11-2-09
I haul my tired-from-work ass in through the back door and plop my bags onto the floor with a groan.
“Hey hon,” I say to Mr. Crud.
“Oh hey,” he says, rounding the corner from our currently under renovation bathroom. “Darrell and I were just talking pregnancy loss.” Darrell is the tile guy. He is turning our shabby budget bathroom into a sparkling newly tiled budget bathroom.
“Uh okay.” I beeline for the bedroom to shrug off maternity outfit #3—only so much you can do with a few pairs of cords, jeans, and variations on the black shirt—and slip into something more comfortable. Sweatpants.
Hm. Pregnancy loss. That’s an odd thing for two relative strangers to be talking about, especially dudes. I switch into make dinner mode and reemerge, freshly sweatpanted and starving.
Later that night Mr. Crud and I are hunched over our empty dinner plates.
“Good dinner, hon,” he says.
“Thanks.” I carry my plate to the sink. “So, pregnancy loss. How did that come up?”
“Darrell was asking me about your due date and I asked him if he and his wife had any kids. He said they had a loss last year. Then I told him about us.”
“Wow. That’s cool that he told you, that you guys could talk about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”
I feel heavy in my gut. My eyes start to tear. “I’m so sorry they had to go through that.”
“I know. We talked about all the messed up things people say like ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ and all that crap. Does that make anyone feel better?”
I’m already on record with my feelings on meant to be. I am surprised by the depth of the sadness I feel for these virtual strangers. Darrell seems like such a sweet guy. He sings along with the radio as he tiles, he throws a smile when we pass in the kitchen, and comes over on Saturday to make sure that our tiles are drying correctly. But it isn’t his nice guy-ness that has me sniffly. It’s the miscarriage and knowing that everywhere, all around us, people are experiencing losses. My instant kinship with the recent experiencers of pregnancy loss is slipping away. My status as pregnant woman—27 weeks, bitches!—has taken over. The miscarriages feel far away and dreamlike. Did 2008, the year of the miscarriage, really happen? The miscarriages aren’t that far gone. If I want to torture myself I can easily conjure up images and the emotional reality of those days, but that card has been shuffled to the back of the deck for the time being. I am using all my emotional and creative resources to keep myself from traveling that fearful path over and over. At times, I feel like I’m losing myself to this one singular goal—have baby without going crazy—but it works. At least for now.
I wonder if Darrell feels a tug of sadness, of longing when he catches a sideways glimpse of me and sees my growing—still Bactrian, g-ddamnit—bump(s).
The next time I see him I want to inappropriately pep talk him. Try again! You all can do it! We made it and so can you!! I keep my pep talk to myself, knowing that there is all too much that I don’t know. Maybe they had tests. Maybe they can’t do it or maybe they are just waiting to get up the nerve again. They are a good 10 years younger than Mr. Crud and me thus have the luxury of a longer period of wound-licking.
But then again, maybe he’ll take our story back to his wife and they’ll find the nerve to try again. (I know how egotistical this sounds. Can you hear the music swelling in the background as I paint myself an inspirational figure?) I had such role models on my road back to pregnancy world.
Showing posts with label miscarriage 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label miscarriage 1. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
My Darling Nausea
7-24-09
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
I awake to my alarm. 4:54 again. I push myself out of bed and it slaps me in the face: I only peed twice in the middle of the night last night. Panic. Are my symptoms subsiding? I haven’t been feeling as nauseous as I was either. As soon as I get to work I look up my latest pregnancy newsletter. Yes, phew, it says that symptoms can start diminishing as early as the 11th week. I’m well into week 12 so I can relax, right? I get an email from Ruby. She had a similar experience. Are we the only two women in the world praying for constant, nagging nausea?
Weird how I cling to symptoms like they are the baby itself. When else do nausea, frequent urination, and fatigue indicate that things are going well? Aside from a few pee sticks, journal entries, and medical bills, my symptoms (and now their memory) are all I have left from my first two pregnancies. Nausea and running to the bathroom are pregnancy to me. Until I get the belly, something to see and hold on to, I have nausea, dear nausea.
People told: My interim boss for the month of August. She is excited, kind, and low-key about the whole thing. Perfetto.
New Favorite Euphemism for Baby/Fetus/Purvis: Houseguest (courtesy of Trista)
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Scared Day II
6-24-09
I’m coming to a sort of peace with this whole situation. Somehow I fell asleep last night and had dreams of serial killers—who first looked like Jon Hamm (sexy!) and then like John Goodman (not so sexy)—stalking me until it was an either you kill me or I kill you situation. So I killed the John Goodman incarnation in the middle of SE 39th Avenue in the pouring rain. Perhaps this blew off some of the gathering steam of my panicked afternoon and evening.
Today the panic has subsided and been replaced by a general gloom. I’ve had a miscarriage. The symptoms still haven’t returned to their pre-Tuesday levels. The sooner I accept the hard, sad truth and take up my mantle as habitual aborter (the medical term for ladies who miscarry 3 or more times in a row), the better. It’s only a matter of time before the next ultrasound of doom, the next D & C, the next round of extreme alienation and teary nights in front of the TV in search of sitcom salvation. I see it in the future so clearly. So clearly that I’ll be flummoxed if next week’s planned ultrasound is anything but negative.
At Mr. Crud’s urging I call Dr. Awesome this morning. I break into sobs almost as soon as the words, “my symptoms have decreased” leave my mouth. My planned speech, constructed between sun salutations during the morning’s yoga practice, falls apart as I sniffle and slobber and attempt to calmly answer her questions about breast tenderness and nausea.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. This doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a miscarriage. Sometimes symptoms come and go. Every pregnancy is different.” She says all the reassurances I’ve found on websites, but I feel 75% more comforted. “Nothing in your records indicates that you’ll have another miscarriage,” she says. Well, except the 2 previous miscarriages.
My options are to wait and see, to come in next Wednesday for the ultrasound as planned or to come in and take some blood tests over the next few days to monitor my hormone levels and see if they are rising or dropping. Dr. Awesome recommends waiting and seeing. An ultrasound in the clinic today wouldn’t be high resolution enough to tell much. I gather myself together and agree to wait. I don’t relish the idea of coming in for blood tests over the next few days only to have to return the following week. I can stay in this place of worst-case scenarios for a few days more.
I hang up and realize that I do feel better. I don’t really believe that nothing is wrong, but I at least feel like I’ve done something. Mr. Crud calls.
“I talked to the doctor.”
“Thank you,” he says.
I pass along her reassurances. “She says that this is all totally normal. The symptoms and how we’re reacting.”
“Oh.” Mr. Crud sounds like he’s in a tunnel or talking through a cup at the end of a string.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I just want to cry.” He says. I feel bad for dragging him along on this rollercoaster even though I know he wants to support me.
“You can cry,” I say. “You’re doing a great job.”
He is. Last night I told him that no matter what happens I still feel incredibly lucky because of him, which is no lie.
We make plans for an afternoon walk. I try not to think too much about my possible refreshed entry into Miscarriage World. I try not to think of all the people who had 2 miscarriages before having a successful pregnancy. How I want to be one of them so bad. How I do not want to join the 1% of couples who have 3 in a row. It’s going to be a long week.
I’m coming to a sort of peace with this whole situation. Somehow I fell asleep last night and had dreams of serial killers—who first looked like Jon Hamm (sexy!) and then like John Goodman (not so sexy)—stalking me until it was an either you kill me or I kill you situation. So I killed the John Goodman incarnation in the middle of SE 39th Avenue in the pouring rain. Perhaps this blew off some of the gathering steam of my panicked afternoon and evening.
Today the panic has subsided and been replaced by a general gloom. I’ve had a miscarriage. The symptoms still haven’t returned to their pre-Tuesday levels. The sooner I accept the hard, sad truth and take up my mantle as habitual aborter (the medical term for ladies who miscarry 3 or more times in a row), the better. It’s only a matter of time before the next ultrasound of doom, the next D & C, the next round of extreme alienation and teary nights in front of the TV in search of sitcom salvation. I see it in the future so clearly. So clearly that I’ll be flummoxed if next week’s planned ultrasound is anything but negative.
At Mr. Crud’s urging I call Dr. Awesome this morning. I break into sobs almost as soon as the words, “my symptoms have decreased” leave my mouth. My planned speech, constructed between sun salutations during the morning’s yoga practice, falls apart as I sniffle and slobber and attempt to calmly answer her questions about breast tenderness and nausea.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. This doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a miscarriage. Sometimes symptoms come and go. Every pregnancy is different.” She says all the reassurances I’ve found on websites, but I feel 75% more comforted. “Nothing in your records indicates that you’ll have another miscarriage,” she says. Well, except the 2 previous miscarriages.
My options are to wait and see, to come in next Wednesday for the ultrasound as planned or to come in and take some blood tests over the next few days to monitor my hormone levels and see if they are rising or dropping. Dr. Awesome recommends waiting and seeing. An ultrasound in the clinic today wouldn’t be high resolution enough to tell much. I gather myself together and agree to wait. I don’t relish the idea of coming in for blood tests over the next few days only to have to return the following week. I can stay in this place of worst-case scenarios for a few days more.
I hang up and realize that I do feel better. I don’t really believe that nothing is wrong, but I at least feel like I’ve done something. Mr. Crud calls.
“I talked to the doctor.”
“Thank you,” he says.
I pass along her reassurances. “She says that this is all totally normal. The symptoms and how we’re reacting.”
“Oh.” Mr. Crud sounds like he’s in a tunnel or talking through a cup at the end of a string.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I just want to cry.” He says. I feel bad for dragging him along on this rollercoaster even though I know he wants to support me.
“You can cry,” I say. “You’re doing a great job.”
He is. Last night I told him that no matter what happens I still feel incredibly lucky because of him, which is no lie.
We make plans for an afternoon walk. I try not to think too much about my possible refreshed entry into Miscarriage World. I try not to think of all the people who had 2 miscarriages before having a successful pregnancy. How I want to be one of them so bad. How I do not want to join the 1% of couples who have 3 in a row. It’s going to be a long week.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Fool Me Once
6-12-09
"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
--Former (Thank f-ing G-d) President George W. Bush
When I think back on my first pregnancy, I tend to shudder at my optimism, my total trust in my body and the universe to do its thing and give me a healthy baby. I was such a fool. I can’t even read the first 70 or so pages of the Peabody Project Chronicles, a.k.a. the happy pre-miscarriage times, lest I start feeling a deep sadness at my blissful ignorance.
“G-d, I was so stupid,” I said at the time.
I felt so duped by my own belief that everything would turn out just fine for us, that my biggest worry was whether Peabody and I would share a birthday and if I would be in any shape to have some delicious cocktails by the time Thanksgiving rolled around. Who exactly was I?
This morning while in savasana I have the slightest inkling that every little thing is going to be alright. I even dare mentally talk to my embryo. “Hey in there. How’s it going? Are you making yourself comfortable?” I feel myself drifting off into doubt? Should I be doing this? Will talking to this embryo--who I’ve taken to calling Purvis for reasons I don’t fully understand—-make losing it all the more painful should such a thing come to pass? I remember an Ana Forrest answer in one of the Yoga Journal newsletters that fill my inbox to a query about teaching pregnant women. She urged teachers to encourage their pregnant students to relax and connect with the life growing inside of them. After MC #1, I thought of her answer and scoffed: What a load of naive bullshit.
Now I question why being cautious, bordering on worst-case scenario is somehow the wiser of the choices. If Purvis does grow into the adorable tow-headed lass or lad that appears in the hopeful visions in my head, I will have wasted so much time worrying about his or her possible demise. Not that I won’t allow myself the space to be afraid, to have those scary thoughts of the ultrasound room of doom because I know full well that denying them will only cause them to redouble their efforts. But can’t I just operate on the statistically supported assumption that all is well down below?
In savasana I take a deep breath and sigh to get out all the accumulated questions. (Yes, know, savasana is not supposed to be a time to work out all of life’s problems, but rather to just lie there and be. Totally working on it.) “Hey there Purvis. It’s me, the mom. Just wanted you to know that we’re pulling for you. Keep dividing those cells right, okay?”
In a way it’s like a parenting lesson that I’ll have to learn again when my theoretical child reaches teenage-hood and rolls eyes at the sight of me. I have no control—aside from not smoking, drinking, or eating delicious sushi—now as I will have very little then. I’m also reminded of something that my brother said after his daughter, Lyla, was born. “Getting them born safely is just the beginning.”
So it is. And so I go. Optimistic and wise, at least for today.
Symptoms: Oh dear lord, my boobs hurt. I must shield them in the shower lest the droplets of water send me into spasms of pain.
Nausea, oh nausea, rock on.
Aversions-r-us. Pizza and strawberries are the only foods that work for me. Not even sushi. Or French fries. Mr. Crud says, “Who are you?”
People told: My sweet pal, Nao.
Old high school acquaintance turning friend whose had her own tangles with child-bearing demons.
"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
--Former (Thank f-ing G-d) President George W. Bush
When I think back on my first pregnancy, I tend to shudder at my optimism, my total trust in my body and the universe to do its thing and give me a healthy baby. I was such a fool. I can’t even read the first 70 or so pages of the Peabody Project Chronicles, a.k.a. the happy pre-miscarriage times, lest I start feeling a deep sadness at my blissful ignorance.
“G-d, I was so stupid,” I said at the time.
I felt so duped by my own belief that everything would turn out just fine for us, that my biggest worry was whether Peabody and I would share a birthday and if I would be in any shape to have some delicious cocktails by the time Thanksgiving rolled around. Who exactly was I?
This morning while in savasana I have the slightest inkling that every little thing is going to be alright. I even dare mentally talk to my embryo. “Hey in there. How’s it going? Are you making yourself comfortable?” I feel myself drifting off into doubt? Should I be doing this? Will talking to this embryo--who I’ve taken to calling Purvis for reasons I don’t fully understand—-make losing it all the more painful should such a thing come to pass? I remember an Ana Forrest answer in one of the Yoga Journal newsletters that fill my inbox to a query about teaching pregnant women. She urged teachers to encourage their pregnant students to relax and connect with the life growing inside of them. After MC #1, I thought of her answer and scoffed: What a load of naive bullshit.
Now I question why being cautious, bordering on worst-case scenario is somehow the wiser of the choices. If Purvis does grow into the adorable tow-headed lass or lad that appears in the hopeful visions in my head, I will have wasted so much time worrying about his or her possible demise. Not that I won’t allow myself the space to be afraid, to have those scary thoughts of the ultrasound room of doom because I know full well that denying them will only cause them to redouble their efforts. But can’t I just operate on the statistically supported assumption that all is well down below?
In savasana I take a deep breath and sigh to get out all the accumulated questions. (Yes, know, savasana is not supposed to be a time to work out all of life’s problems, but rather to just lie there and be. Totally working on it.) “Hey there Purvis. It’s me, the mom. Just wanted you to know that we’re pulling for you. Keep dividing those cells right, okay?”
In a way it’s like a parenting lesson that I’ll have to learn again when my theoretical child reaches teenage-hood and rolls eyes at the sight of me. I have no control—aside from not smoking, drinking, or eating delicious sushi—now as I will have very little then. I’m also reminded of something that my brother said after his daughter, Lyla, was born. “Getting them born safely is just the beginning.”
So it is. And so I go. Optimistic and wise, at least for today.
Symptoms: Oh dear lord, my boobs hurt. I must shield them in the shower lest the droplets of water send me into spasms of pain.
Nausea, oh nausea, rock on.
Aversions-r-us. Pizza and strawberries are the only foods that work for me. Not even sushi. Or French fries. Mr. Crud says, “Who are you?”
People told: My sweet pal, Nao.
Old high school acquaintance turning friend whose had her own tangles with child-bearing demons.
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