Now that we are in the thick of the holiday swing, I find myself having vivid flashbacks to this time last year – Missy’s first trimester – and the fall prior – my first miscarriage.
I rarely wrote about how sick and terrified I was in this blog because I feel like I went through my first trimester with Missy in full-blown bunker mentality.
You would think that my beautiful daughter, harried life and, well, time itself might have dulled the angst-ridden memories. Still, I find myself visiting a random place like Costco and remembering vividly how it felt to walk down the aisle on the verge of puking. Or standing at the check out line at New Seasons Market on a rainy Friday night in November with a pint of ice cream and a box of pads as I lost Junior #1. I went for a doctor’s appointment in the same building where I had my CVS almost a year ago to date and could almost feel my knees knocking in fear again.
The fall of 2006 was filled with so much sadness and searching after my first miscarriage. The fall of 2007, so much anxiety and sickness. While I selfishly long to add another child to our family, I am not ready for the potential re-visit to such dark spaces.
In the initial months after Missy’s birth, I was too busy – or just plain too tired – to remember the pain of IF and miscarriages. This living, breathing, fiery little bundle consumed every spare second. I thought the pain might have gone – poof! like magic – the moment she emerged.
Now I have a bit more precious time & energy to think as well as the context of the holiday ritual to remind me how I felt last year and the year before. I am simultaneously sad and so very grateful. I can’t even fathom how much inner resolve it took to get through it so stoically. Was I ever that strong? I didn’t feel so at the time but in retrospect I am in awe that I made it through.
Shortly after we got the thumbs-up from the CVS results – and knew Missy was a missy – we received our first baby present from Mr. & Mrs. Super Planner: a subtle pink-striped swaddle blanket from PBK.
I found the gift receipt for the swaddle blanket the other day. Ever the glass-is-half-empty, I had saved it throughout the pregnancy just in case we had to return the item (for obvious, unspeakable reasons).
So I took that receipt…and shredded the shit out of it.
Showing posts with label Junior #1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Junior #1. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Of loss on this imperfect day (Feb. 29, 2008)
Back in late October 2006, I planted daffodil bulbs in our front yard. I’m actually a tulip-kind-of-girl, but daffodils bloom earlier in the Northwest. After months of grey, rain and cold – and even during spring when it is still grey, rainy and cold – the flowers provide a welcome harbinger of the warm weather to come. So I picked a species that would come up early.
I was just barely pregnant with Junior #1 at the time of planting. As I planted, I imagined what I would look like when these daffodils bloomed.
A few weeks later, I miscarried. My OB confirmed this at my ultrasound after seeing a barely-there heartbeat.
I miscarried naturally and had nothing left of this so-very-much-wanted pregnancy. So I wrote a letter to "Junior" (our code for the embryo) and buried a copy amongst a nest of daffodil bulbs right by our front door.
As I buried the letter as one would a pet hamster, I said a few prayers. My first prayer was for Junior the Embryo. My second was that I would be pregnant again by the time those daffodils bloomed in spring.
By March 2007, the daffodils were up and the sun was starting to shine again every few days. I was not pregnant. At first, the blooms sagged and then the stalks grew strong. The daffodils flourished and looked delightful in our front yard.
March came and went. No such luck.
By mid-April, the blooms started to wither. "Great," I thought, "There goes that prayer." Yes, I am a horribly selfish person when it comes to religion (which I know is terrible and is something I have promised Him I will work on).
A week later I was out for a walk with a friend’s 6-year-old. She’s a flower fanatic, quite knowledgeable for her age about all kinds of flora. Returning from the walk, we surveyed our lawn and sighed over the dying daffodil blooms.
"But Ms. Planner!" screeched my charge, who has a habit of invoking really high little girl pitches in her voice, "Look, there are two flowers still blooming!" And indeed there were.
She desperately wanted to pick them for her bouquet of weeds we’d brought home, but I wouldn’t let her, because then Junior’s daffodils would be no more.
And, although it sounds mean, I am glad I didn’t let her pick the remaining blooms.
Because a few nights later, I got a positive HPT:
Junior #2.
My wish had come true. I was pregnant again with the daffodils.
Shortly thereafter, the remaining two daffodils faded. Almost as quickly as they faded, so did the pregnancy. My RE called it a chemical. My sweet OB said that any pregnancy is a pregnancy. And gave me another shot of Rho-Gam in my ass.
Late winter 2008 has brought a spate of warmish, sunny weather in the Northwest. Hence, Junior #1’s daffodil stalks are again pushing their way to reach what little sun is to be had during the day.
This year, I waddle past them every morning and say a thank-you to whatever powers that be that I am pregnant yet again. My wish did come true. Just a little later than I wanted. But it came true nonetheless.
For fleeting moments, I sometimes wonder about the almost ones. Junior #1 would be a chubby 9-month old today. Junior#2, an infant, who had hopefully just gotten into a schedule.
Today perhaps I will go to the store and buy a bouquet of daffodils for their little sister-in-waiting. My prayer these days is that I will have the chance to let her pick as many of those blooms as she wants from the yard.
I was just barely pregnant with Junior #1 at the time of planting. As I planted, I imagined what I would look like when these daffodils bloomed.
A few weeks later, I miscarried. My OB confirmed this at my ultrasound after seeing a barely-there heartbeat.
I miscarried naturally and had nothing left of this so-very-much-wanted pregnancy. So I wrote a letter to "Junior" (our code for the embryo) and buried a copy amongst a nest of daffodil bulbs right by our front door.
As I buried the letter as one would a pet hamster, I said a few prayers. My first prayer was for Junior the Embryo. My second was that I would be pregnant again by the time those daffodils bloomed in spring.
By March 2007, the daffodils were up and the sun was starting to shine again every few days. I was not pregnant. At first, the blooms sagged and then the stalks grew strong. The daffodils flourished and looked delightful in our front yard.
March came and went. No such luck.
By mid-April, the blooms started to wither. "Great," I thought, "There goes that prayer." Yes, I am a horribly selfish person when it comes to religion (which I know is terrible and is something I have promised Him I will work on).
A week later I was out for a walk with a friend’s 6-year-old. She’s a flower fanatic, quite knowledgeable for her age about all kinds of flora. Returning from the walk, we surveyed our lawn and sighed over the dying daffodil blooms.
"But Ms. Planner!" screeched my charge, who has a habit of invoking really high little girl pitches in her voice, "Look, there are two flowers still blooming!" And indeed there were.
She desperately wanted to pick them for her bouquet of weeds we’d brought home, but I wouldn’t let her, because then Junior’s daffodils would be no more.
And, although it sounds mean, I am glad I didn’t let her pick the remaining blooms.
Because a few nights later, I got a positive HPT:
Junior #2.
My wish had come true. I was pregnant again with the daffodils.
Shortly thereafter, the remaining two daffodils faded. Almost as quickly as they faded, so did the pregnancy. My RE called it a chemical. My sweet OB said that any pregnancy is a pregnancy. And gave me another shot of Rho-Gam in my ass.
Late winter 2008 has brought a spate of warmish, sunny weather in the Northwest. Hence, Junior #1’s daffodil stalks are again pushing their way to reach what little sun is to be had during the day.
This year, I waddle past them every morning and say a thank-you to whatever powers that be that I am pregnant yet again. My wish did come true. Just a little later than I wanted. But it came true nonetheless.
For fleeting moments, I sometimes wonder about the almost ones. Junior #1 would be a chubby 9-month old today. Junior#2, an infant, who had hopefully just gotten into a schedule.
Today perhaps I will go to the store and buy a bouquet of daffodils for their little sister-in-waiting. My prayer these days is that I will have the chance to let her pick as many of those blooms as she wants from the yard.
Friday, August 3, 2007
About that job thing
They packed up our office today.
I worked right through it. A lot of people, well, the people who haven’t moved on or haven’t moved to the new state where my company is setting up shop, left for the day. I worked at my desk with its gorgeous view of the Willamette River and Forest Park and tried to ignore the movers.
It has been almost a year since the governor of another Western state stopped into our booth at a trade show and announced, "Welcome to (insert state here)!"
Those of us who witnessed it had to keep our mouths from dropping open.
We’d been told in June of 2006 that our company, which was purchased by a new parent firm in 2005, was staying in our hometown.
The official announcement of our company moving did not come until Friday, Oct. 13. The day before the business section ran a front page story announcing the decision. And the day before I received our first BFP.
We all worked and waited diligently for the next month, wondering who would get move packages, what would they look like, when would the move happen, what would the severance packages be? It didn’t help that it was our busy season. After weeks of anxiety, we were worked in more ways than one.
I had BIG things on my mind. I didn’t breathe a word of my news to anyone in the office. My company is great. It is very family-friendly. If, by family-friendly, you mean that you are guy with young children and a cute stay-at-home wife. In sales and marketing, where I work, there are exactly two working moms. There were a lot of women during my six year tenure who became mothers. They just no longer work there.
I was petrified that they would put me on the severance package track if they learned of my news. That they would make my decision for me. Not that I wanted to move. But it mattered that I was invited to go.
At one time this job was my dream job. It is in sports. Very cool sports. A vocation that is as much about lifestyle as anything else. I couldn’t believe I had landed such a sweet gig right out of graduate school. More times than I care to admit, I put this job before everything else. Once, while on a flight to Europe, we started counting how many weekends we had worked that year. We had to stop at April because it started to make us bitter.
It was demanding and challenging and – more often than not – beyond fun. Until this whole move thing happened. And then it got all fucked up.
A month later, you are sitting in your boss’ office. The door is closed. He has been meeting personally with your whole department, one-by-one, all day long. It’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday. It is dark out. He is glassy-eyed. You wonder if he is stoned. Or just holding back tears.
He is talking about how they haven’t made any decisions about what the marketing department will look like in the new structure. How they want to keep you in the organization. But they have no offer to give yet. He is sorry. He knows this has been a tough time for everyone.
You don’t really hear much, because you are having deep, painful cramps.
The day before you had gone to your first pregnant lady appointment. The OB asked how you were feeling. Cheerily you said, fine. "Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am pregnant."
With that she pulled out the dildo-cam. Junior was measuring small for the gestation period. At that moment, you have no idea how bad that is. What that means. She chalks it up to a last-menstrual-period calculation error. You told her you chart. You use OPKs. Your chart dates are spot on. She shrugs and orders a more powerful ultrasound for the following week.
And now you are cramping. In a chair. In your boss’ office. With your back to the river. And it is taking all that you have not to cry. To smile. To say it is okay, you are patient. You understand that these things take time. December for a definitive answer on your role in the new organization? Before Christmas? Sounds great. Thank you for explaining the situation so thoroughly.
You walk back to your desk. Calmly tuck the cell phone into your pocket. You walk quickly to the bathroom. There is red.
You take a free tampon from the dispenser in the women’s room. You wash your hands. Still you are not crying lest someone walks into the bathroom. You work in an office with mostly guys. In sports. Beyond everything, you do not cry in the office. Instead, you dash into the stairwell across the hall and call Cowboy.
I don’t have a move offer. No, I don’t have a severance package either.
When will you know.
I think I am miscarrying. (Begin crying.)
Hang up the phone, your husband says, and get home now.
Later that night you lay in bed cramping. And bleeding. And crying quietly so you don’t wake your husband. You don’t take aspirin or Advil for the pain because you are, after all, pregnant. But you know. Though they haven’t said it, you feel like you have lost your job. And though they haven’t confirmed it, you are pretty certain you are losing your baby, too.
In 3 days the cramps and bleeding stop. You go to work every day. You take Advil now to control the pain.
Four more cycles, Christmas, New Year’s, a month where you are home for only four days out of 30 and Valentine’s Day go by before you receive word of a promotion, a new job and a move package.
By then, you don’t really care anymore.
And so you elect not to get on the bus going to the new state. A majority of your colleagues decide the same. A new regime. A new mission. You stop getting meeting requests for next year’s planning sessions.
It feels awkward. You could leave. But the retention bonus and severance package are good. And, by the time it starts to really suck, you feel that you have earned every bit of them.
After the movers left. I walked around the empty office. The framed magazine covers of athletes are packed. All of the products scattered around that I write marketing plans for are gone, too.
I start to cry. But it is OK this time. Because no one is around to see me.
I worked right through it. A lot of people, well, the people who haven’t moved on or haven’t moved to the new state where my company is setting up shop, left for the day. I worked at my desk with its gorgeous view of the Willamette River and Forest Park and tried to ignore the movers.
It has been almost a year since the governor of another Western state stopped into our booth at a trade show and announced, "Welcome to (insert state here)!"
Those of us who witnessed it had to keep our mouths from dropping open.
We’d been told in June of 2006 that our company, which was purchased by a new parent firm in 2005, was staying in our hometown.
The official announcement of our company moving did not come until Friday, Oct. 13. The day before the business section ran a front page story announcing the decision. And the day before I received our first BFP.
We all worked and waited diligently for the next month, wondering who would get move packages, what would they look like, when would the move happen, what would the severance packages be? It didn’t help that it was our busy season. After weeks of anxiety, we were worked in more ways than one.
I had BIG things on my mind. I didn’t breathe a word of my news to anyone in the office. My company is great. It is very family-friendly. If, by family-friendly, you mean that you are guy with young children and a cute stay-at-home wife. In sales and marketing, where I work, there are exactly two working moms. There were a lot of women during my six year tenure who became mothers. They just no longer work there.
I was petrified that they would put me on the severance package track if they learned of my news. That they would make my decision for me. Not that I wanted to move. But it mattered that I was invited to go.
At one time this job was my dream job. It is in sports. Very cool sports. A vocation that is as much about lifestyle as anything else. I couldn’t believe I had landed such a sweet gig right out of graduate school. More times than I care to admit, I put this job before everything else. Once, while on a flight to Europe, we started counting how many weekends we had worked that year. We had to stop at April because it started to make us bitter.
It was demanding and challenging and – more often than not – beyond fun. Until this whole move thing happened. And then it got all fucked up.
A month later, you are sitting in your boss’ office. The door is closed. He has been meeting personally with your whole department, one-by-one, all day long. It’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday. It is dark out. He is glassy-eyed. You wonder if he is stoned. Or just holding back tears.
He is talking about how they haven’t made any decisions about what the marketing department will look like in the new structure. How they want to keep you in the organization. But they have no offer to give yet. He is sorry. He knows this has been a tough time for everyone.
You don’t really hear much, because you are having deep, painful cramps.
The day before you had gone to your first pregnant lady appointment. The OB asked how you were feeling. Cheerily you said, fine. "Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am pregnant."
With that she pulled out the dildo-cam. Junior was measuring small for the gestation period. At that moment, you have no idea how bad that is. What that means. She chalks it up to a last-menstrual-period calculation error. You told her you chart. You use OPKs. Your chart dates are spot on. She shrugs and orders a more powerful ultrasound for the following week.
And now you are cramping. In a chair. In your boss’ office. With your back to the river. And it is taking all that you have not to cry. To smile. To say it is okay, you are patient. You understand that these things take time. December for a definitive answer on your role in the new organization? Before Christmas? Sounds great. Thank you for explaining the situation so thoroughly.
You walk back to your desk. Calmly tuck the cell phone into your pocket. You walk quickly to the bathroom. There is red.
You take a free tampon from the dispenser in the women’s room. You wash your hands. Still you are not crying lest someone walks into the bathroom. You work in an office with mostly guys. In sports. Beyond everything, you do not cry in the office. Instead, you dash into the stairwell across the hall and call Cowboy.
I don’t have a move offer. No, I don’t have a severance package either.
When will you know.
I think I am miscarrying. (Begin crying.)
Hang up the phone, your husband says, and get home now.
Later that night you lay in bed cramping. And bleeding. And crying quietly so you don’t wake your husband. You don’t take aspirin or Advil for the pain because you are, after all, pregnant. But you know. Though they haven’t said it, you feel like you have lost your job. And though they haven’t confirmed it, you are pretty certain you are losing your baby, too.
In 3 days the cramps and bleeding stop. You go to work every day. You take Advil now to control the pain.
Four more cycles, Christmas, New Year’s, a month where you are home for only four days out of 30 and Valentine’s Day go by before you receive word of a promotion, a new job and a move package.
By then, you don’t really care anymore.
And so you elect not to get on the bus going to the new state. A majority of your colleagues decide the same. A new regime. A new mission. You stop getting meeting requests for next year’s planning sessions.
It feels awkward. You could leave. But the retention bonus and severance package are good. And, by the time it starts to really suck, you feel that you have earned every bit of them.
After the movers left. I walked around the empty office. The framed magazine covers of athletes are packed. All of the products scattered around that I write marketing plans for are gone, too.
I start to cry. But it is OK this time. Because no one is around to see me.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Whew, I'm glad that is over
Saturday passed. In retrospect, I think the anticipation of what I would feel on Junior’s due date was much worse than how I actually felt once the day arrived.
Or maybe it was all of the kind thoughts of comfort sent my way by people who read this blog. I only cried once the whole day. Seriously. And that was when I read the lovely comments you left in response to my letter I wrote to Junior. Thank you – from the bottom of my heart – for leaving them. The kindness of those in this community never fails to inspire me.
Or maybe it was Cowboy, who while he didn’t speak about the significance of the day, knew about it and was extra sweet to me.
Or maybe it was this remedy, which my acupuncturist suggested to take the edge off. Amazing, but the gal who eschews pharmaceutical pain relief and allergy medications does not hesitate to drop some natural remedy down her gullet.
Perhaps it was the combination of the above. Whatever it was, it seemed to work in my favor.
About the letter. Many self help books on dealing with miscarriage recommend developing some sort of personal ceremony to mark the passing of the baby. Western cultures and religions, in particular, have precious little societal outlets for even addressing the subject.
I have read (mostly on these blogs) about some lovely and touching ways that people have honored a miscarried baby. And while I am not a big ceremony person, I felt like Junior deserved something more than a little notation on our calendar.
So I wrote the letter as a form of ceremony. It’s more my style anyway. I actually wrote it a while ago and it just sat waiting in my journal. Then I started this blog and noticed the immediate therapeutic effects. As the due date approached, it just seemed natural to put my letter to Junior out there as a way of being open and honest and creating some sort of simple public record of the event, which is so significant in my life at this point.
So that awful, anticipated day has come and gone. It wasn’t so bad. I wonder if the sadness and longing attached to it will fade from my memory. Will I always remember the day and wonder what might have been?
Or maybe it was all of the kind thoughts of comfort sent my way by people who read this blog. I only cried once the whole day. Seriously. And that was when I read the lovely comments you left in response to my letter I wrote to Junior. Thank you – from the bottom of my heart – for leaving them. The kindness of those in this community never fails to inspire me.
Or maybe it was Cowboy, who while he didn’t speak about the significance of the day, knew about it and was extra sweet to me.
Or maybe it was this remedy, which my acupuncturist suggested to take the edge off. Amazing, but the gal who eschews pharmaceutical pain relief and allergy medications does not hesitate to drop some natural remedy down her gullet.
Perhaps it was the combination of the above. Whatever it was, it seemed to work in my favor.
About the letter. Many self help books on dealing with miscarriage recommend developing some sort of personal ceremony to mark the passing of the baby. Western cultures and religions, in particular, have precious little societal outlets for even addressing the subject.
I have read (mostly on these blogs) about some lovely and touching ways that people have honored a miscarried baby. And while I am not a big ceremony person, I felt like Junior deserved something more than a little notation on our calendar.
So I wrote the letter as a form of ceremony. It’s more my style anyway. I actually wrote it a while ago and it just sat waiting in my journal. Then I started this blog and noticed the immediate therapeutic effects. As the due date approached, it just seemed natural to put my letter to Junior out there as a way of being open and honest and creating some sort of simple public record of the event, which is so significant in my life at this point.
So that awful, anticipated day has come and gone. It wasn’t so bad. I wonder if the sadness and longing attached to it will fade from my memory. Will I always remember the day and wonder what might have been?
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Closure (Part 1)
Dear Junior,
I knew you were coming before the test officially said so. That’s how quickly I fell in love with you.
Even though you are not with us now, please always know that we wanted you so badly. I was so thrilled and happy to be pregnant with you. We were going through some stressful times with my job but a lot of it didn’t matter because we had YOU.
I practiced yoga with you almost every morning. I used to wonder what you were thinking while I was doing a pose, "Hey, why am I upside down all of a sudden? Moooomm! I was sleeping because I need energy so I can grow arms this week!" I told you that all of this yoga now would make you a Buddha baby and a good athlete some day.
My favorite part of yoga with you was savasana at the end of practice. I would lie on my back on the mat and while I was supposed to be meditating I would talk to you instead. I’d tell you about all the fun adventures you would have. How we’d go skiing with your cousins who live in New Zealand and beach combing with your cousins who live in Mexico. In savasana pose, we are suppose to keep our hands on the mat, palms up as we lay flat on the floor. But I would place mine on my tummy, like I was holding you. I felt very close to you during those times.
You were the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning. And the last thing I thought about when I went to bed at night.
I was pretty sure that you were a boy. It was too early to know for sure, but I just knew. We talked about naming you Huck. Not sure how you’d feel about that when you were 35. But we thought it would fit the personality we imagined you might have. Huck Johnson. A good guy’s name.
I got to see your very early heartbeat. I’ll never forget seeing your picture on the screen. It reminded me of the tiny little butterflies that flock to Mt. Hood in late spring. Your dad called from his office and asked how you were doing. "Fighting like a champ," I told him. Your heartbeat was a bit slower than we all would have liked but you and I were doing our best to give it a go. To this day, I wish I would have asked your dad to come with me to the doctor’s. He would have been so proud to see your little heart beating.
The next day took you away from us. Before that day, I honestly believed you would make it. And was in denial that you hadn’t. I admit that I tried to rush past feeling sad for you. But the harder I tried to rush, the sadder I felt.
You gave me the gifts of peace and confidence. I am grateful for those gifts but ashamed that I have not let them shine recently. But I promise I will make them shine within me – in your honor.
I think about you every day. I miss you more than you will ever know.
With love,
Mom
I knew you were coming before the test officially said so. That’s how quickly I fell in love with you.
Even though you are not with us now, please always know that we wanted you so badly. I was so thrilled and happy to be pregnant with you. We were going through some stressful times with my job but a lot of it didn’t matter because we had YOU.
I practiced yoga with you almost every morning. I used to wonder what you were thinking while I was doing a pose, "Hey, why am I upside down all of a sudden? Moooomm! I was sleeping because I need energy so I can grow arms this week!" I told you that all of this yoga now would make you a Buddha baby and a good athlete some day.
My favorite part of yoga with you was savasana at the end of practice. I would lie on my back on the mat and while I was supposed to be meditating I would talk to you instead. I’d tell you about all the fun adventures you would have. How we’d go skiing with your cousins who live in New Zealand and beach combing with your cousins who live in Mexico. In savasana pose, we are suppose to keep our hands on the mat, palms up as we lay flat on the floor. But I would place mine on my tummy, like I was holding you. I felt very close to you during those times.
You were the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning. And the last thing I thought about when I went to bed at night.
I was pretty sure that you were a boy. It was too early to know for sure, but I just knew. We talked about naming you Huck. Not sure how you’d feel about that when you were 35. But we thought it would fit the personality we imagined you might have. Huck Johnson. A good guy’s name.
I got to see your very early heartbeat. I’ll never forget seeing your picture on the screen. It reminded me of the tiny little butterflies that flock to Mt. Hood in late spring. Your dad called from his office and asked how you were doing. "Fighting like a champ," I told him. Your heartbeat was a bit slower than we all would have liked but you and I were doing our best to give it a go. To this day, I wish I would have asked your dad to come with me to the doctor’s. He would have been so proud to see your little heart beating.
The next day took you away from us. Before that day, I honestly believed you would make it. And was in denial that you hadn’t. I admit that I tried to rush past feeling sad for you. But the harder I tried to rush, the sadder I felt.
You gave me the gifts of peace and confidence. I am grateful for those gifts but ashamed that I have not let them shine recently. But I promise I will make them shine within me – in your honor.
I think about you every day. I miss you more than you will ever know.
With love,
Mom
Friday, June 22, 2007
Bring it On
Today I went to acupuncture as part of my official member of the pincushion club duties. I HAD to go to acupuncture. The qi stagnating all over my body was seriously bumming me out. This week has been a slog.
I explained the significance of this week, of tomorrow, to my acupuncturist. She understood immediately.
She worked points along the heart meridian. Acupuncture has never hurt me but this time, when she put the pins into new regions along my arm, pain enveloped the points and I yelped when she tweaked the needles.
“Your heart is very sensitive today”
Umm. Yeah. My heart is sensitive because it is breaking all over again. I swear I can almost feel the weight of the baby that is supposed to be in my arms tomorrow.
Seconds after she positioned the needles and the pain subsided, tears sprang from both sides of my eyes and ran down my temples into my ears. She said this was a common reaction.
Lying there on the table, alone, I felt wave after wave of sadness. The tears flowed uncontrollably. My nose stopped up. I tried to remember my new mantra, “my body can do this” but all I could think of was “Lord Have Mercy.”
For years, I used to recite this phrase faithfully every Saturday evening at mass. I didn’t realize the significance of those three simple words until recently.
Let us pray for those afflicted by war. May they live in peace soon.
Lord Have Mercy.
Let us pray for the sick, that they may be healed quickly.
Lord Have Mercy
Let us pray for those that are suffering…
Those three words kept running through my head. I clung to them there on the table, lying motionless with needles in my arms, legs and chest.
I took in a deep breath and felt – scout’s honor, I swear – a quick, almost electric, jolt roll over my heart. It wasn’t painful, just really intense.
And then the tears stopped flowing - almost abruptly. And I started to feel just a little at peace. And I was calm.
I’ve remained calm and centered for the rest of today (so far).
Who would’ve guessed that 18 years of Catholicism (which I don’t practice anymore) and a session of Traditional Chinese Medicine would help start the healing process over tomorrow. Not I.
It’s amazing what can happen when cultures diverge and share.
That being said, I’m still sad I am not pregnant. I so thought I would be by the time this date rolled around. But I am trying valiantly to get over it.
Bring on tomorrow.
I explained the significance of this week, of tomorrow, to my acupuncturist. She understood immediately.
She worked points along the heart meridian. Acupuncture has never hurt me but this time, when she put the pins into new regions along my arm, pain enveloped the points and I yelped when she tweaked the needles.
“Your heart is very sensitive today”
Umm. Yeah. My heart is sensitive because it is breaking all over again. I swear I can almost feel the weight of the baby that is supposed to be in my arms tomorrow.
Seconds after she positioned the needles and the pain subsided, tears sprang from both sides of my eyes and ran down my temples into my ears. She said this was a common reaction.
Lying there on the table, alone, I felt wave after wave of sadness. The tears flowed uncontrollably. My nose stopped up. I tried to remember my new mantra, “my body can do this” but all I could think of was “Lord Have Mercy.”
For years, I used to recite this phrase faithfully every Saturday evening at mass. I didn’t realize the significance of those three simple words until recently.
Let us pray for those afflicted by war. May they live in peace soon.
Lord Have Mercy.
Let us pray for the sick, that they may be healed quickly.
Lord Have Mercy
Let us pray for those that are suffering…
Those three words kept running through my head. I clung to them there on the table, lying motionless with needles in my arms, legs and chest.
I took in a deep breath and felt – scout’s honor, I swear – a quick, almost electric, jolt roll over my heart. It wasn’t painful, just really intense.
And then the tears stopped flowing - almost abruptly. And I started to feel just a little at peace. And I was calm.
I’ve remained calm and centered for the rest of today (so far).
Who would’ve guessed that 18 years of Catholicism (which I don’t practice anymore) and a session of Traditional Chinese Medicine would help start the healing process over tomorrow. Not I.
It’s amazing what can happen when cultures diverge and share.
That being said, I’m still sad I am not pregnant. I so thought I would be by the time this date rolled around. But I am trying valiantly to get over it.
Bring on tomorrow.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Father's Day
Yesterday Gus gave Cowboy a father’s day card. This has become a bit of tradition in our house. Gus came with me into the Cowboy + Ms. Planner relationship. But we quickly assumed the roles of “Fun Guy” and “The Mean Lady,” as I became the dispenser of medication, baths and vet visits while Cowboy hosted trips in his truck to cool places, like the hardware store.
Our first summer of dating, Cowboy graduated and took a 6-week motorcycle trip around the Western U.S. This was before the days of blackberries, text messaging and wi-fi, so I gave him a stack of good old fashioned letters with instructions to open one every week. The stack included a father’s day card from Gus, which Cowboy said later was his second-favorite letter of the batch (the first being the porn letter for week #3 into the trip).
A tradition was born. The father’s day card. Not the porn letter. Although, am thinking I should bring that one back for the upcoming summer of DIY cycles.
So Gus “signed” his name on this year’s card, which is an amazing feat considering his lack of opposable thumbs. And I added at the last minute, “Baker, Junior and the second one, too.” Baker is our chocolate lab who we adopted and then had to put to sleep three years ago. Junior and The Second One, well, those are our human children.
I debated adding that line to the card, but I just felt like we should honor their short existence in our lives a little bit more. Of course, I bawled when Cowboy opened the card. But it was a weird cry, filled with a mixture of sadness and, oddly, a bit of relief. Cowboy reassured me not to be sad. We both love each of those kids, opposable thumbs or not and with us physically or not, with all of our hearts. It was comforting to think about. And to hear from him.
This coming Saturday is Junior’s due date. I have been dreading this day since last November. I can feel the physical presence of its coming like weight around my shoulders. I am tired. My head hurts. I feel heavy and sluggish. I cry when I think about it.
I just want to get it over with. But, somehow, seem to know that I just have to "be" for a moment in this grief. It's not making it any easier but I hope to encounter a lighter sense of being when this auspicous milestone has passed.
Our first summer of dating, Cowboy graduated and took a 6-week motorcycle trip around the Western U.S. This was before the days of blackberries, text messaging and wi-fi, so I gave him a stack of good old fashioned letters with instructions to open one every week. The stack included a father’s day card from Gus, which Cowboy said later was his second-favorite letter of the batch (the first being the porn letter for week #3 into the trip).
A tradition was born. The father’s day card. Not the porn letter. Although, am thinking I should bring that one back for the upcoming summer of DIY cycles.
So Gus “signed” his name on this year’s card, which is an amazing feat considering his lack of opposable thumbs. And I added at the last minute, “Baker, Junior and the second one, too.” Baker is our chocolate lab who we adopted and then had to put to sleep three years ago. Junior and The Second One, well, those are our human children.
I debated adding that line to the card, but I just felt like we should honor their short existence in our lives a little bit more. Of course, I bawled when Cowboy opened the card. But it was a weird cry, filled with a mixture of sadness and, oddly, a bit of relief. Cowboy reassured me not to be sad. We both love each of those kids, opposable thumbs or not and with us physically or not, with all of our hearts. It was comforting to think about. And to hear from him.
This coming Saturday is Junior’s due date. I have been dreading this day since last November. I can feel the physical presence of its coming like weight around my shoulders. I am tired. My head hurts. I feel heavy and sluggish. I cry when I think about it.
I just want to get it over with. But, somehow, seem to know that I just have to "be" for a moment in this grief. It's not making it any easier but I hope to encounter a lighter sense of being when this auspicous milestone has passed.
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