of losing my only living child. I've always been kind of protective, but it's natural and easy to be protective of such a young kid. I'm wondering how I'll do as he gets older. I don't want to be one of those crazy controlling parents, and I know I can't protect him forever from every bad thing in the world, but I would like to think I can. All I can do is keep my eyes open, be vigilant, aware, teach him to do the same (without creating fear in him), and hope for the best. I really hope he lives a long, healthy, happy life. Isn't that what I hoped for Addison, too?
I had a very long dream the night before Easter. The short version is that I was given a bird to care for while the owner (a woman who was kind of like my sister-in-law, kind of like my aunt--I don't know who she was supposed to be) was away. At times the bird was small and hung out in the hoodie of a sweatshirt I was wearing. At times it became bigger, baby-sized, and I held it as such. And long story short, a sapling appeared on a branch through the window, and it hopped onto the branch. I tried to grab the bird, small as it was in this scene, but it bit me. And then it flew away. And I was forced to tell the unknown woman/owner what had happened. That I lost her bird. And there was another side-story about me throwing away some kind of plaque she had that recognized the adoption of this bird. Or something like that. Well, once the bird flew away, somehow I felt it was reasonable to discard the plaque. I donated it to Goodwill, actually. And then I realized my mistake and went to retrieve it, but the owner realized how important it was to me and used this as a bargaining chip. He demanded a huge sum of money in exchange for it. The whole thing was very convoluted, and there is so much more to the story. In the morning I related part of the dream to my husband, who said, "wow, your brain is trying to work through some issues." But I don't know how my brain thinks these kinds of dreams are helpful for the lucid, awake me. Even if, on a subconscious level, they're helpful and I'm processing my issues, remembering them once I'm awake leaves me feeling sad and disturbed and helpless.
Many days I feel like I'm getting worse--not better. Time is supposed to make this pain more bearable, right? I'm supposed to eventually come to terms with this unbelieveable thing that is now part of my personal history. I'm supposed to take this most wretched thing and twist it into something I'm grateful I was able to endure, and find the good in it. Right? I'm so NOT even close to any of that shit. My therapist tells me that wallowing in the pain of my loss for a bit is fine, but marinating is not helpful. My question is: what about drowning?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
To my knees
I remember now why I avoid looking at the pictures of Addison. Watching the naive happiness on our faces in that first day contort into total numb the next. And then watching Addison's skin color and whole face change during that week of her life. The week that WAS her life. As we starved her to death. Hoping for her death not only for her, but for us. Being in a position that absolutely no parent should ever have to be in. The pictures that document her transformation from a beautiful perfect newborn baby, to a statue, to the dust that is now literally in a statue on our mantle. It sickens me. It breaks me down and brings me to my knees.
Where is my fucking period?
I'm just so confused right now. I had Addison, full-term, 10/28/09. I got my first period exactly 11 weeks later on 1/13/10. My second period came on 2/13, making that a 31-day cycle. I have yet to see a period since 2/13/10. Even if I got my period tomorrow, that would make this a 34-day cycle. Right? I just don't know. It's not that I need to be pregnant right now--we only lost Addison a mere 15 weeks ago (but who's counting, right?). It's just that I would like to understand what the fuck my body is doing so I can hope to get pregnant in the nearish future. Then again, I think I got pregnant with Calvin during a cycle where I didn't have a period. My body is lame. And I know I'm not pregnant right now because I got negative tests on 3/9 and 3/15. It's just strange because I could have sworn I was going to start my period last week. And that feeling lasted for a few days and then faded. And now I feel like it's never going to come again. And I'll never get a chance to get pregnant again. Because....well....let's get real. Not much sex is happening over here in this house these days. Yes, there have been a few times in the past month (once on day 15 of my last cycle, which is the day in the cycle I got pregnant with Addison). But obviously that one didn't take, which is no surprise. It's not like I tried that hard, considering we only did it once. On one day that may or may have been a day kinda near ovulation. I've never used an ovulation kit or a thermometer in my life. I wouldn't know where to start. And I think the anxiety that would cause would be too much. And that is a can of worms I am not ready to open.
Okay, I've officially entered The Rambling Zone.
I started back to work 3/1. Went to visit my fam back in California 3/6-3/16. And I've not been able to see my therapist. Three weeks is just too long to go when it's only been 15 since losing one of the 2 most precious things I've ever had. I'm so glad I have an appointment on Friday.
Okay, I've officially entered The Rambling Zone.
I started back to work 3/1. Went to visit my fam back in California 3/6-3/16. And I've not been able to see my therapist. Three weeks is just too long to go when it's only been 15 since losing one of the 2 most precious things I've ever had. I'm so glad I have an appointment on Friday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
