bittersweet

Friday, January 13, 2012

Bittersweet moments

I just returned from Ray’s oldest friend’s birthday party. They have known each other since birth. Her mother, let’s call her Jan, and I have been friends for a very long time.

Jan & I were sitting in this dining area with families all around and Jan noticed that a little boy (about 12-15 months old) looked very much like Ray did when he was that age. He really did. Big melon head with eyes that stared through you (Ray’s eyes took up about half of his head at that age-this kid’s eyes weren’t quite that large)-it took me right back to that age, the age when everything was new and fresh and hopeful.

I love my little man so much. I feel so lucky to be his mom. He’s such a great kid. He always has been.

I know every mother thinks that her kid is the greatest child ever. Well, I’m no exception. Ray has always been such a smiley, easy-to-laugh, fun-loving kid. He knows what he likes and is not afraid to be different. Lucky for us, he goes to a great school where a weird white kid doesn’t get made fun of, but is just one of many weird kids. (I mean weird in the best possible way).

The kid never watched Barney or the Wiggles. He watched videos of Stevie Ray Vaughn and Jimmy Hendrix. He got an electric guitar when he was 3 years old.

He has been watching documentaries on science and history since he was 5 years old.  When his pet lizard died that year, he wanted to mummify him and make a sarcophagus because he had studied how to do that in the various documentaries he had watched about King Tutankhamen.

He has NEVER shown the least bit of interest in sports or athletics, but weekly trips to the library and museum were hours of sheer joy. I have to say that I was more than thrilled to find that my little boy loved doing science experiments and examining insects versus wanting to play little league. Those of you who know me well understand that I have not an athletic bone in my body.

These are all the things that flash through my mind when I see a random little boy who resembles my little man. And I think---my husband and I, we have had our share of problems, but we make a great “one of us.” We made a great person. And I think we deserve the chance to make another, but if we don’t, I have one fantastic boy that I am so proud to call my son.

Speak your truth

Januray 25^th, 2012

Candid conversations with my son: he speaks his truth

In May of 2008 I had my first miscarriage. I found out two days before my first prenatal appointment via an ER ultrasound after vaginal bleeding. Mike and I had told Ray about the pregnancy about a week before this. I did not have any difficulty conceiving Ray or any complications with my pregnancy. We assumed all would be fine. You know what happens when you assume.

Ray was 5 years old at the time and knew quite a bit more about anatomy and physiology and cellular biology than the average 5 year old, but this was still a conversation I had not anticipated having. He had spent the past week or so talking to the baby inside my belly and talking about what he would do when he was a big brother. I was devastated. And a mess.

Although there was a fetus that had passed, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that a baby had died. So I told him that my body thought I was pregnant, but I wasn’t and in order to get my body ready to have a baby again, I would have to have something done to have my uterus cleaned out by the doctor. He asked if the doctor would go through the incision in my belly where he came out (Ray was born via cesarean section, but that is another blog I will leave for another time). I told him that the doctor would go through my vagina to get to my uterus (again, he knew more than the average 5 year old—he is the son of a former science teacher and at that point, a current nursing student planning to be a midwife). This conversation led to a very funny story involving Mike’s grandparents.

Mike’s grandparents were visiting from California.  His Grandfather is called, “Granddaddy,” “Great Daddy,” or “Daddy” by all his various children and grandchildren. Granddaddy grew up in the south and has the sweetest southern accent I ever did hear and I just love him. He was a very proper, kind, and sweet southern gentleman and I am fairly certain that Granddaddy had never uttered the word 'vagina' in his whole life.

I was at home recovering and Mike and Ray went up to his parent’s house to have dinner with his grandparents. In the middle of dinner, Ray felt the need to discuss my recent miscarriage. It went something like this:

“My mom thought she had a baby inside of her.”

“Oh, yes, Ray. We heard. We are sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well, they have to clean out her uterus so she can get ready to have another baby.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And, well, the doctor is probably in her vagina right now.”

I don’t know if anyone laughed then, but I always do when I tell it.

We have since then have many, many, many conversations about my inability to have a child. At this point, he is very happy with being the only child and tells me, “I might be the only person to ever be able to grow in your womb.” (I believe it has gotten to the point where he wants to be the special one and I also thinks he may wonder why I want another baby when I have him and he is so clearly awesome.)

That kid speaks the truth. Whether you like it or not.

A week after the ectopic, in the car:

"So, Mom, if you get pregnant again, it can only come from one side."

"Yes, Ray. That is true."

“Mom, I don’t think you are ever going to have another baby.”

 “I don’t really think so either, Ray.”

 “Good. I don’t want a brother or sister messing up my stuff.”

_______________________________________________________________________

And tonight, after serving him the most pathetic dinner ever, consisting of three slices of turkey bacon, dry Quaker oatmeal squares, raisins, and a sliced apple, I hear, “Thanks, Mom. You know, I’m really glad you are my mom. You take good care of me. And I’m glad my dad is my dad. And I am glad I exist.”

Which made me think of a few things. My friend, Irene, wrote in her book that there should be a word that describes laughing while crying---I need that word at least twice a week. We should make one up.

It also made me think of why people once believed that the heart was responsible for our emotions.

I do feel that my heart can swell with joy, or throb with pain, or break in pieces. I feel it, in my chest, not in my head.

a moment of fine

January 17th, 2012

Last Thursday, I met with my fertility doc. She's a wonderful physician. She is patient and kind and makes great eye contact.

I went in with the goal of not losing it in her office. Mike went with me. We were doing okay. I knew that she was going to say I was healing well and since I had already googled my surgery, I knew I was going to be told to wait at least two months before trying to conceive to allow for swelling to go down and full healing to occur. This was fine. I am in no way remotely ready to take on the "waiting for two weeks, taking the pregnancy test, and then anticipating miscarriage" game that I have been playing on and off for four years.

I also knew that my odds of getting pregnant are now very slim-the combination of repeated miscarriage, infertility, and the loss of a fallopian tube make that pretty clear.  I also knew that once you have an ectopic pregnancy, your risk of having another is higher--significantly higher. Okay-well, that doesn't apply to this case, right? Because I already lost the bum tube--that would be the one with the scar tissue or blockage that caused the ectopic. Or maybe not.

We were informed that if there was a structural abnormality in my right tube that caused the ectopic (one that would not have shown up on the HSG that I had--a procedure to determine whether or not you have blockages in your fallopian tubes or abnormalities in your uterus), that I could have an ectopic in my left tube. I was not ready for that. I needed the slim hope that my left tube was healthy and perfect and just waiting for the opportunity to drop an ovum easily.

Her professional recommendation. Wait at least two months, then if you try to conceive-we need to watch you very carefully due to the increased risk of an ectopic in the left tube.

That's when I lost it.

I just feel stuck. I don't want to give up hope for another little person. Mike and I make a good kid. We want another one. I also don't know if I want to go through the "trying to conceive" thing either. But now there is no more "whatever happens is okay" left in me. I now have this added fear factor and I don't like how that feels.

And that's where I have been emotionally since then. Just breathing in and out and trying to figure out how I want to plan for the remainder of my childbearing years. I'm a big planner--I don't really care for playing things "by ear."

Yesterday, however, I surprised myself by laughing--I had spent the day just going through the motions doing what I was supposed to do, "fake fining" it.  And then, unexpectedly - laughing. And after I was finished laughing, I thought to myself, "I'm smiling for real."My fake fine turned into real fine. And it felt good.

Thank you to all of you who have stood in my darkness by my side. It is your friendship that made my laughter come.
And thanks for reading.

a lesson in fake fine

"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine."
"You're fake fine."
"Yep. I'm fake fine."

The was the introductory banter my friend, Emma, and I would have on a regular basis during the 18 month direct entry program at Marquette. We both went through some very difficult times during the program and well, they have continued for both of us and we have embraced the term "fake fine" to describe how we are coping.
I have been "fake fine" during many times in my life, I learned the art of "fake fine" at a very young age. I was always the one in my family who would hold it together best--many times this wasn't holding it together at all, but I got very skilled at being "fake fine." The picture of the person who has a tough life or hard times, but the one who appears on the outside to be strong and resilient. The "I don't know how she does it person." That is often times me. I think that it is often times many women. I know that many, many people have mastered the "fake fine." I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing.

Today, I am trying to be "fake fine." Tomorrow, when I return to work, I will try extra hard to be "fake fine." I held it together fairly well when the barista at the coffee shop complained to me that she got pregnant with twins by accident as she was rubbing her belly. (She and I have had some friendly conversation in the past about birth and midwifery--she has several kids and had home births with all of them. She knows about my struggles. She knows about my most recent loss). I just said, "It must be scary." Because I know it must. We all have degrees of comfort and loss in our life, and she really did look scared. And I am sorry that she is scared about her pregnancy. I get it.
I also get that I would carry an alien baby or two in my womb for the gestation of an elephant if I could just get pregnant and get pregnant in the right place in my body.
So, today, I further master the art of "fake fine."
And I am thankful that I have a few good friends in my life who know just when I need them to see through my b.s. and call me identify when my, "I'm fine." Really means, "I'm faking. I'm not at all fine."

Cliches are never a good idea

January 8, 2012

The last day I remember the date is January 1^st.  I have just been breathing in and out for about a week. I haven’t been sleeping very well and I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to write about next.

Clichés:

Why I often hate them.

Here are some of the worst that I have heard during my 4 years of infertility and recurrent miscarriages

“Everything happens for a reason.” ---this is the cliché that I despise more than any other. Really? Everything happens for a reason? The Atomic bomb? Cancer? The 2 month old that died from shaken baby syndrome? Rape? Murder?

So, what you are saying here is that I am supposed to go through pain. That I deserve it in some grand universal plan towards my destiny. That the universe thinks I need to learn a lesson of some sort?

This is so insensitive. I’ll use this commonly used “my mother always said…” response to respond to it.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Really. Silence is better than telling me that I am supposed to have lost 5 pregnancies because it’s my ‘fate’ or my ‘destiny.’ Bullshit.

“All good things must come to an end.”---Who thought this was a good idea to say to someone? Okay, no one has said this to me regarding my infertility, but it irritates me just as much---shouldn’t it be “All bad things will come to an end.”—Shouldn’t that be the comfort? That “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”—I digress.

Let’s get to the

“It’s always darkest before the dawn.” And “It can’t get any worse.”---I have heard these a multitude of times. And my scorned and sarcastic response has now become, “You don’t know my life. It can always get worse.” And it can, people. Things can always get worse—or better, but nonchalantly brushing off someone’s problems with “It can’t get any worse” is so demeaning and inconsiderate, you may as well just say, “I don’t really care what your problems are, just quit your whining.” At least that comes from an honest place.

Here are some others that may not necessarily be clichés, but are so overused they make me nauseated.

“You need to pray more.” ---Are you kidding me? So, bad things in my life happen because I don’t pray enough or the right way for good things to happen?

“Just stop trying and it will happen.”—Please explain how I can my deepest desire and just turn it off like a light switch. It’s like telling me to jump underwater and stop myself from wanting to breathe.  

“Why don’t you just adopt?”—This is a big one for me. It is offensive on a multitude of levels. There are lengthy and profound reasons for this, which I will not discuss here, but let me just, say this-adopting a child is not like adopting a dog or cat. It is not simple or inexpensive, emotionally or financially.

“But you already have one child, you should be happy with that.”—I love my son more than I thought I could love. And my desire for another child does not weaken or negate that statement. I am thankful that I have one child. And … I want more.

“You are so stressed out lately. It will happen when you aren’t so stressed out.”—Really, this is just stupid. So so so many people have said this to me trying to make me feel better after a miscarriage. Which is the worst time to say such a thing. What I hear is “If you weren’t stressed out, your baby would have lived.” Thanks. As if I don’t already feel broken and devastated. Don’t say this to people. Just don’t do it. Women who have been sexually assaulted get pregnant; women who live in shelters get pregnant, drug addicts, refugees, extremely unhealthy women get pregnant and carry to term. I would venture to say that these women are under much more stress than I am.

And then there is the “Secret” phenomenon. The positive thinking will draw positive things to me. The law of attraction and all that new age crap. I am so sorry that this one doesn’t really work. I want it to work. I have Secreted, Celestine Prophecy’d, Deepak Chopra audiotaped myself with the best of them, but none of my positive ever worked for me.

Shit just happens. It’s random chaos in the universe.

I do not believe in fate. I do not believe in destiny. I do not believe in everything happens for a reason. These are simple, trivial, offensive ways to try to make others feel better when they are talking to someone who is going through a difficult time-no matter what that time is. If you believe it for yourself and the events that happen in your life, I am happy for you. I am glad that this gives you comfort. Trust me when I say that I have tried to comfort myself in every way that the common man has and what I desire most of all when going through sadness is someone who will sit and listen. And from what I know from all the women that I have worked with and spoken with who have gone through similar loss,that is what they need to. Things are not simple when the world is grey. There is no silver lining when you are devastated. The world is dark and people just need a hand to hold so they know they are not alone.

Here are some things you can say to people going through loss. They are simple and take less than a second to say or write.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m thinking of you.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

“I love you.”

And then don’t talk.

Listen.

Listen without rationalizing, explaining, or trying to make things better.

Don’t compare your life and your philosophy with that person’s experience.

Just be silent and present.

My friends that are the best listeners are my most valuable people in my life. They are the ones that I need and go to. And they say very little to me when I go through a miscarriage, but they are present in my life in a graceful, peaceful, loving way. They give me something to grab onto when the grief is fresh and raw and overwhelming.

You know who you are. Thank you.

Next on Lifetime....

January 2nd, 2011

Tonight is my first night back to work---almost exactly 96 hours from the time I arrived in the ED of West Allis Memorial Hospital presenting with complaints of sudden onset right lower quadrant pain for the past hour that was described as sharp, constant, stabbing, and rated as a 4 out of 10 on the pain scale. Nothing made it better or worse; it was just there.

Three hours prior I had been told by Susan, RN at the fertility clinic I went to, that my HCG level had gone up slightly and my progesterone level had dropped significantly. She had talked with doctor on call about this; they suspected an ectopic pregnancy. Did I have any pain? How was my bleeding?

I was kinda crampy, but nothing major and the bleeding had picked up, but not saturating a pad or anything...I knew I was miscarrying, but an ectopic?

I was instructed to come in for an ultrasound the following morning at 8:15 a.m. unless I experienced any pain that night. Then I was to go to the emergency department.

Dr. W would come in for me, right? I wouldn't have to deal with whoever was the ER ob/gyn on call for the night?

No, Dr. W would come in.

Ok. Holy shit.

I had accepted that I was pregnant again with a pregnancy that I was going to lose. 

I had continued to spot and now the spotting was heavier and those stories about women who spot/bleed their entire pregnancies--no way was I one of those. I knew I was going to lose this pregnancy-but a friggin' ectopic! 

Are you kidding me? Seriously? How can someone go through FIVE pregnancy losses and the last one is a potentially life threatening ectopic? This cannot be happening.

It can't be happening.

It's too much.

It's too much for one person to endure.

It's unbelievable.

unbelievable.

Like Lifetime movie unbelievable. 

Alright. Well, I'm bleeding...so, it's probably already started to pass, right? I'll just need an injection of methotrexate and it will finish passing and it will be okay. It will just be a complicated miscarriage. 

I'm going to the grocery store. I'm going to get something for dinner. Watch a movie. Lay low and worry about my ultrasound tomorrow morning. I'll call and text my girlfriends and be okay.

Driving to the grocery store: I feel some right sided cramping, like ovarian cramping--I get it all the time. No big deal, it's the luteal cyst---nothing to worry about. Right? nothing to worry about. You are being paranoid, MaryAnne. Paranoid. Don't be that way...it's fine.

I call my friend, Shelby, who just so happens to be a midwife and a brainiac--she'll triage me and make me feel better. I tell her what's going on. 

"Oh my God, MaryAnne. Are you having pain?"

"No, just kinda cramping. I think I'm overanalyzing everything. I'm being paranoid."

"MaryAnne, you so much as feel cramping and you go in. Stop being the provider and start being the patient."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. Go in."

"Okay. I'm going in."

"Good. Let me know what happens."

So, I put on my creme-to-powder foundation and some mascara and I drive myself to the ED.

One litany of questions and a pelvic exam later, I am being wheeled down to the Radiology Department for an ultrasound.

The ultrasound tech is sweet and chatty especially after she finds out what I'm a midwife.  She "just knew" it was something in healthcare. "You can always tell when people know things."

And that began the pleasant conversation about birth and midwifery. Until she got to the internal exam of my right fallopian tube and ovary.

"Now, how did they know it was the right side?"

"They didn't. I knew. I have pain on that side."

"Okay. You're doing great."

And that ended the pleasant conversation about birth and midwifery.

It was a LONG ultrasound exam.

Back to the ER.

ED RN checks in.

ED doctor checks in.

"It will be about 30 minutes until the ultrasound is read."

....

5 minutes later.

It's back. It's ectopic. It's in the right fallopian tube. It hasn't ruptured. It has a heartbeat.

"Well, that's what I expected. I knew it was an ectopic....Wait. It has a heartbeat?"

"We're going to start an IV. This will be surgical. I'm sorry."

"Fuck."

"I'm sorry.--Fuck."

"I'm going to call my husband."

"That's a good idea."

And I do. And I call Julie. And they come. And I cry. And my ED nurse hugs me. And she's awesome. And my ED doctor says she is so sorry. She is awesome. And then my surgeon comes in. And he's so nice.

"You'll try to save my tube."

"Yes."

Approximately 3 hours later I am in post-op.

"Did he take my tube?"

"Let me check. Not the whole thing. Just the distal portion."

SERIOUSLY? Who answers like that? What the hell am I going to do with a PORTION of a fallopian tube. 

"Ok."

"How's your pain?"

"An 8."

I need more drugs....

And then you wake up.

So, I work odd hours. Lots of odd hours--more about that in another blog, but let's sum it up by saying that I often wake up not knowing what day it is or what time it is or what I am supposed to do that day. Most days are like that.
Today was no exception.
After working two twelve hour night shifts in a row, I slept from about 8am until noon today. And then I woke up. Bleary eyed and with a headache--zombie-ish. That's my normal. Today & yesterday (also after working a night shift and sleeping maybe 2 hours) were different only in one way.
I had to remember. I woke up not knowing what time or day it was and it took a few moments to remember why I felt different. Why did my right side feel somewhat cold (not to the touch, but like there was a thawing ice pack implanted into the right lower portion of my abdomen). Oh, yes. I remember. Part of my body is missing.
Part of my body that was just a few short days ago full of warm, crampy, blood flow--and life.
And my heart aches--I get why they call it heart ache--there is a physical ache when you go through profound loss; and emptiness.
And then I wake up.

Special

December 30th, 2011

It was raining lightly as I walked from the hospital building to my car with Michael. What the hell is with this weather? Raining in December in Wisconsin? Yeah, right there is no global warming.

But rain made more sense. Rain was wet and cold and sad in December. There were no leaves on the trees, no flowers blooming, no grass growing. Just cold, dark, wet, and brown. Snow would have been too pretty, too peaceful and graceful for my mood that morning.

Early that morning I had gone into surgery with the newly acquired knowledge that, yes, indeed I was pregnant. That I already knew. I was not, however, miscarrying this ectopic pregnancy as I had assumed I was.  It was alive, a 6 week 1 day fetus inside my body. In the wrong place. This little one wasn’t going to make it though. I was yet again losing a pregnancy. This would be my 5th loss since trying to have another baby in 2008, but this baby didn’t die and pass on it’s own. This little one was stuck in my right fallopian tube. The tube had not yet ruptured, but was very close to doing so. My entire tube was consumed with this pregnancy and when the surgeon removed that fetus that would never live past 6 weeks 1 day, my fallopian tube was lost as well.

I felt numb. Hollow. Empty. Profound disbelief. How could I get through this? I was. I was being strong. I knew that there was no way to save this pregnancy and after seeing the photos of my tube through the lens of a laparoscopic camera, I knew that there was no way that they would have been able to save my tube.  

“How many pregnancies have you had?” they asked---the nurse, the ultrasound tech, the surgeon.

“Seven.” I would reply.

“And how many living children do you have?” followed the first question.

“One.”  

For months I have been thinking of writing my stories down, in the form of a blog since that is the hip thing to do now—not just journal for yourself, but blog so that everyone else can know your business. I have held off, thinking it was so egocentric. What am I gaining out of this? Do I want more dumb conversations with people? People who think they can comfort me with their simple replies to my complex feelings? I don’t know.

So here I sit, alone, writing at my 5 year old laptop in my living room. I don’t know if this will become some piece of stored blubbering that I will never look at again or if I will share it with a few people, or if I will share it with the vast Internet world of blogging.

Am I that special to write a blog that people would give a damn about? Well, I always told my students that there were two kinds of ‘special’—I thought it was cute. I suppose the joke is on me.

20% of couples have unexplained secondary infertility— special.
10-20% of women have unexplained habitual miscarriage—super special.
2% of pregnancies result in ectopics—wow. I’m special.
1 in 70-80 of normal women may experience an ectopic pregnancy. Women who have already had one ectopic have a 1 in 10 chance of having another ectopic.--- fuck, I’m special.
Odds of getting pregnant after secondary infertility AND losing a fallopian tube----10%.

I don’t want to be special. I want to be average. Normal. Common. Run of the mill. Typical. Standard. Ordinary.

Screw special.