Because our kids only seem to be around for a limited time, here's announcing baby "Julian" at six weeks. It's kind of like naming hurricanes. They pop up on the horizon from time to time, make our lives miserable for a few weeks, put me in the hospital at least once, and then spiral off into the great beyond. Fifth time's the charm? Maybe? Whatever.
There is a slight chance this time might be different. My uterine cavity has been cleared of all abnormalities. I'm currently on a progesterone treatment, and my nutrition is much better as we've been hardcore vegetable and fruit juicing for about a month. I've decided to go gluten-free for the duration just as an extra precaution. We're really grasping at straws, but it never seems to matter what we do. Oh, well. Time will tell. In the meantime, brace for impact.
Ok. I expected to be able to post actual 3D images of the ultrasound I had recently for visual exhibits, but the CD copy they gave me is completely unreadable to my laptop. So I scoured Google for some stand-ins.
Here's a normal uterus, for the sake of comparison:
Exhibit A: The Ideal
Here's a partial septate uterus, like mine. It looks more like a Y on the inside, but the outside is almost normal.
Exhibit B: Definitely Not Ideal
Here's the plan: surgically remove the septum. They don't know that it's THE problem, but it's something they know how to fix.
Exhibit C: Burn the Monster Out
Whatever. It will mean a thirty minute out-patient procedure. Might as well while we have no deductible and no co-pay. It will probably mean re-instituting our semi-Josephite marriage arrangement, but we're old pros at that by now.
Poor blog, dying the slow death. Let's see if we can resuscitate it. I don't even remember what was happening when the posts dried up. Let's see . . .
Oh, yes. Personal make-overs, projects, and fan art. Now for some quick updates.
(1) The personal makeover is still in effect, though I've gone through several different tattoo designs by now and ended up hating them all. Nothing is really wrong with them, but I can't decide where I would put them. So now the focus is just working out and losing twenty pounds. Seems feasible. Unfortunately we weren't able to move to the better apartment with gym facilities, so getting to the gym on base requires setting aside at least a three-hour chunk of time, which the little poodle doesn't appreciate. It basically burns all the crate time for the day, making errand-running hard to schedule. After about a month of putting in these gym trips, I lost five pounds, but gained four back over the Easter weekend. This resulted in a personal ban on milk chocolate. Currently down two pounds of the four, for a total of three pounds lost.
(2) Projects! There are too many of them. I find myself trying to prepare jewelry and stockings for both private commissions and craft shows, as well as using up lots of hoarded papercrafting supplies for personal projects and special requests. At some point, I also decided to experiment with a hideous old piece of furniture my family knows as "the Elliot table." Rather than chucking it in the dumpster, I decided to sand it down and see if I liked it any better naked. I had no idea how long it would take to sand down a little side table and how many freaking sanding blocks I would burn through. Fortunately I found said sanding blocks for $0.49/each at the salvage store. Now I'm that crazy person who spends hours on the patio making horrible scraping sounds.
(3) Took a time-out day yesterday to unwind and write fanfiction. I have several stories running, two in various stages of publication, but I actually managed to churn out a whole page of new text for the one my husband is collaborating on. First chapters are always hardest for me. I'd rather get on to the good stuff.
(4) Health updates. After lots of drama and phone tag and scheduling snafus, I managed to get in for a hysterosonogram ordered by my OBGYN. They didn't find anything incredibly interesting, but saw enough to determine that I do not in fact have a true bicornuate uterus, but only a partial septate uterus. The plan now is to burn (or scrape?) the septum out in the hopes that it plus a progesterone treatment will increase the odds of a successful pregnancy. I don't really have a lot of hope for it, but I'm willing to give it a try. Frankly, they could destroy my uterus, and I would probably thank them. The only thing that gives me the jeebies is their plan to put a camera through my bellybutton. Yikes.
(5) Doggie updates. Andy continues to be nervous and anti-social around other dogs, but we keep taking her to Puppy Playtime at PetCo twice a week, hoping for a different result. If the trainers just let me into the enclosure with her, we seem to see some results. Despite being only nine pounds, she has no time for little dogs, but has perked up for a Great Dane and a Rottweiler named Valkyrie.
(6) Debt report. Ever since we committed to a puppy (who is now one year old and a Big Doggie at heart), overpaying the debt has been almost impossible. The financial drain was quick and incredible. However, after six months of minimum payments, I think we've made at least the beginning of a healthy recovery, especially since the little princess doesn't have vet appointments every two weeks. We may even start overpaying again, except that now the older car is having a diva day for it's 60,000 mile check-up, and we expect at least a $1,300 bill. Maybe next month. Here's where we stand now.
This represents 61% paid, which is based on the number we started with when I started making all these silly pie charts. However, if I use the original total of this loan, not taking into account the paid-off car loan, it looks more like this.
81% paid. Booyah.
(7) Work report. Dave re-enlisted and, as of this morning, passed his weigh-in! Yay! Next time around it won't be quite so stressful, because one of his previous failures (one of which was not official and should not have even counted against him) will no longer be relevant, and his entire career won't be on the line. However, since this is the year of personal make-overs, next year won't be a problem at all.
(8) Also, I have a bra that fits!!! It has been a personal revelation. I've never paid $75 for a bra before, but Nordstrom is the only place I can find the appropriate range of sizes for purposes of trying on. I had been attempting to fit into a standard 36 or 38 C, D, or DD for YEARS. It was a daily battle of strap-slippage, cup-spilliage, and awkward manual adjustments, finally resulting in a personal routine of wearing a sports bra over the underwire one just to provide some staying power. I now have a 34F (in British sizing) and it is FABULOUS! Now I want to evangelize everyone.
Contrary to all indications to the contrary, the blog has not died.
Christmas was so swamped with projects and commissions that we didn't even decorate, which is a first for me. The only thing we did put out was the Advent wreath, and it's still out.
After all the chaos died down, we realized I had accidently turned up pregnant. January crawled by in a haze of relentless morning (and noon and evening) sickness, finally resolving itself in one distinct bleeding episode and two weeks of blood tests and cryptic ultrasounds. Eventually it was determined that I had miscarried very early but that the placenta was alive and well and determined to make me sick indefinitely. A D&C was successfully completed yesterday afternoon.
That is basically what has been consuming our lives. My OBGYN group wants to finally do some follow-up to try to pinpoint what the problem is, but frankly I can't be bothered to care anymore. I really don't care. If I could have my way, I would never be pregnant again. I'll humor the doctors for a while, but if they want me to do months and months of charting and testing and injections and procedures, I'm going to beg off. I'm not going to cross state lines; I'm not going to invest excessive amounts of time or money. I refuse to let the best years of my life be consumed by wasted efforts to make my decrepit reproductive system function normally. Life is too short for that much pointless vomit. Hope is dead. Hope makes us miserable. We're done. We've accepted it. Now, let's adopt some kids and get on with our lives. Finito.
"When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn't a word to describe them. This month recognizes the loss so many parents experience across the United States and around the world. It is also meant to inform and provide resources for parents who have lost children due to miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, stillbirths, birth defects, SIDS, and other causes." - President Ronald Reagan, 1988
Until recently, I wasn't even aware there was an official "Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance" month or day. Now of course I can't let it go by without posting something. The good news is that our situation rarely upsets me anymore; it's just become a fact of our lives. We have each other and the dog and three personal saints, and we're happy. I do credit the dog with cheering us up until we can acquire children by other means. However, the next best thing to fur therapy is music.
Over the years, I've been compiling a playlist of songs about loss which helped get me through some tough times. Some are sadder than others, but I thought I'd highlight a few of the best ones today. Someday I'll post a comprehensive list.
1. Daughtry, "Gone Too Soon"
2. Plumb, "I Want You Here"
3. RyanDan, "Tears of an Angel"
4. Canadian Tenors, "Watching Over Me" (because we don't want to end on a downer)
I am always on the lookout for emotionally powerful songs to add to my collection. I found this one randomly on YouTube while listening to another Plumb song. Based on the title, "I Want You Here," I assumed it would be just another one of those pining love songs. To my surprise, I eventually realized I had stumbled upon a song about child loss. Everyone who has ever lost a child should know about this. It isn't often we come across music specifically tailored to our situation.
The first video is Plumb's live explanation of the song's significance, and the second is the studio recording for those who prefer it to the live version. I'll be putting this one on my miscarriage survival playlist for sure.
We were celebrating the beginning of our mutual vacation last night with a longer than normal marathon of "CSI: NY," which resembles "Bones" and "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" enough to be much less annoying than "CSI: Miami." Anyhow, it seems we watched one episode too many, and we ended up going to bed depressed.
The episode in question featured a plot device I've seen before, the mentally unstable housewife who has failed to have children of her own and resorts to stealing them out of other pregnant women.
Why do I always have to be type-cast as the crazy person? Is the public perception of women like me really becoming so suspicious? We've all noticed the growing tendency of the populace at large to assume all veterans are ticking PTSD time-bombs. Apparently aspiring mothers who are for whatever reason unable to produce like normal women are supposed to develop a dangerous and slightly psychotic obsession with getting a child, any child from anywhere.
Which isn't to say it hasn't happened, and just goes to show the depth of feeling and strength of the instincts involved. I am all for bringing miscarriage back into the social consciousness, because no matter how early or how physically painless it might be, it still messes us up emotionally. We might be less stereotypically crazy if we weren't so repressed.
I've mentioned it before, but secret first trimesters should not be socially mandatory. Why did that become the norm? Is it just to spare our friends and neighbors the awkwardness of hearing about miscarriage and not knowing what to say? It might be awkward for them, but it's life-changing for me, so they can just deal with it. Real friends will want to know what's going on in our lives regardless, good or bad.
Maybe we just need some kind of acknowledgement that there may be something other than a pastel-colored paradise on the other side of a positive pregnancy test. Maybe it will be nothing but emergency rooms, IVs and blood tests. Maybe it will be days on end of sitting as still as possible and praying there won't be any bleeding. Maybe it will be chronic disappointment and a special colander under the bathroom sink. Maybe you'll end up right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a ragged scar, hospital invoices and a bottle of oxycodone. We aren't allowed to even mention it, because somehow it's considered bad taste. But, seriously, every woman should consider the possibility and have a plan so she won't be broadsided the way we were the first time.
If we'd had a plan, maybe we would have been coherent enough to ask for Alexis' body rather than letting him/her be thrown out with the medical waste. Maybe we would have known about conditional baptism in case of miscarriage. Maybe we would not have felt so completely alone and defective.
This last time we were joking darkly that we'd only really start freaking out if the unthinkable happened and we actually ended up with an infant. We were just starting to get hopeful when it all fell apart, and then we wondered why we had ever expected anything different. I received my soulless paperwork diagnosing miscarriage in the mail the same day as the congratulatory pastel packet from Johns Hopkins covered pictures with happy pregnant women. The former went into the medical file, the latter into the shredder. For a brief shining moment, I was a member of the happily pregnant club, but once I inevitably miscarry I'm supposed to retire quietly to grieve in the privacy of my own home so as not to rain on anybody else's pregnancy parade.
That could just be my perception, but it's hard to shake. Fortunately many of my friends, not all of whom have experienced miscarriage for themselves, manage to not be obnoxious to me while they are pregnant. Better, they don't seem to mind me talking about it. It needs to be talked about.
When I was sending our wedding invitations, I did not imagine that almost four years later we would still be living the extended honeymoon phase, pet-parents to a toy poodle. This was not the plan. If anything, I have learned to have alternative plans, or at least to expect the unexpected and plan for the unplanned.
We're off to see our first concert today. So long as we're forced to live the childless life, we might as well do something crazy and fun. On the menu tonight are Kamelot, Delain and Eklipse, three of our favorite (what I believe are called) symphonic metal bands. Being cautious people, we're going to take to heart all the advice we get, namely to not sit too close and to bring ear plugs.
My new favorite song is a collaboration between Kamelot, the head-banging guys, and Eklipse, the lovely ladies of the string quartet. It looks darker than it really is. I find the lyrics grimly encouraging, and thankfully not theologically problematic.
Give me a sign.
Sing the words of innocence and broken pride.
Make my conclusions fail.
Send me a sign, heal this broken melody,
'Cause each night I die in hell.
My God has shown His sympathy for all the spirits lost.
I'll pray for salvation and peace for ages.
Standing in the summer breeze, inhaling life again.
A new day has come,
A chance to relive,
Forget and forgive.
Somehow I wasted all.
They sealed my voice and wisdom,
But my soul was born on the battleground.
Justice in blood, long awaited victory,
And tonight you die in hell.
My God has shown His sympathy for all the spirits lost.
I'll pray for salvation and peace for ages.
Standing in the summer breeze inhaling life again.
A new day has come,
A chance to relive,
Forget and forgive.
Somebody hides inside my mind.
We're bound together,
But this is my confession.
Soulmate or enemy,
A thorn in my religion.
Release my heart, unfold my tongue.
Save a place for me in heaven. We'll meet another day.
I found forgiveness and the meaning of it all.
My fear is gone.
Gone.
My God has shown His sympathy for all the spirits lost.
I'll pray for salvation and peace for ages.
Standing in the summer breeze inhaling life again.
Why is it socially unacceptable to talk about miscarriages? Why are we supposed to keep early pregnancies a secret? These are important life events every bit as deserving of acknowledgment as a live birth. If the possibility of pregnancy loss wasn't considered so awkward to talk about, those of us who go through it probably wouldn't feel so alone. The burden of feeling obliged to be quiet just makes a bad situation worse.
That being said, losing baby Celestine last week wasn't so traumatic as it was exhausting. The pregnancy wasn't technically planned, but after two years of carefully avoiding the possibility, we scraped up enough optimism to be excited. Maybe this time it would be different. All the circumstances seemed too providential for it to not end well.
I admit, my first instinct was to keep this one under our hats for several months, just because of all the drama which had accompanied our first two losses. Unfortunately, we had to tell almost everyone. I had to immediately give notice at my job because all my pregnancies are high-risk and usually involve bed rest of some kind. Dave had to inform his command of the situation just because of all the drama which might possibly ensue given our history. We had to tell Dave's family because we had to cancel the trip to Disney World we were supposed to take with them in September. We had to tell my family because we had told Dave's family and also because they were supposed to watch our dog during this Disney trip. Everybody at work was ecstatic and started making all kinds of plans for me and the baby, despite my attempts to maintain a healthy strain of pessimism.
Everything went well until the sixth week. I started bleeding Tuesday morning at work. They let me go home early and I ended up calling out the rest of the week. I was convinced it was over at that point and called Dave at work just to let him know. They let him come home, too, and he brought a bag of doughnuts. We broke the news to our respective families, and apparently the trip to Disney was once again a go.
I called my OB's office and they sent me out for blood tests. The results of those tests on Wednesday showed a healthy level of hormones despite all the bleeding, and another round was ordered for Thursday. On Friday the new results showed a doubling of the hormone levels, exactly as would be expected in a healthy pregnancy. I was a bit in denial at this point because I couldn't see how anything could be hanging on in there after four days of full-on menstrual bleeding. However, the Internet said it was possible and that it happens all the time. All I had been trying to do for those four days was prove I was in fact having a miscarriage so I could pop some painkillers and have a drink, but it didn't seem to be working out that way. After my initial disappointment that I couldn't just complete the brief grieving process and then get on with my life, we were once again optimistic that we might make it through. Disney was cancelled again.
The bleeding carried on at a steady pace, but then started to taper off. I'd been having cramps, but nothing to write home about. Sometimes it only hurt around my cesarean scar. I asked the Internet about that too, and apparently it's not uncommon for cesarean scar tissue to adhere to the bladder or abdominal wall and cause chronic pain throughout pregnancy. Oh, hooray.
Sunday started out well enough. There was some more cramping, but since the bleeding had stopped, I didn't think much of it. I was scheduled for another blood test on Monday, but by 3 PM the pain had become impossible to ignore and was worst in one very specific area on my right side. All the symptoms made me suspect an ectopic, so rather than wait for a late night adventure we went ahead to the ER.
The ultrasound couldn't find any evidence of an ectopic pregnancy, or indeed of any pregnancy at all. However, the tech could point out all the cesarean scaring, that bothersome septum in the middle of everything, and some suspicious spots she thought were probably fibroids. The doctor popped in and out of our room and explained that my hormone levels had not doubled again, but had instead begun to decline. He also expressed some confusion about my changing blood-type, which he then went to go resolve. He promised me some pain meds, which I was more than happy to have, not just because the cramps were killing me but because I didn't want to have endured that stupid IV in my arm all evening for no reason.
Thank God for the military channel, because we probably would have gone stir crazy otherwise. As it turned out, the nurse who put in the order for my morphine went to lunch and her replacement forgot about me. We were hanging on the call button when she came back later with a standard dose. I eagerly awaited some relief, but it never really happened. She came back later and gave me twice the standard dose. That made me a little groggy and nauseous, but just made the cramps spread. Seriously, three shots of morphine had less effect than one Ibuprofen tablet.
They managed to roust one of my OBs from the delivery room around 9 PM and bring her down to evaluate my strange situation. She wasn't willing to rule out an ectopic just yet, but ordered another round of blood tests for Tuesday just to see if the trend was continuing. Basically it would be a matter of follow-up at this point. They asked if I was comfortable going home with the kind of pain I was in, and I said yes, trusting my Ibuprofen to do a better job. I tried to stop by the bathroom before we left, but I was literally unable to do anything because all my sphincters were cramped shut. No more morphine for me, please.
Dave made a food run to McDonald's, but I was too sick to eat anything. Fortunately this morning I woke up with no pain whatsoever, so I'll take that as a good sign. It looks like the Disney trip is back on.
Once again I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out by the situation. Dave asked me if I wanted to try again, and honestly my answer right now is no, not again, not ever. Maybe we can revisit the possibility next year. It just seems so medically hopeless that it's hard to see much point in making the effort.
Yesterday I attended the baptism of Michael Joseph, our first godchild. Unfortunately, Dave had to miss it, but we had a good friend stand as proxy. It was a gathering of the usual suspects, other young families of Christendom's class of 2008. Thankfully, I found I wasn't nearly as bothered by it as I would have been six months ago.
At this point, more than a year removed from losing Little Dave, I'm probably about as over it as I ever will be. The last few weeks in particular have been much better, all things considered. Everyone's personal tragedy has a social expiration date, after which one really shouldn't keep nagging Facebook about it, or look for ways to bring it up in conversation. The world has moved on, even if I feel like I physically haven't. Being alone has really brought it all to the forefront lately. If you've seen the movie, "Into Great Silence," that's what it's like around our apartment, and not in a good way. I got married because I was no good at the contemplative life. Yet, here I am.
They say you never think it will be you. I know I never did. My life had been picture perfect vanilla until two years ago. I had a lovely childhood with no serious injuries, illnesses, or setbacks, cruised through school, went to college, met a great guy who is so much like me he could be a long lost twin, and was engaged a year after graduation. We did have some suspicion that the matter of children could be dicey just because of certain aspects of our medical history, but we didn't let it dampen our spirits too much. We were married in January and pregnant by Easter, but then all our expectations began to crumble rapidly.
I had been looking forward to those kids for years. I remember a specific trash bag commercial I saw during those weeks while I was waiting to follow Dave to California after the wedding. I was sure Dave would be an excellent father and make adorable children, probably even cuter than that kid.
Needless to say, my expectations of my life have changed significantly. At this point, taking all my medical setbacks into consideration along with our hypothetical genetic issues and my apparent inability to carry to term, I am resigned to the fact that we'll never actually be able to raise those adorable children we were supposed to have. At least, not any that are biologically our own. Some people just knock harder when that door refuses to open. I tend to take the hint and accept the rejection before we waste a lot of money or I really hurt myself trying.
I have no problem whatsoever with adopting. That's currently the five-year plan. What actually still bothers me - more so while he's not around to tell me I'm being stupid for thinking it - is that Dave deserved to have his own family. I feel like the defective one in this relationship. He was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal, but he never asked for all this. Of course, no one does, but I was mortified, particularly because the timing could not have been worse for him, BOTH times. I married him to be a help and support, not an invalid who can't stay out of the hospital or muster up enough strength to feed herself. Part of what has scared me away from deliberately attempting another pregnancy is the thought that the black icing on the cake would be for me to die of uterine rupture and leave him completely high and dry. I can't even bear the thought. I've already failed him often enough.
In the meantime, most of our friends have budding families with all the traditional milestones, baptisms, first teeth, first steps, first birthdays. Their blogs and Facebook pages are full of happy pictures and updates. It can be extremely bittersweet. I've invested a lot of mental effort into trying to feel blessed to have two saints rather than merely deprived of viable offspring, and some days are better than others.
In order to move on and be functional we almost have to forget, but we really don't want to forget anything because we already have little enough to remember, and the only memories we have are of hospitals and heartbreak. I feel guilty when I forget. It seems particularly hard while there aren't any other children demanding my attention. Instinctively I feel like I should spend time with them now and then, but what that has basically amounted to up to this point is sitting on the couch and thinking about what we could have been doing.
One lesson I have learned, or at least finally come to accept, is that none of us is entitled to anything in this life. Their normal may not be our normal. Our normal is not what we thought it would be, but we are expected to make something of it, and in the end it will be for the best. Eventually it will be like cheese. For almost a year I went dairy free and felt painfully deprived each time I saw a pizza. But after several months I just accepted that cheese was only for other people and that I would have to be happy with something else. Eventually I forgot what cheese tasted like.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to pull it together to be the tough Navy wife with nerves of steel who can handle anything. I refuse to fail at anything else, because that would just be lame. So long as I have some meaningful human contact at least once a week, I'll stay sane. I actually don't know exactly how long Dave has been gone. I don't remember, and I haven't kept track. It's easier that way, since I don't know when he'll be back.
In any case, being alone has given me the chance to confront all my issues and pull my life back together for its own sake. My life is still awesome, even with all it's apparent flaws. I haven't been permanently traumatized, and the only substance I have ever abused is chocolate. I'm determined to get this show back on the road despite the detour. I haven't quite achieved the goal of domestic warrior demigoddess, but just you wait.
I've finally started taking the Christmas tree down, probably six weeks sooner than the last time. At least this time it won't have a hand in inducing labor, as I suspect it did last year.
I want this year to be better than last year. Lots of good things happened last year, particularly for Dave's career, but it was an emotional train wreck. It was much like 2010, actually, but more so. It started on a hopeful note, then crashed and burned, and the nine months following March 8 were engulfed in a kind of Trauma Recovery Mode. I don't believe I'm functioning at the level Dave deserves of a wife and homemaker while constantly in Trauma Recovery Mode. (He hates that I think that, because he's awesome and thinks I'm perfect, often though I've tried to disabuse him of this notion.)
Now it's a new year all over again, and everyone is going on about resolutions. I really want to get my life back on track, but what does that even mean? Where is my track? What am I supposed to be doing with myself? I love being a wife, but it seems to me that there should be something else I should be doing besides sitting at home being a wife, doing laundry, dishes, writing fanfiction and playing online computer games. My first choice was motherhood, but obviously the traditional approach isn't working. Whenever I haven't been in Trauma Recovery Mode, I've been in Pregnancy Mode, which in my case is every bit as miserable. Pregnancy Mode excludes every other type of activity, and of course leads to Trauma Recovery Mode, and the cycle begins again. Remember the kid from Despicable Me who had his balloon animal popped? That was me last year.
So now what do I do with myself? My new year's resolution was to start functioning at 100% again. As a result of the 2010-11 cycle of pregnancy and recovery I've gained all my college weight back and my running shoes and I aren't on the best of terms. I always promised myself I would never be that overweight military wife with a host of emotional problems. I want to stop being a black hole sucking down inordinate levels of Dave's attention, sympathy, and time. All this would involve avoiding pregnancy, and that's where the Catholic guilt comes in.
Are we allowed to stop trying? It's not like we're going to start using contraception or anything, but I can't decide whether the risks to my health and well-being are grave enough to justify the indefinite use of NFP. Does this mean I have trust issues? If I could just live a normal life during pregnancy, or if it were only about losing the children over and over again, it would be another story. I would beat my head against that wall for the rest of my childbearing years if that were the case. But, since I have to play the hand God dealt me, any pregnancy would automatically be high risk and require immediate and complete bed rest. The original prognosis was a 25% chance of miscarriage just due to my condition. Now that my already faulty system has been scarred by biopsies and a cesarean, the odds are rather worse. Not being able to take care of myself is certainly not an ideal circumstance, particularly now that Dave is likely to be gone more often for the next three years. I know I have several friends in the general area who would be more than happy to help, but they don't exactly live in the neighborhood and almost all of them are pregnant themselves.
I got the usual vague recommendations from the doctors and specialists. The classic, "It could be nothing, or it could be life-threatening." Not exactly helpful, but I suppose it was the best they could do. There was a phase during which I was willing to take the risk, but we tried for four months and got nothing.
Now Dave is gone and I'm here alone trying to sort out my life. The more I sit and think about it, the more I'm inclined to believe we're just one of those families who were meant to adopt. But it seems like such a simple answer that I start second guessing myself, and wondering whether I'm interpreting the facts to suit my needs.
What are my needs? I want to lose twenty pounds and fit into all the old clothes hanging in my closet. I want to be free to go running, healthy enough to look after myself and stay out of the emergency room. I don't want to be constantly stressed about the possibility of disappointing Dave and all the family again, about every little cramp being the beginning of the end. I want to get out of this apartment now and then. I want to be free to do my own grocery shopping, to vacuum, to walk a dog, to dig my cars out of the snow, to function like a normal person. Is that something to feel guilty about? I do.
It's not that I want to simply "have a life" for myself, I'd like to have enough of a life to share it with someone else. I'm useless to everyone while I'm pregnant, and it always comes to nothing. "Always" is perhaps a strong word for only two failures, but each time feels like tempting fate. Instead of spending "the best years" of my life as an invalid, alone and feeling sorry for myself, can't we just adopt and make some other poor kid's life better? Is that so wrong?
That's what I want to do, regardless; but I can't help feeling that I'm just wimping out. I've always needed someone to tell me what to do, because if I make up my own mind, I always suspect my conclusion is biased. I feel like I need some kind of dispensation. I used to tell myself I'd rack up four or five miscarriages before I'd call quits, but at this point I'm more worried about surviving to fight another day. I want to have our own kids in the worst way, so much so that I still get physically nauseated around my pregnant friends. But I'd rather give that up if it means being able to function as a healthy parent for two or three kids who would have otherwise have been stuck in foster care.
Anyway, I have a few more weeks of being alone to think about it.
Yesterday was Baby Alexis' official due date, although he/she would probably have been earlier, more of a Christmas baby. Left this world on June 25, 2010, at 12 weeks and 3 days.
Baby #2 hit 12 weeks and 3 days on Gaudete Sunday, otherwise known as the pink Sunday of Advent. It seemed like more than a coincidence. Still hoping and praying.
I think I've finally made a full phycological recovery. I can actually get up and make a dent in the list of long overdue house chores, scrub the bathroom, clean the kitchen, sweep and mop the floor and keep the dishes done, all instead of lying around in a sweatshirt with my hair in a knot watching crap on YouTube. I can look at Gerber commercials without going to pieces, and I don't hate the sight of mothers walking through the neighborhood with strollers. I can even visit Facebook once in a while to read about my friends and their new kids.
Meredith came down for a visit yesterday while she was still in town. We went out for lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach and rocks at Lover's Point having long overdue candid conversation. We even spotted a few whales in the bay. I'll have to take my sister out there when she comes; she'll love the squirrels everywhere. But next time I'll actually remember to bring some sunscreen. Ouch.
David is taking his mock finals this week, and it's looking more and more like he'll actually get the rollback we've been waiting for. The paperwork in question seems to be making good time through the proper channels. We're not sure exactly how long that will extend our stay out here, but we should know more in a week or two.
Once he actually joins his new class, we'll move our things out here and make this house some semblance of a home. Just cleaning the floor and picking up all the crap that was piled in the corners made it feel less like living in a garage. I put the guest bedroom together for Bev, and it already looks cozy, or as much as it can with just the "bed" (air mattress) and three small pictures from the dollar store. It would be nice to just have a few posters in poster frames to lighten the monotony, but nobody sells posters of anything we'd bother to hang on our walls. I used to swear by Allposters.com, but now they're more about pricy art prints.
The IRS is still mucking around with my tax return, which I filed 16 weeks ago. The first time I called them they gave me some line about it taking eight weeks to process a paper return, which wasn't really relevant, because I filed electronically. The website told me they had deposited it a few weeks ago, but now they've changed their minds and say they might possibly mail it by Friday. I will believe it when I see $705.70 appear in the bank. Maybe this was an act of God, making sure we didn't spend it before we could put it toward hiring a moving truck.
I did finally have my last appointment today. It took all of ten minutes. He was able to confirm my condition in surgery two weeks ago, but doesn't see any reason for that to have caused the miscarriage in these circumstances. He recommended against surgical correction because it just makes lots of scar tissue which could cause hemorrhaging, more miscarriages, infertility, etc. He also wants us on contraceptives for six months, which isn't happening.
"The everlasting God has in His wisdom foreseen from eternity
the cross that He now presents to you as a gift from His inmost
Heart. This cross He now sends you He has considered with His
all-knowing eyes, understood with His Divine mind, tested with
His wise justice, warmed with loving arms and weighed with His
own hands to see that it be not one inch too large and not one
ounce too heavy for you. He has blessed it with His holy Name,
anointed it with His grace, perfumed it with His consolation,
taken one last glance at you and your courage, and then sent it
to you from heaven, a special greeting from God to you, an alms
of the all-merciful love of God."
Apparently we're not moving at all, at least not until October. There's no way the military will help pay for any of it, and we don't have the resources right now to do it ourselves. The last thing I want to do is beg the family for more money, so we'll just tough it out. Besides, now that we've lost the baby, the issue of general comfort isn't so pressing.
We had considered renting until October, or at least until we knew whether or not he was getting a rollback or some other extended assignment that would keep us here. But the more research I do on the rental companies and how they work, I'm more reluctant to even open that can of worms. Air mattresses are cheaper in the long run, easily disposed of, and they don't have bedbugs.
I have my last appointment with my OB tomorrow. I have a host of questions, particularly whether we should continue trying to have children or I should look into expensive corrective surgery first. I have my doubts about whether Tricare would help us with that sort of thing.
