(No Longer New) Midlife Mommy

What? Two Posts In Two Days?

I know!  The next thing I was going to tell you about are the creatures who live in our potties (no, not literally), but instead, I just wanted to write briefly about a new blog that I found.  I'm guessing that if you are a regular reader, you just might be a mom over 40.  (Or maybe someone trying to be a mom over 40 who hasn't made it yet - hugs to you, and I hope that this year was the last effing mother's day that you spend without a little one).

If you are a midlife mom, or even a woman of "advanced maternal age" (hello, > 35 year olds!), then you might want to check this blog out.  I found it through a recent comment.  I've been in such a time crunch lately that I don't have the chance to spend as much time as I would like reading blogs.  I'm grateful for the fact that I can get posts to this blog by email, and I like what I've read so far.

Enjoy.

What is Concealed is Eventually Revealed

I am in love with genealogy.  And that's putting it mildly.  Obsessed would be a better term.  Because of this interest, I often wonder how DD will view the family tree.  Will she accept that she's been adopted into mine?  Or will she think of genetics as everything, and reject my half of the family?  That would well and truly break my heart, but I would understand it at some level.  After all, didn't I have those same thoughts as I struggled with the idea of using donor eggs, and didn't I think that somehow meant the baby wouldn't be "my" child?  Ridiculous in hindsight, but it was a real struggle for me to get from there to here, where I don't even think about it anymore.

One of the things that has struck me as very interesting is the increasing usage of DNA testing to help with genealogical research.  Costs have come down significantly.  Researchers are cautioned to work on their paper records and then use genetic testing to help make connections, but I suspect as the cost decreases further, caution will be thrown to the wind and people will begin their search with DNA.  I've mentioned this in at least one online community focused on people who've used donor gametes, and my comment was met with - silence.  No one wants to consider this as an issue at the moment, especially those who don't want to tell (the minority), but it is an issue worth considering.

One of the things I never, ever want to happen with DD is for her to find out that we aren't related through a genetic test.  Or at a doctor's visit when family history is important.  Or, even worse, through a whispering from family or friends.  We didn't make a secret of our journey, and while most have forgotten, I'm sure some remember.  I think that would be an amazing betrayal of trust for DD to find out from someone other than me.  While I know that I know that I know that I am her mother, hiding her creation story would cause more of a rift between us than being honest would, I think. 

I'm not sure when the telling will occur, but I suspect the time is getting closer.  "Your eyes are hazel, and daddy's eyes are dark brown - where did my eye color come from?"  "You like red, daddy likes blue, and you made me, and I like purple!"  "The President is part Black and part White?  How does that happen, mommy?"  "I'm part Italian?  What is daddy?  What are you?"  I answer, speaking in measured truth, because my daughter has a frighteningly accurate memory.  She would certainly catch a misstep that I might make because I'm not certain she's ready to hear.  So I try not to make them.

Even if she were older and had the money to do it, it would be hard for DD to use genetic testing to learn the truth about our relationship, at least as I understand the current state of DNA and maternal line testing.  But that is just for now, and that may not be the case when she gets older.  Which is why I found this article ("Are You My Mother?") very, very interesting.

You know, I've recently learned that my grandfather might just have been on the way when his parents were married.  A scandal in those times, though not today.  (Actually, it made me smile, because my great grandmother never smiled in any of the photos taken of her - it tells me she wasn't always so crabby!).  How did I learn this?  Simple, actually.  Her notation in the family bible shows her marriage in one year, and my grandfather's birth in the next.  I believed that to be true, until I found the official marriage register, which recorded the return date of the completed marriage license, and that told me that my grandfather came along about five months after his parents were married.  So, the story that I was told from childhood about my grandfather being a preemie was probably to cover up in case the neighbors noticed anything amiss.  Surely, finding the truth about things is just going to get easier in the future.

"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.  What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs."  Luke 12:2-3.

True words, indeed.

Giving To Get?

(Warning:  religion discussed - if that offends you, please just click onward)

I haven't been good at going to church in my life.  I was lucky if I were one of the C & E'rs (Christmas and Easter goers).  Many years, it was just Christmas Eve (and let's be candid - sometimes, I even missed that service).  Notwithstanding, I did send sporadic contributions to the church over the years.  My brother, who attended church only once after confirmation (for his wedding), and who never contributed, was eventually removed from the rolls after multiple contacts, because helloooo - that's really not belonging, is it?  (He can come back any time he wants - he just looks sad and/or snarky when it comes up but doesn't make any effort to, you know, actually go to church.)

My current church has a long history for me.  My parents and grandparents belonged to a church (let's call it M), and it merged with another church into P.  My parents were married at P.  I was baptized there.  I would have been married there, but my impeccable timing put my wedding date after P's building was sold but before yet another congregational merger occurred.  We ended up getting married at another church that was very pretty and part of my larger church organization, but the staff made it fairly clear that we were an inconvenience to them (even though we paid them for everything), because you know, that's certainly what Jesus would do!

So, moving forward, P's congregation eventually combined with another church to become H.  And that is how things were when DD was born.  I wanted to have her baptized, and so did DH, even though he's not really into the church thing.  He's one of those "non-practicing" people.  The minister then, who is still the minister now, did everything he possibly could to convince me to go to another church, simply because we live quite a distance from the church (about a 45 minute drive, actually).  He didn't think it was fair to DD if she wanted to get involved in church activities as she grew older, and he didn't think it was fair to the congregation, who had to commit to support us while we raised her and would likely never see her.  I remember being upset about this and telling DH that I felt that he was trying to kick me out of the only church I'd known, though that was probably the post-partum hormones thinking for me.  Anyway, in the end, he agreed to baptize DD.  And I've felt guilty in my absence for the last six flipping years, because you know, he was right.  It's hard to be part of the body of the church from a distance.

From time to time, I've mentioned going to church again.  DH was silent about that, undoubtedly hoping that this too will pass, because hellloooo, Sunday is the only day we have to sleep in.  But, I finally worked out the logistics in my head, to include the every other Sunday visit to my dad in the calculation (why yes, we still are going through my mother's stuff - why do you ask?).  And off we went.  (Much to DH's chagrin, I'm sure, but he's there to set a good example, and I commend him for that.)

DD has really enjoyed going to Sunday school, and frankly, she is having more fun than I remember having.  But, recently, DH asked me if I knew that they were trying to convince DD to give to church by giving her a "Bible Buck" if she made a contribution.  WTF?  The Sunday after he told me, I ran into the church secretary and asked about it (since she is one of the Sunday school organizers).  She said that yes, indeed, DD would get a Bible Buck if she contributed, but she would also get one for doing any number of things - attending church, wearing a name tag, answering questions about what they've learned that day, bringing a friend, etc.  Mmmkay.  I suppose that kind of makes sense - they are rewarding stewardship.  I used to give DD Skittles to help her potty train, and she doesn't need them now.  Perhaps this works the same way, I thought.  But giving someone a reward for a contribution just seemed like the wrong thing to do.

Now, it just so happened that DD had brought one of her own dollars in to church the day we asked the church secretary about the Bible Bucks program.  And, it was "family Sunday" that day, where the children stay with their parents for the service.  I'd heard that it was family Sunday, but since I wasn't familiar with the current practices, I wasn't certain exactly what that meant and didn't ask because, hey, anything to do with "family" must be good, right?  The secretary said that if we filled out a pew envelope with DD's name on it and the letters "SS" (for Sunday school) she would get "credit" for her contribution.  Mmmkay.

DD was really disappointed about not having Sunday school that day, and I felt bad because we hadn't warned her what to expect.  But she did well and didn't fuss too much, even though it wasn't all that interesting to her.  Just before the offering, DD and I completed the pew envelope as instructed.  When the plate arrived, I told DD to put it in.  She turned her head toward me and said "you do it."  Thinking that actually meant that I should, you know, put it in the plate (silly me!), I put the envelope in the plate. 

And then DD started to cry.  And cry.  And cry.  Silent, big tears.  And she wouldn't tell me why.  Later on, she finally told me that she was upset because she didn't think she would get a Bible Buck because she hadn't put her dollar in the Sunday school collection.

Bingo.  This is exactly what was bothering me about the whole Bible Buck thing.  So we discussed the framework for giving - that everything belongs to God, but He would like us to contribute to our church, or community, or our fellow man, but only if it is freely and from the heart.  Not because someone will give us something, but because it is the right thing to do - for example, her tummy is usually full of good food, but not everyone is so blessed, and it is our job to help those who don't have enough food.  Or a place to stay.  Or clothes to wear.  And I gave her back her dollar and made her promise never to give again unless it came from her heart.  I also sent an email to the church secretary explaining what had happened and asking them to talk about why we give in Sunday school (without saying how antithetical to the bible that I thought the whole Bible Bucks in exchange for contributions was).

I don't know if I handled this the right way or not, but I really do think rewarding kids for contributing to the church really sends the wrong message.  Yes, I know that adults get a benefit on their income tax returns for charitable contributions, but it's not the same.  To perhaps get a small portion back of what you gave months ago - but only if you itemize - isn't much of a motivator, I don't think.

I guess I'll find out after she grows up if I've had an impact on her to become a cheerful giver, or if she is uncharitable because her heart moves her more to buy that new pair of shoes than it does to help others.  I hope it's the latter, I really do.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming To Bring You . . .

Lice!  Yes, lice.  Creepy, skreepy, yucky, ucky, ooey, gooey (gooey?), m*ther f*cking LICE!

Shortly before Christmas, DD's principal notified the parents that there had been a case of lice in DD's room.  After that, DD and her classmates were subjected to daily head searches (from both the school and required of us, as though we actually knew what we were looking for - um, ew?), bagging of her personal possessions, enforced personal distance, a requirement that we put her hair up (which she freaking hates), and a demand that we wash her coat and accessories on an almost daily basis.  Which, of course, made for an overall skeevy feeling whenever we walked into her classroom.

It happened again in January.  Lather.  Rinse.  And repeat in March. Needless to say, I was p*ssed.  Because really?  How freaking hard could it be to get rid of a case of lice?  We'd heard it was the same kids over and over, with the occasional new kid infected - so who were the parents who weren't working at it hard enough?  (I know, not fair, but seriously - three times?)

In an effort to eradicate the lice, the school brought in the equivalent of a nuclear bomb - a professional lice brigade!  Who inspected everyone's head.  And guess what?  Ah, yes.  They found a nit in DD's head.  DD and three other children were forced to sit in the principal's office until mom and/or dad came to get them.  How embarrassing.  (And totally unnecessary, really, because helloooo . . . this has been going on for months.)  The third bout with lice turned out to be, well, not exactly a charm for DD.

When I arrived at the school, after I hugged my poor daughter who I imagine was feeling a bit like Typhoid Mary,* the principal handed me an index card with a taped "sample" from DD's head.  It was a nit, but holy cow - it was about half the size of a typed "." and completely unlike any of the pictures that I'd Googled.  Oh, and did I mention that it was also brown and matched her hair color exactly?  I now know that I would need a magnifying glass to see a nit.  They told us that we could keep the card as a souvenir.  Yay! 

Have I mentioned lately that even though DD has her own room, she still sleeps with us?  Next to me?  So, yes, I was little freaked out.  But, I'd already learned from the lice brigade's website that they offered a heat dryer treatment that was guaran-effing-teed to get rid of lice and eggs.  FDA approved.  One treatment.  One clean up.  All gone.  The price was a little steep ($145), but it included a lot of product, the head inspections (for everyone), and the heat treatment (for one person). 

The lice brigade's "boutique" (not their real name, of course) was located about an hour away from us.  I called them on my way to pick DD up.  Can you see us today?  How about in an hour?  Is an hour good for you?  I couldn't get an appointment until 2:30 that day, and it wasn't soon enough.  I told DH that he would need to meet us there, and everyone was going to get a head check.

All the way there, my head itched (and honestly, it has been itching a little bit the week before).  I was absolutely convinced that it was total party time on MM - because I could feel them moving people!!  Ewwww.  But, after the inspection, it turned out that DD was newly infected, because she had about 20 nits, nothing living, and DH and I were clean.

I thought that can't be true!  But it was.  I apparently just had a dry scalp that day.  And all movement that I felt was all in my head, not on my head.  I asked if I could be treated anyway, just in case.  The woman looked at me as if I were a bit nuts, and said that a lice treatment wouldn't be necessary for me, because, you know, I didn't actually have lice. 

DD loved the blow trying treatment.  Afterward, they put some yucky stuff in her hair and wrapped it in a plastic bag, which I think was supposed to dissolve any nit glue in her hair so that all debris would be washed away (it looked gross).  She only needed to leave it on for ten minutes, but our drive was much longer than that.  We left with an enzyme that supposedly dissolved both eggs and bugs that you could spray on furniture if you wanted, a super duper nit comb that I didn't need (because they combed DD's hair out), as well as some repellent (which aggravated my asthma for a week and totally wasn't worth it - I think it was made of eucalyptus and citronella).

I did learn some interesting things about these little effers, since we spent quite a bit of time at the lice boutique that day and I didn't have anything else to do except ask 50 million questions:

• Lice like clean hair, and maybe one of the reasons why they are being reported frequently these days is because we wash our hair more than we used to.  I do not ever remember hearing about lice when I was in school, but I also didn't wash my hair every day either - maybe this is why we didn't hear about them?
• Lice really can't move around very well when they aren't in your hair.  If you've ever seen a picture of one, it makes sense.  They have little claw like legs in the front, and a big butt - but no back legs!  You could point and laugh if one fell onto a counter; they aren't going anywhere.  It would be like having no legs and having to crawl around using your elbows.  Really inefficient.
• The over the counter products don't work, because hellooooo, they haven't changed the formulation in years, and the lice laugh - yes, they laugh - when you coat them with this junk.  (I just threw in the laugh part; I think they probably just smirk a bit.)  Honestly, based on what other moms have told me, I think that it's the daily use of the nit comb and good house cleaning - more than the over the counter insecticide - that gets rid of them.
• The forced clothes washing?  Hah!  More laughter from the lice, because they can old their breath for up to eight hours.  They could care less if you wash your clothes.  Wash them twice!  (Snicker.)
• Now as for the drying part, well, they don't like that very much.  All you need to do is use the dryer on timed high heat for 30 minutes, and presto!  Bugs and eggs - all gone.  (Insert maniacal laughter here, because I am empowered now.)  Things that can't be put in the dryer can just be put in a plastic bag for two weeks, or in the freezer for 24 hours.
• Lice are transmitted from one person to another through the obvious - sharing hats, touching heads, sharing hairbrushes - but they are also fabulous trapeze artists.  They actually can swing from an infected head to a non-infected head in a flash, and the hair barely has to touch.  Apparently, they are less inclined to trapeze over to a new head if the new head has the stinky repellent on it - kind of like you might not be inclined to walk into a kitchen where they were cooking  something that you really hate eating.  (I say that the repellent is "stinky" just because it makes me wheeze; I suppose it doesn't smell all that offensive to someone without asthma.)
• Head lice do not spread disease.
• According to our state's website, you don't have to empty the vacuum after your home clean up, unless of course you want to (they can't crawl around, remember?)
• The whole point of the clean up is to pick up any hairs that have fallen out of an infected head that might contain a nit, because the lice can hatch any time up to two weeks later.  So, I really didn't need to freak the f*ck out because I stupidly put my purse on the floor at the lice boutique in the treatment room - just a quick whisk with a lint remover was all that was necessary.
• Lice really can't live for very long away from a host.  They say that they can live up to 48 hours without a meal, but our state's website suggested that it really is only a matter of hours or even less.

I'd emailed our pediatrician right after we heard that there had been a third infestation but before I knew that DD was affected, because I've always felt that forewarned is forearmed.  She suggested something that actually suffocates the lice and is inexpensive to use (not an insecticide).  But the downside of that would be the daily clean up for the two week period, because the nits could still hatch.  I prefer the heat treatment, frankly. 

It's taken me awhile to write this post, and right now, we are at the point where we are ready to take our things out of plastic bags, and this is the end of the last week to wear her hair up.  Oddly, DD's been asking when she can go back to the lice boutique again, because she thought the blow dryer treatment was so much fun!

Eh.  I think I'll pass on that.

 

 

* - Though Typhoid Mary wasn't nearly as cooperative as DD.

Hello Out There

I appreciate all of the kind words and comments.  And I'm still around.  I just haven't been visiting here very much because I haven't wanted to think about my feelings.  Much healthier to push them down and ignore them!  (Not.  Well, at least it's easier.  Mostly.)

Not much to report.  I was hopeful about the embryo adoption, but I don't know if that's going to come through or not.  The person who made the wonderful offer has some really devastating issues in her life to address at the moment, and I understand that this isn't a priority.  I don't want to be a pest, even though I still feel on pins and needles about the opportunity.

You know, I've always been an action oriented kind of person.  If there is something I want to accomplish, then I go after it and get it done.  I can be pretty focused and driven.  A mountain you say?  Well, I'll go around it.  Or through it.  Or over it.  Or blast it out of the way.  But I can't do anything, because the ball isn't in my court.  And that's hard for me.  The only action that I could take right now is to choose a new donor and start over.  But I don't think I have it in me to do that.

Sometimes, and especially lately, I've been wondering what it would have been like to have lived a different life, one where I would have married young, had no fertility issues, had my two babies (or more!), and enjoyed getting older as I watched them grow and give me grandchildren.  Instead, here I am, hyperventilating and sad, still thinking about the child that I lost and still jealous of all the babies and bellies around me.  Recently, I learned that someone at work will be a dad in April, which is the month that my baby would have been born.  My daughter's after-care teacher is due in June.  It's hardly seems fair, though I know that life isn't fair, and I know that there are people with a lot more sorrow than I have.  A friend of mine just lost his precious granddaughter of 13 months.  Unimaginable.  But my sadness for him doesn't make my pain less.  I miss my own baby dammit.

At some level, I'm mad at DH.  On the one hand, he's gone along with all of the cycles, so maybe it's unfair to have these feelings.  After all, he did put up with all of the bullsh*t that was part and parcel of all of that.  But, he's also fought me tooth and nail each step of the way.  No interest in adoption.  Argued against Clomid, because it could cause multiple births.  Argued against IUI with injections, same reason.  Argued against IVF, same reason.  Argued against the first donor cycle, same reason.  Argued against using the left over embryos, this time because he was ostensibly too old (that argument has continued).  Oh, and we always had to transfer only one embryo where possible, which reduced the possibility of success (since they were always three-day embryos).  Surprise!  We haven't gotten younger with all the arguing and delay.  So yes, still p*ssed about all of that, even though I think he's the best dad in the world and would love another child (and yes, he does admit that he would love another child, and he's tired of talking about this, and we should just do it already dammit).  I think part of it may be due to the fact that DH lost his father when DH was 17, and it also may be due to the fact that he's the most involved dad I know.  It still makes me laugh when my own father tells DH that DH is a much better dad that he was.

My daughter is such a beautiful little girl.  She's beautiful, smart, graceful, kind, and has a delightful sense of humor.  I still can't believe that I get to be her mother.  I don't ever mean to sound ungrateful about that, and in my fantasies about having had my babies early, she is part of that dream.  But I want her to have a brother or sister.  I am enjoying her so much, and I know that another child would bring even more joy.

It still makes me want to cry.  (Sh*t, I do cry, who am I kidding?)  So I push it out of my thoughts.  When I do think about it, it feels like the window of opportunity is closing for me, this time for good.  I'm not even sure why I'm feeling that way right now, because I've always been one of those people who believe that you should follow your heart where it leads, even if it isn't where or when you expect.  My parents' next-door neighbor fostered an older child when she was in her 50's and eventually adopted her long after her two boys were grown, so you just never know what might happen.  (Of course, their next-door neighbor was [and still is] quite a b*tch, so now she has three children who wouldn't walk across the street to do you-know-what to her if she were on fire, but I digress.)

Wouldn't it be grand to have a crystal ball that works to know how this will all turn out in the end?

 

Still Around

Um, hello.  I guess I haven't been here in quite awhile, though the spammers have left a few presents (I think I got rid of them all, but I'm not sure). 

Honestly, I didn't have a lot to say.

I had a birthday a few weeks ago.

I broke a toe (&%#$).

I've noticed more wrinkles.  (Really need to look into getting the eyes done - yuck.  Does anyone know about how much that would cost?)

Still spotting to the tune of a drop a day, though I finally had a normal p*riod starting on Monday, so maybe the spotting will be gone now too.  Nothing like a daily reminder of what I've lost.  I would like that to stop.

I was very angry.

I have been very sad.

I bought one of these.  It's something tangible that I can feel, when I need to have something to hold.  Like when I see a pregnant woman.  Or a sweet new baby.  (My husband didn't "get" my need for something like this at all.  Must be a chick thing.)

I sent $150 to the egg broker to get a list of possible donors, but . . . sigh.

My other baby decided that she was ready to start sleeping in her new bed.  Unfortunately, she made that decision the Friday after the miscarriage, which made me feel like I'd lost two babies that week.  Fortunately, she's decided to come back and visit from time to time, so that's a comfort.

I'm still sad, and I'm still angry, though I have gotten more focused about that.  I'm not angry at my brother any longer.  We talked about it.  He isn't the most prompt person, and one week wasn't enough time to call to say congratulations before I lost the baby.

I'm not angry with every pregnant woman I see now, even the self-absorbed ones.  Life goes on.  I do hope that they realize how truly blessed they are.  I don't cry when I see a new baby anymore, but I still feel an ache in my arms and in my heart. 

I am angry with my doctor.  What I described in the morning on my last post was nothing like what happened in the evening.  I thought I was bleeding to death, soaking through a pad about every 15 minutes or so.  I couldn't decide whether to call an ambulance or try to make it to a different (safer) emergency room, 15 minutes away.  I called my doctor's answering service and told them that I really needed to speak with him, and they wouldn't call him for me.  They told me to go to the hospital, his hospital, 45 minutes away, and he might be there.  Or not.  They weren't even sure if he was in town.  I declined, and we ended up going to the closer emergency room. 

I felt bad that we had to wake DD up to go to the emergency room.  Fortunately, we'd already talked about what was happening with me.  DD was great, and very interested in everything at the hospital.  She even got a close up view of my blood draw; something I thought was important since she'd been so afraid of hers a couple of weeks before.  She managed to stay awake for the duration, even though we didn't leave until 4:00 in the morning.

But I'm not angry with the doctor because his answering service is stupid.  I'm angry because I learned that he had heard my tear-filled my-baby-died message on Friday, and he apparently thought someone else would get the message and deal with it.  What he didn't realize was that the message erased after he heard it.  So no one else knew that I had started to miscarry, and it was apparently too much trouble for him to actually call me himself to tell me what to expect and to offer options.  There must have been a run on miscarriages that weekend.  Or not.  He's very busy, I guess, what with only working half weeks and all.

When I called his office to make a follow up appointment for blood, the receptionist (though not in so many words) told me that I really hadn't called that Friday and left my tear-filled my-baby-died message (so I guess I must have been lying?).  I guess she might reasonably think that, since the message had been erased.  But that doesn't excuse her snarkiness when she learned that I didn't go to their preferred emergency room.  ("Why would you do that?  Now we have to get releases to order those records!"  S*cks to be you, I guess.)  The better questions would be:  "What was going on that caused you to visit the emergency room?  How are you feeling now?"  Oh, and how about "I'm sorry to hear about your loss."

The doctor was kind when I saw him.  He yelled at the answering service for refusing to call him (I overheard that all the way into the examining room when he stepped out for the blood draw).  He said that he would have done a D & C for me, even on the weekend.  (Except of course that he actually would have had to call me back to make those arrangements - a minor point.  Hmph.)

Could it have been a comedy of errors, and could I have been a bit sensitive?  I guess.  But when I called them a few weeks later to ask if there were any vaccines I should consider in the event I wanted to try again (I know, I should have asked before, but better late than never), the nurse told me that they didn't feel comfortable suggesting anything, and I should call my internist.  I asked her to ask the doctor.  After a week or so, not having heard anything, I called back.  And she said that it was as she thought; the doctor didn't feel comfortable recommending anything, but he did suggest that I talk with my RE.  Except I didn't even get that message, because she didn't call back to tell me that.  She said that she just figured that her first comment to me was sufficient.  (As an aside, my internist thought they were freaking crazy, since they were the obstetrics specialists and actually had the blood tests that would answer the question about which vaccines I might need - the short answer is TDAP.)

So.  They s*ck.  And so did the very pregnant woman who came into the office as I was waiting to go in for my blood work who couldn't stop b*tching about how miserable she was.  Here's a suggestion, my dear.  If you come into the OB's office, and someone is curled up, has a flat stomach, and appears kind of teary and sad, you might want to count your f*cking blessings, because she just might give anything to have your problems.  I'm just saying.

And something good happened too.  There is an old saying that says when God closes a door, He opens a window.  And, I've also heard it said that there are angels on earth.  I do think that perhaps I've met one, though only in cyberspace.  Someone who might be interested in allowing us to adopt her embryos.  Such an unbelievable honor.  I know, because there was a time that I thought we would be in the same circumstance.  Given that we always thought of our embryos as our unborn children, I do remember how hard it was to even contemplate letting them go (they were my babies!), and even if I could do that, there was the constant worry about insuring that they would go to a good and loving home.  Like I said, what an honor that someone would consider us for such a precious gift.

And, when all is said and done, I think that might be the perfect option.  I don't know that I have the energy to go through another donor cycle.  I still hear the dreadful tick, tick, TICK, TICK in the background all the time.  And now I've finally had a normal p*riod.  The lab is closed this month for whatever it is they do once a year, but if this is meant to be, I hope that we can work things out very soon, because time is not my friend.

Thank you all for the kind words and good thoughts.  I do appreciate them, more than you know.  I hope that you have a very Merry Christmas and a New Year filled with blessings.  And I hope you finish the work of Christmas - the cards, the baking, the buying, the wrapping - soon, so that you can have time to just breathe and enjoy the warmth and peace of Christmas.

 

Always On My Mind, Forever In My Heart

It's amazing how these little beings just wrap around your heart, even though you don't know them, can't feel them, and if you're like me, consciously try not to allow it.  It wasn't like that with our first pregnancy (blighted ovum), but after dealing with another loss after that and all the negative cycles in between and after, I learned to protect my heart.  It kind of broke through when I saw that heartbeat at 6 weeks.  Just for a second, the tears came through unbidden.  Happy, happy, happy.  Suppress, suppress, suppress.  Can't be happy.  Not yet. 

But still, you plan.  In spite of yourself.  Because the mind works independently of the heart.  When I took that Friday off when I started spotting, I immediately thought about my leave bank at work - what if I ended up on bed rest?  I've been stingy about that bank, protective of it, saving it for that baby that I just knew was going to come home eventually.  Saving it for five damned years.  But now, I can go crazy with leave time, because hey, who cares anymore?  I can put those maternity clothes away that I took out of hiding last weekend.  My regular jeans already feel looser, and my abdomen has softened.  I'd planned a trip to this really wonderful second hand maternity store on Saturday, deliberately keeping the number of places that I would stop to a minimum so I would have the luxury of time to choose some nice winter maternity clothes.  When I looked at my shopping list, having forgotten all about that store, I remembered and started crying at the emptiness of the list.  My life seems to be divided now, into "before" and "after."  The after really s*cks.

I only bought one thing for the baby.  It was a high chair cover, the kind you use in a restaurant.  It was the only thing I allowed myself to buy, though I didn't tell DH.  We already have one, but it was kind of a PITA to use.  This one looked easier.  And it was on sale.  It is a blue checkered pattern, because I was certain that this baby was a boy, though I could have used it for a girl as well.  I don't know why I thought it would be a boy.  My preference was girl, girl, girl.  Whenever my husband and I used to talk about whether there would be another donor cycle, I would always jokingly ask, "but what about Emily?"  Emily was the name of our phantom girl, the child that was missing from our family.  We've even saved all of DD's clothes that were not worn or stained (and trust me, that's a lot of clothes).  Yet, my heart told me that this was a boy.

I would have loved my boy.  My boss, who has two boys, said that the best thing about boys is, unlike girls, that they love, love, love you - always.  No teenage hissy "I hate yous."  It's all mom, all the time.  (I guess the "I hate yous" are reserved for dad when you're a boy.)  Every time I imagined this child in my life, it was a boy.  I wondered what I would do with a boy though.  I don't know anything about boys.  But I knew that I would love him unconditionally.  And I would laugh at my husband, since he would be the one who would have to deal with the million "I have to go potty" moments when we were all out in public, as I do now. 

I started to think about diapers.  There was a website that offered a discount if you ordered on a regular basis.  I almost signed up.  Good thing I didn't.  I had six iPhone apps to tell me how he was growing.  And multiple pregnancy emails coming every day.  It was hard to delete the apps and unsubscribe to the emails.  It was hard to be with my daughter last night at a large Halloween event at a local zoo.  So many babies.  So many adorable little kids.  I was walking death in the middle of all that life.

I sometimes allowed myself to imagine having a whole summer alone with this baby.  DD was born at the end of August, so I had cold weather while I was home with her on maternity leave.  This child would be different.  No summer birthday parties, but we could manage to find fun things to do indoors.  Spring and summer are my two favorite seasons.  I couldn't think of anything better to look forward to than a birthday that also celebrated the spring and the start of my favorite time of the year.

It keeps coming up, this interweaving, the connectedness in the flow of my life, in spite of it all.  In stupid little inconsequential ways that make me cry anew.  I have an iPhone 3G.  I am still in my contract period, even though there is now a 3GS and a 4G.  I'd thought about upgrading, but I didn't do it because I wanted to save money for my maternity leave.  I guess I can spend with abandon, because who cares?  It doesn't matter.  My car will be paid off by the time the baby would have been born, but who cares?  It doesn't matter, because there won't be a new baby to snuggle with in the spring.  I went back to drinking green tea, because I can have all the caffeine I want, and I don't have to worry about that silly article that I read that said that green tea might inhibit the absorption of folic acid for the baby.  I can drink all the wine I want.  I can take any medication I want, because my body and breasts aren't nurturing a child.  Nothing seems to matter anymore.  I've even been trying to see how many mini Kit Kats I have to eat before I feel a little better.  I apparently haven't eaten enough yet.  Because who the f*ck cares?

Unlike my other two miscarriages, this baby had a beating heart.  I saw it.  It was real.  It was alive.  And I wonder what I was doing when that tiny heart finally stopped.  Was I happy?  Sad?  Busy at work?  Sleeping?  Hopefully, I was thinking of him at that moment.  I will never hold his hand.  Never snuggle with him.  Never smell his sweetness.  Never see him play in the sunshine.  But I hope that I was there mentally with him as he was leaving this world, never to have seen its wonder and beauty. 

Probably one of the hardest things is that there really is nothing to tangible to mourn.  No one talks about this.  People don't know what to say, so many say nothing at all.  Or, they might express some sympathy, or worse ("it's for the best" - "it's God's will" - or if you're from my family, "you were too old anyway" [no, no one has actually said it, but I know they were thinking it].  Most people expect you to move on after a week or so.  I will probably order one of these, once I can bring myself to do it.  Because I never, ever want to forget.  As much as I tried to suppress it, I loved that baby.

I know that it's wrong to be mad at God, but it's hard not to be (I know, here I go again, blaming everything on God).  As all of this was happening at the hospital, I could only think to pray the Lord's prayer, because I couldn't mentally put words together that could possibly express the fear and anxiousness I was feeling.  Emphasis on "Thy will be done."  Please, please, let me accept your will.  And let me offer this little one up to you Father.  Mercy.  Please, please, have mercy on us.  Please save our baby.  Please send a miracle.  Please let us see movement on the ultrasound.  Over and over and over.  Because He promises that if we seek Him, He will draw near.  I asked for His peace to abide with me all day, so that I could accept whatever came.  But it didn't come.  It just didn't.  There was no peace then.  There is no peace now.  My husband was with me all day, but we were coming from such different places, it was still very lonely. 

I will never understand.  I was ready to accept a negative test.  When the spotting started, I was ready to accept another blighted ovum.  But once I saw that heartbeat . . . Really, what was the f*cking point of this exercise?  What possible purpose could be served?  "All things work together for the good of those who love Him."  Romans 8:28.  I will go to my grave wondering how that could possibly be true.

This miscarriage is very hard, physically as well as mentally and emotionally.  I've had two others.  One with a pregnancy that hardly got started (I had a positive pregnancy test, but I barely made it to four weeks), so it was like a regular period.  The other was a blighted ovum, but my doctor talked me into a D & C because he was concerned about the amount of tissue that I would have to pass at nine weeks along.  He did me quite the favor, as it turns out.  Not only is my heart broken because I lost a real live child with a beating heart, but the pain was unbelievable this morning.  I woke up with mild cramps and took some ibuprofen.  Within 15 minutes, I was doubled over in pain.  Nurse J said that if I soaked through a pad every half an hour, I should go to the hospital.  I think I was close to that.  I had a heating pad, but it didn't help.  Nor did the V*codin I took a couple hours later.  But I think he's gone now from my body, one of the many large pieces of tissue I felt leaving my body while bent over in agony on the toilet.  What an undignified end.

F*ck.

How Ironic

Today was the date for their campaign for pregnancy and infant loss awareness.  Too sad to spend much time there today.

I am having a hard time accepting this.  And it will drive me insane to change pad after pad with pieces of my child on them.

When I left my weepy message at the OB's office at 3:30, they'd already left for the day.  Good for them.  The doctor wasn't in anyway, and they were completely unhelpful.  "Well, could be implantation bleeding."  {Really, at almost 13 weeks?] "It's possible.  If it turns red or you get bad cramps, then go to the emergency room.  Don't take any Tylenol so that you can tell if the pain gets bad."  But sorry, no ultrasound.  Couldn't get an ultrasound at the RE's office [sorry, you've been discharged] or at my old OB's office [sorry, he's on medical leave].

I had been afraid to go to the bathroom, because if I never peed again, then I wouldn't see anymore blood.  Perfectly logical, right?  But I had to give in eventually, and I saw that the blood had turned red.

The first emergency room was just down the road a bit.  They didn't even have an ultrasound machine (I guess "24 hour emergency care" means stitches only?).  But they were very, very nice.  The doctor tried to calm my fears, telling me that he came across a case of vaginal bleeding during pregnancy every other shift on average, and really, it didn't have to mean the end.  He also said that he could do an exam and a blood test, but if I wanted an ultrasound to ease my fears, I should find a hospital-based emergency room because it would make no sense to do things piecemeal.  Oh, and no charge for this visit, and good luck.  We went to the one that he recommended because he suggested that they would be slow at around 11:00.

It was miserable.  We had to go through a metal detector when we first came in.  Some people were nice, like the fourth year medical student.  They had a cr*ppy ultrasound in the E.R. that wasn't providing the resolution that they wanted.  The doctor and supervising doctor were trying to see something and were mumbling to each other.  When I asked what they were saying, I was told they were just talking to each other.  [Um, yes, I could see that.  That wasn't the question.]  The medical student said that they were discussing the bad resolution.  They kept turning the screen off and on and said that I would need to go and have a formal ultrasound, apparently with a screen that actually worked.  I had to have a catheter inserted for this, which was a first for me.  Which was done after they did the pelvic exam.  The doctor wasn't certain, because there was bleeding, but she thought the cervix might have been slightly open.  Sucky news.  She said not to panic; it was hard to see, and it still looked like a line to her rather than an "O."

When we finally got up to ultrasound, my husband asked if he could come in the room with me.  The b*tchy ultrasound tech shook her head in a terse no directed at the person my husband had asked the question of.  I said that he wanted to be there, and I wanted him there.  The ultrasound tech appeared irritated, but she allowed him to stay.  She told us she couldn't answer any questions.  It would have been nice if the table had stirrups.  My legs kept trembling and it was hard holding them steady during the transv*ginal ultrasound (they did an abdominal ultrasound as well, using the catheter to fill my bladder).

I'd seen enough ultrasounds to know that it was over, though my husband had no idea.  There was a sac but no baby, no movement.  When it was over, she asked if I were OK, and I said I wasn't. 

Probably the best part of the day (is there a best part of such a sad day?) was the nurse who'd come on duty by the time we came down.  He said that he'd read the chart, and he knew we were worried.  He said he would hound the doctor about getting the results to us because he knew that any wait would feel too long.  I could see a computer screen from across the room, and he said to pay attention to the pink bar across the screen (there was only one pink bar).  It meant that my test results were waiting to be read.  Once it turned green, the results would be ready.  He also told us that he and his wife were going through infertility treatments.  He'd gone to my clinic and a couple of others with her and they'd had their share of pain and anguish.  Like us, they had one precious gift and were trying for another.  And he was right there when the doctor left after delivering he bad news.  There isn't a right thing to say, but he came the closest.  Bless his heart.  I pray that he and his wife get the happy ending.

I called my RE's office to tell them and was able to talk with J.  She was very kind.  She's pretty much been the only nurse there that I've worked with for these last ten years (can it have been that long?).  The only time I didn't speak with her during that time is if she had the day off.  She gave me the best aftercare instructions of all the people that I'd spoken with today.  And, she put my mind at ease about stopping the Crinone, Estrace, and baby aspirin, because I thought that might have triggered this.  I'd taken them for as long as I had been asked, and she said that if I had stopped too soon on Monday of this week, the sac would be larger.  Sadly, no one will ever know why this baby stopped growing.

After we told DD that the baby had stopped growing, she wanted to know if there would ever be another chance to be a big sister.  I told her there wasn't (God, I wish there were - are there still miracles?  Will my forever child come to me in a different way?).  She crawled into my lap and we both hugged and cried.

I will have to see my father and brother this weekend when I go to my father's house to help out.  I don't want to see them, but unless I'm dying, I really can't get out of it.  We haven't been there for the last two Sundays, due to emergencies that my brother had.  And, my dear friend is giving a baby shower for her daughter the Sunday after, so I hadn't planned on coming next weekend.  Not sure if I will be able to handle that or not now; I might have my husband drop the present off. 

I sent my father and brother a really brief email.  I'm sure they're happy that the issue is gone.  They didn't ever approve, after all.  And I never did receive any acknowledgement from my brother or his wife after I told them I was pregnant.

I thought that I knew sadness.  Living without my mom for the last three years has been unbelievably hard, and I wish she were here to comfort me.  I can't quantify in my heart what has been the worst thing to happen to me, but I have to say that this certainly feels like the worst day of my life.  I never knew that it was possible to get chapped skin around my eyes from crying.

Nothing more to say.  I thought it might help to write these thoughts down, but it really hasn't.

 

 

 

It's Gone

10 week sac, no fetal pole, no heartbeat.

About That Baby

I stopped my Crinone, Estrace, and baby aspirin Monday.  My RE told me that I only needed to continue for 12 weeks, and Monday was the start of the 13th week.  I was kind of happy to leave that behind.  Now I'm not so sure.  Maybe it was my insurance.  Normally, I would have only had to take it for 8 weeks after transfer, but since I didn't ovulate this cycle, the RE didn't want to take any chances and asked me to take them for 4 more weeks, just to be safe.  Safe, as in the placenta is supposed to be working and keeping things going when you get finish your 12th week.

All week, I've had (really) mild cramping, kind of like what you feel before your period.  And this evening, there was brown and pink spotting.  Just a little so far.  I thought it was over, but there was more after I got up from the couch after an hour and a half. 

DD walked in when I was in the bathroom and saw the brown spot on the liner.  "Oh, that must be a little poop mommy.  No big deal.  It happens to me all the time."  What a sweetie.  But, not five minutes later, she had a major blow up.  And I snapped at her.  And later, after she was calm, I answered the daily baby questions.  "How big is the baby now mommy?"  "Is this where I would carry a baby, mommy?"  I am so looking forward to sharing this with her.  It was hard to answer tonight.

DH helped right away when I told him how I was feeling.  He helped DD finish up in the shower, which really was a big help.  He tells me that if something happened, he would feel bad, because now that there actually is a baby, he doesn't want anything to happen to it.  I can't quite grasp that, because he would also prefer that it not be here.  But I suppose he would feel bad at some level if something happened, all the while feeling some relief that we were back to the status quo.  DD and I would be the only ones who would be really grieving if something happened, I think - we wouldn't be feeling relief at all.

No severe cramping.  No red blood.  Nothing more than that.  So, I'll wait and call the doctor in the morning.  Not that they will do anything, because there is nothing to be done.  It is what it is.  Though it was rather ironic to have read the daily posts on my pregnancy apps congratulating me this week, because making past twelve weeks greatly decreases the chances of miscarriage.  I guess those are the operative words - "greatly decrease."  As in still possible. 

Funny thing though, I could swear that over the last week I've felt little "skitters" across the inside of my abdomen when I lie very quietly at night.  I'm sure that it's too early, that it was all in my imagination.  But I hope that I will be given the chance to feel it for real.

 

Update:  Though I don't think I've seen more than two drops in total, it's red this morning and the very mild cramps are gone.  Nothing really to add to that, except that my heart will be in my throat when I call the doctor's office this morning, probably making it hard to talk.  If you are the praying type, please add me to your list today.