Placing Our Trust

In the end, you have to choose whether or not to trust someone. -Sophie Kinsella, Shopaholic & Baby

What is the hardest part of a miscarriage? I’ve been asked and I’ve asked others. It’s not an easy question to answer. I’ve promised to be honest. So, when asked this question this week…I though hard about it. None of it is easy. Nothing about a miscarriage is fine. From all I’ve heard, learned, and shared in the last year…the experience varies. So. I would think this answer would vary. For me…the answer, both times, was trust.

My miscarriages were what is commonly referred to as missed miscarriages. This term I had never heard before September of 2013. I’d always assumed a miscarriage was a miscarriage. A missed miscarriageis a pregnancy loss in which the baby has stopped developing, the pregnancy is no longer viable, and there are no clear signs of a miscarriage. In other words, the body goes right on thinking there is a pregnancy. Symptoms of pregnancy can stay strong. There may still be breast tenderness, nausea, and all the other symptoms of pregnancy. This type of miscarriage is often found out at the doctor’s office. The ultrasound won’t show growth or the heartbeat isn’t detectable at a time where a heartbeat should be seen or heard. You go in for a nice normal visit and find out the development has stalled or the heartbeat has stopped. That is why I have to go with trust as being the hardest thing I’ve gone through with my miscarriages.

I still felt pregnant in September when the doctor told me there was no growth and no heart beat. The fetal development had stopped at around six weeks. I never saw a heart beat. I didn’t see much in the ultrasound either. Development never really happened.

I still feel very pregnant today. All my symptoms are steady, no bleeding and no pain. The ultrasound this past Monday showed development had stopped and the heartbeat we’d seen the week before was gone. This was was worse to me. I’d seen a heartbeat. This past week was so much worse than September because I’d know this baby was developing, had a beating heart, and was growing.

So why trust? All the hardships I could mention, trust seems small. I stick by it though. I have to trust my doctor because my body is lying to me. My body tells me the doctor is wrong. My body tells me that I still am pregnant. My body is still thinking I will be a mother. I could wait for body to catch up with reality. I’ve already scheduled the D & C because I can’t wait for my body to understand. I have to trust someone else is right.

What’s the hardest part if a miscarriage? Trust. It’s not the worst part of this…it’s the hardest. I have to trust other people…the doctors, nurses, and others that want to help me. I also have to trust myself…that I am making the right choice…that I know what I need to heal…that I know what I need to move on.

Getting Past Numb

Numb the dark and you numb the light. -Brené Brown

After months of tests, hoop jumping, and interviews…I have finally be given the job I applied for. It’s a promotion with a small immediate pay raise, much more significant as the years proceed. It was a long and arduous process. I earned every part of it. I have worked long hours and forced myself to do things I never thought I could do. I can declare that this is a victory.

My mind has been focused on one goal. It kept me from dwelling on the more painful events of last year. This is also good. I am happy. I deserved this achievement, but there was another gift I should have been earning now. It’s not as painful as it was. The loss is also no longer numb.

My pregnancy’s due date came a week ago and I didn’t have time to think too hard about it…but I did think about it. Those five teachers I work with have started to give birth to their new children. All healthy and beautiful. This is great news and I find I am so very happy for them. Seeing their pictures on Facebook or in emails at the school is a bittersweet experience.

I can’t stop feeling happy for them. It just doesn’t feel as full hearted as it once might have been. I can’t help feeling happy for me…I have made a major change in my own life – a career change from circulation in Media to the IT Admin for the entire school. It’s a big accomplishment. It just doesn’t thrill me as much as it once might have.

Joy, the world spinning and excitement building type, isn’t my world right now. I am content. I am thankful. I am happy. Happiness can be tempered by sadness but it is still happiness. The life and people around me are gifts. They are bringing me back…even if it’s slowly. Or maybe I’m finally bringing myself back.

It’s like when your foot falls asleep. Sooner or later the tingling starts. It’s painful and can make you squirm. Sometimes it makes you laugh because it kind of tickles.

Numb can only last for so long.

Changing Me

“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

I have always loved the quote above. Alexis once bought me a charm engraved with it. Those words would fill my head at the worst times in my life. They were my prayer of remembrance.

I have strove to make it my life motto. Be kind to others…let them see goodness still lives on. Share a laugh with someone who is having a rough day. Listen with an open heart and mind…even when the other person is yelling. I work in education. There are so many situations to practice this belief…so many ways to experience it. Still there are times when the words are out of my reach. There are times I am afraid. In some areas of my life, I am a coward.

My job has become tough, juggling the two separate spheres of a library…literary and technological. I have put myself out there as a candidate for the tech position. There is a test. There is an interview. I am nervous. I’m not sure I can impress upon the human resource personnel my qualifications, even having done the job for the last five months. I’m scared. I’m not sure why. I don’t lose anything by trying. I love my current position. There will be no shame in failing.

Another area that scares me is my health. I am terrified of doctors. I don’t know where it started or why. It just is. Doesn’t mean I don’t go for check ups, eventually. I put it off though. When I was checked out in September because of the pregnancy, everything was fine. I was in good health. Then the miscarriage. Still the exams after seemed good. Yet, at the beginning of last month my employer highed an outside company to come in and give a health screening to all employees. Part of our new health plan. I got the results today. I felt great until I read them. Now…maybe it’s psychosomatic. How can I go from fine to high risk in a few short months? What did my doctors miss? I put the papers away. I need a day or two to digest. I can’t ignore it forever. I’m just not strong enough to deal with it now.

My brother still struggles with his autoimmune symptoms. He looks good. He seems healthy. Yet, our mom was up visiting us this week and he admitted to being tired. I worry. He means so very much to me.

Maybe the job, the medical test results, worries over the Boy, and the fear are after effects. I feel like I’ve lost so much in the last few years.

I’m a survivor…always have been. I’ve taken the worst life could throw at me and walked away with a smile on my face. I will overcome these fears. I will get through this. These days shall pass and I will be able to look back and know this time wasn’t the worst. It doesn’t feel like that right now. I am afraid. I don’t want any more challenges. I don’t know if I can change…adapt…again. I will. I can’t not. Survival is an instinct. It’s inevitable. We all have to face our fears.

Just not today.

The Whimper Of the Year

This is the way the world ends…
Not with a bang but a whimper.
– T. S. Eliot

I was raised by a mother who believed in the Apocalypse. I don’t mean that she thought that the biblical Revelations would someday be upon us and we as a species needed to make our selves right in the eyes of God…although she did believe that. My mother was much more specific than that though. By mother believed the end was upon us, in our lifetime.

My mother studied the bible and the works if Nostradamus with the keen eye of a research scientist. She had a list of dates and recognizable signs. I spent my childhood looking for the signs that she saw so clearly. I became a hobbyist expert, if only to prove her wrong. You can only live in fear for so long.

May 5, 1997. To this day, I don’t know where she got this date. I was in my early years of college and made certain to call her.

“Mom, we are still here. Sun still rose and it’ll set tonight. Feel better?”

“No. I rechecked the information. The experts agree. We’re off a year.”

Ok. Well, I learned early you can’t argue with her about this.

May 5, 1998. More of the same.

“Mom?”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“I’m sure you do but I’m going to say it anyway. We’re still here.”

“It’s a blessing,” she said as relief was clear in her voice, “but for how long?”

Years have come and gone. A multitude of dates have passed without so much as a flicker from the Heavens. Then we hit the End of the Mayan calendar.

December 21, 2012. There was so much speculation on television, in movies, and on the web. The news was ripe with tragic events and extreme natural disasters. Things seemed sinister. Even I woke a little nervous that morning. Having grown up in the shade of a constant threat of Apocalyptic destruction, I found myself wondering about the form the end would take. Nothing happened, not even a zombie outbreak which I’m sure bummed out my brother. Life moved on. I called my mom.

“Hey Lady. We are still here.”

She sighed, “Are we? How do you know?”

“Because we’re talking on the phone.”

“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t started.”

Well that was new.

“What do you mean? Either the end is here or it isn’t. Can’t have it both

“Even the end of the world has the start somewhere. It’s going to be a very bad year.”

She’s been right in a round about way. This has been a hideous year, full of bad luck and sad events. Our economy is tanking. Wars and conflicts continue. Terrorism and bullying are all over the news. Personally, I’ve had a terrible year with emotional losses and a ton of little things that make Murphy’s Law seem to be as factual as the laws of gravity. These things happen. It’s not a broken seal of Revelations. It has still been a terrible year.

My mother called today. She was in a car accident. Some idiot ran a red light and struck her in the passenger side as she was driving to get bagels. She says she’s alright but I’m waiting for the shock to wear off. She’ll be in pain. I’ve been there. This is her first car accident. She’s been lucky. Her car will most likely be totaled.

She’s worried about how she will get to work. She’s nervous because she doesn’t have the money to get a new car. She cried. I hate when she cries. I don’t know how to help her. Money is an issue for almost everyone right now. It’s been a terrible year.

“Mom, are you doing okay?”

“No but I should have known. I told you that this was the year. The end is here.”

“Don’t start with that again.”

“I’m not starting anything. It is what it is.”

“But mom…we are still here.”

“Yes. That’s how you know. Not every Apocalypse features explosions. Sometimes it’s the silence that gets you.”

I can only sigh. Something’s just can’t change…especially in a terrible year.

Frozen Pizza Meltdown

“Life really is amazing, and when your about to lose it, you finally notice that you never really took it in before. And you realize the sheer magnitude of what it involves, from your first kiss to your hundredth slice of pizza. I guess that’s why those tears drifted down my cheeks.”
― Ryan C. Thomas, The Summer I Died

Yesterday J asked for Ellios pizza for lunch.  Easy enough, although I don’t really consider it pizza.  Its a snack.  I’m a born New Yorker, a pizza snob.  Becoming a transplanted New Yorker living in New England hasn’t changed that in me.  But J asked for Ellios.  Done deal.

The oven was set to 425 and the frozen pizza was cooking.  It was not right.  The crust wasn’t browning.  The dough was sticking to the rack.  I was losing my mind.  In a moment of panic and overwhelming anger, I started to yell…at the oven, the pizza, and J.  The dog ran upstairs, probably to get away from the insane woman standing in the kitchen holding a spatula and wearing a Wonder Woman apron.  I sank to the floor and started to cry.  This is what I get for reading Facebook while attempting to cook frozen pizza.  It was a mistake.

Let me back up.  15 minutes before my meltdown, I was fine.  J and I were having a nice relaxing day.  I ran out to my car to grab a book a student lent me and found out I had a flat tire.  When I came back in, I cut my hand trying to open the Ellios’ box.  I couldn’t find the pizza cutter.  Little things were working against me.  I finally got the pizza in and drinks poured.  While waiting, I played on my phone and decided to catch up on facebook.  Top post of the morning was from J’s cousin.  She had a long post about how she and her husband were expecting.  She said they were 10+ weeks and that she couldn’t keep it to herself any longer.  J and I found out we were pregnant in mid August.  When I did the dating, we found it had happened when we’d been on vacation with his family…a large family reunion in Bermuda.  His cousin and her husband were with us.  The timing was off by a few weeks but I was blindsided.  How could I face the family’s happiness at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and all the celebrations?  How could I not be happy for them?  How could I face seeing their child and not think of the one we’d lost?  I was going through this at work…I couldn’t go through it at home as well.  Then the pizza stuck to the oven rack.

Doctor D. had mentioned it would be the little things that would remind me, that might hurt.  Facebook, pizza, and a flat tire.  Life seemed to be determined to punish me.  I felt like Job in the bible.  My world was crumbling.  I am not strong enough for this.  I am not strong enough to face our loss and keep smiling through everyone else’s happiness.

J came in the kitchen and took the pizza out of the oven and cut it up.  He lead me to the couch.  He handed me a plate.  He told me to eat.  He said he would fix the tire.  We wouldn’t go to Thanksgiving at his cousin’s house.  He didn’t really want to.  The pizza wasn’t that good.  It was doughy and tasteless.  I ate it anyway.

It turned out his cousin isn’t expecting.  If I had been able to read the whole post before losing it, I would have known this.  She’d been posting it as a joke.  She’s expecting furniture delivery.  Her husband and her had ordered it 10 weeks back.  It was finally scheduled to be delivered.  She doesn’t know about us.  She thought it was funny.  It crashed my whole world down in seconds.

I guess I’m still healing.  I’m most definitely still struggling.  I’m a New Yorker, born and raised.  We don’t cry over pizza.

Monster For Sale…Or Rent

“When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?”
― Kristin Cashore, Graceling

I was six years old when the Boy was born. My mother and father were quite taken with the screaming bundle of blonde curls and blue eyes. The extended family were enchanted by this male child. I was…unimpressed. I’d wanted a sister or maybe a puppy, either had been acceptable. This Boy though, that was most definitely not requested. He was a problem. No one seemed to share my concerns. So, I decided to correct my situation.

The first opportunity came a few months after the brought the Boy home. My friends started to come over to see this unwanted baby..unwanted by me at least. My mother had place his royal nibs outside to sleep in his carriage while she hung the wash. It was almost too easy to slip his carriage behind the garage. I thought the problem was dealt with. I was wrong. My mother found him when he started to cry. I was grounded for three days. It just made me more determined.

When I was seven years old I tried to sell the Boy. He was almost a year old. My mother had taken us with her to shop for wallpaper. She was redesigning my father’s man cave to be my brother’s bedroom. My parents had separated six months earlier. My father was gone. My mother was focused on keeping us surviving. I was still stuck serving the needs of the boy. So, I saw an opportunity and tried to grasp it. It was my mother’s fault, I got the idea from the outfit she’d dressed him in. “Monster for sale…Or rent” printed across his small green sweatshirt. Great idea! I offered him up for sale to the highest offer. One woman laughed at my offer and told me I would miss my baby brother if he were gone, then she promptly turned me into my mother. Rat!

I spent so much time trying to rid my world of this mistake but I was always thwarted at every turn by well meaning adults and traitors tattlers such as my cousins. My mother asked me why I was so mean to the baby. She said he loved me. She said I was his big sister and it was my job to protect him. She spoke lots of pretty words about family. I thought differently though. What was family when my father could just walk away? What was love when everyone only wanted to see the Boy? Why did I have to protect him when I didn’t want him?

I was eight when the Boy got sick…pneumonia…but I wouldn’t know what that was for years. He had a fever. He was crying. My mother was crying. My father was standing in our kitchen yelling over the phone at someone. They took him to the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to go with them. My grandmother stayed with me. She was on the phone, crying and telling her sister that the Boy had to stay at the hospital. I left her there in the kitchen. I explored the house. It was too quiet. I saw the Boy’s toys. I curled up on the Boy’s bed. I cried. I wanted my baby brother back. My parents came home late and I heard them say the hospital wanted to keep the Boy. I went to my room and grabbed Miss Piggy, my porcelain bank. I gave it to my mother for the hospital. She was confused until I explained that I wanted to buy the monster. The hospital could have the money. The Boy came home four days later. I held him. He cried as he called me Sissy. I told him it was alright to cry. He was mine now. I had to protect him…maybe torment him once in a while but mostly…I had to protect him.

Last year the Boy was diagnosed with Wegener’s granulomatosis. A rare vasculitis disorder in which blood vessels become inflamed, making it hard for blood to move. It can be genetic. He may have had it all his life. The pneumonia may have been related. So many what ifs. He’s 30 now. He’s engaged to my best friend Alexis, I’m letting her rent until their wedding day and then I’ll give her the deed. He’s still a monster but he’s no longer a boy. He’s on chemo and he’s losing weight. He looks like an underwear model, he handsome but too skinny. I can’t protect him.

The day of my D and C, the Boy called to see about my health. He was worried. He explained how he knew me better than almost everyone. He didn’t want me blaming myself. He didn’t want me to hide my pain, physical or emotional. Lie to anyone else but please don’t lie to him. Instead I asked how he was doing.

“There really isn’t anything you can do right now. I know you want to do something. I know you would do anything to try. You need to know I feel the same. If I could have saved you this pain, I would have. You are my sister. I’m your brother. It’s been that way from the day we met, wether we want it or not. We are stuck. I’m glad for it. Let’s promise to be honest with each other.”

Then he told me about his flare up. He was feeling sick. He was feeling weak. I told him about the hospital. I was feeling lost. I was feeling weak. I started to sob and he called me Sissy. He told me it was alright to cry.

Right now, he’s doing okay. Right now, so am I. We have our families, we have each other. I wish I’d know sooner how much of a blessing a baby brother could be. I wish I realized how valuable our relationship was back when I tried to sell him. If you’re wondering…a monster sold for $3.42 back in 1985. It wasn’t a bad deal.