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!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?