I thought I was such a pregnancy overacheiver. In fact, I was ready and poised to be named the valedictorian of TTC and pregnancy.
I got pregnant on the second cycle (4+ months) and got my positive pregnancy test like four days before someone should normally get a positive test. My bloodwork numbers were fabulous--and almost all of them had some weird number significance with me (which I don't normally pay attention to, but in this instance I thought it was so cool). My baby was always measuring a day or two ahead at my ultrasounds, my NT scan was glorious and the chance of Downs Syndrome was super low.
I tried to choose the right foods to balance everything out and get the right vitamins. I forced myself to drink enough water and only allowed an infrequent indulgence of soda--but no alcohol, no coffee/tea, etc. I didn't have morning sickness, I worked through the tiredness, and I tried to keep the complaining to a minimum. I understood the gift that I'd been given and I wanted to do everything in my power to make it a success and keep the good vibes flowing.
Even when I'd get comments about how I hadn't popped yet, I felt this surge of confidence that I looked good for 5 months. I was doing something right! Right?
I didn't do this out of fear--because honestly in my heart of hearts, I knew everything was going okay and I just wanted to give my baby the best start possible--I *LIKED* doing these things. I just knew that I had a good egg in there and that it was nestled in for the long haul. I knew that this baby inside was the perfect mix of myself and my husband and we were going to give it a wonderful, stable, and nurtured life. I knew that I'd continue to keep calm, be confident, and have an amazing, life-altering natural delivery.
*sigh*
Well, apparently I didn't know jack fucking shit...
(Not looking for any reassurances, I just wanted to bitch.)
*whispers* Happy 1 month birthday, my sweet baby. You know, wherever you are...
Showing posts with label Potters syndrome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Potters syndrome. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Time is a variable
Ready for some more of my dad's wisdom?
When I was younger and complaining about waiting too long for something or that a great vacation was too short, my dad would always say, "You know M, time is a variable." And of course I'd roll my eyes--because duh--time itself does not vary. There's only 24 hours in a given day. It's science, dad. Look it up.
But guess what? I walked into work the other day and a calendar caught my eye, revealing to me that it's almost the end of September. Really? Has it been four weeks since all of this madness started and not 2? Has it been 3 1/2 weeks since I saw my baby's face for the first and last time?
Time is a variable. And it can fast forward and rewind in the blink of the eye.
Labor and delivery seems so long ago, but yet I can close my eyes and I'm right back in the specialist's office 4 weeks ago, sitting across her huge desk with a box of cheap kleenex on it, wearing her white coat explaining to us that the baby had no kidneys or bladder, that there was absolutely no chance that our baby could survive and that now we had to make our decision on how to proceed.
Were we in her office for 5 minutes? 3? 10? I have no idea. Time and space stood still. How many times did she repeat herself? How long did it take for me to speak? It was like there was a pressure in the air that paused everything while the weight of this crushed us. But the meaning of what she was saying was still there. It was clear--this was it.
She explained our options and what would happen with each one and then she sat there looking at us with great concern and sympathy. The other doctor stood leaning on a hutch, saying that we'd talk the next day about what we'd decided. But then there was silence. Were they waiting for more questions? More tears? For us to ask for a minute alone (even though it was her office?) I had no idea what to do, so I just thanked them, stood up, and left.
We walked out of the office together, rounded a corner and collapsed into each other's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. We did this same routine most of the way to the car--arms around each other, almost dragging one another forward to the parking deck.
We tried to collect our selves, but as he started to back the car out of the parking space, I lost it again, sobbing so hard that I started gagging and dry heaving. I opened the door to try to vomit, but nothing came. I pulled myself back together with a clear mission in mind: Just get home.
It's all too vivid and when I think about all that's happened, that's the moment that I go back to--where time and space ceased to exist and where the nightmare began.
What I'd give to rewind to that day and have a different outcome or to wake up one morning and be right back where we left off.
When I was younger and complaining about waiting too long for something or that a great vacation was too short, my dad would always say, "You know M, time is a variable." And of course I'd roll my eyes--because duh--time itself does not vary. There's only 24 hours in a given day. It's science, dad. Look it up.
But guess what? I walked into work the other day and a calendar caught my eye, revealing to me that it's almost the end of September. Really? Has it been four weeks since all of this madness started and not 2? Has it been 3 1/2 weeks since I saw my baby's face for the first and last time?
Time is a variable. And it can fast forward and rewind in the blink of the eye.
Labor and delivery seems so long ago, but yet I can close my eyes and I'm right back in the specialist's office 4 weeks ago, sitting across her huge desk with a box of cheap kleenex on it, wearing her white coat explaining to us that the baby had no kidneys or bladder, that there was absolutely no chance that our baby could survive and that now we had to make our decision on how to proceed.
Were we in her office for 5 minutes? 3? 10? I have no idea. Time and space stood still. How many times did she repeat herself? How long did it take for me to speak? It was like there was a pressure in the air that paused everything while the weight of this crushed us. But the meaning of what she was saying was still there. It was clear--this was it.
She explained our options and what would happen with each one and then she sat there looking at us with great concern and sympathy. The other doctor stood leaning on a hutch, saying that we'd talk the next day about what we'd decided. But then there was silence. Were they waiting for more questions? More tears? For us to ask for a minute alone (even though it was her office?) I had no idea what to do, so I just thanked them, stood up, and left.
We walked out of the office together, rounded a corner and collapsed into each other's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. We did this same routine most of the way to the car--arms around each other, almost dragging one another forward to the parking deck.
We tried to collect our selves, but as he started to back the car out of the parking space, I lost it again, sobbing so hard that I started gagging and dry heaving. I opened the door to try to vomit, but nothing came. I pulled myself back together with a clear mission in mind: Just get home.
It's all too vivid and when I think about all that's happened, that's the moment that I go back to--where time and space ceased to exist and where the nightmare began.
What I'd give to rewind to that day and have a different outcome or to wake up one morning and be right back where we left off.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Genetic counselor
We met with a genetic counselor yesterday for some peace of mind and confidence moving forward. While they can't tell us definintely why this happened, they can help us to rule out a few things.
A few potential causes:
1. Nature. Sometimes things just don't develop--probably the most common. Nothing can be done about it.
2. Genetic kidney disorder that was passed down and manifested in it's worst case.
3. Chromosomal abnormalities that extend beyond the renal system, but affected it's development.
While they say that Potters sequence typically isn't a genetic condition, a small percentage of people with the condition actually do inherit it. If either parent carries a gene abnormality for kidney malfunction, it can be passed onto the child. Sometimes this means the child will have kidney issues, varying from mild (abnormal tubes, etc) to severe (no kidneys). You can usually tell if a parent has this by having an ultrasound done on your renal system, showing any abnormalities. They actually said some people can be missing a kidney their whole lives and have no idea.
Also, we did a full medical history on both of us, and our families extending to 1st cousins, aunts/uncles, and grandparents. While I have a pretty darn healthy family (DH's family has some cancer, mostly lung from smoking), there are some red flags raised of course with my irregular periods, so they're suggesting some bloodwork to further explore the issue to rule out a chromosomal disorder as being the cause of my hormonal imbalances.
Lastly, they are recommending that I get tested for Fragile X syndrome, one of the most common causes of mental retardation and autism. I think this is a little bit more of a stretch, but the best assurance they can give us to rule out issues moving forward.
Right now they're doing some legwork with our insurance to see what they'll cover and what we'll have to pay out of pocket for. After that, we'll evaluate what we want to have done.
So if they find nothing wrong with us, the chances of something like this happening again are somewhere in the 3-8% range. If they find something wrong with either of us, it would be more like 15-20%. With our next pregnancy, they will suggest an ultrasound around 15-16 weeks--the earliest that Potters can be detected. Luckily, they didn't suggest any other sort of testing (amnio, CVS, etc) in future pregnancies.
None of it seems particularly complicated or invasive and actually a few of these items would serve us well not just for peace of mind, but to be able to offer our future children this information for their medical histories. i.e. --if one of us has a kidney issue and that's what caused our baby's death we could go on to have a child who appears completely healthy, but they will carry this gene and it can manifest itself in a variety of ways, but it will most likely show up in some form. But that would give them the heads up to examine our child for any potential issues so that they can be addressed early.
So I'm glad we went to get an idea of what our options are and to talk about the likelihood of it happening again. I just wish that any of this offered us an ounce of prevention, but it just doesn't.
A few potential causes:
1. Nature. Sometimes things just don't develop--probably the most common. Nothing can be done about it.
2. Genetic kidney disorder that was passed down and manifested in it's worst case.
3. Chromosomal abnormalities that extend beyond the renal system, but affected it's development.
While they say that Potters sequence typically isn't a genetic condition, a small percentage of people with the condition actually do inherit it. If either parent carries a gene abnormality for kidney malfunction, it can be passed onto the child. Sometimes this means the child will have kidney issues, varying from mild (abnormal tubes, etc) to severe (no kidneys). You can usually tell if a parent has this by having an ultrasound done on your renal system, showing any abnormalities. They actually said some people can be missing a kidney their whole lives and have no idea.
Also, we did a full medical history on both of us, and our families extending to 1st cousins, aunts/uncles, and grandparents. While I have a pretty darn healthy family (DH's family has some cancer, mostly lung from smoking), there are some red flags raised of course with my irregular periods, so they're suggesting some bloodwork to further explore the issue to rule out a chromosomal disorder as being the cause of my hormonal imbalances.
Lastly, they are recommending that I get tested for Fragile X syndrome, one of the most common causes of mental retardation and autism. I think this is a little bit more of a stretch, but the best assurance they can give us to rule out issues moving forward.
Right now they're doing some legwork with our insurance to see what they'll cover and what we'll have to pay out of pocket for. After that, we'll evaluate what we want to have done.
So if they find nothing wrong with us, the chances of something like this happening again are somewhere in the 3-8% range. If they find something wrong with either of us, it would be more like 15-20%. With our next pregnancy, they will suggest an ultrasound around 15-16 weeks--the earliest that Potters can be detected. Luckily, they didn't suggest any other sort of testing (amnio, CVS, etc) in future pregnancies.
None of it seems particularly complicated or invasive and actually a few of these items would serve us well not just for peace of mind, but to be able to offer our future children this information for their medical histories. i.e. --if one of us has a kidney issue and that's what caused our baby's death we could go on to have a child who appears completely healthy, but they will carry this gene and it can manifest itself in a variety of ways, but it will most likely show up in some form. But that would give them the heads up to examine our child for any potential issues so that they can be addressed early.
So I'm glad we went to get an idea of what our options are and to talk about the likelihood of it happening again. I just wish that any of this offered us an ounce of prevention, but it just doesn't.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Vanity
I still look like I looked while pregnant. My belly hadn't popped (even at 21 weeks) but I definintely looked like I'd gained weight. My pregnancy acne has lessened, but hasn't gone away completely.
I gained 10 lbs while pregnant and while I lost 5 of that so far, I have another 10 or so that I gained while TTC from the herbs that I was taking. So I'm stuck between maternity clothes that need to be lasso'd onto me and prepregnancy clothes that look like I'm squishing myself into a tube of toothpaste. I have bulges in places I've never had bulges before. I have a fear that as my hormones continue to go back to normal, I'm going to continue to lose breast volume and they'll sag.
I know everyone says to not let these things bother you, that it's just what happens when you get pregnant... but what about when you're not pregnant anymore and you have nothing to show for it?
I don't feel attractive and I'm daunted by the task of losing the weight. I'm normally a very healthy eater (even while pregnant), but since this all happened, it's been restaurants, take-out, and heat n' eats--none of which is very good for me. And the cycle continues--the food makes me feel lazy, so I'm too lazy to get back on track.
What to do, what to do...
I gained 10 lbs while pregnant and while I lost 5 of that so far, I have another 10 or so that I gained while TTC from the herbs that I was taking. So I'm stuck between maternity clothes that need to be lasso'd onto me and prepregnancy clothes that look like I'm squishing myself into a tube of toothpaste. I have bulges in places I've never had bulges before. I have a fear that as my hormones continue to go back to normal, I'm going to continue to lose breast volume and they'll sag.
I know everyone says to not let these things bother you, that it's just what happens when you get pregnant... but what about when you're not pregnant anymore and you have nothing to show for it?
I don't feel attractive and I'm daunted by the task of losing the weight. I'm normally a very healthy eater (even while pregnant), but since this all happened, it's been restaurants, take-out, and heat n' eats--none of which is very good for me. And the cycle continues--the food makes me feel lazy, so I'm too lazy to get back on track.
What to do, what to do...
Friday, September 18, 2009
Controversial consent
The day before I went in to be induced, I had to go to my doctor's office to sign a consent form for the procedure. Luckily, the person on the phone had already kindly warned me what the form would say--that I was consenting to an "elective abortion," even though she understood that this was not my true choice.
Still--really?!
I understood why I needed to sign a release form that stated that I was willingly having my baby removed from me, but I wish they would have had a "no way out!" stamp they could have put on the top or some kind of "fatal condition" checkbox marked. Because lord knows I really need to feel judged at this moment and to have "elective abortion" listed in my medical records.
So I feel this should be addressed. While I don't really feel the need to defend what we chose to do, I will elect to explain.
Some people find out their children have fatal conditions and choose to carry them to term (or until nature takes its course), giving them every second of a good life that they can give them. I'm glad that they have the right and ability to choose what was best for them--legally, mentally, physically, and (if applicable) religiously. Taking a child to term with a fatal condition is an amazing, selfless act and my heart goes out to everyone put in this situation, no matter what they decide.
When we found out what had happened and understood the particular details of Potters sequence, it was clear that letting her go immediately was the route for us to give our baby the best life that she could have had. She had already swallowed all of my amniotic fluid and without any renal system, she couldn't pee it out to make her comfortable, expand my uterus, and recycle the fluid to develop her lungs.
So no fluid, no moving, no comfort, slowly deforming in a uterus that won't expand... I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't crush her to death with my own body. I also couldn't wait and allow her to get to the point that she would try to gasp for breath upon delivery with undeveloped lungs. That was not the life that I wanted for my baby, even if it meant keeping her with me longer.
Call it what you want, but I'll always believe it was the right thing to do and that I gave my baby the best life possible for every single second of it. If the circumstances would have been different, I honestly can't say what I would do because it truly is a situation that you can't comprehend until you're in it. And I hope you never are.
Still--really?!
I understood why I needed to sign a release form that stated that I was willingly having my baby removed from me, but I wish they would have had a "no way out!" stamp they could have put on the top or some kind of "fatal condition" checkbox marked. Because lord knows I really need to feel judged at this moment and to have "elective abortion" listed in my medical records.
So I feel this should be addressed. While I don't really feel the need to defend what we chose to do, I will elect to explain.
Some people find out their children have fatal conditions and choose to carry them to term (or until nature takes its course), giving them every second of a good life that they can give them. I'm glad that they have the right and ability to choose what was best for them--legally, mentally, physically, and (if applicable) religiously. Taking a child to term with a fatal condition is an amazing, selfless act and my heart goes out to everyone put in this situation, no matter what they decide.
When we found out what had happened and understood the particular details of Potters sequence, it was clear that letting her go immediately was the route for us to give our baby the best life that she could have had. She had already swallowed all of my amniotic fluid and without any renal system, she couldn't pee it out to make her comfortable, expand my uterus, and recycle the fluid to develop her lungs.
So no fluid, no moving, no comfort, slowly deforming in a uterus that won't expand... I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't crush her to death with my own body. I also couldn't wait and allow her to get to the point that she would try to gasp for breath upon delivery with undeveloped lungs. That was not the life that I wanted for my baby, even if it meant keeping her with me longer.
Call it what you want, but I'll always believe it was the right thing to do and that I gave my baby the best life possible for every single second of it. If the circumstances would have been different, I honestly can't say what I would do because it truly is a situation that you can't comprehend until you're in it. And I hope you never are.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
How are you doing?
First off, I apologize if I haven't replied to a message that you've sent me. I've been trying to reply to everything, but I know some things have fallen through the cracks along the way. I'm sorry. Please know that I appreciate your thoughtfulness very much. I don't know how I'd be doing without the constant flow of love and support that I've received from all of you.
How am I doing? If you ask, I usually reply with, "Okay." but I don't know if that really gives you any description, so I'll give it a shot here.
Considering the circumstances, I think I'm doing pretty decent. I'm not laying in bed, listening to sad music and crying--not that I think there's anything wrong with that. I get out of bed, go to work, usually manage to get some work done, and by the end of the day I'm pretty drained. I've spent lots of quality time with friends and family, asked for help when I needed it, and generally feel like I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
Sometimes I still feel a little out of it or distracted, but most of the time I feel like me. I'm able to laugh, chat with people about other things, and usually I can focus on a task.
But it's still hard. There's a lot of talk about the baby and what happened. Sometimes I feel guilty for dominating conversations and for bringing it up when I want to talk about it, like I'm being an attention whore. But I still feel like there are explanations to make to people and keeping them up to date on how I'm doing both physically and emotionally.
So while I think we're going through a normal grieving process and that's good news--it still pisses me the hell off that we're in this situation to begin with.
I've had more flashes of anger when I think about how excited we were for our big ultrasound and how we got the rug pulled out from underneath us. Even when I was cautious at the beginning of our pregnancy, I honestly never thought that anything would go wrong. This has shaken my faith to the core. I'm not a particularly religious person, so I don't mean "faith" in that way--I'm moreso referring to the immense amount of fear that I now have as I realize that anything can be taken away from me--from any of us.
Anything, at any time.
How am I doing? If you ask, I usually reply with, "Okay." but I don't know if that really gives you any description, so I'll give it a shot here.
Considering the circumstances, I think I'm doing pretty decent. I'm not laying in bed, listening to sad music and crying--not that I think there's anything wrong with that. I get out of bed, go to work, usually manage to get some work done, and by the end of the day I'm pretty drained. I've spent lots of quality time with friends and family, asked for help when I needed it, and generally feel like I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
Sometimes I still feel a little out of it or distracted, but most of the time I feel like me. I'm able to laugh, chat with people about other things, and usually I can focus on a task.
But it's still hard. There's a lot of talk about the baby and what happened. Sometimes I feel guilty for dominating conversations and for bringing it up when I want to talk about it, like I'm being an attention whore. But I still feel like there are explanations to make to people and keeping them up to date on how I'm doing both physically and emotionally.
So while I think we're going through a normal grieving process and that's good news--it still pisses me the hell off that we're in this situation to begin with.
I've had more flashes of anger when I think about how excited we were for our big ultrasound and how we got the rug pulled out from underneath us. Even when I was cautious at the beginning of our pregnancy, I honestly never thought that anything would go wrong. This has shaken my faith to the core. I'm not a particularly religious person, so I don't mean "faith" in that way--I'm moreso referring to the immense amount of fear that I now have as I realize that anything can be taken away from me--from any of us.
Anything, at any time.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
2 week post partum checkup
Yesterday wasn't a great day. I had what should have been my post partum checkup with my doctor, but since I'm still spotting we couldn't do the exam. So I'm stuck going back in 3 weeks for the full exam.
My symptoms have been as good/minimal as we could hope for and when we went over my delivery (which I will write about some day) he said that I had one of the very best he's ever had to do under those circumstances. But not exactly something to enjoy patting yourself on the back over.
We went over my laundry list of questions and chatted for awhile. He helped to settle some of the fears that I shared before about if it could have been a bad egg from late ovulation, anything I did, etc. We are also taking him up on an offer to meet with a genetic counselor to see if there is any testing we can have done to rule out other conditions. Sure, they tell you this probably isn't genetic, but quite frankly with the amount of fear that we have right now, I'm happy to rule just about anything out.
We talked about my long cycles and when my period may reappear and how long we should wait. They weren't planning on monitoring my betas, but since I have long cycles, they're going to test my betas at my next appointment to make sure they're decreasing appropriately. Then they'd like me to complete two full cycles to flush out my uterus--and if they're long cycles, I can induce a period with provera. More than anything they said it's the minimum of 12 weeks for my uterus to contract, heal, and return to it's original position. So I'm glad there weren't any 6 month-1 year curveballs thrown our way.
I'm trying to think about what else he told us, but I don't have my question list with me. And I'll probably explore the "When will you TTC again?" question in some detail soon.
I went to work afterwards and for the rest of the day, I just wasn't myself. Maybe it was revisiting what had happened in such detail, maybe it was returning to the "scene of the crime," as the last time I'd been there was to sign my release forms and and DH's last visit was for the big (clusterfuck of a) ultrasound.
Or maybe it was just a reminder that this is something that didn't happen and go away. I'm stuck carrying it with me now and that just fucking sucks.
My symptoms have been as good/minimal as we could hope for and when we went over my delivery (which I will write about some day) he said that I had one of the very best he's ever had to do under those circumstances. But not exactly something to enjoy patting yourself on the back over.
We went over my laundry list of questions and chatted for awhile. He helped to settle some of the fears that I shared before about if it could have been a bad egg from late ovulation, anything I did, etc. We are also taking him up on an offer to meet with a genetic counselor to see if there is any testing we can have done to rule out other conditions. Sure, they tell you this probably isn't genetic, but quite frankly with the amount of fear that we have right now, I'm happy to rule just about anything out.
We talked about my long cycles and when my period may reappear and how long we should wait. They weren't planning on monitoring my betas, but since I have long cycles, they're going to test my betas at my next appointment to make sure they're decreasing appropriately. Then they'd like me to complete two full cycles to flush out my uterus--and if they're long cycles, I can induce a period with provera. More than anything they said it's the minimum of 12 weeks for my uterus to contract, heal, and return to it's original position. So I'm glad there weren't any 6 month-1 year curveballs thrown our way.
I'm trying to think about what else he told us, but I don't have my question list with me. And I'll probably explore the "When will you TTC again?" question in some detail soon.
I went to work afterwards and for the rest of the day, I just wasn't myself. Maybe it was revisiting what had happened in such detail, maybe it was returning to the "scene of the crime," as the last time I'd been there was to sign my release forms and and DH's last visit was for the big (clusterfuck of a) ultrasound.
Or maybe it was just a reminder that this is something that didn't happen and go away. I'm stuck carrying it with me now and that just fucking sucks.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Bitterness and regret
C'mon... You didn't think I'd get through this without some crazy thoughts of bitterness and regret, did you?
The good news is that I'm not a terribly angry person. It takes a lot to make me explode and when I do, I get over it fairly quickly. I believe they call people like me "a slow boil."
Well, I'm simmering a little bit right now.
I have a great life. I really do. Any I've meant every single word that I've said about how grateful I am for what I have--a wonderful husband, a caring, loving, and relatively healthy family, great friends, a good job, a roof over my head and two beautiful cats to love... But WHY OH WHY couldn't I have this one item too? Bad things happen to everyone, I understand that--but why couldn't it be my car breaking down, a job loss, or some other kind of shit luck? Why did it have to be my own flesh and blood taken from me? Dammit!
To be honest, I've never had a loss that was really close to me. I've watched and futily tried to help when friends have lost parents, grandparents, loved ones, best friends, etc--but me? The closest to me have been my sister's best friend, a priest at my church that I adored, and my great grandfather that I barely remember. So this grief thing is pretty new to me--and talk about trial by fire! I know it's nothing like losing someone you've loved for years and developed close knit bonds with, but it's a painful, painful loss nonetheless.
She never had a chance. She never got to breathe air or play in a garden or know what it's like to have her momma hold her close. I never got to see her smile, look in her eyes, and play with her.
And then there's the guilt. Thank you jeebus for 9 years of Catholic school that taught me so well how to agonize. You can tell me something's totally not my fault, but these ideas will still creep into my head, but I will say that I have been able to push them out fairly quickly. And luckily everything that I've read about Potters Syndrome helps to alleviate these things as well... but they still happen.
Was it a bad egg because I ovulated so late? Did all of those early ultrasounds affect development? Was it something I did? Did I not drink enough water, causing this spiral of low fluid early when it was desperately needed? Did I get enough calcium? Did I sleep on my back too much and cut off circulation when my baby needed better blood flow? Was it that one taste of alcohol that I had when I accidentally picked up someone else's drink (I'm still pissed that my water was moved without my knowledge)? What if one of these things happened on the day that those cells were supposed to be dividing, causing this awful chain reaction that couldn't be undone?
I know it's silly. I know it is. Medical studies prove otherwise. But they can't prevent these thoughts from creeping into my brain.
So I guess all I'm saying here is that I needed to put these thoughts in writing so that I could look at them, reassure myself that there's just no way they could have played a factor, and move on from them.
xoxo
The good news is that I'm not a terribly angry person. It takes a lot to make me explode and when I do, I get over it fairly quickly. I believe they call people like me "a slow boil."
Well, I'm simmering a little bit right now.
I have a great life. I really do. Any I've meant every single word that I've said about how grateful I am for what I have--a wonderful husband, a caring, loving, and relatively healthy family, great friends, a good job, a roof over my head and two beautiful cats to love... But WHY OH WHY couldn't I have this one item too? Bad things happen to everyone, I understand that--but why couldn't it be my car breaking down, a job loss, or some other kind of shit luck? Why did it have to be my own flesh and blood taken from me? Dammit!
To be honest, I've never had a loss that was really close to me. I've watched and futily tried to help when friends have lost parents, grandparents, loved ones, best friends, etc--but me? The closest to me have been my sister's best friend, a priest at my church that I adored, and my great grandfather that I barely remember. So this grief thing is pretty new to me--and talk about trial by fire! I know it's nothing like losing someone you've loved for years and developed close knit bonds with, but it's a painful, painful loss nonetheless.
She never had a chance. She never got to breathe air or play in a garden or know what it's like to have her momma hold her close. I never got to see her smile, look in her eyes, and play with her.
And then there's the guilt. Thank you jeebus for 9 years of Catholic school that taught me so well how to agonize. You can tell me something's totally not my fault, but these ideas will still creep into my head, but I will say that I have been able to push them out fairly quickly. And luckily everything that I've read about Potters Syndrome helps to alleviate these things as well... but they still happen.
Was it a bad egg because I ovulated so late? Did all of those early ultrasounds affect development? Was it something I did? Did I not drink enough water, causing this spiral of low fluid early when it was desperately needed? Did I get enough calcium? Did I sleep on my back too much and cut off circulation when my baby needed better blood flow? Was it that one taste of alcohol that I had when I accidentally picked up someone else's drink (I'm still pissed that my water was moved without my knowledge)? What if one of these things happened on the day that those cells were supposed to be dividing, causing this awful chain reaction that couldn't be undone?
I know it's silly. I know it is. Medical studies prove otherwise. But they can't prevent these thoughts from creeping into my brain.
So I guess all I'm saying here is that I needed to put these thoughts in writing so that I could look at them, reassure myself that there's just no way they could have played a factor, and move on from them.
xoxo
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Caught offguard
So I'm meeting with my boss and coworker in the central area of our company and our Starbucks is blasting the newly remastered Beatles collection. I was almost sick to my stomach as I knew it was only a matter of time before "Hey Jude" would pop up.
And then there it was. Clear as a bell and reverberating through my brain. Fuck. It's a song that I like to listen to by myself when I'm feeling up to it--those are the circumstances under which I'm comfortable with it! But not like this. Not catching me offguard and holding me hostage during a business meeting!
About 30 seconds in, I can already start to feel my face get hot and I can feel my eyes just darting around, looking for some sort of escape, telling myself to tune it out and be a big girl.
But then my boss looks at me and says, "Yeah. This probably isn't a great song to hear right now."
That was it. Without even thinking, I closed my notebook and put it down and just managed to say, "I've gotta go. I'll be back" before I broke into tears and hurried into the bathroom where I managed to collect myself after a few minutes.
I knew they understood why I left and I knew they wouldn't think less of me for doing it. But I still wasn't sure how to walk back into the meeting and continue without just breaking down into tears again. So you know what? I went to my desk, took one of my prescribed xanax, and just sat there for a few minutes (Hello? The song is like 7+ minutes long.)
I've been doing my best to not use the drugs that have been offered to me, but you know what? Fuck it. Sometimes you just can't be the hero.
And then there it was. Clear as a bell and reverberating through my brain. Fuck. It's a song that I like to listen to by myself when I'm feeling up to it--those are the circumstances under which I'm comfortable with it! But not like this. Not catching me offguard and holding me hostage during a business meeting!
About 30 seconds in, I can already start to feel my face get hot and I can feel my eyes just darting around, looking for some sort of escape, telling myself to tune it out and be a big girl.
But then my boss looks at me and says, "Yeah. This probably isn't a great song to hear right now."
That was it. Without even thinking, I closed my notebook and put it down and just managed to say, "I've gotta go. I'll be back" before I broke into tears and hurried into the bathroom where I managed to collect myself after a few minutes.
I knew they understood why I left and I knew they wouldn't think less of me for doing it. But I still wasn't sure how to walk back into the meeting and continue without just breaking down into tears again. So you know what? I went to my desk, took one of my prescribed xanax, and just sat there for a few minutes (Hello? The song is like 7+ minutes long.)
I've been doing my best to not use the drugs that have been offered to me, but you know what? Fuck it. Sometimes you just can't be the hero.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My Game Face
I've always had this amazing ability to respond to stressful and emergency situations. I stay cool, I think clearly and strategically, and I get the job done. DH and I have always jokingly referred to it as my "military attack mode." Whatever. It works, so you can't really knock it.
It's served me well over the years, both personally and professionally. I'd venture to say that both coworkers and friends alike would have me pretty high on their emergency phone tree. I've pulled off complicated events that seemed no-win situations, avoided disasters, stopped people from bleeding, and been a first-responder on many a traumatic scene.
But afterwards? I typically lose my shit. I shake, I cry, and when it finally hits me what just happened I finally get to let the emotions wash over me and then I'm all better.
This time? Not so much.
I'm pretty effing proud of my game face. I got through appointments with specialists and a call into a Dr.'s office that was straight out of a bad Lifetime movie. I had two doctors stand together and tell me that there was zero chance that my baby would live and that it would be better to let it go now rather than allow it to be crushed in a uterus that would never expand. We both teared up, asked a few questions, and then walked out of the doctor's office with a no doubts in our mind that this was the only way.
I'm not going to lie. I cried like a baby. I sobbed and collapsed into my husband's arms in the hospital hallway. We continued to hold each other up and drag each other to the car where I had to lean out of the door as I dry heaved from my sobs. And like an out of body experience, I can almost see us in that same hallway in my head.
I cried each time I talked to someone new. I cried when I thought about what was about to happen, what my baby might already be going through, and for all that I was losing. I thought that all of this crying meant that I "got it."
I had such a clear understanding of what lay before me--I was about to labor and deliver a baby that wouldn't live. I worried that this would taint all future deliveries and I forced myself to look at the bright side at every possible angle.
Game face=on.
But I guess I didn't know it at the time that it was my military attack mode taking over. I felt very sad, but still relatively clear headed considering the circumstances. I was proud of being able to go through labor and delivery and remaining calm.
I was so happy that I changed my mind on my labor plan as I realized that my baby needed me and everything that I could offer her. I would not trade those moments with her for anything.
But now? I'm back at work and apparently the game face has left me. Life is moving on and I'm realizing what I must now carry with me for the rest of my life--I'm a momma to a baby who died. This will never ever change no matter how much time passes or how life changes in the meantime... Wow.
Don't get me wrong. I'm still very much grateful for the life that I have and the love of both my husband and my sweet baby Jude, but at the same time, I guess I just don't have the clarity that I had a week ago. Everything feels so cloudy and overwhelming.
I can't believe that my baby was taken away from me. I can't believe that this all happened. I can't believe that my DH and I have the cremains of our child in a little box on a shelf.
I can't believe that I'm not pregnant anymore. I was so, so proud to be carrying my husband's baby and to be opening the door to the next stage of our life together. I can't believe that trying to conceive, getting pregnant, and feeling secure in having a healthy baby is so, so fucking far away.
This hasn't changed what I want. I want to be a momma to a baby who gets to stay. But the problem is that more than anything I want to be the momma to a baby who just isn't here anymore.
It's served me well over the years, both personally and professionally. I'd venture to say that both coworkers and friends alike would have me pretty high on their emergency phone tree. I've pulled off complicated events that seemed no-win situations, avoided disasters, stopped people from bleeding, and been a first-responder on many a traumatic scene.
But afterwards? I typically lose my shit. I shake, I cry, and when it finally hits me what just happened I finally get to let the emotions wash over me and then I'm all better.
This time? Not so much.
I'm pretty effing proud of my game face. I got through appointments with specialists and a call into a Dr.'s office that was straight out of a bad Lifetime movie. I had two doctors stand together and tell me that there was zero chance that my baby would live and that it would be better to let it go now rather than allow it to be crushed in a uterus that would never expand. We both teared up, asked a few questions, and then walked out of the doctor's office with a no doubts in our mind that this was the only way.
I'm not going to lie. I cried like a baby. I sobbed and collapsed into my husband's arms in the hospital hallway. We continued to hold each other up and drag each other to the car where I had to lean out of the door as I dry heaved from my sobs. And like an out of body experience, I can almost see us in that same hallway in my head.
I cried each time I talked to someone new. I cried when I thought about what was about to happen, what my baby might already be going through, and for all that I was losing. I thought that all of this crying meant that I "got it."
I had such a clear understanding of what lay before me--I was about to labor and deliver a baby that wouldn't live. I worried that this would taint all future deliveries and I forced myself to look at the bright side at every possible angle.
Game face=on.
But I guess I didn't know it at the time that it was my military attack mode taking over. I felt very sad, but still relatively clear headed considering the circumstances. I was proud of being able to go through labor and delivery and remaining calm.
I was so happy that I changed my mind on my labor plan as I realized that my baby needed me and everything that I could offer her. I would not trade those moments with her for anything.
But now? I'm back at work and apparently the game face has left me. Life is moving on and I'm realizing what I must now carry with me for the rest of my life--I'm a momma to a baby who died. This will never ever change no matter how much time passes or how life changes in the meantime... Wow.
Don't get me wrong. I'm still very much grateful for the life that I have and the love of both my husband and my sweet baby Jude, but at the same time, I guess I just don't have the clarity that I had a week ago. Everything feels so cloudy and overwhelming.
I can't believe that my baby was taken away from me. I can't believe that this all happened. I can't believe that my DH and I have the cremains of our child in a little box on a shelf.
I can't believe that I'm not pregnant anymore. I was so, so proud to be carrying my husband's baby and to be opening the door to the next stage of our life together. I can't believe that trying to conceive, getting pregnant, and feeling secure in having a healthy baby is so, so fucking far away.
This hasn't changed what I want. I want to be a momma to a baby who gets to stay. But the problem is that more than anything I want to be the momma to a baby who just isn't here anymore.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Cruel jokes
So my milk started coming in Tuesday night--I could feel my boobs starting to get heavier and more full. I was with friends, so I iced them when I got home. I've been living in a sports bra ever since and last night I started with the cold cabbage leaves. Aaaaahhh, relief!
I have some concerns that my boobs are warm to the touch, rock hard (well, I expected that one) and do have some serious lumps in them. I might have to call the doctor's office since warm-to-touch was on their list of warning signs. I started taking benadryl at night to try to dry them out a bit. Fun, fun, fun, right?
Yesterday we started shopping for cremains containers. This was another item that we surprised ourselves by changing our minds on. A local funeral home donates this service rather than have standard hospital removal (can you believe that kind of generosity and compassion?) And DH has asked that we pick out something that's nice, not morbid, and that he can keep in his office. We didn't find anything that he felt was precious or unique enough, so we're headed to the antique mall today to do some shopping.
And then we'll head to the funeral home to pick up our daughter.
I don't even know what to say about this. And I don't think I need to paint a picture, either.
Speaking of the funeral home, I had been feeling really good on Tuesday and my sisters had been in/out to help me around the house (we've had a lot of family events this summer that I planned so things were quickly spiraling out of control in the housekeeping department) and then it was just me and my mom. The phone rang and it was the funeral home saying that they had all of the proper paperwork and with my permission, they'd proceed.
Thanks. I really needed a phone call to confirm that yes, you can cremate my baby and now I'm trapped with the knowledge that you're doing it right now (or within the next 24 hours since you also informed me that I can pick her up tomorrow.)
Breathe. We knew this was what they were going to do and we knew we'd never see her again. Nothing here is a surprise. Just breathe.
All I can say is at this point is I'm glad that it was me who got the call and not DH. He's taking it really hard and didn't have the instant "at your fingertips" support system that I've had. But he's now reaching out to friends and getting the support he needs.
I keep repeating to myself, "one day/hour/minute at a time," but it's funny--that's the only choice we're given in life is to live one day/hour/minute at a time. I say this to give myself permission to change my mind about what I need or want, but it just strikes me as an interesting phrase.
People are always saying it like instructions--just take one day at a time. But to me in my head, I'm kinda like, YAY! Only one day at a time--because god knows I'm not ready to handle more than that.
Oh, and I've also been struck with an unbelievable amount of regret that I just didn't give the baby my maiden name as a middle name. She doesn't have a middle name and I don't know why I didn't think of it since we were considering it for a middle name anyway. *sigh* But there's no point in changing it--It's just a death certificate and not a birth certificate since it was stillborn.
Okie dokie. That's enough for today. TTYL
xoxo
I have some concerns that my boobs are warm to the touch, rock hard (well, I expected that one) and do have some serious lumps in them. I might have to call the doctor's office since warm-to-touch was on their list of warning signs. I started taking benadryl at night to try to dry them out a bit. Fun, fun, fun, right?
Yesterday we started shopping for cremains containers. This was another item that we surprised ourselves by changing our minds on. A local funeral home donates this service rather than have standard hospital removal (can you believe that kind of generosity and compassion?) And DH has asked that we pick out something that's nice, not morbid, and that he can keep in his office. We didn't find anything that he felt was precious or unique enough, so we're headed to the antique mall today to do some shopping.
And then we'll head to the funeral home to pick up our daughter.
I don't even know what to say about this. And I don't think I need to paint a picture, either.
Speaking of the funeral home, I had been feeling really good on Tuesday and my sisters had been in/out to help me around the house (we've had a lot of family events this summer that I planned so things were quickly spiraling out of control in the housekeeping department) and then it was just me and my mom. The phone rang and it was the funeral home saying that they had all of the proper paperwork and with my permission, they'd proceed.
Thanks. I really needed a phone call to confirm that yes, you can cremate my baby and now I'm trapped with the knowledge that you're doing it right now (or within the next 24 hours since you also informed me that I can pick her up tomorrow.)
Breathe. We knew this was what they were going to do and we knew we'd never see her again. Nothing here is a surprise. Just breathe.
All I can say is at this point is I'm glad that it was me who got the call and not DH. He's taking it really hard and didn't have the instant "at your fingertips" support system that I've had. But he's now reaching out to friends and getting the support he needs.
I keep repeating to myself, "one day/hour/minute at a time," but it's funny--that's the only choice we're given in life is to live one day/hour/minute at a time. I say this to give myself permission to change my mind about what I need or want, but it just strikes me as an interesting phrase.
People are always saying it like instructions--just take one day at a time. But to me in my head, I'm kinda like, YAY! Only one day at a time--because god knows I'm not ready to handle more than that.
Oh, and I've also been struck with an unbelievable amount of regret that I just didn't give the baby my maiden name as a middle name. She doesn't have a middle name and I don't know why I didn't think of it since we were considering it for a middle name anyway. *sigh* But there's no point in changing it--It's just a death certificate and not a birth certificate since it was stillborn.
Okie dokie. That's enough for today. TTYL
xoxo
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Let it out and let it in.
It's cliche, yet so very appropriate...
Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
Hey Jude, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get her.
The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better.
And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that its a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder.
Hey Jude, don't let me down.
You have found her, now go and get her.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,
You're waiting for someone to perform with.
And don't you know that its just you, hey Jude, you'll do,
The movement you need is on your shoulder.
Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her under your skin,
Then you'll begin to make it
Better better better better better better, oh.
Na na na na na ,na na na, hey Jude...
Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
Hey Jude, don't be afraid.
You were made to go out and get her.
The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better.
And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that its a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder.
Hey Jude, don't let me down.
You have found her, now go and get her.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,
You're waiting for someone to perform with.
And don't you know that its just you, hey Jude, you'll do,
The movement you need is on your shoulder.
Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her under your skin,
Then you'll begin to make it
Better better better better better better, oh.
Na na na na na ,na na na, hey Jude...
Monday, August 31, 2009
You only get to choose what you hold onto
My dad strikes again.
When he came to see me and the baby, he told me that, "All there is in life is love. That's what gets us through and that's what we hold onto."
So that's what I choose--I choose love and I choose to let it multiply and thrive.
I choose the love of my beautiful, sensitive husband, my friends and family, and yes, the love that I have for my baby and that I know my baby has for me. I'd rather spend 6 hours with her (seemed like 10 minutes) than never to have known the love of cuddling and kissing her, even though she was already gone on arrival. I'm going to hang onto that love and take it with me.
I surprised myself in so many ways this past weekend. It quickly became obvious that I wasn't having a miscarriage. This wasn't something that would just go away. I had a baby. And even if that baby was coming into the world already at peace, it still needed it's momma. So that's what I chose to be and I am so, so glad that I did.
I know to some it may be strange that I'm here and I'm talking about this so openly and sharing my grief, but honestly I've always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve and when I have the words, I share them.
I have my dark moments. I've cried until I couldn't breathe. But when I have that moment to gasp for breath, I'm so grateful to have that breath to take.
We all have choices of what we hold onto in life--our bad childhoods, our fears, our insecurities, etc. But really--the easiest and most beneficial choice is to hang onto the love. I don't consider it an act of strength. It's just life.
When he came to see me and the baby, he told me that, "All there is in life is love. That's what gets us through and that's what we hold onto."
So that's what I choose--I choose love and I choose to let it multiply and thrive.
I choose the love of my beautiful, sensitive husband, my friends and family, and yes, the love that I have for my baby and that I know my baby has for me. I'd rather spend 6 hours with her (seemed like 10 minutes) than never to have known the love of cuddling and kissing her, even though she was already gone on arrival. I'm going to hang onto that love and take it with me.
I surprised myself in so many ways this past weekend. It quickly became obvious that I wasn't having a miscarriage. This wasn't something that would just go away. I had a baby. And even if that baby was coming into the world already at peace, it still needed it's momma. So that's what I chose to be and I am so, so glad that I did.
I know to some it may be strange that I'm here and I'm talking about this so openly and sharing my grief, but honestly I've always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve and when I have the words, I share them.
I have my dark moments. I've cried until I couldn't breathe. But when I have that moment to gasp for breath, I'm so grateful to have that breath to take.
We all have choices of what we hold onto in life--our bad childhoods, our fears, our insecurities, etc. But really--the easiest and most beneficial choice is to hang onto the love. I don't consider it an act of strength. It's just life.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Too sweet to stay
The past two days have blown my mind and changed my life in ways that I never expected, nor thought possible. In fact, just about everything I expected or worried about turned out to be the exact opposite. I'll share more as I can pull my thoughts together. For now I'm just going to record what I want to remember the most.
Our little girl would have turned out to be so beautiful. For as small as she was, she had chubby little cheeks, her dad's nose and hair color (on her eyebrows), and my chin and feet and hands--long and slender. I don't know whose lips she had, but they were so full and lovely.
I couldn't stop staring at her perfect little nose and sneaking a peek under the blanket at her perfect little bubble toes and the tiny creases on the bottom of her feet. Even when there were people in the room, I didn't want to take my eyes off of her. I'd see them again another time, but this was all of the time that I had.
So lovely, so peaceful, so gentle.
Baby Jude
August 29, 2009
12 oz, 10 inches
(EDIT: Yes, those feet are almost exactly to scale.)
Our little girl would have turned out to be so beautiful. For as small as she was, she had chubby little cheeks, her dad's nose and hair color (on her eyebrows), and my chin and feet and hands--long and slender. I don't know whose lips she had, but they were so full and lovely.
I couldn't stop staring at her perfect little nose and sneaking a peek under the blanket at her perfect little bubble toes and the tiny creases on the bottom of her feet. Even when there were people in the room, I didn't want to take my eyes off of her. I'd see them again another time, but this was all of the time that I had.
So lovely, so peaceful, so gentle.
Baby Jude
August 29, 2009
12 oz, 10 inches
(EDIT: Yes, those feet are almost exactly to scale.)
Friday, August 28, 2009
Maybe I don't have any words...
but I do have something to share, one of my favorite songs by Ohio-based band Over the Rhine. And the imagery is especially appropriate, considering the lovely tribute that the GP'ers did for me yesterday.
xoxo,
MSC
xoxo,
MSC
What's next?
So I made it to 6 a.m. again--I consider that a good sign. The valium did help me fall asleep and stay asleep most of the night.
Last night after it kicked in, I suddenly had this frenzy to find some things of significance to take to the hospital, just in case I was suddenly overwhelmed with motherly abilities. I threw one of my receiving blankets from when I was a baby into the wash and I pulled out a rosary that my aunt made me for my confirmation that's made of heart shaped beads. I also scribbled in my baby journal for awhile (lord only knows why since I'm the only one who is going to read it now) and wrote out a laundry list of questions (god only knows if they're coherent) for the doctor.
And so here I am, sitting and waiting for this huge question mark of "What's gonna happen?" to reveal itself to me. I know people have gone through this before. I know that it shouldn't be as hard (physically) as full term labor, but I also know it's going to hurt, inside and out. And this labor that I'd longed for isn't going to happen.
It's a means to an end. I know that. And it has to happen. But it still feels like my heart's been ripped out and stomped on. The rug's been completely pulled out from under me and all of these hopes and dreams for what could be have been wiped out.
I know "what's left?" but what's next?
That I can't answer and it absolutely terrifies me.
I don't know if I'll be back before we leave (depends on if I have anything to say) but I'm going to go and spend some quiet time alone with my little love bug to say goodbye while it's just us. I don't think I can speak those words out loud with anyone else around.
Lots of love,
MSC
EDIT:
If there's one bright spot in this to be seen, it's that whenever I look at my dearest husband, I smile. I truly do love that man with all of my heart and I'm so grateful to have him and this wonderful life we have together. (Yes, I do believe that my life is generally wonderful, despite what's happening right now.)
He might not be able to be my rock right now, but he somehow is still exactly what I need. We take care of each other in this amazing, almost completely intuitive way that has made this more bearable. I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude for him that sometimes I almost think it's selfish to ask for anything more.
Audrey Hepburn said it best... "The best thing in life to hold on to is each other."
Last night after it kicked in, I suddenly had this frenzy to find some things of significance to take to the hospital, just in case I was suddenly overwhelmed with motherly abilities. I threw one of my receiving blankets from when I was a baby into the wash and I pulled out a rosary that my aunt made me for my confirmation that's made of heart shaped beads. I also scribbled in my baby journal for awhile (lord only knows why since I'm the only one who is going to read it now) and wrote out a laundry list of questions (god only knows if they're coherent) for the doctor.
And so here I am, sitting and waiting for this huge question mark of "What's gonna happen?" to reveal itself to me. I know people have gone through this before. I know that it shouldn't be as hard (physically) as full term labor, but I also know it's going to hurt, inside and out. And this labor that I'd longed for isn't going to happen.
It's a means to an end. I know that. And it has to happen. But it still feels like my heart's been ripped out and stomped on. The rug's been completely pulled out from under me and all of these hopes and dreams for what could be have been wiped out.
I know "what's left?" but what's next?
That I can't answer and it absolutely terrifies me.
I don't know if I'll be back before we leave (depends on if I have anything to say) but I'm going to go and spend some quiet time alone with my little love bug to say goodbye while it's just us. I don't think I can speak those words out loud with anyone else around.
Lots of love,
MSC
EDIT:
If there's one bright spot in this to be seen, it's that whenever I look at my dearest husband, I smile. I truly do love that man with all of my heart and I'm so grateful to have him and this wonderful life we have together. (Yes, I do believe that my life is generally wonderful, despite what's happening right now.)
He might not be able to be my rock right now, but he somehow is still exactly what I need. We take care of each other in this amazing, almost completely intuitive way that has made this more bearable. I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude for him that sometimes I almost think it's selfish to ask for anything more.
Audrey Hepburn said it best... "The best thing in life to hold on to is each other."
Thursday, August 27, 2009
My pity party
God, I just keep clicking around the internet for no apparent reason. I just don't want to go to bed and have tomorrow come.
I am so fucking scared.
I am so fucking scared.
On the eve of this all...
I can't even begin to tell you how much the outpouring of support means to me. I never thought it would be so comforting to hear, "I'm sorry and I love you." My family, my friends, and my lovely e-friends. The posts, the emails, the private messages, the phone calls (even if I can't answer them), everything. You are all so amazing.
As far as my self assessment, I feel like I have a strong grasp on what's happened and I don't second guess the diagnosis and I'm cleared of any guilt that it's something I did. Sure, in the back of my head I have moments of, "What if it was my self doubt about if I'll be a good mother? What if it was bad karma?" but really? Those don't carry too much weight with me and so far it's easy to shrug it off.
It had to happen to someone. And actually, I don't really believe that there's someone up in the clouds who has to choose who it happens to. I don't really know if it's part of a greater plan. To me, it's just a statistic. I pulled the unlucky number. I can live with that. I don't want it to be that way, but I can live.
But tomorrow... Oooohhhh, tomorrow! I wish it did not have to come. This is not how I wanted my first labor to be. I was so excited for labor, as crazy as that sounds. It's supposed to be a miracle and a rite of passage that I held in the highest esteem... But not this way.
For those that are curious, they're going to give me a pill of cytotec every 4 hours to induce labor. When it finally gets uncomfortable, I'm opting for the epidural (in case I end up having to have a D&C afterwards that means they won't have to put me out and I don't want to be put out because of what it does to your body and recovery time). Pushing shouldn't be bad.
But what happens after that? Will it be gone already? Will it breathe? Can it possibly even choke out a cry? Will I suddenly be overwhelmed with the need to see it?
It's going to be a strange mental battle for me. I am terrified, petrified, and I don't know what other word to use to describe how afraid I am of dead things. It's almost debilitating. Dead animals, dead bodies, everything. Like if I'm in a funeral home, I can't walk near/look at a dead body. I just can't--it makes me physically ill.
So does it make me a bad mother if I can't see my baby or hold it? Is it a defense mechanism? Does it allow me to disassociate it all? Will my motherly instincts kick in and overcome this fear? Will I regret it?
I don't honestly know. All I can do is do what's best for me moment by moment and trust my best judgement.
I've read all of these loss forums over the past day. Most say to hold it, take pictures, etc. But I can't help but think that these forums and websites are representing a part of the population that needs these things for closure. I can't say that I can count myself in that number.
In my deepest darkest gut, I don't want to remember this as my baby who died. I want to remember it as my pregnancy that didn't work out. And I guess I'm going to have to keep following this gut for self preservation.
Anyway, the valium that I took a little while ago is kicking in. They wrote a script for me to get through this and I didn't need it during the day, but I'm gonna go ahead and enjoy it tonight to help me sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day.
All my love, MSC
As far as my self assessment, I feel like I have a strong grasp on what's happened and I don't second guess the diagnosis and I'm cleared of any guilt that it's something I did. Sure, in the back of my head I have moments of, "What if it was my self doubt about if I'll be a good mother? What if it was bad karma?" but really? Those don't carry too much weight with me and so far it's easy to shrug it off.
It had to happen to someone. And actually, I don't really believe that there's someone up in the clouds who has to choose who it happens to. I don't really know if it's part of a greater plan. To me, it's just a statistic. I pulled the unlucky number. I can live with that. I don't want it to be that way, but I can live.
But tomorrow... Oooohhhh, tomorrow! I wish it did not have to come. This is not how I wanted my first labor to be. I was so excited for labor, as crazy as that sounds. It's supposed to be a miracle and a rite of passage that I held in the highest esteem... But not this way.
For those that are curious, they're going to give me a pill of cytotec every 4 hours to induce labor. When it finally gets uncomfortable, I'm opting for the epidural (in case I end up having to have a D&C afterwards that means they won't have to put me out and I don't want to be put out because of what it does to your body and recovery time). Pushing shouldn't be bad.
But what happens after that? Will it be gone already? Will it breathe? Can it possibly even choke out a cry? Will I suddenly be overwhelmed with the need to see it?
It's going to be a strange mental battle for me. I am terrified, petrified, and I don't know what other word to use to describe how afraid I am of dead things. It's almost debilitating. Dead animals, dead bodies, everything. Like if I'm in a funeral home, I can't walk near/look at a dead body. I just can't--it makes me physically ill.
So does it make me a bad mother if I can't see my baby or hold it? Is it a defense mechanism? Does it allow me to disassociate it all? Will my motherly instincts kick in and overcome this fear? Will I regret it?
I don't honestly know. All I can do is do what's best for me moment by moment and trust my best judgement.
I've read all of these loss forums over the past day. Most say to hold it, take pictures, etc. But I can't help but think that these forums and websites are representing a part of the population that needs these things for closure. I can't say that I can count myself in that number.
In my deepest darkest gut, I don't want to remember this as my baby who died. I want to remember it as my pregnancy that didn't work out. And I guess I'm going to have to keep following this gut for self preservation.
Anyway, the valium that I took a little while ago is kicking in. They wrote a script for me to get through this and I didn't need it during the day, but I'm gonna go ahead and enjoy it tonight to help me sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day.
All my love, MSC
So yesterday really happened, didn't it?
I awoke a few times during the night last night, shifted around, and reminded myself of what happened. And surprisingly, I actually made it to close to 6 a.m. before I just started bawling.
Yesterday really happened. This is what it feels like when you're told that your baby absolutely is going to die after you've carried it for five months. This is what it feels like to know you have to deliver a dead (or dying) baby. This is grief.
Huh. Never really been there before.
To tell you the honest truth, I lead a pretty charmed life. My family's in reasonable health and I haven't lost anyone really close to me before. I guess I just never thought it would be my child. How's that for irony? Wait. Is that actually "irony?" *sigh* I can't think.
You know it's funny. When I saw my sisters yesterday, I think they were both hoping that when they heard the full story that they'd see a glimmer or hope or that I'd just been a drama queen when I talked to them earlier on the phone. And believe me, I wish I was too. But that's it. It's the end of the road. What the fuck?!?!
I'm terrified of delivering this baby and what's to follow. Right now it's a death sentence, but no one is dead. In fact, I can still feel this little person wiggling around in my belly as if it's a little Who down in Whoville saying, "We are here! We are here! We are here!"
But it isn't really there. Not to stay.
I understand it's a numbers game. I understand that I pulled the unlucky number. And it had to be 1/6000 pregnancies that this happens to, it happened to me and my DH who can handle it. We will grieve, but it will get better.
It's funny that what started out as my original blog title has become more true than ever. The story behind it is sorta long, but I'll share it anyway.
My dad is an odd sort of bird who always says these philosophical things to people who never get it. We have this video of Christmas 1989 where me and all of my little cousins are tearing through our gifts and after they're all passed out my little cousin (who is about 6 at the time) asks my dad, "What's left?" To which my dad replies simply, "What's left? What's left you ask? There's life!"
When we saw this on video many years later we laughed so hard. Here's my dad trying to explain the end of the presents in a philosophical way to a child. Hilarious. Soooo dad.
So what's left you ask?
There's life, my dears. And yes, it will continue.
xoxo,
MSC
Yesterday really happened. This is what it feels like when you're told that your baby absolutely is going to die after you've carried it for five months. This is what it feels like to know you have to deliver a dead (or dying) baby. This is grief.
Huh. Never really been there before.
To tell you the honest truth, I lead a pretty charmed life. My family's in reasonable health and I haven't lost anyone really close to me before. I guess I just never thought it would be my child. How's that for irony? Wait. Is that actually "irony?" *sigh* I can't think.
You know it's funny. When I saw my sisters yesterday, I think they were both hoping that when they heard the full story that they'd see a glimmer or hope or that I'd just been a drama queen when I talked to them earlier on the phone. And believe me, I wish I was too. But that's it. It's the end of the road. What the fuck?!?!
I'm terrified of delivering this baby and what's to follow. Right now it's a death sentence, but no one is dead. In fact, I can still feel this little person wiggling around in my belly as if it's a little Who down in Whoville saying, "We are here! We are here! We are here!"
But it isn't really there. Not to stay.
I understand it's a numbers game. I understand that I pulled the unlucky number. And it had to be 1/6000 pregnancies that this happens to, it happened to me and my DH who can handle it. We will grieve, but it will get better.
It's funny that what started out as my original blog title has become more true than ever. The story behind it is sorta long, but I'll share it anyway.
My dad is an odd sort of bird who always says these philosophical things to people who never get it. We have this video of Christmas 1989 where me and all of my little cousins are tearing through our gifts and after they're all passed out my little cousin (who is about 6 at the time) asks my dad, "What's left?" To which my dad replies simply, "What's left? What's left you ask? There's life!"
When we saw this on video many years later we laughed so hard. Here's my dad trying to explain the end of the presents in a philosophical way to a child. Hilarious. Soooo dad.
So what's left you ask?
There's life, my dears. And yes, it will continue.
xoxo,
MSC
Bad news. Like, the worst news possible.
Forgive me if this is redundant to some of you, but it's just about the only way that I can explain the clusterfuck of badness that has happened.
We went in for our anatomy scan at 8 am and immediately everything was very grainy and hard to see. The baby was butt down and legs up and she couldn't even get remotely close to see the gender. And at the moment she said that I was pretty okay with it--as long as everything else turned out okay.
But it didn't. She only got to measure the heart and the brain because that was all she could get to. She commented on the lack of amniotic fluid making it hard for her to see anything, but that she'd go talk to the doctor and they'd probably be sending us to a specialist because usually when there's a lack of fluid like that it signals a kidney or a placenta problem.
Excuse me? Those are two very scary things!
She returns from talking to the doctor and wants to measure a few more items, but it doesn't seem like she finds what she's looking for. I try not to let panic creep in.
We talk to the doctor (who was Captain Cheerful as he shoved us out the door) who set us up with a specialist at 10:30. So we go home, we Google, and we wait.
So I read up and it seems that low amniotic fluid can be bad, especially this early can be kidneys/placenta, but it can be a few other things. So I root for those options, arm myself with a little info, and get into the car.
While in the car, I flip over the page that the doctor's office gave us with directions. The other side is the fax that they sent the specialist--that states I have NO AMNIOTIC FLUID with underlining and stars. I immediately lose it. It's not good.
I lose it again when we pull into the parking lot and I feel the baby wiggle inside of me. AAAHHH! It's a living nightmare.
I try to pull it together as we head there and wait in the waiting room. Then the u/s tech comes in and does her thing, takes a million photos, and just keeps searching. Finally she just marks a blank area, "Kidney area." I know what this means, but I just can't comprehend it. I can also see that as she takes her measurements that some things are just all over the place--giving due dates ranging from Dec. 17 to April (I'm assuming the non-existent kidneys.)
She left the room to get the doctor and I turned to my DH and said, "She didn't find kidneys. She just marked that a kidney area." He knew.
The specialist comes in and does her own search, takes another 100 photos and measurements, and then says to come into her office. She brings in another doctor and they tell us the news.
The baby has no kidneys and no bladder (in fact, I think the only digestive organ they found was a stomach). What happens in your first trimester is that your amniotic fluid is a saltwater mixture, but as you get into your 2nd tri, the baby starts to swallow the water which makes the lungs develop and the baby pees it out.
So our baby has swallowed the water, but it can't get it out. And it never will because it doesn't have the organs to do so. The baby is just stuffed in there because without amniotic fluid, the uterus can't keep expanding and the baby just gets more and more stuck.
It's a random occurrence. It's not preventable, it's not treatable and it has a zero chance of survival. They were very, very clear with us on this.
So that's it. They're calling tomorrow to discuss delivery options.
We went in for our anatomy scan at 8 am and immediately everything was very grainy and hard to see. The baby was butt down and legs up and she couldn't even get remotely close to see the gender. And at the moment she said that I was pretty okay with it--as long as everything else turned out okay.
But it didn't. She only got to measure the heart and the brain because that was all she could get to. She commented on the lack of amniotic fluid making it hard for her to see anything, but that she'd go talk to the doctor and they'd probably be sending us to a specialist because usually when there's a lack of fluid like that it signals a kidney or a placenta problem.
Excuse me? Those are two very scary things!
She returns from talking to the doctor and wants to measure a few more items, but it doesn't seem like she finds what she's looking for. I try not to let panic creep in.
We talk to the doctor (who was Captain Cheerful as he shoved us out the door) who set us up with a specialist at 10:30. So we go home, we Google, and we wait.
So I read up and it seems that low amniotic fluid can be bad, especially this early can be kidneys/placenta, but it can be a few other things. So I root for those options, arm myself with a little info, and get into the car.
While in the car, I flip over the page that the doctor's office gave us with directions. The other side is the fax that they sent the specialist--that states I have NO AMNIOTIC FLUID with underlining and stars. I immediately lose it. It's not good.
I lose it again when we pull into the parking lot and I feel the baby wiggle inside of me. AAAHHH! It's a living nightmare.
I try to pull it together as we head there and wait in the waiting room. Then the u/s tech comes in and does her thing, takes a million photos, and just keeps searching. Finally she just marks a blank area, "Kidney area." I know what this means, but I just can't comprehend it. I can also see that as she takes her measurements that some things are just all over the place--giving due dates ranging from Dec. 17 to April (I'm assuming the non-existent kidneys.)
She left the room to get the doctor and I turned to my DH and said, "She didn't find kidneys. She just marked that a kidney area." He knew.
The specialist comes in and does her own search, takes another 100 photos and measurements, and then says to come into her office. She brings in another doctor and they tell us the news.
The baby has no kidneys and no bladder (in fact, I think the only digestive organ they found was a stomach). What happens in your first trimester is that your amniotic fluid is a saltwater mixture, but as you get into your 2nd tri, the baby starts to swallow the water which makes the lungs develop and the baby pees it out.
So our baby has swallowed the water, but it can't get it out. And it never will because it doesn't have the organs to do so. The baby is just stuffed in there because without amniotic fluid, the uterus can't keep expanding and the baby just gets more and more stuck.
It's a random occurrence. It's not preventable, it's not treatable and it has a zero chance of survival. They were very, very clear with us on this.
So that's it. They're calling tomorrow to discuss delivery options.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)