Stand by

I don't have anything to say today.

I think that I'm going to take a break for a little while. I've had the wind knocked out of me. Things that used to be cathartic just aren't right now. Maybe it's just how I'm feeling today, in which case I'll be embarrassed tomorrow when I'm like, "Just kidding." I don't know.

Here is a picture of a fountain in Bruges, Belgium, which was one of my favorite places in Europe. I just love this fountain--I wish I had one for my backyard.



Talk to you soon...

Doc Visit

Back from the doctor. Once again making that defeated walk down the hall to the exam room.

Here's the deal:

We can start trying again immediately. As in today, right after lunch if we want to. I asked, and yes, I could get pregnant before I have my first period. It would be pretty damn confusing when they ask when my last period was and I would say, umm July. But that is silly and it would have to just be tremendous luck because there is no way to even predict. But there's no harm in doin' it just for fun!

And he did kinda tell me who to call for counseling. I was hoping that he would have some specific names of people who might specialize in infant loss, since he was a high-risk OB and all. No, he just referred me to a place. Oh well. He scored so high with us in so many other areas, I'll let him slide on this one. I wouldn't have even known to call that place, so he helped a little.

So there's that. The rest is up to Mother Nature, I guess. I just want to get this over with. I just want to be pregnant and scared to death for 37 weeks and bring home a baby, for christssake. My sister and I were joking earlier that when and if this next kid ever gets here, he better not be a little jerk and pull stuff like, "You have to buy me that car, Mom, I'm a miracle baby!" Hmm.

Poupourri

There you go again. Thank you so much. I felt like you were all right here in my family room, patting me on the back and saying, "It's going to be okay. Come on, let's go eat cheesecake and french fries."

I go to the doctor tomorrow and I'm excited and dreading it at the same time. Maybe excited isn't the right word. I don't know. I'm dreading it for the obvious reasons. I don't know why OB offices don't have a special waiting room for women who have lost babies. No little kids, no parenting magazines and if there are any pregnant women in there at all, they know exactly how I feel.

I'm just very interested in knowing what my doctor has to say about this miscarriage. I also am very interested in knowing when we can try again. And I am very interested in learning the names of some psychiatrists. I don't know why I've waited this long to do this. Maybe part of it is because Tom and I started relationship counseling almost immediately after we heard that a huge percentage of marriages end after the death of a child. We only go now when we need a "tune up". I think that I didn't want to talk about it with someone all by myself. A lot of times, Tom will talk for me.I just didn't want to think about it that hard. Even most of my posts are all hearts and flowers.

But these are the changes that I've noticed in myself:

• I don't read books anymore.
• I don't want to see "smart" movies anymore. I thought yesterday that the new Jackass movie might be funny.
• I'm not keeping up with politics. I hate the man, I just can't tell you why, okay? He's a doody-head, how's that?
• I don't listen to Classical music anymore because it makes me sad. Which means:
• I haven't properly practiced my flute in months. I just don't pick it up anymore, except to play with my students. Now I officially suck.
• I'm obsessed with keeping a perfect house and I get entirely bent out of shape when dinner turns out crap or Tom doesn't like the way I've put away his boxer shorts. The old me would have just said "fold your own fucking underpants" and served hot dogs cut up in Kraft Mac & Cheese for dinner.
• I'm a perma-bitch. Julian's Mom called it a "constant cranky bitchy neurosis" and I think, "Ah-ha!!" That is me! I'm afraid of becoming the mean old lady on my block that smells of cat piss and screams at little kids to get out of her yard. Or even worse, the mean 31 year old lady who smells of cat piss and screams at little kids. Either way, it's no good.

I'm sure that there's more--I'm just tired of thinking about it. I'm not doing anything that requires a lot of thought. I can drive to work, feed the dog, shower and shave my legs (shave my legs? Ha!), not burn down the house. If you want to have an intelligent conversation about, well, anything, I'm not your girl. Let's go see Jackass.

Maybe for the past seven months, I've felt that I have to be sad all the time. If I'm not miserable and wallowing, then I'm not missing my son enough. It's not an act--I really am so, so sad. It's like I've just resigned to the fact that I'm the mother of a dead child and that's all I am. I should change my name. "Hi, I'm Mrs. Deadkid. Would you like to see pictures of my dead kid? Do you have a dead kid? No? Then you can't be in my club. Go away." That is no way to live. I'll go tomorrow and see what I can do about this. I just miss Nate so much and I'm so mad at Chip the Zygote for leaving. I'm so angry, I feel like I need to kick the shit out of everything. And I'm sick of this quiet house.

Little Miss Sunshine

Edited to add:
I wrote this entry last night, posted it and then took it down after about 30 minutes. Last night, when I got to thinking about it, I became worried about scaring my Mom (who reads this blog) or offending someone with my Zoloft talk. I thought that this stuff wasn't what I wanted people to associate with me. But this is my journal. I started it so that I could write it down and let it go and maybe even come back months or years later to better understand this journey I've been on. Like I say in my header--it's a pensieve.

I recently read this comment left by Delphi for a fellow blogger and it really struck a chord with me:

"EMOTIONS ARE NOT RIGHT OR WRONG, THEY JUST ARE. And the healthiest thing that anyone can do is express them - and a blog is the perfect forum for that."

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I really don't have one particular thought or theme for this entry. I just feel like writing something and that's what blogs are for, right? This one will probably be all over the place, so just walk with me, ya'll.

I've just been thinking about this blogsphere support system that we have here. I've been thinking about all of the support that you have given me here as well as in email and in your own blog entries. I have a wonderful support system in my family and friends, and I don't know what I would do without them, but I don't know what I would do without you, either. In my town, the only support group that we've been able to find is The Compassionate Friends. I think that it's a great group that does so much good for people, but in our particular chapter Tom and I are the only parents who have lost a baby. Most of the people in our group have lost adult or teenage children. Not that that isn't every bit as horrible, it's just horrible in a different way. And as for people close to my husband and I that haven't lost a child, as much as they love us and as much and they are hurting because we're hurting so badly, I still can't help but think that they can go back to their own lives. What I would give to just go back to my own life. And now we've had this second loss. I'm afraid that people are thinking, "Poor Tom and Laura. Damn, I'm glad we're not them."

What am I getting to here? I think that it's this--I've been using this blogging thing as a psychiatrist. In the past 7 months I've been working so hard to get to a good place. To be able to be around my 8 month old nephew without crying. To be excited for my pregnant friends. To just be half-way normal and not define myself by my loss. But I was walking a fine line--it took everything I had to stay together most days and try to remain positive and happy like the old me. This miscarriage has pushed me over the edge--I'm bonafide. So when I go to the doctor on the 22nd, I'm going to ask him to refer me to someone. And maybe even give me a prescription for something.

Reading back over those last few sentences, it sounds like I'm saying that people who see psychiatrists and take meds are nutjobs. Good Christ, I don't mean that at all. After we lost Nate my OB gave me a prescription for Zoloft. I didn't fill it. I was so terrified that once I got pregnant again, I would have to go off it and I just didn't know what would happen. And this is just my ignorance about medications. I wasn't sure what I would be like coming off of the Zoloft coupled with pregnancy hormones. Both my husband and I controlled our grief with lots of exercise, and it did help. We both had a ton of baby weight to lose anyway. I guess that I just did what I thought was right for me at the time.

But I think that I had an anxiety attack yesterday. We went to an arts and crafts festival and I knew that I shouldn't have done that. Those dumb festivals are absolutely saturated with pregnant women and babies. Everybody wants to dress their baby up, plop them in a sling and go look at pottery and crap. Well I did anyway. I thought about it all the time when I was pregnant. Plus, I think that there must have been a baby boom this past December, January and February. There were babies Nate's age all over the place. And I can't believe that I'm even writing this, but I would look at these babies and I all could see was Nate in his tiny coffin with his little fist closed around a daisy and wearing his only dress-up outfit--blue Ralph Lauren feety overalls. And how Nate was buried so far underground and enclosed in a concrete vault. All I wanted to do was to go to him and claw at the dirt until I could reach him and hold him again. Is this my life, now? Where every baby and pregnant woman I see reminds me of how I have failed and what I don't have? Those were the thoughts that went through my head so furiously that I had to sit down and stare at a tree until I calmed down. I would like to be able to leave the house, you know? But I probably should avoid places that I know are going to be baby-filled. I just wanted to see some pottery.

This is such a sad post. If you've made it this far, thank you. That last paragraph was pretty heavy, I know. I don't quite feel like I'm starting over again, but I do feel that I've stumbled back several paces. Before I got pregnant this last time, I at least had the thought of being pregnant to hang on to. I've said before that having one loss doesn't make you exempt from having another, secretly believing that I really was exempt. I wasn't.

Square One

I'm just overwhelmed by all of your wonderful, comforting comments. Really, thank you so much.

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**This might be kinda graphic. Just warning you.**

Pregnant, not pregnant, pregnant, not pregnant. I'm not a drama whore, honestly.

I spotted early in this pregnancy, which sent me to the emergency room to have the bad ultrasound, which led me to believe that I had a blighted ovum. So naturally, when I started spotting again on Monday afternoon, I chose to ignore it, even though this time I bled through my panties onto my pants. 24 hours later, still ignoring it, but Tom was getting more concerned. I just didn't want to spend another six hours in the emergency room and get another hamfisted ultrasound. I mean, really! After dinner, I started seeing these tiny, little clots and 30 minutes later when I went to check again, I had bled into the toilet. We left for the hospital and by the time we had gotten there, I was bleeding very heavily. We tried to go to L & D this time, but they turned us away because I was less than 20 weeks pregnant. That's the second time that I've been to that front desk, bleeding like crazy and they treated me like shit.

We walked the long way around to the emergency room, right past the NICU. Just in case I wasn't feeling bad enough, that was another kick to the stomach. When we finally arrived at the emergency room, they checked me in pretty quickly and put me in a room, thank goodness. As I was changing into the gown, blood was running down my legs and pooling on the floor. I think that this would be tramatic for anyone, I'm definately not denying that, but this is how I lost Nate. In a spectacular bloody mess. This was just too much, just too fucking much.

The emergency room doctor walked in, saw the blood on the floor and said, "Uh-Oh!" In a voice that was a little too sing-songy for my comfort. I think that he realized that he was being an asshat, especially when he asked what the outcome of my first pregnancy was.

After a pelvic exam and a blood draw, I was taken to ultrasound again. This time the bad news was delivered by the OB on call instead of the asshat ER doc. I think that I scared him off. The result was as expected, no hearbeat and no growth. He recommended a D & C. I told the doctor that because of my past experience with ER ultrasounds, I'd like to wait until the morning to have an OB ultrasound, thank you very much. But as soon as I stood up, I knew that I couldn't go home. There was too much blood and too many clots, and honestly, I was scared to death to pull down my pants and see for myself was was happening. I knew that there was no way that this pregnancy was viable at this point. I was faint and crampy. The pressure in my lower abdomen was horrible--another bad memory of Nate's birth. I had to have a D & C. So I did.

I told my Mom yesterday that I just can't put how I'm feeling into a word. It changes hourly, almost by the minute. Part of me is relieved. I didn't feel good about this pregnancy since conception, almost. I just had this terrible feeling that I would either miscarry or there would be something wrong with this child. I just knew. I had to talk myself into feeling pregnant with this one, and as much I heard that every pregnancy was different, I just couldn't shake the bad feeling that I had about never being sick. I never felt pregnant and yet my belly kept growing.

I feel old. Beat up. Tired. I feel like one of those pioneer women in old pictures, where they are only 30 but look 70. I don't recognize myself anymore and I don't know who I am anymore. I can't keep doing this. My heart hurts. So badly.

According to when I'm positive that I conceived, I was about 11 or 12 weeks pregnant. I was just getting my maternity clothes back out, and on the day that I miscarried I had finally gotten up the nerve to wear the cute, little top that I had bought in Paris. It was pink and said "fruit de passion" across the belly. I didn't feel so cute when I had to wear that shirt home from the hospital. I felt like a failure. Stupid people have babies every day. I mean, my god, Britney had her baby the same day I miscarried. Where is the fucking justice in any of this?! What did I do, anyway? And if there was a point to be made, I got it with the first one, okay?

So now I'm just playing with my new sewing machine--I've graduated from dog bandanas to cloth napkins. Still working on sewing a straight line, that's hard. I'm also making cupcakes today and playing with my new Pampered Chef toys that arrived yesterday. Neeto. Just playing with my new toys and feeling sorry for myself. You know, through all of this I've been imagining that I'm the heroine in a movie or a book. And I'm rooting so hard for this heroine, and I just know that there has got to be a happy ending to this story. There's just got to be.

Another little soul has passed in and out of my life. I miscarried last night. For real this time. D & C and everything.

My love bought me a new sewing machine today. I'm teaching myself how to sew by making bandanas for my dog. While I drink beer. Cheers.

Worst. Cookies. Ever.

I've been eating so much sweet stuff lately, which is kinda weird because I really don't have a sweet tooth. Actually, I ate a lot of sweets with Nate, so never mind. Yesterday, we ran out of cake, (oh horrors!!) so I ran to the store to get stuff to make another one as fast a possible. While there, I decided to just make chocolate chip cookies instead, since there were less groceries involved with that. I was even going to go old school and use the recipe off of the Nestle bag. I never do that, because I think that there are a million better ways to make chocolate chip cookies. But me, the cookie recipe snob managed to eff-up the Nestle Toll House recipe. I am humbled.

See how flat? What the hell? But you might say--I like me a flat, crispy cookie, Laura. Well, my friend, these flat, crispy cookies also taste like...soap. Yes, it's true. I didn't rinse the Silpat that I baked them on very well. So they taste like apple blossom Dawn dish soap. Mmmmm. Of course I had to eat three to make sure that was really what I was tasting.


Round Two: chucked the Silpat ( I guess that I could have washed it, but I was pissed at it and put it in time out.) Lowered the temp of the oven and refrigerated the dough for awhile. Still flat and this time they stuck like crazy to the pan. BUT--the essence of apple blossom Dawn was gone.

Round three: Ahh, fuck it. Have a giant cookie.

Damn.

I saw this taped to a telephone pole on the way to work today:

Lost!!

Large black dog

Missing one eye

Needs insulin

Answers to Jo Jo

Man, now I'm worried about a dog that I don't even know. Godspeed, Jo Jo!

Title goes here

So, I'm kind of a mess these days. I just can't even bring myself to write anything anymore, even though I've got enough material to post twice a day, no lie. But I don't have the energy to talk about it--any of it. I'm not sleeping at night. After I wake up for my 1:45 am pee, I just lay there, thinking thinking thinking, talking to myself, crying, flopping around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. I eventually fall asleep at about 5:30 after listening to the grandfather clock bong, bong, bong for hours. I can't do this for the next 7 months.

And then there's this concern that I have--I'm not sick. Why? I wish that I would just puke already. I was barfy until exactly 16 weeks with Nate, and I'm not even nauseated with this one. Part of me thinks that the universe is cutting me a break with this one--"Okay people, Laura's pregnant again. Now, we really dropped the ball with her last kid, so let's go easy on her this time. No puking, no acne, and for christssake, no constipation this time. Oh, and let's make sure that she can still eat biscuits and sausage gravy and find it delicious." The only reason that I know I'm pregnant is because occasionally, very occasionally, my boobs feel like they're going to explode. But that's it. So my worry is--where in the hell are the hormones that are supporting this pregnancy if they're not around to make me sick? Maybe they're around, but they are what's keeping me from sleeping at night, crying all day, not wanting to leave the house and completely avoiding my poor husband. Maybe? I never thought that I'd ever be wishing to puke.

I'm just scared. Bringing home a baby is so out of the scope of my imagination. Actually bringing home a live baby and using all the cool baby stuff that I already have, some not even taken out of the packages, is about as unfathomable to me as leaving the hospital without my son was the first time I was pregnant. Ugh, I hate that. I've always been such a ridiculously positive Pollyanna type of person. I guess that this is what fear does to a person. It's ugly. I'm going to work on this, though. There is no way that I'm not going to celebrate this baby. He or she deserves all the hope that I have. I have to be brave--that' s what moms do for their kids.

Anyway, my point was, I'm sorry that I've been such a crappy blogger. I'd say that I was going to take a break for awhile, but who knows, I might have a ton of garbage to get off my chest tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just post pictures of stuff that I bake. Or flowers. Whatever. I'm hoping that here in a couple of months, when I can finally feel Chip moving around in there, I'll start feeling more connected and positive. I'm sure I will. Now that I've written this, I really think that my formerly barfy hormones have changed duties and are turning me into a horrible, weepy, whiney hobgoblin. You think?