sueeeus

I’ve been stumbling through the last few days in a fog of sorts, and I realize that the experience is most likely the manifestation of depression. Real, hardcore depression. Or maybe a form of postpartum depression The awareness leaves me a bit concerned, but I’m confident I’ll come through it without medication and therapy. I know it’s there and I know I need to work through it. Then I’ll be back to my normal ups and downs. There is deep exhaustion, first thing in the morning after a full night’s sleep, continuing on through the day. There is the weight of the facial muscles pulling my expression into a grim frown, where conscious effort is necessary to compose any other expression. There is a sort of dizziness or vertigo — a general feeling of imbalance. There is a void in my mind, where thoughts might normally be. Only quiet and darkness. And there is sorrow, welling from deep within, that washes over me every now and then, that brings forth the sobbing tears. Tears and sobs are good, because they bring release. I can feel myself getting better –a little more so with each passing day.

Two more aprons have joined my collection (one, an artist’s smock style, which I think I like best so far, is in the wash, so no picture; the other is sort of a basic style with a huge pocket and a slightly scalloped hem), and an arsenal of pumpkin pies have made their way from my kitchen to the MIL’s for Christmas Eve dessert. I spent an entire day on those pies, cooking the pumpkin (formerly Halloween decorations, and already cooked once, then frozen for future use). I followed the America’s Test Kitchen recipe to the letter, froze then shredded the butter and cut in the flour, kneaded the dough, chilled it again, rolled it out, formed various and sundry pastry and pie shells, chilled them again, pre-baked them, cooked the spices into the filling on the stovetop, and finally loaded the warmed pie shells with the hot filling for the final bake. ATK didn’t disappoint. The resulting pies had a rich, smooth and creamy filling in a nice flaky crust. Of course, MIL, fully aware that I was bringing and preparing all the food for the family get-together, made 5 pies of her own. All told, there were nine pies at the Christmas Eve meal. Couple that with the no-shows, and there was approximately one full pie per person. At least she didn’t have a meal prepared when we got there. It’s just the kind of thing she would do. She wasn’t happy with the spiral cut ham, because the slices were too thin. She wasn’t happy with the cauliflower, because it didn’t have the family fake Hollandaise sauce that she expected. They mix mayonnaise with mustard and call it Hollandaise. I can’t bear it! At the last gathering, the green beans were criticized, so I prepared them differently this time. Some of the family members are lactose intolerant, so I used milk substitute in the mashed potatoes, and the resulting texture was far from fluffy and altogether disappointing. I made two kinds of gravy, in case people preferred one over another, and I made a special apple cider shallot sauce for the ham, which nobody tried but me (and it was delicious, I might add). I made it clear that we were NOT taking any pumpkin pies back home with us, so everybody had to take a heaping plate of leftover pie home with them. I’m developing a thick skin for dealing with the MIL. She can be abrasive and generally unkind. At least all the cooking, chaos, and general discontent kept my mind off of my broken heart, and helped me get a few steps further from my sorrow.

What is it they say, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me I should heed my own advice, even if it is over three years old. Last week, when I learned that life had ended, I should have gone through my journal and read the entry from that fateful and eventful day, March 28, 2003. It was my 38th birthday. It was the day my body finally gave forth the lost twins, after holding them in for over a month past the time their lives had ended. The same day I was scheduled to have their remains surgically removed. I should have learned from my past. But I didn’t, until after the fact, or rather, after it was too late.

Had I read my journal, I should have paid special heed to the phrase, “Maybe labor is mentally more bearable because you know you’re bringing forth new life, instead of purging lost life. It was so painful. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, and God forbid I ever miscarry again, but if I do, I want the D&C right away. I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

People may say it wasn’t labor, but if not, what is it when the body convulses in pain, the lower back throbs and aches, the abdomen contracts in what feels like a massive charlie horse, every three minutes or less for hours on end Because that’s what it was, at that time, in 2003.

Sadly, I didn’t learn from my past. I didn’t read my journal. I opted to wait a little longer to see if nature would do its thing, and after the alotted time had passed, I scheduled the D&C. Nature, schmature. Nature’s way –similar to a very heavy period, according to several internet sources. A heavy period is not daunting. Nature’s way sounded good. And natural. I could handle that. Or so I thought. I am here to say that Nature’s way is not, NOT, EN OH TEE NOT, in any way, the least bit, not even remotely akin to a very heavy period. (Not in the case of a missed miscarriage, anyway –perhaps it’s different if the body passes the remains immediately upon cessation of life, but that has not been the case with me.) Do NOT wait! Get the D&C immediately, ASAP. Do not wait. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to the hospital. GO!

What did women do in the days before modern medicine One cannot go through the day as any other day, as if one were having a heavy period. One would have to find a place to curl up in fetal position and lie in the ever increasing pool of blood amid the terrifying massive clumps of matter that the body expels, until it’s over. Or die of infection. Or both.

The phases of a missed miscarriage (according to me):

The Nagasaki Moment.

The moment one learns that life has ended. There is a stunned silence, followed by a shockwave of sorrow and anguish, then a mushroom cloud of scattered emotions. With the knowing comes a peace, though. The torture of not knowing, of waiting, of uncertainty, unanswered questions and what ifs is over, and with that, a form of peace.

The Matter of Decision.

Let Nature take it’s course, or have a D&C Being the composting, recycling, semi-conservative sort that I am, I mistakenly assumed that Nature’s way would be better. After all, it’s Nature. In retrospect, and now from two-fold experience, I should have made an immediate decision for immediate D&C. Before the fact, one might think that surgical extraction is unpleasant, unnatural, and comes with risks associated with any surgical procedure. All that is true. What is left unsaid is that with an immediate D&C, the waiting is over. The uterus is clean. The hormones revert to normal which works wonders on one’s mental state. There is no wondering how long the miscarriage will take, what it will feel like, how emotionally and mentally difficult it will or will not be. There is less risk of infection from decaying matter not flushing from the system as it should. There is more immediate closure.

Nature’s Way.

This only applies if immediate D&C does not occur, and this is only my own dreadful experience. Hopefully it’s uncommon. It would be awful if this is what women normally go through. I would not wish this upon anyone. Ever. The bleeding begins and one might think with a little relief that it will be like a heavy period, and the day can go on, even though there will likely be some unpleasant discomfort and cramping. The cramping begins. It is unpleasant. My D&C is scheduled for 1:30 this afternoon. I just have to make it until then. No food, no drink, no pain relievers, as instructed in preparation for surgery. I have the bright idea to run some errands before admitting myself to the hospital. You know. To pass the time. I won’t be in any shape to drive and run errands afterwards, so there’s no time like the present. Idiot. The cramps get worse. As does the bleeding. Deep breathing. Lots of deep breathing to get through the cramps and contractions. How can there be so much blood In the women’s room at Bed, Bath & Beyond I pass a horrifying object the size of a tomato or an apple. I sit there on the toilet and sob, traumatized by what came out of me, wondering what I’m supposed to do, and why I am here, in this public place, going through this private thing. I’m an idiot. I compose myself and go find Mr. Gadget, who is patiently waiting for me. I keep asking him the time. How soon can I check in to the hospital, I wonder. It’s 9:30 a.m. and my check-in time is noon. We go to Linen’s and Things, in search of the pie plates I expected to find at BBB, but I sneeze and something happens. I find the women’s room and again, sit on the toilet and sob. Sanitary napkins are useless. I had 5 with me, thinking I’d make it to noon with them. I was left with one and it was 10:00 a.m. There is so much blood. I made a mental note of the neighborhood and decided the closest place where I could buy more was Target. I decided to try baby diapers instead. I know they hold a LOT of liquid, and the leftovers would be put to good use with my son. Ever practical. Of course, every express register at Target had a long line at 10:00 a.m. on a weekday. I told Mr. Gadget I couldn’t wait, ripped open the package, and stomped off to the bathrooms, diaper in hand. It’s funny how modesty and social graces can so easily be brushed aside in times of crisis, although I did vaguely wonder what the people were thinking when they saw a distressed not-so-young woman heading to the bathroom with a diaper in hand and no baby in sight. Crazy shoplifter. More trauma and sobbing in the loo. Trying not to leave a biohazard trail. By now my clothes were soaked and I was thanking my lucky stars that I chose to wear dark chocolate brown today. How I wished I had packed extra pants. I was tempted to buy new pants while at Target, but decided I wanted to go to the hospital NOW. Enough was enough. Not that there was a chance to fit me in early, but at least I’d be there. Thankfully, they let me have a room without waiting too long, and I could curl up in fetal position and bleed in peace. For four and a half more hours. Around 1:00 p.m. they finally checked on me and took my blood pressure. The machine tried several times to get a reading before it pronounced me low. Do you normally have low bp, inquired the nurse. No, but I have been bleeding quite alot, if that makes a difference, I said in my own special sweet yet sarcastic way. Does your doctor know you’ve been bleeding, she asks Ummmmm, I am here, at the hospital, 2 hours early, due to heavy bleeding. I don’t know, I said. (So, as I am wont to do, I dropped the communication ball, assuming that somebody would have pulled my chart and notified my doctor when they put me in the room. My bad.) She’s a very kind and sweet nurse. Lola. I like her. I overhear her talking to my doctor. She returns, and gets me prepped with an IV. FINALLY. Drugs are on the way. My doctor ordered petossin. I thought that was for inducing labor, and lack of contractions was not the issue, but I didn’t care. Was it supposed to slow down the bleeding I was relieved to be getting any medical attention at all, and once that IV was in, they could administer pain relievers. Which they did. Not that they did much. I felt the drug hit my veins and make me dizzy, but the cramps continued to surge and they remained painful. I was still glad to have the drugs. It helped me keep up with my deep breathing and counting the minutes until surgery and sweet nothingness of general anesthesia. My ticket home.

Surgical Extraction.

Preop instructions. No food or drink between bedtime (the night before) and surgery time. This can make for a long and hungry day if surgery is scheduled in the afternoon. Arrange a ride home. Patients are not released to drive following general anesthesia. There may be grogginess, dizziness, and disorientation, so driving is a liability. There is the normal hospital waiting time. It shouldn’t be too big of a surpise if a 1:30 surgery takes place at 3:30. Especially after the city is recovering from a severe wind storm with extensive and extended power outages. There’s nothing like loss of electricity to bring a population to its knees. Say goodbye to modesty, but if you’re lucky, you’re under before you have a chance to think about it. There is a pin prick from the IV, and the cold feel of the liquid entering the body. The oxygen mask goes on, the anesthesia begins, and the next thing you know you are awake. You may cry. General anesthesia does a number on the brain. I had a wash of emotion where tears rolled down my face as I said goodbye and hoped and prayed that there will be a next baby and that the baby would live and that I wouldn’t find myself waking up again from GA after another D&C. Along with that, there was a relief that it was all over. There was a refreshing feeling of an empty and clean uterus. It may be psychological, but it doesn’t matter. It was a good feeling. It opened the door to hope for the future and the peace of proper closure.

In Conclusion.

I had a bad day. After writing it all out, it doesn’t sound as bad as it was, but it was horrifying. Now it’s over, and there is a lifetime of happy tomorrows ahead of me.

Sometimes the system goes on the blink
And the whole thing turns out wrong.
You might not make it back and you know
That you could be, well, oh that strong.
And I’m not wrong…

(Daniel Powter – Bad Day)

Little tidbits of domesticity help me feel happy.’ Surgery is tomorrow, and after that, closure.’ Sigh.’ But I don’t want to write about miscarriage, or rather missed miscarriage.’ It’s as though my mind wants so terribly to be and stay pregnant, that it won’t allow my body to give up the remains, even though it’s the necessary thing to do.’ Either that, or it’s just another quirk of this old jalopy of a reproductive system.” So.’ Tomorrow, closure.’ In the mean time, a little bit of domesticity and creative release.
All the wee one’s in daycare will be receiving these bibs for Christmas, as a gift from my son. He’s such a thoughtful little boy, isn’t he I wanted him to give his friends something, but not just anything. And it had to be age-appropriate. There are two boys and a girl, around 6 months old. The age-appropriate concern helped me narrow down the choices, and I decided that something useful would be best. A baby can not have too many bibs. It’s simply not possible.

Look, they’re reversible.

And they have food catcher pockets!

The boys get trucks, rockets, and stars.’ Two bibs each.’ Oops, looks like the yellow bib has a crooked pocket.’ C’est la vie.

The girl gets flowers, bugs, and dancers.’ The other two (I made two of each fabric) go to my sister-in-law who is having a girl in April.

Is this not adorable fabric ‘ (I should have made some of these for my boo boy, when he was a little snugglebug, but the inspiration escaped me at the time.)
Now, the babies have older sisters who have moved on to preschool and are not in the daycare any longer.’ My son, the ever-considerate lad, has little token gifts for them as well, so that all the children will get a little something, and there will be a happy few seconds of paper shredding and package opening. It will be a sweet moment.

There is no heartbeat.

Tonight, wine, candlelight, and tears.

That is all.

Still waiting.  Holding my breath.  Crossing my fingers.  I went to my OB yesterday, and as luck would have it, the ultrasound tech had a slot so she fit me in.  I was ecstatic!  I SO wanted to see that heartbeat.  First scan was the transabdominal method.  Only visible was the black sac.  I told her that last time I’d needed the wand, because I had too much belly fat to get a good view.  I just ignore the mortification that lurks when having to make such a remark about myself.  It’s not that it’s not obvious, or anything, but all the same, who wants to actually vocalize the fact of abundant adipose tissue.  I think I read that on a med site today.  It sounds less gruesome and awful than obese or fat.  All the same, it is what it is.  Adipose tissue.  Sigh.  Anyway.  With the wand, the tech was able to locate, with a little difficulty, the embryo.  I was so excited to see that white spot!  Although, the fishing around in there trying to find it was a bit unnerving.  I strained to see a heartbeat and didn’t see it.  Next, she said the calculations based on measurements showed the date to be six weeks and one day.  I didn’t panic right away, but just marked it as something to speak to the doctor about.  I know, KNOW KNOW it’s more than six weeks and one day.  There’s no way it can be six weeks and one day.  No.WAY.  All the same, the kindly tech cut out a couple of the ultrasound pictures and placed them in a nice congratulatory envelope for me.  So it must have been good.  Maybe she saw a heartbeat and didn’t tell me   I know they try not to discuss anything in there.  I think they’re under strict instructions to leave the questions, answers and discussions to the doctors.  I would feel so much more comfortable if I KNEW there was a heartbeat.  Next, I told my doctor that the estimated date made no sense.  Yes, it’s way off, he agreed.  Based on LMP, which means nothing in my case, I am supposedly 9 and a half weeks or more.  Of course I know that’s not true, so I showed him my numbers of dates in the realm of possibility, and he used his little magical wheel and did some backtracking and decided, yes, the 6 weeks one day measurement is not possible.  He didn’t seem alarmed, though.  He just said we should reschedule for later next week, and then we’ll have a good idea of what’s going on, based on change.  So now I have to wait until the 15th, and try not to be anxious about anything.  Everything I’ve read says that a heartbeat should be clearly evident at 6-7 weeks, especially if measured transvaginally.  Sigh.  I think I’m 7-8 weeks, so if I don’t see a heartbeat and if the embryo size looks only like 6 weeks, the most horrible conclusion is that things stopped around 6 weeks.  Oh, dear Lord, I hope not!  I still have general symptoms and I so so so want this life to make it.  I know that if it doesn’t, it’s no fault of my own.  I’ve done everything that I can to take proper care of this earthen vessel in which I live since the first day I tested positive, and the cell division and growth is out of my hands.  Even so, it’s so hard not to be anxious.  I’m trying to be peaceful and not neurotic or depressed.  I need to find the glass half full attitude, and hold on to it, rather than the looming fear and dread of the glass being half empty.  It comes and goes.  Perhaps the emotional yo-yo should be taken as a good sign that the hormones are actively fluctuating.  If all is well, there should be quite some change by the 15th, and hopefully a reasonable due date can be determined.  I should have some peace by then.

It astounds me, the way a ray of sun bursting through the clouds, illuminating the trees in their fall splendor, can make my heart soar and make me feel so alive.  The last two months I’ve found myself gloomy more often than not, and every once in a while I get a rush of energy when the sun breaks through the clouds.  It’s sad.  I’m sad.  Off and on.  They call it SAD, anyway.  Whoever they are.  Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Google will return a plethora of information on the subject, if one were interested enough to bother.  Basically, I am fickle, like the weather.  It has been an emotionally difficult time for me, what with memories and associations, and certain recent events.  The daily weather forecast lately calls for rain, heavy winds, and flood warnings, more often than not.  And those bursts of sun   They have a name.  Sunbreaks.  They call them sunbreaks, here in the Northwest.  A break from the normal dismal gloomy grey. 

How fabulous to enjoy a sunbreak, while walking amidst a carpet of fallen leaves, hoping and dreaming of things to come.  It’s been a week since the discovery, and I’m trying very hard not to overthink things and get too worked up about the what ifs.  So far, so good, as far as I know.  People are so kind.  There have been so many kind, warm, thoughtful and loving comments and I appreciate each and every one.  It means so much that all over the world there are fine people with loving hearts who are sending their light to the little one growing inside of me.  We are blessed.  We thank you all.

Well, it’s day two, and there are still two lines. Only, the important one doesn’t seem as vivid as yesterday’s. I try not to let this make me crazy. Part of me is frightened that this will end badly. Part of me is certain that all will be well. The headache persisted well into the day and I finally caved and took some Tylenol.  I’ve been faithful with my folic acid and vitamins for months and months.  That’s a plus.  And now I’ve started gentle yoga and am cleaning up my eating habits in the hopes of evading the gestational diabetes this time.  I feel like crappe, and count that as a blessing.  Leg cramps.  Belly cramps.  Queasiness.  Dizziness.  Fatigue.  All SIGNS!!  It means things are happening.  It means it’s real!  I gathered the courage to step on the scale and was disappointed to see that I have recently gained so much.  It’s like an explosion.  I could feel it happening, but preferred to stick my head in the sand, so to speak.  Sigh.  What matters now is to make the most of things as they are.  Get some fresh air.  Try to get more rest.  Pray.  Settle myself.  Immerse my inner self and outer self in love.  What a blessing I am bestowed with!  July 19th.  That’s my guess.  We’ll see what the experts say when the time comes.  I made my first appointment today, but it’s not for two more weeks.  How can I possibly wait that long.  It’s like an eternity away.  I must find a way to calm down!
And how nice!  A phone conversation with none other than the fine Miscellania!  The blog world becomes smaller and smaller with each passing day.

A cautionary note.  The following post is most likely going to contain a plethora of Too Much Information (TMI).  Those with aversions to –or a low threshold for– TMI, run along now, and thank you for visiting. 

Recently a certain someone postulated as to the reason for clumsiness and shattering of dishes and whatnot.  Okay, it was Miscellania.  I loved the theory, but considered it implausible.  However.  In a sleepy stupor in the early morn, I fumbled in the cabinet for a strip and a cup, going through the motions that I’ve gone through a gazillion times before.  I stared at the strip, bracing myself for the normal disappointment that I always feel, no matter how often I’ve convinced myself beforehand that I would not (be disappointed).  Only this time   Two lines.   I rubbed my eyes and shook the strip and stared at it closely, just to be sure.  Then  hurried to show Mr. Gadget.  My stoic man.  (I know he’s pleased.  He’s just not the most expressive of individuals.  Unless gadgets are involved, of course.)   I don’t even know if I emptied the cup, washed it out, and put it away.  (I hope so.)

And so begins a new chapter.  Moments of paranoia interspersed with moments of hope and elation.  Minutes, days, weeks, months.  Already, this day, the paranoia sets in.  I have a headache.  The kind I get when it’s that time.  I’m no stranger to miscarriage, but oh, how I want this to take!  I know better than to get overly excited at so early a stage, but  how can I help myself

This is yet another nearly immaculate conception.  Just like the last one.  In which I got my Boo Boy.  I have one of those cycles that moves to the beat of its own drummer.  Every now and then.  As it sees fit.  As to the presence of ova   Another matter entirely.  Add to that a near absence of folk dancing.  The odds!  They must be staggering!  Not that I’m complaining!  I’m not.  I’m not!  (But I was, and have been, off and on, for some time.)  Poor Mr. Gadget.  I’ve been known to be so frustrated with him, at him, in times past.  How hopeless and helpless I’ve felt at times recently, knowing the odds that we have to work with, and feeling powerless to enable an outcome, compounded with a perceived lack of interest on his part in my hopes and dreams, all being drowned by the deafening sound of my biological clock relentlessly ticking away.  My stoic man.  Life can be such a rollercoaster, and finding synchronicity is beyond me, at times.

A cacophony of thoughts.

Can I finish that bottle of wine   Okay, I won’t be buying any more, but can I have that last glass   In America, most would say NO!  In Europe, they may say Oui.  What to do, what to do.

Headache.  Panic.  Oh Lord, please don’t let this one go.  I don’t want to miscarry.

Calm.  I know you’re in there, safe and sound, deep inside me, protected.  Nothing can hurt you and you are fine and well.

Reason.  Ahh, this explains much.  The dizziness.  The clumsiness.  The shortness of breath.  Anxiety.  Fatigue.  All things that I live with, more or less, but lately more.  Enough so as to make me notice that it’s more than the usual.

Wonder.  Are you a boy or a girl   Will you look like me or your dad   Will you be a giant like your brother   Will you be petite   Will I be able to deliver you the natural way   Or will I need to have another C-section   Will you be healthy and whole   Please be healthy and whole.  Will you latch and breastfeed, or will you be like your brother   I hope you will take to the breast.  I hope you develop perfectly.  I hope you stay.  Will I develop gestational diabetes again   Or can I avoid it

Is this for real   Oh please.  Please!  Let it be real.

I know the exact date.  You know.  That date.  The date when people engage in a folk dance.  It was October 25th.  Of course, the actual meeting could have taken place any time between then and the 27th.  Oh, the 27th.  That was a momentous day.  On that day, I sobbed for hours.  On that day, I remembered my brother.  On that day, my brother’s first child miscarried the one that would have been her second child.  It was a momentous day, and it just might have been your first day.

I want to tell my sister.  My sweet sissy who wants desperately to be a mother and faces challenges as daunting or even more so than mine.  We are eight years apart, so her clock isn’t clanging quite as loudly as mine.  She will be so happy for me, but she might be sad as well.  I know.  I go through this time and again.  As elated as I am for others who share this joyous news when it’s their turn to share, each tiding only brings to focus the glaring lack of fruition in my own sphere of life.  So I know.  I don’t want her to feel bad, but she probably won’t be able to help it.

This blog is going to morph into a Babeeus blog, the Harmony blog.  It may become tiresome to read, but it will be about things that matter to me.  Hopefully, the journey will be joyful.

I’m a bit afraid to go home and retest tomorrow.  What if I wake up and this was all a dream   A figment of my overly active and reactive imagination   Paranoia returns.

It’s exhausting.  But good!