"Worth It"

So, in two days I'll have made it to 33 weeks. Thus far, everything points to a completion of this pregnancy and a new baby coming home. Life has no such guarantees, as I am aware, but each day that moves forward makes me more and more hopeful that this pregnancy will have a successful end. And soon.

I am really hating life right now. Things could always be worse than they are, but my discomfort only increases as time goes on. Carpal tunnel pain in both hands, back aches, weird pressures in my abdominal muscles, swelling in legs and feet (fairly mild), terrible heartburn and indigestion, shortness of breath when I climb stairs - and just being damn hungry all day long. My trips to the bathroom haven't increased overly much, but I know that is coming soon. I'll trade that for being able to eat and breathe better, I guess.

Here's the thing though. Everybody asks me how I'm doing, and when I tell them, a lot of times I hear the ridiculous phrases, "It'll be worth it," or "It's so worth it." I feel this phrase is very demeaning to me as a person. Maybe it's just me - maybe I don't get it because I haven't had the kid yet. But right now, telling me I'll "be fine, it's so worth it" is like negating my personhood. "Yeah, you're miserable, but it's okay. We just really want to see that baby, cause babies are so cute, so suck it up already, you're pregnant, shit happens, too bad."

I know when a woman gives birth, especially naturally, she gets an incredible hit of hormones that is unlike anything else she will ever experience, hormones that create incredible sensations of love and joy that help to take away the pain of the pregnancy and birth. People tell me I'll "forget" and then they throw the "worth it" thing out there. As if this entire year of my life is invisible, as if once the baby gets here, it will have never happened, and I get no acknowledgement of this suffering. Maybe that's the effect of the hormones on the brain, but in my thoughts, it just doesn't sit with me quite right. I want to remember what happened to me. I want to know how I made it through this year. And most of all, I want it to be over soon, and I never, ever want to do it again. That is my choice, and remembering this year gives me the presence of mind to make that informed, rational choice. Being wrapped up in all those hormones threatens to take that away from me.

And what is the most crazy is that the unfairness of it all, the onslaught of irrationality, seems to be the thing that these 'worth it' women are championing. They want to forget. They want to be swept away on their hormonal cloud of gooby happy baby thoughts and crank out a couple more kids because they just keep forgetting how much pregnancy sucks. I don't want to live my life like that, as a slave to my reproductive drive. It's already happened once - I lost one and drove myself crazy trying to have another. Not that he replaces the one that was lost, but the completely irrational obsession I had with conceiving again is the reason that he's here. I know how powerful those hormones are, and I'd rather I could opt out of at least some of the craziness, thanks.

Don't get me wrong. That doesn't mean I won't be happy to see him, doesn't mean I won't love him, and doesn't mean I won't say that, given my newfound experiences, I would do it again and it was worth the pain. But after this baby is born, I would just like to have my brain back with less crazy chick hormones, please. I've had crazy chick hormones running around since last December and I am fed up and am tired of sobbing at stupid things all the time. I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore, or what I even used to think, or be like. A year is a long, long time to feel like a stranger in your own body or mind.

\I wonder if women ever recover from this, ever return to who they were before, or if they just adapt as best they can to the new normal, unable to hold on the person they once were. Are they less, or are they more? Does motherhood cause a person to lose herself, or to gain parts of self? I can't be the only person to have asked these questions, really.

What Happens at 22 Weeks

It's true. I haven't updated this blog in a while, but I've been so busy with everything related to work, summer vacations, and the growing baby that I haven't allowed myself the time to write. It's not fair, really - it's my therapy, my respite from everything that makes me sleepless. I also feel that even though I keep up with Facebook, it's not an appropriate place for everything that I am feeling.

Like numb, or confused, or tired of all of this. 

On Monday I'll be 22 weeks pregnant. What that means is that in another two weeks, my pregnancy is considered "viable", that is, if the baby were born that day, it would have a chance to live. A very small chance, maybe 1 in 3, but a chance nonetheless. I'm not sure how I'll feel when the 24 week day comes, just that maybe a tiny little part of me will relax, as it has with every other milestone. After the 8 week ultrasound, when I saw it was really there, in the right place, tail and all, just floating and growing, I was relieved, and then worried again. Once I hit 13 weeks and was heading into the second trimester, I felt even better - the chance of miscarriage goes down after that. And at the 20 week ultrasound, when I saw the little profile, all the parts of the baby scrambling inside me to get away from the pressure and noise of that procedure and found out it, 'the thing' in my belly, was a he, I was overjoyed. I saw him. I felt like I knew him, and I just didn't want them pressing on me anymore. He needed to be left alone, so he could rest and grow and keep making me eat key lime pie. And after that I got the test results back, saying he wasn't afflicted with some of the worst chromosome defects that would have ultimately meant I would have hard decisions to make. So far, so good, right?

Yes, everything is fine, everything is rosy. At least, that's how it seems I should feel. People keep asking me if I'm excited and I just don't know what to say to them. I'm tired a lot, much less nauseated but still not feeling a lot of energy, so being excited is difficult for me. And maybe because this week is when my first baby was supposed to be due, I just don't have the kind of feelings other people have. It's less and less that I'm waiting for something to be wrong, and more that I just don't feel like this is actually happening to me. Between the loss of the first one and the anxiety of the second, I'm still detached. It's hard for me to feel the kind of affection that maybe I should be for the little boy growing inside me. I feel like I should already have been pregnant and done with it, and I still have 4 months and change to go. I've had these crazy hormones since last December, and I'll probably keep having them well into next year. I feel like I've been doing this forever, with no results so far. I'm not one to beat a dead horse. I like things over and done with, and this entire process has been a terrible test of my patience.

What do I really want? I want this to be over. I want my body back, working the way it's supposed to. I want the baby here, born and healthy, and I want to start my life anew. Being a parent permanently changes people, and I feel like I just want to get on with it. There are those who say it goes too fast, but I don't think so. It can't go fast enough to make me happy. I can't move on until I actually move on, and that means having my baby right here, in my arms or on my lap or wherever he wants to be. That's all I want, because I'm tried of waiting and not knowing.

I think that's fair.

I Get to Be "That Girl"

That's right. I'm *that girl* now, who posts up pictures of her fetus. The twelve week appointment went really well, but the doctor couldn't find the baby's heartbeat with the doppler. It was hiding behind my pelvic bone or something, so I got to have another ultrasound, an over-the-belly type. Which is why the pictures are not so clear...the baby is still only a couple inches long and hiding behind all my fat. But it was found, healthy and moving and alive.

Anyways....

Here's the first one, which shows the head and a little hand waving. I really don't think it was waving. It was laying there all still and snuggly one minute, and then kicking and waving its hand the next.

Yeah, we woke it up, and it was pissed. I understand this feeling completely. Wake me up when I'm soundly sleeping, and I'll smack the shit out of you too.

And here's the second one that looks more innocent and less annoyed.

Side profile (you can see the skull too, yay me for taking all those many calcium pills) and the arms folded up at the chest. I think it finally calmed down and was trying to go back to sleep.

Makes me want a nap too. What's good for the baby is good for me.

Only Today

Time is going by so slowly, and so fast. Maybe it would be quicker if I wasn't feeling so lousy all the time, but here it drags, day by day. Maybe it feels slow because I haven't really told that many people, so I'm just waiting for one more week to pass to let the rest of planet know my secret. I approach the traditional end of the trimester, I find I am more confused and surprised than in awe of my condition.

I had this notion in my head that when I became pregnant again, once I was done getting over the initial fear, I'd feel this whole down-to-earth grow-organic-peas wear-hemp-sandals vibe, and I would glow with it. I'd be so happy about this whole prospect that you just wouldn't be able to shake the smile off my face. People would congratulate me and I would gush with all my pregnant emotions. But is that how I feel? No.

I have started asking people not to congratulate me. Part of this has to do with the fact that since I miscarried, reading stories about people who have lost their babies has really made me a pessimist. I mean, statistically, once I get out of this trimester, the odds are in my favor, but in reality they're just numbers. Numbers that said last time, you lose, no baby for you. And also in part because I feel like trash. Tired, nauseous, bloated, needing new bras and shirts, wearing a waist extender on some pants. I think I look like a whale, beached and bloated and dying in the sun, not some earth mother who's going to bring life. It's all been so terribly negative.

And I haven't even talked to it this time. I know it can't hear yet, but last time, I wanted to talk to it, sing to it, all sorts of things. Now I feel like I'm holding my breath for 29 more weeks, withholding all these loving feelings, just waiting for the day to come that something goes wrong. I don't think you'd call it depression, but extreme pessimism.

I realize that I have only today. This day, this moment, is all the time I have with my baby-to-be, who wants me to eat so much guacamole that I am really gonna turn green. I should cherish it, but really, I'm just afraid to. Afraid once I get too close I'll wrap my arms around the vision and it will evaporate into dust, suspended in sunlight but still dust. Then tomorrow will come, and I'll have to same chance, and today will be gone, and everything will start new. My body will feel different, my emotions will change, maybe I'll outgrow another pair of pants. Who can know anything? No one, that's the truth.

Sometimes, I all I can do is breathe.

The Hunger

I keep getting asked by people, what are you craving?

Maybe it is a reasonable question, but it seems weird from my prospective. I know I have asked people that question myself, but it just seems confusing from the other side. I'm trying to figure out why they want to know, or why I wanted to know? But my brain is a little addled from not sleeping well and always being hungry.

See, it's not that I'm craving weird things all the time...okay, maybe once in a while...just that all of sudden, I'll see something or smell something and that's what I'll want to eat. And I get hungry a lot. The nausea is getting better as long as I keep something in my stomach, which means I'm having to eat smaller meals than I'm used to, and eat them all the time. And in some sort of vain attempt, I'm trying to be healthy, so I try to figure out what I 'should' be eating. Most of the time that isn't what I want though, and if I eat something I don't want, it either tastes like crap, or gives me some nasty stomach feelings.

So eating what my stomach wants at that moment is what makes it feel better, so that's what I do. With great misfortune, cravings like that can't always be fulfilled, but when they are...well, let's just say that it makes me feel like a cat who needs to curl up in a sunbeam, pleasantly satisfied. Having a nap after a meal is good too, when I can do it. Somehow I'm getting this idea now that pregnant women need to be like cats - rest a lot, eat only what they want (even if it's inconvenient), sleep with their big bellies in a sunbeam, and bite/scratch/yell at anyone who disturbs them or their territory. Yeah. Sounds good.

In all fairness though, I have had a couple of weird cravings, and I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to share. I tend to eat weird things sometimes anyway, so I guess maybe some of this isn't so strange for me, but anyway. The first few weeks it was french fries and cheeseburgers, then chicken sandwiches and fries with lots and lots of mayonnaise (still doing the mayo thing, btw...I have a couple packets in my purse in case we stop somewhere) and as much chips and guacamole as I could get my hands on. I seemed to have days in a row where I wanted the same thing over and over. Not to say that's weird for me, it's usually just not so compelling.

Then I stopped being able to eat vegetables, so I started trying to come up with other things that aren't terrible for me. Like salads, which weirdly, I can still eat. But that became the week I wanted every possible thing that was greasy or fried, especially crab rangoon. I think we went to the chinese buffet two or three times that week.

After all that abuse, my stomach decided all this fried stuff was crap, and my reward for eating more than a few bites of it would be indigestion, bordering on heartburn. Fair enough. I suppose that was good, since it made me want to look for other alternatives, like fruit, oatmeal, cold cereal, corn, and last night, imitation crab. With a side of butter for dipping, and a tall frosty glass of unsweetened chocolate almond milk.

Yeah, I dunno either. Later on, I had a small caesar salad for a snack. And then a bowl of cereal. With the same almond milk, since I forgot to buy regular milk. It was fine, really. At least it isn't going to waste.

Time to go back to the store and see what I'll be having for lunch. Hmmmm...

Squashed

I had this really great idea for dinner, using ground pork and yellow summer squash and sauteing them together with smoked paprika and chipotles in adobo. The pork turned out about how I had envisioned, and then I added the squash, and...

I can't eat it. I have been having an aversion to most brassica family vegetables, but have found I can eat salad greens, carrots, green beans and asparagus. But apparently, squash is on the chopping block now too. I tried some spaghetti squash a while ago, and managed to choke it down, but I just couldn't do it this time. It's just so nasty. It tasted like I imagined it would when I was a child and refused to eat it. Does that mean I'm regressing?

Thank goodness for prenatal vitamins, or my poor little teeny babylike creature would have nothing nutritious to snack on.

In the Days that Follow

Been having nasty sinus/cough/ear/sneezing business going on in my head. I kind of figured it was just extra mucous from all the water I'm retaining, but apparently there's something nasty living in my sinuses again. I wanted to take some Dramamine for the vertigo I'm getting as a result, so I called the nurse who's handling my pregnancy paperwork at the ob's office. Apparently I'm supposed to direct my questions to her right now and leave my poor ob alone with any and all ridiculous inquiries. She said to go see my primary care physician, which I did, and now have some low-level antibiotics to clean the junk out of there. And as much as I don't like it, apparently the neti pot is really going to be my future. So all is well in my skull, at least it will be, and hopefully it won't have any effect on the growing little bean.

That said, the nausea seems slightly more under control. I'm having to eat very weird for me - heavy carbs in the morning, lots of protein during the day, more carbs before bed. I might need a new bag of gluten free pretzels soon. Still dizzy though, still light headed a little, still hella tired, but I'm starting to feel better - a little. It is my hope that this means I'm getting more used to the hormones, and not some other negative outcome. I'm sure that the queasiness will be back before the trimester is over, oh yes.

A Precious Thing

So it's been a couple days since the ultrasound, and I haven't updated a thing. I've been too exhausted when I get home to do anything other than shower and sleep. Or I feel dizzy and lay down and fall asleep, and there goes my evening. This, along with all the other things I've been feeling, is heralded by my doctor as a very good sign.

And yes, Tuesday, I got the ultrasound. It was one of those things where I went into the appointment, got my exam, answered some questions, asked some questions, and then went in to lay on the table. As I stared at the screen, I suddenly realized that I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see an empty egg sac, a dead baby, or something else tragic. I didn't want to know. It wasn't frightening, it was comforting to be able to hope for the worst and just expect things not to go well. There was no need for confirmation. I didn't want another image like the first one seared into my brain for the rest of my life.

I told my husband I didn't want to look, and he said to just look at him, but that was uncomfortable to do for more than a few seconds. Then the doctor came in with her usual energy, and the tech started the ultrasound, and I didn't have time to look away. Within seconds, there it was. I could see my pelvic bones, of course, and framed inside of them was a lump in a space. They changed the angle a little, and the lump became a curl, a bulbous head with spots, the curl of a spine, and a flicker of movement in its chest like a strobe light.

It was really a baby, and it was alive. In the right place, the right size, the right age, everything. We were just sitting there, talking about it - I think the doctor knows it's best to keep me talking so I don't get all weepy about things - and the tech was finishing up, and then she realized, we hadn't listened to the heartbeat. So back went the probe, and we heard the tiny flutter, beating almost like a bird's heart, and the doctor said that was normal too.

I can't say I really felt anything but relieved. Not really shock, or euphoric joy, or anything like that, just some serious relief that it was over. I had waited for a month and finally, I could see for myself that everything was okay. I could stop worrying about whether there was a baby inside and start worrying about said baby. We almost forgot to pick up the little printout of pictures but, since you've all been so patient...

Part of me wants to say that I'm trying really hard not to get my hopes up, because I know there are a few more weeks to go before things are less likely to go wrong, but it's hard not to be hopeful. I'm sharing this picture with you today because I feel privileged to be able to see this little life, and come what may, that feeling won't change. And it is my privilege to share it with everyone else as well, because this is the first real baby picture I'll ever get to share.

So there is a positive vibe. This little thing is tough - it has survived massive caffeine consumption while I was on vacation, a plane ride to and from California, more caffeine consumption and lifting and packing of boxes, the stress of moving, and all the spicy food I was craving two weeks ago. Wish us luck, keep your fingers crossed, or whatever you feel like sending our way. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to keep in mind that the lousier I feel right now, the more likely it is the baby will stick.

Well, trying to, anyway. Bed now. Too tired to move anymore. Baby took it all.

The Calm

Going in for my ultrasound in a couple of hours. I don't know who told my body that I hit 8 weeks yesterday, but they should have kept their mouths shut.

Even. More. Nauseous. Seriously?

The only way I have found to deal with this is to eat constantly. I'm trying it today to see how it works, and so far, it's going all right. But I'm not at work today. Being at work, which means I can't eat constantly, has been, up until this point, very challenging. But I don't know how I'm going to do it now. The combination of being nauseous ad having to smell the food people are buying (vinegary sandwiches, hot wings, fried chicken) or just the odor of people themselves (bad breath, smokers, people who drown themselves in cologne) is more than I can stand.

I have stood all I can stand, and I can't stands no more. Stinky people just need to stay way from me. So what if I can smell them from across the store?

Moving Right Along

Seven weeks today.

And let me tell you something...

Moving when you are pregnant is NOT FUN.

I dunno, I always hear about people moving when they are pregnant, or you see some movie or show where some lady with a bump is moving into a new house, or painting, or building baby furniture and you think, Awwwww, she's nesting.

That's a load of bullshit.

I'm exhausted. I'm already tired when I don't do anything. And I can't have serious amounts of caffeine either. So this entire exercise seems like torture, and to be honest, I don't even care if anything gets clean. I just want me, in my bed, sleeping, and to wake up and have everything moved for me. Because I'm so tired, I'm having trouble concentrating, so I can't organize everything the way I would like. The house is in chaos.

The only thing I have to look forward to is at least I'll be able to sleep in a little tomorrow since the movers won't be here until the afternoon. Hopefully everything goes smoothly and I don't have to go crazy on anyone, because let whatever god they pray to help those movers if they screw anything up. I almost killed my birds earlier this week for chirping too loud. Husband had to hold me back. I have no pity or mercy for anyone right now. No patience. Do it right, or feel my wrath, the end.

When InXS wrote the song, "The Devil Inside", they were talking about a pregnant woman. Oh yeah.

Knowing What to Expect

I made the appointment today for my 8 week ultrasound.

It's a big deal, because last time, I made the appointment one day, and everything started happening the next. It was like going to the doctor and making the appointment was a death sentence. We are pattern seeking animals, so whether or not it is rational, I waited until after the 6 week mark to make that appointment, just in case. There will be some relief once the doctor takes a look at everything and tells me it's fine, or it isn't. At least I'll know what to expect.

At least I'll know whether to share good news, or bad. Or will I?

Perhaps my perspective is different this time around. I just looked at someone else's blog and saw she just lost her baby at twelve weeks, right after she told everyone. It's even more sad because this comes after she had a stillbirth several years ago (which is what prompted her to start her blog) . She has two other healthy children, but still, she now mourns for two babies, not just one. So it begs the question: does it matter when you tell the world? Eight weeks? Twelve weeks? Fourteen weeks? There really isn't any safe time to tell people about pregnancy, is there?

I suppose I will wait until after the ultrasound, and then decide. If they say it's healthy and it's doing what it should be doing, then I will try to remain optimistic, and perhaps be a little more forthcoming about the upcoming event. If not, well, I've been down that road before, and I know what to do now.

What a strange feeling, knowing what to expect when tragedy strikes. I'm not certain if it's something I should be pleased about, but at least it's a comfort to know I have survived it once and can do so again.

I have been advised to pick up a copy of the 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' book, but I haven't yet, for fear that I won't need it. Not having read it, I do wonder if there is any part in it about loss, about grief, about how uncertain life can be, about what resources you can seek out if something goes horribly wrong. Because if there isn't, there should be. Women shouldn't be left on their own to wonder and weep and be forced to carry on as though they lost a goldfish or a pet rock.

Somehow, though, we have to manage. I braved a baby thrift store today to find a Bella band for my pants, since I am already having trouble closing them. Too much indulgence while on vacation, I guess, coupled with the same sort of bloating that happened last time at six weeks. Maybe the nausea will be a blessing in disguise so I don't outgrow all the new clothes I just bought to celebrate my weight loss.

But I digress. The end of this phase of 'not-knowing' is in sight. Twelve days until I get my turn. Twelve days, if this pregnancy makes it that far, and then the next evolution of the story begins.

Counting Down

Tomorrow is 6 weeks. So far, so good, I guess. What does that mean?

It's means I'm sick, sick, sick. If I don't eat a little something almost constantly, if my stomach gets completely empty, I start to get nauseous. I'm tired to start off with (I don't know how I'm going to get by without the midday naps I've been taking since I've had a few days off), but all this stomach crazy makes me want to lay down and sleep to feel better. I'm so drowsy during the day, but so awake at night. This does not bode well for going back to work, oh no.

Sick is a good thing. Tired is a good thing. Having sore...places...is a good thing. This is what I'm being told. So far, no stopping of these symptoms. That means the hormones are working. And making me feel a little bit more...ridiculous. Not more happy, or more sad, or more angry - I feel mostly the same as before, but every emotion is turned up just a little bit. Maybe it's because it's gradually increasing over time that I'm not noticing anything too drastic. I'm sure everyone else is. Part of me feels bad for my husband, but at the same time, if I have to suffer, so does he. That's the way it is. Sometimes life *is* fair.

Seriously, though, I'm doing what I can to manage the nausea. I never had it this strong before. I'm not to used to eating all the time. It's so time consuming. I prefer two or three big meals a day, not 6 tiny ones. I guess I just need to buy more snack food. Of course, I just purged the house of all carb-filled snack food at the beginning of the year. Popcorn. Oatmeal. Dried fruit. Chips. Noodles. All gone. And that seems to be all I want to eat. Salty carby things.

If the doctor decides to go on about me gaining too much weight, I'm just going to tell her the only thing that settles my stomach is carbohydrates, which make me fat, and I'm open to suggestions. Like exercising, which is (this week) packing up all of my worldly possessions and toting boxes all over the place. Soon it will include carrying said boxes up flights of stairs, and then unpacking those boxes, and finding a place for all those things I thought I needed to go.

But for right not, getting more sleep sounds better than doing any other more strenuous activities. Except maybe having some sweet potato chips and spinach dip.

Negatively Positive

So it happened again, and this time, I am somewhere between apathy and anger.

I didn't really think it was going to happen this soon, did I?

Maybe I was hoping it would. I didn't prevent it, did I? Last time I tried on purpose it didn't work. This wasn't an 'on purpose', but a 'whatever'.

Maybe getting away from the stress of my job for a week was what it needed to settle in. This is the second time in 6 months I've come back from vacation pregnant. Good thing I got pat downs this time, both ways.

It's only at the 5 week point right now. It was 6 weeks last time when things went wrong, so I guess we'll wait and see.

I look over at the supplement powder I bought when I was in California and realize I can't have it now. It has ingredients that may possibly in some universe be potentially harmful. It pisses me off. What a waste of money. I'll have to wait who knows how long to enjoy it. I even had coconut drink in the fridge, waiting for it. That's all gone now, at least.

And I really want a Diet Coke. I know how bad it is for me, but I want one. Just one. It's more of a risk now than it will be in a few weeks, but part of me doesn't care. Last time, I didn't have a drop of caffeine the entire time and it didn't matter. I feel like I should be able to eat and drink and smoke whatever I want (I don't smoke, but that sounded good), because last time I was perfect and it died anyway. So who gives a fuck.

It's the hormones. That's what everyone says. The hormones, they can cause depression as well as anger and sadness and everything else attributed to pregnant women. They make me worry over every little twinge in my abdomen that happens when I turn a certain way. Every little pink spot sends me into a panic.

I got my blood checked yesterday, because I saw a spot on Monday and it was too late to be implantation bleeding. The doctor said everything looked normal, so as of now, no impending miscarriage, no disaster, no reason to worry.

But there's always a reason to worry. Life is proof of that. And it doesn't matter how much I worry, because it's basically out of my hands anyway. It's the complete lack of control that freaks me out, not knowing if I should just go ahead and have my Diet Coke because in a couple of weeks it'll be gone.

There is hope that once I pass the six week mark my anxiety will fade away and I'll start to enjoy this. Well, maybe enjoy isn't the right word. Just being able to be positive would be nice, but I don't have it in me right now. Half the day when I'm at work I'm trying desperately to stay awake, and the other half I want to strangle my customers and co-workers. I'm feeling the familiar bodily discomforts that tell me my hormones are doing what they should. And when I'm home, well...

My bed is soft, and I have to practice sleeping with that stupid body pillow I bought, anyway.

Rolling in Babies

So, it's happening. A lot of those people who were pregnant are having babies. That's what they do, right? It shouldn't seem so shocking and weird to me, but it is. It feels like, just as I got used to fact that they were pregnant, just as I was okay with seeing all their baby related things, now it's not just a belly or an ultrasound, the baby is really there, in all of the pictures and cuteness that entails.

Not like that's a bad thing. After all, it's going to keep happening. All the pregnant women I know right now (A LOT) are going to have their babies. One way or another, the baby is going to come out, and so far it seems that everyone is having great luck and healthy babies. I am glad. I would never wish the sadness of losing a child on anyone, even one that was early like mine. But it is making things harder, a little. I'm not sure I can figure out why.

Perhaps it's not really the loss that I'm feeling. Dealing with that has been a lot better lately. I can say the words 'when I was pregnant' without feeling sadness or shame. It's a fact. I was pregnant. It really happened, and I wanted it to. It just so happens that I'm not anymore, but everybody already knows that.

No, it's something else. It's seeing all these babies, and already having been asked by a well-meaning co-worker (who is expecting one of his own) "When are you going to have a baby?" I did tell him about the miscarriage when it happened, but perhaps he forgot, tossing that information in the round file of his brain as people do. It really hurt my feelings though, and I don't think he realized it. I'm not angry, but he can't possibly know what I went through. I hope he and his girlfriend are very fortunate and they don't have to learn.

What's the issue though? On the one hand, I want people to know that I want to try again. I'm not against the having kids things, although I should be. Logically, I should want nothing to do with it. But I've already established that there is no logic or reason to any of this. So it's ok for them to want to know. But on the other, I did already try, and it was a failure. Things have to be started all over again, from the ground up, from the very beginning. It's a lot to wrap my brain around, saying that once again, I'm starting with nothing, trying to make something. I really don't want to be asked about it, I don't want to talk about it, and I feel like I should wear a pin or something that says 'Don't ask me about having kids unless you want me to never speak to you again.'

Maybe it's a little anxiety since I'm going home. Lots of friends and family know my situation, but not all. I dread the reality of having to explain it to people over and over again should they pester, should they ask, even if it's in a friendly, concerned way. I can only hope that they will err on the side of common sense and leave well enough alone.

Here's hoping.

The Whole Tooth

April is a busy month for me. My birthday, my wedding anniversary, and also the month when one of my two annual teeth cleanings is due. This year I have even more going on with a prospective move on the horizon, but as I understand the importance of tooth health these days, I make time for the dentist.

I've been going to my current dental office for a year. I started going about a week before my wedding last year, because I finally decided to get over myself (I had a very painful extraction of all four wisdom teeth and I never wanted to have anyone touch my mouth again). Last year, everything was all right - they got off as much junk as they could and said I was lucky not to have more problems. Six months ago, they uncovered a very small cavity and I had that filled. No big deal.

And then this time, they finally discovered why I have a 'pocket' on the back side of one of my upper back teeth. The dentist actually fully cleaned the tooth and stuck a mirror back there...and then a weird little camera. He discovered a cavity that has been hiding back there for who knows how long. Monday I finally get it taken care of, whatever that entails.

This bothers me for two reasons. First, because I've been there several times now, and this is the first time they ever bothered to really look at the damn thing. I have a small jaw, so they really can't see much back there, but still. They're getting money to do this, they should be thorough. And second, I have had chronic sinus infections for years. I get a cold, it's followed by a sinus infection, I get antibiotics, I feel good for a little while, and then it all comes back. Part of me wonders if this tooth has something to do with it. I know my upper wisdom teeth were all grown up into my sinuses - when they got pulled, I could breathe better than I had my entire life. Kind of bummed me out when the holes closed up.

And to follow that, if I have an infected tooth like that, would it affect a pregnancy? I wouldn't want to say that it was responsible for what happened, but I sure did have a nasty sinus thing going on during those few precious weeks. I guess it's one of those many things I get to chalk up to 'unlikely, but I'll never really know'.

I won't know, because this damn tooth is getting fixed before there is a chance of any other baby taking up residence in my body. This is the last thing I can do that will make me feel safe to try again, I guess.

The New Normal

So, everything is as it should be, I suppose. I have grieved all I can grieve, made as much of a deal about it as I wanted to, and memorialized it how I wanted to. I have an amazingly supportive husband who may not understand why I've done these things, but respects my need to do them. People all around me have offered their shoulder to cry on, arms to hug, or ears to listen to my woes. There was even a day at work the management almost sent me home (which is one of those things that never happens unless you're throwing up exorcist style) because I was too sad to do my job. That's right, it was the two month anniversary of my miscarriage, I had just started my cycle (which meant no new baby) and I just couldn't help myself. I was crying.

At work.

I've never been a crying sort of person. In fact, I've looked down on those who were 'emotional idiots', crying at every little sentimental thing, because I felt they were out-of-control weak humans. Oddly enough, my husband is a very emotional person, but I could tolerate such a thing because I felt, in a way, that it balanced me. I could be the strong one, he could be misty eyed. That was okay. I used to cry on occasion, but always privately - in bed, in the shower, always at home, always alone. It was my sorrow and mine alone and I didn't need anyone else to bear it with me.

Perhaps this is one of those 'mother' things. My mother was very emotional, very sensitive, always thrusting her feelings out onto other people. Maybe I have always been a little sensitive myself and it bothered me to be in the constant bombardment of her emotions and drama. But I couldn't stand it. As I got older, I couldn't stand to cry. I wouldn't be like her, crying at every little thing, letting every tiny detail upset her, having huge issues of stress and anxiety. I would be strong. I would put up walls, I would deal with my emotions privately, I would smirk at the world and let it come. Darkness had already come and gone many times. There was no reason not to let it come again. I would stay strong. The walls had held through everything and they were still standing.

And then the pregnancy happened, the miscarriage happened, and all those beautiful fortifications were destroyed. At first, it seemed like it was the hormonal letdown that was causing me to weep at nothing and writhe in mental agony. It let up after awhile, to a certain extent, but I have found that this experience has had lasting effects that I am not pleased about.

I realize that when a woman becomes a mother, her body undergoes a profound physiological change. In most women, it's not just that your hips are bigger or that your breasts will never be the same. The brain seems to change as well, preparing the women to be a mother, causing the deep natural child-rearing instincts to come forth. Even though I have no research to back this up, I have seen it happen in so many people I can hardly deny the truth of it. It's like the programming of the brain is rewritten to turn the baby into the center of the universe, instead of the self. This is a necessary thing - our offspring are born helpless. If mothers weren't willing to kill for (and die for) their children, our species would have never survived.

My pregnancy never reached that point, but my body was still undergoing changes that have not reversed. My clothes fit differently around my hips, I noticed. I bought bigger bras and I can still wear them. It's harder for me to lose weight than it was previously. And all the walls came tumbling down.

The post-pregnancy hormones knocked the walls down, and as of yet I have no ability to build them back up. My emotions are raw and turbulent. I take things so personally. Every little thing bothers me. I can't deal with people, and I can't deal with stress. I feel like the Grinch when I say, "the noise, noise, noise", but it's true. I cry. I cried at work that day, in front of managers, co-workers and complete strangers. Things build up, and instead of me being able to sleep them off, or work them off, or (heaven forbid) eat something sweet to take the edge off, I cry. I completely shut down and I have to go and cry. I don't even know how to manage this. Other people who have always been more emotional might have some idea about it, and I'd love to hear it. Because I feel half-functional. This is the new normal, the new me that has emerged from the ashes, and I am sorely disappointed.

If my mother felt like this day in and day out, it's no wonder she lost her mind.

The Power of a Name

Here I am in the middle of the two-week wait, sullen and biding my time. The gravity of what may lie before me does weigh heavily on my mind. As much as it gives me relief to return to the cycle I started before, I feel as though things are not quite finished. Almost, but not quite.

The mizuko jizo is set snugly into a bookshelf next to an olive green box holding the precious gifts for my lost child. The flowers I planted under the tree sprouted a few weeks ago, and though they have struggled with a few cold spells, they reach toward the sun more each day. Tiny green sprouts with two leaves, then four, then six. I water them when there is no rain. Two days ago, there was rain, and I didn't have a chance to see them. But the sun shines today, even though it reaches the Earth through a cold wind, so I will tend those little flowers once I put on shoes.

I spent time last week just marveling at the sun. It was streaming so warmly through the patio, filtering down through the leaves of that same tree. No photograph can do it justice, but perhaps I'll try again. Sometimes sunlight has the quality of almost appearing liquid, like droplets of light are floating on the top of water, and yesterday it was droplets of light on the leaves of that tree. It's at those moments that I know that we did the right thing to bury it there. In that place, bathed in that liquid light, the mizuko grows into the branches of that tree, is the leaves, loves the sun. It lives again in that brilliant, peaceful place.

That chapter of my life is ending as another one begins. But something feels unfinished. Many posts ago, I said that I could not see any reason to name a cluster of cells, that it made no sense to do so. I still stand by the fact that it makes no sense, but somehow I ended up doing it anyway.

Maybe it has a little bit to do with my Catholic upbringing. Long before I sought my own path in life, I learned the ways of Catholicism, and one of the things that I learned about in the time of my youth was the concept of Holy Innocents. I had forgotten about that term until I read about the mizuko jizo. After a few days of searching, I realized I remembered something else that had to do with the unborn - when I was a child, I had heard about the Holy Innocents, the souls of children who died before birth. My grandmother, who had taken it upon herself to impart me with spiritual teachings, had always been very adamant about her pro-life status. Not only was I brought along with her to abortion protests when I was very young, but I was also encouraged to pray for the souls of the unborn  who were lost, whether naturally or on purpose. It all came back to me very vividly once I thought about it, so I did a search for Holy Innocents to see what I could find. There were a variety of church web pages, explanations as to why a child had been taken so young (if it in fact was a miscarriage) and ways to seek reconciliation (for abortions). But there was one common theme that went through each and every page, and that was need to acknowledge the life that had passed in a permanent way - giving the child a name.

I resisted this idea for quite a while. I couldn't know the gender, I rationalized, so I couldn't say anything other than 'it'. There were plenty of unisex names out there, I just didn't see a reason. It was a mizuko, and that's what I would refer to it as.

But it nagged at me. What was really stopping me? Was it because the Catholics had suggested it? Maybe in part, but that wasn't the only reason. Perhaps it was because there had been no embryo. It didn't form the fetal pole. It didn't even have an up, or a down, or a right or left. It was just a ball. Did that make a difference?

In truth, I have named inanimate objects before. Living things of all kinds, too. Snails, caterpillars, worms, fish, a cockroach - all more sophisticated life forms, yes, but all had such humble beginnings as a ball of cells. And wasn't my grieving really wrapped around the life that could have been, that would have been? Wasn't I shedding tears about the baby I wouldn't hold, whose life was cut short because of some genetic mishap? Didn't that potential deserve as much consideration as a cockroach or a snail?

Well, actually, I somehow decided, yes. Before I even realized it, I had convinced myself to choose a name. I remember, I was in the bathroom stall at work, just standing there, trying to compose myself during a very trying day. Opening my phone, I searched a baby names database for something unisex, something simple, something that caught my eye and felt right.

It wasn't long before I found what I was looking for. Maybe it was a little trendy, but it wasn't some weird made-up word. It had an origin and a meaning that I felt was appropriate for us. I waited for the other people in the restroom to leave, and once I was alone in the bathroom, I walked over to the sink and whispered the name to myself. In the mirror, I watched my mouth say the words a few times. It was the right name. I could feel it. But I didn't tell anyone else about it because it still felt strange to name my miscarriage.

Over time I came to understand why the giving of name is important and why I have been hesitant to share it. Until a few days ago I had never spoken it to anyone, not even my husband. Maybe I read too many fantasy books, but as far as I'm concerned, a name has power. A name conveys existence. A name gives a person or a thing a place and a time and establishes relationship and purpose.

A name makes something real. And to name something I have lost makes the loss real.

It's been too painful to say the words, but I've been holding on to it long enough. The name deserves to be spoken, if only by me, only once. It's my chance to give the baby a place in our family that can never, ever be taken away. Today is the day I speak it, so today I can finally say goodbye, goodbye to my first child.

Goodbye, Kiley. May the Earth hold you warmly in its soft, sun-drenched soil.

The Joy of Solitude

I love to be alone, I really do. I was told once by a co-worker that if I liked being alone, I was abnormal, because humans are social animals. But being around people drains me, and I have a people-intensive job. When I get home, I like peace and quiet, not parties and loud TV. On my days off, when the husband is at work, staying home by myself is positively refreshing. It's like having a little stay-cation all for me.

And I suppose I am more reclusive right now, because I gain energy and perspective by being alone. Constant human interaction just makes me tired and cranky, and while I do enjoy getting out of the house occasionally, I have often thought, "I'd rather be home curled up in bed, or watching some history channel documentary, or just taking the time to immerse myself in a new piece of music. Please, everyone, go away, and leave me alone."

Maybe this is why I have so many end-of-the-world fantasies. It's true, there are a lot of people I would miss, but if just a few of them survived the end of the world with me, and the rest of the planet was empty of humans, it would be bliss. Hard work, yes. Dangerous, yes. But bliss. It's not to say I don't place a value on human life, but I think I would be better suited to a different era, where I knew just a few people, because that's all that there were in my immediate vicinity. This modern life of having hundreds or thousands of neighbors is only bearable because I don't know many of them...and I intend to keep it that way. It's not unfriendly, it's survival.

I will say that having virtual neighbors and friends doesn't bother me nearly as much. Maybe it's because I don't have to expend any energy talking to them, so it keeps this simpler. And I can't be misunderstood, because I have the time to choose my words carefully to mean exactly what I want to say. There is no social awkwardness, no worries about conflict through mistaken meanings, just thoughts passing back and forth nice and simple and clear.

Perhaps, among humans, this does make me abnormal. But it feels normal to me.

Cycles and Circles

The world is full of circles, and cycles.

The moon has a cycle, the earth has a wobble, the galaxy has a rotation. It seems when referring to tiny and to giant, everything is a circle, or a cycle.

Bodies are the same way, especially women's bodies. The oceans within them travel with the moon and the tides, season after season. They flow and change as long as they are capable of giving life.

Life seems to have its cycles as well, as least for me. There are times when there is nothing of importance happening, and others when every little thing I see and touch is broken.

But it is a cycle, this life, and broken things can be made whole. It is a simple thing for the universe to turn one thing into another, whether we like it or not. Our present form is incidental, particles going from one place to another who stopped long enough to make us solid. It almost seems strange how much time we waste in our lives, since we know that is the case.

Buddhism describes the universe as a cycle, being created and destroyed over and over again but never being gone. They think of life as the same, that a soul is reborn again and again, the universe recycling the energy as the machine that it is. Modern physics seems to agree, at least with the recycling part. Nothing can created or destroyed. They made it a law.

Sometimes, a cycle can end and begin in the same moment. The image of a serpent swallowing its tail comes to mind. It can't really swallow its own tail, but at that moment when it makes the attempt, it's hard to know where is the beginning and where is the end.

There is so much happening. I know I am letting go. I smile at babies and talk to them in funny voices. I look out for my pregnant friend at work, and tell her to take a break and go eat something, because the baby needs food. Maybe because it's now okay for me to try again, I feel like I'm back on even footing. I don't have to be in mourning forever. No one made me shave my eyebrows or singe my hair or wear black for a decade. I am back to having a choice, a frighteningly uncertain choice. If I were any other animal, it wouldn't be the thought of a choice. I would just do what came naturally and what happened would be what happened. Perhaps it's not a blissful ignorance, but a mourning cut short by the demands of survival.

Isn't this the same, though? But it doesn't feel cut short or pushed aside too soon. Maybe it's some sort of hormonal amnesia, the kind that some women talk about when they remember childbirth. Their brain is flooded with hormones that convince them procreation is the highest calling, that their pain and suffering are well worth the result. I don't dispute that the motivation may in fact be true, but I find it interesting that a women's body works this way. When I witnessed a birth, for example, I was incredibly moved by the experience, even though it was no child or relation of mine. I was able to understand at that moment why it was worth it, see how suddenly one person became two, watch as that unique life took her very first breath. For the first time, I knew there was no shame in being female and no reason for any little girl growing up to hate her body. It was a sacred and beautiful thing.

And I knew that I wanted to do that, too. I wasn't sure if I'd be any good at the mothering part, and I was a little concerned that the permanent change in my brain would make me into a person I wouldn't want to be. There would be a lot of issues I'd have to sort out, conflicts I had with my own mother, ways I wouldn't want to be like her. I'd be capable of doing better, right? I wasn't sure.

So for the longest time, I thought it would be a bad decision to have a child. Then, I met a person that I somehow decided would be just the right father. And now that we've been through one cycle of failure, we're both concerned with what the future outcome will be. And it's agreed that is really up to me to decide when I feel right about giving things another try. I still have anxiety when I think about the future. What if I really can't have kids? How long will it take for this to work? Will I be happy when it does, or even more worried?

Having too many choices makes me want to wait to let my anxiety pass. But at some level, it isn't entirely my choice. Something in my brain that has no logical basis wants to fulfill this drive and it won't let a miscarriage stand in its way.

So as the cycle passes through death and loss and grief, it re-emerges into the realm of possibilities, and an infinite number of futures lay themselves out like roads before me. Which way will I be led? Which outcome will I receive? There is no answer.

Not yet.

Baby Type Things

I did it today. We went to Wal-mart on our way back from some other errands to get a clock, and I bought some baby things. I walked right into the baby section amongst the cribs, strollers, diapers and onesies and bought things I wanted for myself.

For myself, and for the mizuko.

Things I had already thought about buying long before these weeks of sadness. Things I had intended to buy as a preliminary step to what I would need later down the line. I started with a teething toy I had seen at work earlier in the week, and at Wal-mart, I picked up another toy. A blanket. A pair of white shoes. A package of hats, one of which has ears on it. These are the things I would have purchased for my child, if only it had lived.

If only it had grown.

I bought a statue of the mizuko jizo online, at Home Depot of all places. At first, I thought that I didn't really want something like that in my house, some constant reminder of what I had lost. But it became something I had to do, like how I had to bury the remains of my pregnancy. It is a smiling, gentle face that reassures me this whole process has not been a waste, but a transformation. I am not the same. The mizuko will not be the same. It will not be my child, but a leaf on a tree, a flower on a plant, a strong blade of grass. The reminder that nothing can truly be destroyed is comforting, if difficult.

So it is the tradition to adorn the jizo statue with gifts to the mizuko - toys, food and clothing. It is the feeling of some that this placates the spirit of the child so it will not try to harm the family (this especially applies in the case of abortion). But I don't believe in spirits, so I know better. The jizo statue is a proxy, a way for the mother to care for a child that she is deeply grieving and missing. A miscarriage may not have any recognizable earthly remains, or the dedication of a jizo may take place many years later, so this is a way to connect to the child which has become something else.

I am still trying to find a place for my jizo to sit, out of sight to the casual observer who might wander into my house, but near enough that I will look upon it every day. And then, when the weird tearless sadness of actually buying those things subsides, I will give those few possessions to the mizuko as I had originally planned to, many months from now. I will tend to the statue as it requires, washing it and dusting it and hoping that the remembrance will allow me to not feel guilty on days when I forget the sadness. Those days seem to increase in number as the weeks go by and it's important to me not to forget the life that could have been.

In truth, perhaps, I might decide to do something differently. It's hard to say if this will bring me comfort the way I hope it might. I am learning about this grief as I go. Making it tangible and real means I am one step closer to saying goodbye. At least, it is a hope.