Below is an excerpt from my journal entry of April 25, 2007 – one year ago today. I was 6 days post miscarriage #2. I had just posted my first blog entry on That Was The Plan. I kept this entry private at the time because I did not want to start out my blog with too much negativism. Clearly, I needed an outlet. Big time.
April 25, 2007
My whole freaking soul hurts. I am scared. I have that sick feeling in my stomach. I look at my future and it seems so bleak and scary. I want to punch something so hard. I want to throw my laptop out the window. I mean, hurl the damn thing. (I never thought I would have anything in common with Denise Richards, but there you go).
And with this feeling, I am supposed to be networking and being helpful to might-be-influential people and looking for a new job. Oh yes, did I mention that the job I have had for 6 years and love is going away in September because my company is moving to Utah. I mean, UTAH! WTF!
And – guess what, because life wasn’t fun enough – that Cowboy had $4 million in deals fall out of his pipeline yesterday, which means that all of the hard work and long hours he has put in recently, that despite all valiant efforts, his job is in jeopardy, too.
Which puts the anxiety level up to here. And the sadness level up to there. And all of a sudden I can’t see so clearly.
I feel like Cowboy and I are in boat looking at each other like, "I thought you brought the freaking life preservers!" I seriously don’t know if we will survive this: his job, my job, IF. Somebody, please. Somebody cut us a break.
# # #
Whenever I go through hard times, I try to remind myself of their impermanence. "Life will look so much different in six months," I’d say. I said that back in December 2006 when I was still sad about my first miscarriage and the jury was still out as to if we would be moving to a new state with my job.
Cowboy had stepped up to a vacant position in the bank that needed to be filled. We didn’t know if it was going to pan out either.
Flash forward to late April 2007 and boy how things had changed. Only now they were worse. Where before we had uncertainty, now seemed to face a series of dead ends. I'd turned down a promotion with my company in Utah and would be out of a job come end of summer; we realized that Cowboy's new gig at the bank was of the churn-and-burn variety; not only were we not pregnant, but we were staring down the barrel of recurrent pregnancy loss testing and whatever those results might bring.
For the first time in my life, the 6-month rule hadn’t worked in the positive way I’d always meant it to. I felt duped. And terrified. The above journal entry clearly reflects the space we were in.
Last night, a full year later, I woke just before the alarm. Cowboy was asleep with his bedside lamp still on. The Birth Partner book lay open across the duvet. He had been reading it since waking at 2:30 a.m. (he always wakes at this time). I note this and smile because it is the first I’m-having-a-kid book that Cowboy has cracked.
He woke up because he is feeling guilty and nervous. I know this because he has just found out he is the front runner candidate for his dream job. I mean, dream with a capital D. This is the kind of job that he set his sights on back in business school. This is the kind of job that kept him hanging on at the bank for 8 years. Because of some bank regulations that govern his dealings with three new clients, today he has to face his boss with the news that he may be leaving. If nothing, Cowboy is a loyal employee. He has only worked for 2 companies since graduating high school.
I woke up because I have to go to the bathroom. Again. Because while last year I was reeling from m/c #2, now I am 8 months pregnant with a by-all-accounts healthy baby. I, too, have just found out that a local creative agency is interested in hiring me for freelance marketing consulting, which means I can continue to work from home for the remainder of the year.
The word grateful springs to mind. But it feels so inadequate. This is so beyond simply being grateful. This almost feels like a different life. But it is not. It is our life. Our life last year replete with all of its sadness and worry. Our life this year at 180 degrees opposite with breathing room to spare.
I try to be perfectly content. But I am on edge. Because I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because we don’t deserve this much good fortune. The fates will surely punish this much good fortune by taking something we counted on away.
Which, I know, is both completely paranoid and glass-is-half-empty.
That I have such thoughts shames me. It leaves me to ponder how can I ever pay this much good fortune forward. How can I pass it on so I don’t hold it too tightly and lose it.
This is what can happen in the course of a year.
Showing posts with label Junior #2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Junior #2. Show all posts
Friday, April 25, 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.
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.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Self Help Books
I am reading Dr. Alice Domar's book, Conquering Infertility. I really like the book, except the part about not exercising for three months. I tried not exercising for a month. I got pregnant and promptly miscarried. And all I was left with was rage because I didn't have an outlet for it. So I can tell you from experience that the whole don't exercise thing is a sham. Doesn't matter what you do as long as it's in moderation.
I was super bummed, however, when I reached for Conquering Infertility this weekend and couldn't find a chapter on this subject:
"Coping-when-your-good-friend-who-you-see-nearly-every week-calls-you-on-Saturday-and-tells-you-she-is-pregnant. With-twins. And-her-due-date-is-yours*."
*Had you not miscarried a month ago.
For serious. Someone is surely testing me with this one. I guess I deserve this after refusing to even look at the dueling pregnant ladies who crashed yoga class in matching outfits last week.
I cried. Of course. I do not begrudge my friend her good fortune. She has a 2-year-old. And wasn't even sure she wanted a second child. But her husband did. Anyway, she gets overwhelmed with the 2-year-old so the twin thing is not going to be easy on her.
But I cried mostly because it is just so ironically cruel. Honestly. Ever time I look at her, I will be reminded of baby #2 and what we would have been doing together at that time.
I can't & don't want this to affect my friendship with her. She truly is a very good friend. And I am so appreciative that she called to tell me even though she hasn't announced the pregnacy to anyone else yet.
But, COME ON, universe. If I pass this test do you promise we'll get a baby?
Sigh.
I was super bummed, however, when I reached for Conquering Infertility this weekend and couldn't find a chapter on this subject:
"Coping-when-your-good-friend-who-you-see-nearly-every week-calls-you-on-Saturday-and-tells-you-she-is-pregnant. With-twins. And-her-due-date-is-yours*."
*Had you not miscarried a month ago.
For serious. Someone is surely testing me with this one. I guess I deserve this after refusing to even look at the dueling pregnant ladies who crashed yoga class in matching outfits last week.
I cried. Of course. I do not begrudge my friend her good fortune. She has a 2-year-old. And wasn't even sure she wanted a second child. But her husband did. Anyway, she gets overwhelmed with the 2-year-old so the twin thing is not going to be easy on her.
But I cried mostly because it is just so ironically cruel. Honestly. Ever time I look at her, I will be reminded of baby #2 and what we would have been doing together at that time.
I can't & don't want this to affect my friendship with her. She truly is a very good friend. And I am so appreciative that she called to tell me even though she hasn't announced the pregnacy to anyone else yet.
But, COME ON, universe. If I pass this test do you promise we'll get a baby?
Sigh.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Well, that was the plan, wasn't it?
Hello everyone. I am a late-thirty something who lives in the Pacific Northwest. We have been married for 2 years and started getting it on sans birth control last summer.
The first four months that we were officially off birth control, we missed the good times due to one of us being out of town for work. Our fifth cycle – the one where the mister and I were miraculously in the same zip code when the OPK turned the-exact-same-color-as-the-control-line-blue – we managed to get knocked up.
Holy frickin damn! Look at how awesome we are, I thought. Yeah, we nailed that b*tch. I gave away my copy of TCOYF and How to Get Pregnant Naturally (snicker). I now want to do something really mean to the smarmy UVA doctor who wrote that one and got me addicted to OPKs. Anyway, I digress.
WE were the champions of conception. WE didn’t have to worry about any of this IF shite. Ha! It didn’t even matter that I am in my late 30’s and the mister (aka Cowboy, seriously that’s my nickname for him) is early 40’s. WE were the cat’s ass.
Au contraire, mon frair.
Apparently while we were great about getting pg, we weren’t so great at staying pg. We m/c’ed a few weeks later. 3 days after my first pregnant lady appointment. How embarrassing is that? Yep, we went from hero to zero. More stories about Junior #1 in another post.
That was 6 months ago. And like I said: hero to zero.
Actually hero to below zero. We’re talking negative integers here, people. Because 14 days ago I just received my second BFP. Yay! And 7 days ago I miscarried. Again. Boo!
If I sound like I am trying to be funny, it’s really just a slightly maniacal side of myself that I’m starting to get to know.
Losing Junior #2 (it sucks being the middle child doesn’t it) also means we are in another recovery period. During which time we’ll have our first meeting with an RE because apparently now I’m in the SUPER FUN recurrent fetal loss club. Do you at least get a letterman-style sweatshirt with RFL on it?
OK, OK. I can hear those of who have been on this crazy IF and sub-IF roller coaster for waaay tooooo long sayin’ “Sister, you don’t even know… eight months? A freakin’ jog around the block compared to what I’ve been through.” And I hear you. I really do. And I so get it.
But women like The Oneliner, Pregnancy Envy, Sticky Bun and My Dear Watson have become my daily staples. And I just started feeling creepy lurking on the IF blog sidelines. Some IF voyeur if you will. Since I love the written word, I thought maybe, just maybe I might have something to contribute here. To give myself an outlet and to make others, perhaps future others, not feel so alone and, um, misunderstood by husbands, lovers, parents, siblings, friends and co-workers who don’t get how having a baby could become such an obsession (cue the movie trailer music).
Because having a baby. Well, that was the plan. Wasn’t it?
The first four months that we were officially off birth control, we missed the good times due to one of us being out of town for work. Our fifth cycle – the one where the mister and I were miraculously in the same zip code when the OPK turned the-exact-same-color-as-the-control-line-blue – we managed to get knocked up.
Holy frickin damn! Look at how awesome we are, I thought. Yeah, we nailed that b*tch. I gave away my copy of TCOYF and How to Get Pregnant Naturally (snicker). I now want to do something really mean to the smarmy UVA doctor who wrote that one and got me addicted to OPKs. Anyway, I digress.
WE were the champions of conception. WE didn’t have to worry about any of this IF shite. Ha! It didn’t even matter that I am in my late 30’s and the mister (aka Cowboy, seriously that’s my nickname for him) is early 40’s. WE were the cat’s ass.
Au contraire, mon frair.
Apparently while we were great about getting pg, we weren’t so great at staying pg. We m/c’ed a few weeks later. 3 days after my first pregnant lady appointment. How embarrassing is that? Yep, we went from hero to zero. More stories about Junior #1 in another post.
That was 6 months ago. And like I said: hero to zero.
Actually hero to below zero. We’re talking negative integers here, people. Because 14 days ago I just received my second BFP. Yay! And 7 days ago I miscarried. Again. Boo!
If I sound like I am trying to be funny, it’s really just a slightly maniacal side of myself that I’m starting to get to know.
Losing Junior #2 (it sucks being the middle child doesn’t it) also means we are in another recovery period. During which time we’ll have our first meeting with an RE because apparently now I’m in the SUPER FUN recurrent fetal loss club. Do you at least get a letterman-style sweatshirt with RFL on it?
OK, OK. I can hear those of who have been on this crazy IF and sub-IF roller coaster for waaay tooooo long sayin’ “Sister, you don’t even know… eight months? A freakin’ jog around the block compared to what I’ve been through.” And I hear you. I really do. And I so get it.
But women like The Oneliner, Pregnancy Envy, Sticky Bun and My Dear Watson have become my daily staples. And I just started feeling creepy lurking on the IF blog sidelines. Some IF voyeur if you will. Since I love the written word, I thought maybe, just maybe I might have something to contribute here. To give myself an outlet and to make others, perhaps future others, not feel so alone and, um, misunderstood by husbands, lovers, parents, siblings, friends and co-workers who don’t get how having a baby could become such an obsession (cue the movie trailer music).
Because having a baby. Well, that was the plan. Wasn’t it?
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