Uppercase Woman

Dear John McCain:

I've thought long and hard about what to say to you after watching your discussion about abortion on last night's debate. I'll be honest; I have never considered voting for you. I am beyond a doubt a tax-and-spend and let-the-gays-get-married liberal. But you know what? I've always liked you. I've found your appearances on The Daily Show to be amusing, and even though we don't agree on much, I always thought of you as a smart, compassionate, and friendly person. I've managed through this election to even hold on to a shred of respect for you, even while I am personally inundated with negative ads from your campaign because I live in a swing state. This is partially because you are I were much more politically in line back when you ran for President in 2000, and throughout this campaign I've always imagined that in some way you were playing a role as a far right-wing conservative, and that in fact, you were personally much more moderate.

But when you discussed your feelings about partial birth abortion during the debate last night, your true opinions became clear to me. You really are a social conservative; it was in 2000 that you were playing a role. When you discussed partial birth abortion and used quotes around the "health" of a mother, claiming that the idea of preserving a woman's health has been "stretched" so that woman can just go ahead and abort babies willy-nilly whenever they want showed your true colors. You really ARE a small-minded anti-choice hater of women.

You've bought the propaganda. Even if I tell you that late term abortions make up only one fifth of 1% of ALL abortions that happen in this country, and that they are performed universally only in cases of extreme risk to the mother or lack of viability for the child, you won't believe me. In your mind, women like me are sluts that got what we deserve, and changed our minds at the last minute when the reality of a baby became clear. If I tell you that the day my doctor performed my life-saving medical termination of my pregnancy was the worst day of his professional career, in your mind he's a callous murderer willing to kill children.

Watching you speak last night felt like getting punched in the face. I've become used to the rare individual being so callous and ill-informed; but to think a man so close to becoming the leader of this nation thinks so little of women like me--was just...God.

Awful. Heartbreaking. Horrifying.

You clearly believe women like me--women who were horribly, horribly sick from their pregnancies but not yet dying--don't deserve the medical care we need to help us heal. You may think this issue is about saving the lives of babies, but it's not. It's about preventing women from receiving necessary medical care.

In my case, Senator, where would you have drawn the line? At what point were my doctors and I not stretching the definition of my "health"? When we terminated the pregnancy, or should we have waited until I was sicker? Say, when I lost my kidney function permanently? Or perhaps when I had a seizure so severe that it caused a stroke and brain damage? Or maybe when my heart was damaged by my out-of-control blood pressure?

By your standards, when could my doctors have intervened?

But most of all, Senator, you do not even care about how much I loved my sons, or that the day you chose to be so cruel to women like me was National Pregnancy And Infant Loss Awareness Day. That only an hour before you spoke I was writing, once again, about the loss of my sons and how much it has changed my life. Because I'm not important. I don't matter. And in your mind, I quite possibly don't even exist.

I'll have you know that I have worked very, very hard to not swear in this letter to you. Maybe if I leave out the nasty language, you'll actually be able to hear what I'm saying. But I doubt it. I don't matter to you. Women don't matter to you.

So you know what? Forget about not swearing. I'll end this with how I really feel.

Fuck you, Senator McCain. Fuck you.

The M Word

Yesterday Susan left this comment on my blog:

"Call it what you want to make yourself sleep at night Cecily, but partial birth abortion is murder. It's not a political issue...it is a human rights issue. For someone who is "constantly sticking up for the little guy", you sure could care less about the life of a innocent child. Delete if you want...the truth still remains."

I did delete the comment, but then I thought about it a bit and kind of wished I hadn't. Then I got really fired up; I could see from her IP address that she'd never been to my blog before yesterday, and that she'd never read more than a couple entries. So it was clear to me that she doesn't know my story (she didn't even click over to my "about" page), so she doesn't realize that she just called me a murderer. Then I got REALLY mad.

But in talking to my friend Dave, I calmed down. Dave, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that Susan did NOT in fact call me a murderer; she said partial birth abortion is murder and there is, in fact, a difference. So I will cut her some slack. But as I prepare to watch Sarah Palin and her "I'll council rape victims to choose life" debate tonight, I find that I do have something I need to say.

So, Susan, let me say this to you. Since you clearly don't know my story, you may not realize that my life was saved by a surgical procedure that falls under the umbrella of the partial birth abortion ban. It happened four years ago this month, before the ban was upheld by the Supreme Court. You probably don't know about my sons Nicholas and Zachary, and how badly I wanted them, and how much I miss them today. You certainly don't know about my harrowing hospital experience, my severe preeclampsia, my near brush with death, or how my doctor cried while he performed the procedure that saved my life and killed my surviving son.

You certainly don't know about how, alone in my room that night feeling like nothing more than an empty womb, I cried and cried in a far corner of the maternity ward, away from the happy new moms. I was so lonely and sad; even the nurses stayed away from me. You don't know about the months of horribly post-partum depression, the agony I felt when my milk came in with no babies to nurse, the desire to start using drugs again to kill the pain despite my years of sobriety, or the fear that plagued me through the pregnancy with my daughter.

You don't know how every single time my daughter giggles, I thank God for saving my life so she could be born. You don't know how much, every day, I miss my sons and wish my daughter could know them.

So I'll forgive you for showing up here, on my blog, and issuing bold statements about a subject you know nothing about. But do know this: I sleep at night just fucking fine.

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Speaking to the Candidates About Choice On the Four Year Anniversary Of This Blog

Apparently, some folks who read this blog know some folks who know some folks and swear they can get this blog entry read by at least Obama, but I figured, why limit myself to just writing to Obama? I'm speaking to everyone who is running for President, including Ms. Clinton, and Mr. McCain (ok, maybe not Mr. Nader).

Why have I been appointed as someone to discuss the issue of choice? Because I'm the Internet Poster Girl For Partial Birth Abortion, that's why. It's not a title I'm proud of, but it's one I was saddled with a few years ago.

I'm not going to get into the whole story here. If you really want to read all about the harrowing details they start here. But you are all too busy running for president, so I'll give you the short version. In April of 2004 I was lucky enough to get pregnant with twin boys after undergoing in vitro treatment for male factor infertility (thanks to drugs my husband's mother took--DES, we suspect--while she was pregnant with him). We were on top of the world, although the pregnancy was difficult.

But a routine ultrasound on October 26--meant to be a time of great joy (my best friend came with us to the appointment--revealed terrible news: one of the twins had died, probably about a week before. We went from the ultrasound appointment to my obstetrician's office and were met with even more grim news. My weight had spiked up about 18 pounds, my blood pressure was soaring, and I had protein in my urine.

It turned out that I was in full-blown preeclampsia. I was admitted to the hospital immediately.

After that, everything happened very quickly. I was put on medication (magnesium sulfate) in an attempt to treat the preeclampsia and save the remaining twin until he reached outside-the-womb viability--a mere two weeks away (I was just over 22 weeks pregnant). But I got much worse overnight; my blood pressure couldn't be controlled, I had a massive headache and was vomiting uncontrollably. My kidneys shut down. I was moments away from seizures, coma, and death when the doctors came and told us the bad news: my remaining twin could not be saved. My pregnancy had to be terminated or both the baby and I would die.

You might, Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain, be able to imagine what it felt like to be my husband--to imagine being terrified of losing your children and your wife in one fell swoop. Ms. Clinton, you might be able to imagine lying in the hospital, so sick you barely feel any of what is happening, only knowing that the long-fought-for children you so desperately wanted are now both going to be dead.

Here's the part of the story where choice comes in. I could, of course, have gone through induced labor and delivered my tiny twins. But my blood pressure was hovering around 165/120 (often going higher), even with treatment. Can you imagine what labor would have done to my body with blood pressure that high? My doctor recommended, and I agreed, that I undergo the much less stressful intact dilation and extraction procedure--what the "pro-life" forces often like to call a "partial birth abortion." Of course, you being the smart and well-education politicians that you are know that there is NO medical procedure that is actually called a "partial birth abortion" so you know that there are several medical procedures that the "pro-life" movement put in that category, including the one that I had. Wait, I take that back--Mr. McCain, as you have been a staunch supporter of the Partial Birth Abortion ban you clearly were asleep in class when they discussed the actual procedures.

But I digress. My doctor refers to my procedure as the worst moment in his professional career. As I lay on the gurney, waiting for my procedure to start, I felt a gulf of grief and emptiness the like of which I have never known. I felt abandoned by God. I lay there, crying, alone, surrounded by doctors and nurses. You can't imagine the sadness.

I was lucky. Are you surprised that I would say that? I was lucky because the partial-birth abortion ban was not yet in effect in October of 2004. If it had been, I would have been forced to undergo labor and delivery, no matter the risks to my health, and I might right now be either dead or so brain damaged I would be unable to type this. I was additionally lucky because even though I live in Philadelphia, one of the largest cities in the country--a city, Mr. Obama and Ms. Clinton, you two will be visiting a great deal in the next month--my doctor happened to be only one of two doctors in this entire city that was willing and able to perform this life-saving medical procedure (although he can't now, of course, thanks to the ban being enacted--besides, he left Pennsylvania for New Jersey thanks to our crazy medical malpractice insurance crisis but that's another story).

So that's my story. For a year after that, I licked my wounds and missed my sons, Nicholas and Zachary. Eventually, I underwent a frozen embryo transfer and gave birth to my daughter Victoria, whose grinning face you see above this entry. I had problems with her delivery as well, so I will not be having other children, sadly.

I'm sure that you will find my story compelling; even the most hard-hearted and most staunch pro-lifers have. Many who came to my blog to question my decision have stayed and become friends. You know why? Because mine was an "acceptable" abortion. I'm not a 26 year old professional woman who doesn't want to derail her career by having a child and chooses to terminate a pregnancy. Or a teenage girl who got drunk and forgot to make the boy wear a condom. Or a harried mother of three who just can't imagine having a fourth child.

So it's easy to read my story and say, oh, yes, in case LIKE YOURS, abortion should be legal. But... when laws are passed that make it difficult for that teenage girl to get to exercise the right to control her own body--hey, I'm looking at you, Ms. Clinton, for not standing up harder against the parental notification laws--or for the professional woman to be able to fill a prescription, quietly, for RU486 at her local pharmacy so she can make her choice as well, or that harried mother to do the same thing--when those laws are passed, it's women like me that die. When you cut corners, you don't save babies lives. You kill women like me.

Let me say that again. When you compromise on abortion--when you sacrifice even the smallest corner of choice--you kill women like me. You create a culture of fear among doctors that puts lives like mine at risk.

So knock it off, will you? Fight to protect a woman's right to choose. I know, Ms. Clinton, that you believe in it enough to put it on the front page of your website, but your record isn't perfect. Mr. Obama, you do not discuss choice on your campaign page (although it's hosted on the Women for Obama page). Why not? Mr. McCain, for shame. Shame on you for promoting a law that is basically a warrant for my death. Come on.

I'm tired of writing about this. I am tired of being the Internet Poster Girl for Partial Birth Abortion, I assure you. It's not comfortable. By writing this post, I will get a new batch of pro-life people that will start telling me how I murdered my sons, how they could have lived (they never, ever, remember that one had already passed away) and some will threaten me. It happens every time I talk about this. Sometimes I just want to lie down and let someone else do this. But I won't. I don't know what it will take; perhaps a constitutional amendment protecting women's bodies?

Yeah. That might do it. Sigh. Like that will ever happen.

Tactician Vs. Idealist

I had a fascinating conversation recently with my friend Geoffrey. We were talking about voting, and how committed we both are to the process--and how differently we vote. Geoffrey is an idealist; after voting for Ralph Nader in 2000, he felt badly about voting as an idealist and decided to vote for John Kerry in 2004, even though he had great reservations about Kerry's record. He's decided this time to vote his heart and not for the most "viable" candidate. He doesn't much care for any of the front runners; was not a huge fan of Bill Clinton and is not at all enamored of Hillary. He says the only guy he likes remotely is Kucinich.

When I take those online polls to find out which candidate matches my views the most, Kucinich is also the one that rises to the top. I'm not surprised; he's clearly the most liberal and socialist minded candidate running for office this time around. But there is no way in hell I'm voting for him.

(I won't be discussing the Republican nominees today. Because, like, why? That is what it is. Thank God Giuliani is losing so far is all I can say.)

I like Obama. I find him invigorating and inspiring, I love the passion he presents and the way he makes me feel that odd, burning sensation behind my breastbone I identify as hope and optimism and national pride. But I probably won't be voting for him either.

I want to like John Edwards. I love the fact that he continues to discuss the truth about America, and the fact that there are two different nations (one poor, one rich). I admire his wife's courage, and I have to admit that I love the fact that they are most likely our compatriots in assisted reproduction. But I find the idea of his 13,000 square foot house disconcerting (seriously, does anyone other than those people with the 14 children need that much space?), and he's just too... I don't know. Pretty.

I find that I am like a lot of other Democrats that feel on the fence about Hillary Clinton. I'm opposed to the idea of political dynasties. I think Hillary is too perfect as a politician, and maybe a little out of touch with being a normal person.

But damn it, I just love her.

I know all her issues. But I will most likely vote for her for three reasons. One, I believe she might win, and I'm a tactical voter rather than an idealism voter. Two, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in Tori's eyes when she grows up knowing that she could be president. Three, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in my eyes when I know, finally, in my heart, that a woman can be president.

For a long time I believed that I wanted a woman president for Tori. But damn it, I want one for me. I want to feel like I belong to this nation, for fuck's sake. And President Hillary? With First Husband Bill? Yeah, that totally works for me.

So how about you? Are you an idealist, or a tactician? Where does your heart lie as we approach Super Tuesday?

Bad Anniversaries

I've been struggling to find things to blog about this week, which is odd, because I've been really energized with the recent changes I've made and the topics have been easy to find. Then I finally looked at the calendar today and realized... it's that time of year again.

Tomorrow marks the three year anniversary of the day I went to the doctor's office for a routine ultrasound and instead began heading down the terror-filled path that ended with the termination of my pregnancy with Nicholas and Zachary.

Last year I was feeling pretty sad about the anniversary, even though Tori was here and healthy. The year before that, I was newly pregnant and feeling pretty happy, even as I mourned the boys. I often feel their loss more acutely around the anniversary of their expected due date, but for some reason I am finding myself full of memories of that time, and what those few days were like.

I remember my complete and utter disconnect when I saw Dr. Mama's face once he saw the combined numbers of my blood pressure (170/120 or so), my urine protein (3+++), and my weight (up 20 pounds in less than two weeks). For god's sake, I asked him if I could stop and get lunch before I went to the hospital (we already knew at that point that one twin was dead, if you remember). I had severe preeclampsia, and I wanted LUNCH.

I remember the face of the nurse at the labor and delivery unit who kept trying to find the surviving boy's heartbeat.

I remember how sick I was once they gave me the magnesium sulfate. I remember all the equipment I had strapped to me; the blood pressure cuff that checked my pressure every 15 minutes; the pressure cuffs on each of my calves trying to keep my blood circulating; the monitor on the baby; the IV in the arm that didn't have the blood pressure cuff; the urinary catheter. I couldn't move, even when I had to throw up. I remember throwing up all over the lovely nurse I'd conned into giving me graham crackers and apple juice (boy, I bet she regretted that, eh?).

I remember how much my head hurt, how utterly and completely flattened I was by the pain, and how the morphine didn't touch it.

I remember that circle of doctors around the end of the bed at 7 am telling us that we'd have to terminate the pregnancy or I would die. I remember Charlie's face when he realized that not only had we lost a son, we were going to lose another one and maybe lose me too.

I don't remember this, but it haunts me now: the doctors discussing whether or not they could give me more morphine at 3 am because they were afraid I was going to begin having seizures any minute and they were afraid to depress my cardiovascular functions. It wasn't until it was all long over that I realized how close to dying I really was.

Most of all, I remember the moment that I stopped being disconnected and detached from what had happened. It was around 3 am EST and I was alone the night after the surgery (Charlie decided to finally spend a night at home) and it all just suddenly hit me. I was so sad, and so angry, and I felt so completely alone and I didn't have any idea who to call or talk to, so I called my friend Dave in Arizona (because it was not quite as late there, I reasoned) and how nice he was to me even though I woke him up (and his poor girlfriend).

It was such a difficult time. The weeks that followed the loss of Nicholas and Zachary were the worst I've ever endured.

This year it all feels very close and near, even though I have so much joy with Tori here. I think about her brothers often; they would be two and a half now. Can you imagine? Two boys in the terrible twos? And I think I'm tired NOW.

I wish I'd gotten a chance to know them. I wish things had been different.

But it's funny: now that I've got some distance on it, I can see things that I'm grateful for from the whole experience. I'm grateful that at the time I was able to have the medical procedure I needed (an intact dilation and extraction) without my doctor having to worry about going to jail. I'm grateful that such a huge and life altering loss gave me the ability to love Tori so completely and thoroughly, without reservation and fear. I am grateful that the loss of the boys taught me so much about tolerance and acceptance of other people's views.

As much as I miss them, their loss made me a better person and a better mother. What a gift they gave me! What a lucky woman I am!

Thank you, Nicholas and Zachary. Although you were here only a short time (not even six months), you had a huge impact on me and the people around me. Thank you. I love you both, and I miss you. Sleep well, baby boys.

______________________________________________________

*Edited to add that Charlie wrote a great post about this too.

**Also wanted to add that Patty (whose hubbie died last Monday) has started a blog. Go give her support, would you?

HEALTH vs. LIFE: Trying to clear things up

Healthy discussion going on over in the comments of my last post (person with fake emails and all caps not withstanding). But the core of the issue is the line between life and health and who gets to choose.

First off, let's talk about some different terms.

Technically, the term "Partial Birth Abortion" does not apply to any currently known and used medical procedure, as Maura stated in her comments. However, it is "assumed" that they are usually referring to the procedure known as a D&X.

D&X refers to a procedure called an Intact Dilation and Extraction. The benefits on this procedure are many, including the fact that having an intact fetus allows the family to view the remains if they choose. Remember, also, that this method is used often when a baby has already died. And, as Aurelia pointed out, "is quite often needed for babies with hydrocephalus or severe cranio-facial disabilities who cannot be delivered vaginally with their skull and brain intact."

According to this survey, this procedure is performed in 0.17% of all abortions. In other fucking words, HARDLY EVER.

D&E is a different procedure, a Dilation and Evacuation. This procedure is done between 12 and 20 weeks gestation. In this procedure, the fetus is usually, well, separated to allow for easier evacuation of the uterus. 11% of all abortions occur in the second trimester, according to the same study above.

I hope that clears up some confusion for folks about the terms.

Now, the problem with the ban is that the language is NOT CLEAR about which procedure is being banned. Part of the issue is the fact that there are many medical terms that fall into this category--this New York Times article refers to both "intact dilation and evacuations" AND "intact dilations and extractions". The line between the two procedures is very small--and doctors now face, as Maura mentioned, CRIMINAL prosecution for crossing that line--and sometimes they don't know what procedure a woman need until they've actually started the surgery.

Do you see the problem? They are taking a medical decision out of the hands of the people involved--the patient AND the doctor.

Personally, I do not know which procedure I had. At 22.5 weeks gestation (when my pregnancy ended--and that is based on my last menstrual period, remember, not the date of implantation, so the fetuses were really 20.5 week along) I was right on the line between trimesters. Plus the fact that there where two fetus (one barely alive, and one dead) could have impacted which surgery I had.

Other than having a medical termination, the options open to someone in my position are usually either a) emergency c-section, and b) induced delivery.

My doctor believed--given my particular circumstances--that it would be better for both my short term and long term health to not cut open my body if at all possible. My health was in a precarious state, and the option of a medical termination was the fastest, safest, and least complicated procedure to use. It also preserved the health of my uterus for future pregnancies.

Also, my doctor (you know, the man in the room with me, the one with a medical degree and my chart in hand? that guy) knew that inducing me, with my insanely high blood pressure, would be likely to cause me to have a stroke.

Please remember that even if my twins had both been alive, THEY WOULD NOT HAVE SURVIVED. Do not tell me they would have, because you are wrong. There have been NO DOCUMENTED CASES of babies born that early surviving--I don't care what pro-life websites you send me links to that say differently. THEY ARE LYING.

Trust me. Don't you think that I wanted those babies and would have done anything I could to save them? And don't you think that my doctor--who knew about my struggles to get pregnant and called the day of my surgery "the worst day of my professional career"--would have told me if that was possible?

Lastly, let's discuss, using me as an example, the difference between HEALTH and LIFE.

Where do you draw the line? Was my life actually at risk at the moment they chose to terminate the pregnancy? Well, my blood pressure was going higher and higher and they weren't able to get it under control with the medications they had available. My kidneys has begun to shut down and I'd stopped producing urine. But I was alive. I could have remained alive, possibly, under those circumstances for a while. Maybe they could have pushed it until I actually began to have seizures. Or maybe until I had a stroke. Or, maybe, since even after a stroke and having seizures I would have still been alive, maybe they would have to wait until after I felt into a coma. But wait! If I'm in a coma, I'm still alive, right? Even if my brain has been irreparably damaged, I'm still ALIVE. Right?

So, my point is, sure-- the "Partial Birth Abortion Ban" has a provision for the LIFE of the mother. But there is NO PROVISION FOR HER HEALTH. Or the health of her uterus, or her future children.

To sum it all up, if I hadn't had the procedure that I had, Nicholas, Zachary, me AND Tori would all be dead.

Got it?

You don't want to read this (and I don't want to write it)

I've been really haunted the last few days after watching Zinnea's film offering in the International Infertility Film Festival. After struggling with infertility, Zinnea finally got pregnant in 2004, only to discover that her daughter had a fatal birth defect called Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia (CDH). Instead of terminating (as her doctors recommended), Zinnea and her husband decided to go to term. Mia Marvelle passed away six days after she was born.

In her film, Zinnea includes the incredibly private and deeply wrenching images of her holding her daughter and weeping. And photos of she and her husband holding their daughter after she's passed and saying goodbye.

After watching the film, I found myself gasping for air and sobbing inconsolably. This isn't a shock; many, many things have made me cry here on the internets. So many of us have suffered and lost, and I've cried right along with many of you.

But I couldn't stop thinking about those photos. I couldn't sleep that night; they kept drifting into my mind and I would start to cry again. The strength of my reaction took me by surprise.

It wasn't until about 3am that I finally figured it out.

I was jealous.

Every time I think I've done all the processing I need to do about losing the boys, I find a new area that I haven't dealt with yet. Of course I'm not jealous of the horrific loss they suffered; what I'm envious of is the fact that they got to see their baby, to hold her, and to say goodbye.

I've had inklings about this before. A few months ago I allowed myself to wonder what, exactly, had happened to Nicholas and Zachary's bodies. But as soon as I had the thought, I shut it down. I wasn't ready.

And I'm still not ready. I don't have any desire, whatsoever, to again probe the grief that surrounds the loss of my sons. There's a lot of shame there, and anger, and guilt. Oh, God, so much guilt. But God doesn't agree, apparently. I am supposed to deal with it.

Not long after I lost the boys, I expressed my rage and anger here in this blog. I hurt some people in my anger and one person pointed out that others had lost "live babies" after all, so I shouldn't be---well, honestly, I'm not sure what I wasn't supposed to be. I guess I was being reminded to keep my grief in perspective. But I still feel pissed off that things went the way they went. I still feel ripped off. I feel like the randomness of the universe, the luck of the draw, or worse, "God's plan" doesn't make any fucking sense and is completely and utterly unfair. I don't care what others suffered. My "lot" in relation to the boys SUCKED.

Thinking about the day we lost the boys now, all I can remember is that it all happened so fucking fast. Remember, I went from going in for a routine anatomy scan to having to terminate the pregnancy in less than 24 hours. I was so ill that I didn't get to participate much in the decision making process. No one at the hospital said to me, "Yes, delivering your sons will be more risky, but at least you'll get to see them and hold them and say goodbye." No one said, "Do you want to make arrangements with a funeral home?"

Instead, they just said, "You are dying." This was all Charlie could hear--that not only was one son dead, and the other was dying, but so was his wife. No one came to him and said, "Have you thought about what you want done with their bodies?" All they said was "We have to terminate. NOW."

We were alone, afraid, and sick. Options weren't offered. I was the patient, not the boys. No consideration was made for Nicholas and Zachary.

Instead of getting to say goodbye, to look at their faces, I was just knocked out and the boys stripped from my body. I'm left with the shame and guilt of--God forgive me--treating my sons like standard medical waste. My sons. My boys.

I wish, oh, how I wish, that I'd done things differently. That I'd gotten them cremated and been able to scatter their tiny ashes. That even if it would have been awful, the worst pain in the universe, that I would have been able to see their faces just once.

I wonder if Zinnea sees reflections of Mia's face in her (living) daughter Naima? I often wonder if the boys would have looked like Tori does; if they would have scrunched up their noses like I do when I laugh, like she does, or if they would instead use their eyebrows like Charlie does. I know I wouldn't have been able to tell that from their tiny and unfinished faces at only 22 weeks gestation. But, oh, god. I wish I'd tried.

I know I'm one of the lucky ones, now. I do have a living child. So many of us don't. But this--this sadness--will never leave me, I'm afraid.

It's never over, is it? Even while I was sitting on my front porch last night, holding Tori, watching her extend her hand as she tried to reach up to the wind chimes Anne gave us, I felt the deep wound that the loss of the boys caused. Even while I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into joy because of Tori's magnificence, I still find myself the owner of a bruised and battered heart.

I guess I always will.

In Memory Of

Tomorrow, March 1^st, is the first anniversary of Nicholas and Zachary’s due date. Meaning, of course, that it should have been their first birthday.

But instead of getting to post the required “babies covered with frosting” photo, I will instead be posting nothing, using silence as a way to honor the memory of my sons.

It never ceases to amaze me how much I can miss two people that I never met. I shouldn’t be; every woman I know that has been through something similar feels the same way. I know a couple that, twenty years after adopting and raising their son, still think about the little girl they tried to adopt first (the birth mother chose to parent). We who want to parent desperately open our hearts easily, and grieve over each loss, each delay, each moment we spend without children.

Because I am human, I like things to make sense. The loss of Nicholas and Zachary still confuses me. In a world with a kind and loving God, how can such a thing happen? Since the loss cannot be explained, I have spent a great deal of time wondering what spiritual lesson I was supposed to learn from this grief.

While I imagine that I will only understand this all fully after my death (oh boy, the questions I will have then!), I have come to the conclusion that one thing, one tiny shred of grace, has come out of the darkness of this loss.

Somewhere, in the last year and a half, I have learned how to listen.

My mom is a feminist, and raised me as such. As early as fifth grade, I got into fistfights with boys over women’s issues. I remember knocking down and giving a boy a bloody nose with my cast (I’d broken my arm roller skating) in 7^th grade because he said women were terrible drivers. I argued with vehemence and passion, and dismissed all of those that didn’t agree with me.

While a large part of that was youth, I found it impossible to be friends with people that held different opinions than I did. In high school, if you liked Reagan, we weren’t friends. No matter what else we had in common, you were off my radar. Period.

Once I got into recovery, I found a place where opinions about politics were simply absent. This gave me a gift; I learned to like people and trust them before I knew how they voted. Once I found out, however, that they were Republicans or religious, I would find myself drifting away from them (I remember being terribly cruel and unsupportive of a friend who became a devout Catholic while I knew her). Hell, I almost dismissed my dear friend Dave because he hates the Beatles (I still don’t understand how anyone can hate the Beatles, but I’ve learned to love Dave anyway). Dave has taught me more about being an adult and a friend than almost anyone else I know.

By the time I lost the boys, I was primed for further change—and further challenges.

The challenges came suddenly and harshly in the form of Holly, a pro-lifer commenter that declared I had made a mistake in terminating the pregnancy and that my sons could have survived. She argued loud and long. I reacted angrily and forcefully, blocking her ability to post comments, but she’d post from a different computer (I think I ended up blocking her six times). She posted link after link that made me weep, links that said that at least one boy (one had died in-utero, of course) could have lived, that I was cruel and selfish for listening to my doctors.

I knew she was wrong, that she didn’t know the facts of my case. And worse than that, she didn’t care. She wouldn’t listen to me, or to any of the brave commenters that tried to reason with her, and she certainly wouldn’t listen to the commenters that blasted her and condemned her for her cruelty.

Holly’s presence attracted other people who held the same beliefs. And a few of them put up with the abuse from me and others and kept calmly stating their beliefs and offering me sympathy and forgiveness.

At first, I reacted angrily—who are they to forgive me? I did what was required to save my life, after all. It was never me OR the baby; the choice was me AND the baby, or saving me by terminating the pregnancy.

But somehow, somewhere, in those long looping discussions that never really went anywhere (but traversed other blogs), I began to see the grace and generosity in these pro-lifers offering me forgiveness—after all, they were offering to forgive me for committing what they believe (right or wrong, it’s what they believe) a terrible crime. And I found myself able to forgive them as well.

I also realized that I needed to stop yelling. Instead, I made the decision to be willing to answer harsh questions about my decision with kindness and love. I stopped focusing on the anger and accusations and instead listened to the misunderstanding and pain (yes, I believe that those that call themselves pro-life are in pain over the issue of abortion).

When I did this, I noticed several things: first, they stopped yelling at me. My commentors stopped yelling at them as well. We all began to listen to each other.

Then, several of the staunchest pro-lifers realized that there was, in fact, occasionally a need, in a case like mine, for the medical procedure dubbed the “partial-birth abortion.” Not all—in fact, not even most—changed their minds. But a few found that they couldn’t argue against my decision.

The next thing I realized is that we were all able to get past the issue. We began discussing other things. We began to see what we had in common—love of children, faith, a belief in family. Soon, we even began to be able to call each other friend.

What a miracle.

While I will never be able to convince pro-lifers that abortion must, no matter what, remain legal, I have been able to convince them that pro-choicers are not all evil baby killers. And they’ve learned that we are mothers and fathers just like they are. And I’ve come to realize that pro-lifers are not all fire and brimstone and hate, that many of them are loving and kind, and have amazing hearts.

I was reminded of this all when I had a lengthy discussion with a gentleman in the comments section of a recent post at Feministing. When I first began talking about my situation, he was really angry with me. Other commenters began attacking him, but I just quietly answered his questions, and let his anger sputter out. By the end, he didn’t agree with me, but he conceded that my situation was actually life threatening and that maybe the procedure should remain available to those in the same circumstances.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than I ever accomplished by yelling.

It’s not much consolation, of course. Losing two babies just so I could learn how to listen hardly seems fair. But I have to believe that I will now be a better mother because I’ve been granted this gift, this ability to listen. I hope to teach my child to be a listener as well.

Don’t get me wrong—I will never concede to the pro-life movement. I’m still pro-choice through and through and will fight like hell to keep abortion legal. But my heart is bigger because I no longer vilify those that disagree with me.

Love is always stronger than hate, after all.

So, darling Nicholas and Zachary, I hope you can both take heart that in such a short time you taught your mother so, so much. Thank you, and rest in peace my sons. I love you.

Snowflake Babies, Dominionism, Cultural Marxism and why I should stop reading the news

When I first heard President Bush refer to frozen embryos that are a product of IVF as "snowflake babies," I didn't pay it much mind. Obviously, he was using language to promote the idea that a frozen bundle of four to eight cells is actually a full fledged human being, and can go buy a car or run up a credit card like any good little American (but not a car from Ford!).

But as Maura recently said to me, it's creepy. It's clearly hinting that this administration is considering taking on the infertility industry; maybe they've taken a cue from the Pope.

Maura also sent me a link to this article in the current issue of Harper's. It chronicles the author's trip to the National Religious Broadcasters convention. One thing that stood out about the convention to the author was the fact that so many Christians sects were represented at this convention. Apparently, conservative Catholics, Pentcostal Christians, African-American Baptists and many others have set side their differences to promote the new doctrine called Dominionism. Here is explanatory quote from the article, which may be the most terrifying paragraph I've ever read:

"What the disparate sects of this movement, known as Dominionism, share is an obsession with political power. A decades-long refusal to engage in politics at all following the Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and, eventually, over the earth itself. Dominionists preach that Jesus has called them to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will no longer be a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the Ten Commandments form the basis of our legal system, Creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some Dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies, and a number of influential figures advocate the death penalty for a host of “moral crimes,” including apostasy, blasphemy, sodomy, and witchcraft. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced."

For the record:

a·pos·ta·sy   (-pst-s)
n. pl. a·pos·ta·sies

Abandonment of one's religious faith, a political party, one's principles, or a cause.

blas·phe·my    (blsf-m)
n. pl. blas·phe·mies

1. 1. A contemptuous or profane act, utterance, or writing concerning God or a sacred entity.
   2. The act of claiming for oneself the attributes and rights of God.
2.      An irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.

sod·om·y   (sd-m)
n.

Any of various forms of sexual intercourse held to be unnatural or abnormal, especially anal intercourse or bestiality.

witch·craft  (wchkrft)
n.

1. Magic; sorcery.
2. Wicca.
3. A magical or irresistible influence, attraction, or charm.

These would offenses punishable by death. DEATH.

I'd be first up, I'm sure. Let's see: I abandoned the religion of my childhood (Methodist); I've got an entire catagory on my blog called "Dear God: You Suck"; I write about blowjobs, that's gotta be sodomy in some eyes; and I've seriously considered Wicca as a personal spiritual path. So I'm definitely going to get the chair in the new order.

Oh--and did you hear that a judge can decide what religion you practice with your children?

After reading that article, Blurbomat directed me to this one about Pat Buchanan (yes, I've defended him in the past, since he hates the Neo-Cons so much, but no longer) his assertion that liberals have secretly organized a movement called "Cultural Marxism." Here is a quote from the article:

"The phrase refers to a kind of "political correctness" on steroids — a covert assault on the American way of life that allegedly has been developed by the left over the course of the last 70 years. Those who are pushing the "cultural Marxism" scenario aren't merely poking fun at the PC excesses of the "People's Republic of Berkeley," or the couple of American cities whose leaders renamed manholes "person-holes" in a bid to root out sexist thought.

Right-wing ideologues, racists and other extremists have jazzed up political correctness and repackaged it — in its most virulent form, as an anti-Semitic theory that identifies Jews in general and several Jewish intellectuals in particular as nefarious, communistic destroyers. These supposed originators of "cultural Marxism" are seen as conspiratorial plotters intent on making Americans feel guilty and thus subverting their Christian culture.

In a nutshell, the theory posits that a tiny group of Jewish philosophers who fled Germany in the 1930s and set up shop at Columbia University in New York City devised an unorthodox form of "Marxism" that took aim at American society's culture, rather than its economic system.

The theory holds that these self-interested Jews — the so-called "Frankfurt School" of philosophers — planned to try to convince mainstream Americans that white ethnic pride is bad, that sexual liberation is good, and that supposedly traditional American values — Christianity, "family values," and so on — are reactionary and bigoted. With their core values thus subverted, the theory goes, Americans would be quick to sign on to the ideas of the far left."

Um. Ok. And they say the political left is full of whacko consipiracy theories?

After I waded through that article, I went ahead and read the New York Times. Turns out that Indiana is attempting to do the same thing they did in Kansas--demanding the records of Planned Parenthood patients under 14 years old to allegedly investigate sexual molestation of minors. This time, however, abortion isn't involved at all--they just want to monitor the sexual behavior of minors. I was sexually active at 14 (I know, I know--it seems crazy to me now); and I was also a patient of a local Planned Parenthood type clinic. The idea that the state would be allowed to review my records and then call me in for questioning to determine exactly how I was sexually active is just beyond words.

There were some signs of hope, however.

Everyone is all excited about the news that Deep Throat was W. Mark Felt, the number two man at the FBI during Nixon's reign. Charlie and I were talking about it last night and Charlie wondered what made Mr. Felt come forward now; it got me thinking.

Perhaps in light of the recent Newsweek scandal (where a story was retracted because the "anonymous source" changed his/her tune), Mr. Felt thought coming forward would remind people of the important role the press plays in this country--and that anonymous sources are a critical part of that role and can bring down a president.

At least that's my theory. Course, most conservatives think that Mr. Felt is a traitor. But then, most conservatives these days would think Nixon was a liberal.

I'll say it again; this is all breaking my heart. All of this crazy stuff I've linked to has happened in the last WEEK. I love my country, and the idea of making it a Christian Dominion makes me want to tear my hair out.

I'm going to go cry now. At least Jon Stewart is back from vacation.

In Honor Of Today's Inauguration, or here I go again

It's clear that many people who read my blog have different political opinions than I do. Many, particularly, seem to be opposed to abortion. Because I've been so public about having a dilation and extraction (or a "partial-birth abortion"), I've had some amazing conversations (not counting Holly). I’ve been having a fascinating email discussion with a woman who is staunchly opposed to abortion, but who’s mind I’ve opened with my story. As she put it, “I believe abortion is taking a human life, but I’m damned if I know who I think should be arrested if it were ever made illegal.”

I was not quite five years old when abortion became legal. Even at that tender age, I’d already been to pro-choice marches with my mother. I have always felt, deep in my heart, that it is critical for abortions to be available to women, primarily because women must be allowed to control their own reproductive capabilities. While I believe that mothering is a critical and culturally important job (and an influential one), if women want to have a voice in business or politics they MUST be able to choose when and how often they have children.

Women, I also feel strongly, must to be allowed to express and enjoy their sexuality. Lords knows that men have always been able to! That means, of course, that women should always have free and unfettered access to contraception (something many anti-choice people are opposed to—which I simply don’t get).

When I was in high school, I volunteered at my local birth control clinic (wasn’t I a cute little feminist!). The clinic was full of stories of fathers bursting in, demanding to know if we had provided contraception to their daughters, or boyfriends and husbands wanting to know if their wives had been in to get pregnancy tests. Thankfully, of course, the law prohibited anyone in the clinic from answering those questions. I’d even heard a story of a father finding his daughter and dragging her out by her hair.

Unlike those of us who desperately want a child, there are women that see that second pink line on a test and are filled with dismay and fear. Women who already have more children then they can support or women too young to be good at mothering. Many of these are women simply cannot, for their own safety, tell their sexual partners or parents.

Remember that the number one cause of death in pregnant women is murder. And while the Laci Peterson case got a great deal of attention (and some questionable laws passed), most of these murders occur much earlier in the pregnancy.

This is why I believe that in cases of both contraception and abortion parental and spousal/partner are unacceptable. If it’s lives we are trying to value, the life of the woman (even if she's a teenager) must be on that list! As for legally required waiting periods, they really aren’t necessary. If you go to Planned Parenthood and get a positive pregnancy test, it’s not like they have a room in the back ready and waiting and you can just stand up and say, “Time to get that abortion!” Women usually wait for a second test and an exam, and then it has to be scheduled. There is plenty of time to really think about it without it being legally mandated.

One of the issues I have with the anti-choice movement is that there is this belief that women make the decision to have an abortion lightly. I know plenty of women that have had them, and every single one agonized over the choice. Of all the women I know that have received abortions, there is only perhaps one who I feel made that choice out of selfishness. One. Out of at least fifty.

Remember, too, that when a woman has a positive pregnancy test at a place like Planned Parenthood, she receives counseling. Contrary to anti-choice opinion, she is not forced to have an abortion. She is told about abortion, true, but she’s also informed about adoption as well as the resources and support available to her if she chooses to parent. Planned Parenthood provides prenatal care too, remember—to nearly 16,000 women in 2002. Not to mention doing over a million breast exams a year (think about that next time you want to block the entrance to a clinic). It’s also worth noting that 70% of Planned Parenthood’s clients are over 150% below the federal poverty level. For a chart about the variety of services provided by Planned Parenthood, look here.

Planned Parenthood also referred nearly 2,000 women to organizations that could help them place their babies up for adoption in 2002.

It’s easy to change people’s minds about medically necessary abortions. My situation with my sons, and Julia’s with her son Thomas , are clear and heart wrenching. The awful scenarios that forced us to terminate the life of a beloved and wanted child can sway even the hardest of anti-choice hearts.

But because the religious right is working so hard to stop those other abortions, the ones where the baby just isn’t wanted, those of us who have a medical need are the ones that pay.

Because of the anti-choice movement, doctors are no longer undergoing training on how to perform abortions. Why would they, when they could be murdered as a result? My doctor is only one of two in my major east coast city that still performs dilation and extractions. Many women who end up in my or Julia’s situation don’t even have the option.

Do you see why choice must, across the board, remain available? Be pro-life. I know I am. I want to save the lives of both women and babies.

But feeding the trolls is so much fun!

OK, I know, I know, you aren't supposed to feed them, it makes them reluctant to leave.

But today I seriously needed some distraction from my grief, and Holly was kind enough to provide it.

So, thanks Holly, for providing me with said distraction, and for getting me angry enough to remember my commitment to myself--that I will NOT sit on my ass and watch my rights get stripped away. I WILL become active and fight for the right of women to choose, because it's too important to let it continue to slip away because of some fucked up "values" some people who claim to believe in Jesus try to force down my throat.

Oh, and thanks also for becoming the first person I've blocked on my blog. Yeah! I feel all special, like Grrl or someone REALLY cool,  now.

First on the political agenda: we need something to call these people other than "christians." Some of my best friends are Christians (Moxie, I'm talking about you, baby!) and we need a different word to discuss those that "politicize their own hysteria" (a quote from Anne Lamott, via my hubbie).

Any suggestions?

Goodbye, Nicholas and Zachary

Someone asked me if we’d decided to name the boys.

I didn’t want to. For many reasons--we never really settled on names, for one, and I didn’t want to give them shitty names we didn’t like. But also, I didn’t want to name them because of the whole “angel baby” thing that is so prevalent on the message boards. “Angel babies” are related to the “baby dust” people. And I’m not a “baby dust” person.

But after we lost them(ug--we need something better than ‘lost’ them--like we left them on top of the car or something), I found myself thinking of them by name, more and more.

So by the time we had our little gathering to say goodbye on Wednesday night, Charlie and I had decided to call them Nicholas and Zachary, the names we considered the longest.

It was a lovely gathering. A little more than a dozen people came. We found a great prayer on-line for miscarried babies that I read (it was a modern Jewish prayer) and we read some meditations from a prayer book (another Jewish tome--we’re not Jewish, but their prayers are highly compatible with our spiritual views).

There were three kids present, two toddlers and one a little older, and they walked talked and create a ruckus the whole time. Our antiquated cat Frank ran around the perimeters of the circle puking at top volume while our neighbor the minister said a prayer. The kids all yelled along while our friend the opera singer sang Amazing Grace.

It was chaotic and lovely, and exactly the way it should have been.

Afterwards, we all went out and planted the daffodil bulbs. Then we went out to a nice chinese restaurant and discussed the elections and whether or not we could all move to Canada together.

We cried, our friends cried, and we were able to say goodbye in a formal way. It was really good.

It hasn’t cured the sadness by any means. My boobs have stopped hurting, but they are freely lactating, and the urge to put a baby to my breast is so incredibly strong and painful. I half-joked that now would be a good time for a baby to be discovered in a trash can that I could be a wet nurse for. I’m sure it would only make my pain worse, but it feels oddly like it would help to have someone to care for when my body so clearly wants to be doing it.

I cry every day, usually in the mornings. Charlie cries too. Even though we had no baby stuff in the house yet (except a crib that has been squirreled away in the basement) there are still reminders. My positive home pregnancy tests, which I finally tossed the other day. Charlie’s copy of “Daddy Smarts” that his sponsor gave him. The Baby Name books.

Putting everything away feels almost like denying them, but what else can we do? The pain is too great otherwise.

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I said I was going to write about what happened, but I’m finding I don’t need to. The thing that stands out the most from the whole experience is how FAST it all went. I mean, at 9 am, I was getting an ultrasound. At 11 am, I was at the OB’s office. At 1 pm, I was in Labor and Delivery getting my pressure monitored. At 3 pm, I was admitted to the hospital. By 10 am the next morning, I was being wheeled back to surgery. By 2 pm, I was back in my room, with an empty uterus.

I also remember the drugs, how the magnesium made me feel like crap, how the morphine for my headaches made me vomit. How the drug they gave me right before surgery felt like a speedball, and how that made me cry.

I remember being so scared while in the pre-op area, when all these twelve year old doctors were coming over and asking me the same questions over and over while I cried.

I remember feeling alone so many times in the hospital, and weeping.

I remember walking out of the hospital, how hard it was physically, and that I should have gotten a wheelchair, but I didn’t want that nasty-ass nurse to push me around anymore.

I remember sitting in the lobby trying so hard not to cry, and crying anyway.

I’ve never cried so much in my life. I didn’t know there could be so many tears.

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I also told you I was going to write about what I’ve learned.

I struggle with “understanding.” Meaning that I can’t accept pain without purpose. I need to feel like there is a point to my pain, that it’s not all just crazy chaos without reason. Perhaps it’s my recovery training, but I usually find some light in the darkness after some time.

The light for me, in this situation, is that I’m no longer conflicted.

Even after trying to get pregnant for two years, I still (as you long-time readers of this blog know) was pretty conflicted. I bemoaned being not able to go canoeing, and camping, and all that stuff once I found out I was pregnant. When I found out it was twins, it was even worse.

I didn’t write that often about how deeply afraid I was that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I was ashamed to realize that some part of me, larger than I wanted to acknowledge, was convinced that my life was officially over, that I was now destined to a life of motherly misery.

I was also so fucking sick all the time and felt so awful, that I found myself resenting the pregnancy.

Plus, I had so much grief over not having a girl. And the fear of breast-feeding! I was absolutely terrified at the thought of two babies hanging off me all the time.

I felt so guilty feeling that way that I shoved it down.

It was only in the last three weeks of the pregnancy that this began to pass. I was coming to love the boys, and love the idea of them. It figures, right?

Before the shit hit the fan, when at first we thought the only problem was that one twin had died, I felt so--ug. Relieved. That it was only going to be one baby, and that would make it all so much easier...

Well, since the boys have gone, I’ve come to realize that I--without reservation, without a doubt--want to be a mother. I don’t care about my life changing, or giving up things, or whether or not I have a daughter or a son. I don’t care. I want a baby, more than anything else in the world. I am looking forward to breast-feeding, I’m happy to open up my life and my heart and let another soul in.

It’s not much. It’s not worth sacrificing the boys for; I’m sure I would have come to the same conclusions if they’d lived. But I feel as if some block in my heart has been removed. I also feel that I will be able to give a baby the gift of my love, without resentment or fear. It’s more than my mother could give me; and maybe, after all, that is the true point of all of this.

I hope I don’t sound callus or cruel. For me, it’s like peeling off another layer of the onion (a common recovery metaphor). I’m a better person beneath.

I’m going to miss Nick and Zach every day of my life. But whenever, however, a sibling arrives for them, he or she is  going to get a better mother. Thank you, boys; it’s a big gift to give in such a short time.

VOTE, and the plan

VOTE.

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Another day.

I didn’t realize it, but before (you know, before last week) I woke up every day with that Christmas morning feeling--that excitement and joy of  “Oh my--I’m pregnant!”

I haven’t shaken that feeling yet. Now, I wake up, feel the joy, and them boom... reality hits. If it doesn’t hit right away before I get out of bed, it certainly does when I go into the hallway to the restroom and see the empty room we were getting ready to paint for the boys.

This morning, I decided to read my little recovery meditation books and write in my journal. That was hard, because I hadn’t written yet by hand about what happened. I’ve been out of the habit of doing this morning ritual, since I got pregnant, because I was usually either too tired or too sick to take the time.

I usually end this ritual with a brief prayer and a few moments of quiet. Here is a version of what I usually pray:

“God, fill me with your grace and your light and make me a channel of your peace. Relieve me of my character defects so that I can better serve you and others. Help me be the best person I can be today.”

Today’s prayer was more like this:

“God, fuck your grace and your light. Why are you such an asshole? What the hell is the point of your plan for my life? I don’t like you very much right now. Fuck you. Amen.”

Ah, well, at least it’s a start. I do believe that God can take it.

Last night I went to a meeting for the first time. I really needed it, since heroin sounds PRETTY FUCKING GOOD about now. It helped, although I was pretty edgy and nervous about being around people, even people who love and support me. We were all reading from one of the books we read at those meetings, and when my turn came, the paragraph I was supposed to read was the St. Francis Prayer (sorry, y’all will have to look it up, I told you I can’t link from my Mac). God has a fucking sense of humor, I’ll tell you that.

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VOTE.

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I wanted to tell you all a little bit about The Plan.

Right after the surgery, I was able to come up with this simple strategy and plan. I’m glad I did it before everything really hit me and I lost my shit (it’s still lost, by the way. If you happen to see my shit, send it home).

So here it is.

1. MOURN. First on the list is just a lot of tears. Tomorrow, around 6pm, we’re having a small gathering of friends to have a memorial, and say goodbye. Our friend Jim the opera singer will sing Amazing Grace, and then we’re all going to plant daffodil bulbs, since daffodils will come up about the time the boys were due. If you think of us around 6pm EST tomorrow, just say a quick prayer. You have no idea how much all of your prayers have meant to me.

2. HEAL. This is hardest for me, because I want to move forward already, and not take the time to just feel better.  I have more energy now, ironically, then I did the last month of my pregnancy (particularly the last week--remember those “I’m so tired” posts? I think I was already pretty sick at that point). But I have a lot of muscle aches and muscle weakness, and I’m also battling some pretty awful headaches (I’m trying to get in touch with the doctor to find out if I need to be worried about them). Thankfully, I’m not working this week, and I don’t have to work again until I’m ready (my bosses are just being awesome). So I have time to heal. But again, I’m impatient.

3. GET BACK IN SHAPE. Before ART, I was extremely active. I went to the gym three or four times a week. I walked my dog (and my neighbor’s dog) about two miles up and down serious hills every weekday morning. I biked about eight miles to work. I hiked on the weekends. I walked all over the city to get to meetings. I was still fat, but I had great endurance and a layer of hard muscle under that fat. Sadly, I reacted very strongly to all of those medications. Even just Clomid fucked me up enough that once I started taking it, my exercise began to slack off. By February, when I began my round of injectibles for IVF, I stopped going to the gym altogether. I still walked, and still hiked, even biked occasionally, but by April when I developed OHSS I stopped pretty much everything. The last serious hike I did was on Memorial Day weekend.

I want my body back. I want to be in charge of it again, and I want to rediscover all of my strength, endurance, and muscle.

4. LOSE WEIGHT. I’m up nearly 100lbs from the photo I have posted here on the blog. Yep. That was taken on Labor Day Weekend of 2003, when I was at my most fit, and a successful member of Weight Watcher’s. The following eight months put back 50lbs that I’d lost on Weight Watchers, and then the pregnancy (including the preeclampsia fluid weight) put on another 50. I know that the water weight and the pregnancy weight should come off fairly quickly once I get active again, and then I want to work back toward getting to a nice healthy weight. I have no plans to become skinny or anything, but I want my health back. I know this will help the most with any residual blood pressure issues I’ll have from the preeclampsia, so that’s an important goal. This will be the last time I’m fat. I will probably rejoin Weight Watchers, since I’ve heard cool things about their newest plan.

5. VACATION. Charlie and I aren’t rich, but we need a real vacation together. Since we got sober (almost nine years ago), all of our vacations have involved camping. Now, I love camping, but it’s work. We want to go someplace where we lay about and people bring us things. I’ve got some dough in my retirement account, and I’m cashing some in and we’re going to the islands. Probably after Christmas. I’ve never seen blue ocean water, and I can’t wait.

6. TRY, TRY AGAIN. Next spring, when I’m back in shape and have lost some weight, if Dr. Mama thinks I’m ready, we’ll try again. We are blessed to have 3 frozen eight-celled embryos and another 11 fertilized eggs left from that first crazy IVF retrieval. My RE is a specialist in Natural IVF and FET, and we’ll be doing it all natural. This means just monitoring my cycle, and transferring embryos when my lining looks good, and no drugs (since I am not the major player in our infertility, this should be fine). We’ll probably do only one or two embryos at a time, since we hope to avoid multiples (much higher risk of preeclampsia with multiples). Since fluid retention plays a role in preeclampsia, and all of the ART drugs make me retain water like crazy, we’re hoping that if I eat a low-salt diet and exercise moderately I can avoid fluid retention early in pregnancy, keeping my blood pressure down and helping the pregnancy get farther along than this one did. If preeclampsia emerges early on again, well, we’ll just have to face that when it comes, won’t we.

So that’s the plan. Obviously, it’s not set in stone, and may change (it would be just too hysterical if we got preggers naturally while in the islands) but it feels good to have it set down. It gives that all-important semblance of CONTROL. Ah, control...

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VOTE. Early and often.

Circus of Grief

I’m torn today between anger and sadness. As someone commented to me here (I’m   sorry I can’t remember who), they need to invent a word bigger than sadness to explain how this all feels.

One of the gifts of being pregnant for a while is that my world stopped being full of sharp edges. When you struggle with infertility, the whole world can feel like it’s conspiring to make you feel miserable. Babies are everywhere, everyone seems to get pregnant with ease, and you are left in the cold, defective and broken. I spent too much time in that place.

However, where I am now is so, so, so much worse.

I haven’t left the house since I got home from the hospital. But seeing a father and son walking by the house, or a commercial on TV, makes me weep. I’m terrified about how much worse this pain will be when I leave the house (something I’m going to attempt today, to go with Sarah to the opera. It’s a comedy. It should be fine, right? It's a matinee. Everyone there is old.).

Grief is awkward for me. I learned to set aside the most painful emotions. When I first got into therapy as a relatively sane and sober adult, one of the first things I had to do was begin dealing with unprocessed grief. You can imagine my husband’s shock at finding me weeping inconsolably one day over the cat we moved away and left behind when I was six.

I didn’t want to be like that in this grief process, so while I was still in the hospital I prayed and asked God to help me not avoid my feelings, to make me stay still enough to feel them.

Asked and answered, unfortunately.

Now I’m feeling all edgy and  irritated, wanting desperately to run away and stop the feelings. I don’t want to be here. It hurts too much. But I can’t stop thinking, I can’t stop feeling. I don’t want to kill myself or use drugs (which in my case would be the same thing) but I want it to STOP.

I find myself fixated on several things. This is going to be rambly and disjointed, I’m afraid. I’m not real clear on this stuff myself.

I can’t stop thinking about the doctor that came in to discharge me, the one that looked at me like I was insane when I said we were going to try again. The one that said I had a 30-50% chance of having the same problem in another pregnancy. I was alone when he told me, so I had no barriers to what he said.

Thanks to the info I’ve learned from preeclamsia.org (I’m sorry, I can’t seem to link here at home on my Mac), I feel a little more sympathetic toward him. He’s coming from the place of not wanting to have to be the doctor fighting to save my life. I understand that. But I wish he hadn’t told me while I was alone in a hospital bed.

I also can’t stop thinking about my last morning in the hospital. Throughout most of my stay, I was in the labor and delivery ward, and the entire time the nurses worked overtime to keep me from being aware of the babies being born around me. They were so sweet and kind, I can’t even tell you.

The last night I was there they moved me into the postpartum unit. The nurse I had overnight was the same one I threw up on my first night there--and she still managed to be kind and gentle with me.

But that last morning, they dug up the only nasty nurse they had. At 7am, she greeted me with a scowl, took my blood pressure, and then shut off the machines in my room and said, “You’re going home today, and now I can clear you off my board.” She then promptly ignored me for the next six hours I was there. Until she brought my discharge papers.

At that point, I was weeping from my encounter with the doctor. Charlie was there, green and unsteady. She ignored my tears entirely. It was awful. It was almost bad enough that it made the kindness of the rest of the nurses seem unreal.

I tried to pull myself together to leave the hospital, but as I waited at the entrance for Charlie to bring the car around, I saw a man come in, grinning ear to ear, carrying an infant car seat. You know he was coming to take his partner and baby home. I lost it, there in the lobby.

Grief just sucks.

I’m also absolutely furious that no one at the hospital told me that my milk would try to come in. Someone mentioned it here on my blog, and gave me tips to deal with it. I didn’t take it to heart because I assumed that I was too early in the pregnancy to have to worry about that. But on Saturday morning I called my doctor’s answering service with some questions, mentioned that my breasts were sore, and asked the midwife who called me back if I needed to worry about the milk and she said I did. And sure enough, my breasts began aching in earnest, and I’ve had to put bandaids over my nipples (to help prevent nipple stimulation) and cabbage in my bra to ease the achiness. I understand the body is built to release milk after the placenta is removed, but jesusfuckingchrist, don’t you think it could also be built to make some exceptions?

I’m angry, too, finally, at God.

Right after having to make the decision to terminate the pregnancy, Charlie and I talked at length about how both of us had never had a clear picture of what our boys would look like (unlike the VERY clear image I have in my head of what our daughter would look like). We’d also had a difficult time actually picturing our life with the boys. We speculated that maybe we were being protected, in some small way. I felt at peace with God, and at peace with what we’d had to decide to do.

Then my hormones crached.

I can’t help but find myself wondering what in the hell I’m supposed to think from all of this. Is it possible, as many people surely believe, that God is trying to tell us to not have our own children?

If so, I'm fucking pissed off. At God, for being so difficult, and at myself for putting us through all the shit we’ve already gone through to get here. If it’s true, why do I have to be so stubborn and keep on pushing? If it’s not true, why am I sitting here in emotional agony instead of feeling contentedly pregnant?

I was JUST barely there too--contentedly pregnant, I mean. I really was beginning to enjoy the pregnancy, and beginning to really love the boys. I hate the emptiness inside me now. I hate it.

God! This fucking sucks. I don’t want to cry anymore!!!

Lastly, I’m pissed off because other than my milk coming in and the new complete absence of any nausea, my body hasn’t changed. I’m still holding on to all the fluid in my legs and abdomen, including the 20 lbs of it I gained in the last week before my surgery. The midwife insists it should happen “any minute now” but I haven’t begun to release it, and it pisses me off. If I’m not pregnant anymore, I don’t want any fucking symptoms.

I’m also pissed off because the extremely high dose of blood pressure/beta blockers I’m on make me feel like I’m trying to swim upstream through mud.

ARG!

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I guess what I’m really feeling is impatient. I want to be through the grief process and through the healing process already. I want to be on the other side of this pain. I want to be feeling well enough to begin the plan Charlie and I have come up with.

God damn it.

I know that there ain’t no way out but through. I know I’ll be an even better person when all this is over, because as I’ve learned in recovery, “pain is the touchstone of all spiritual growth.”

But right now, I’m sick of fucking growing. I’m sick of accepting life on life’s terms, cause life’s terms currently suck ass. I want to smash things.

And more than anything else, I want the last five days of my life to have been someone else’s nightmare and not mine. I want my babies back. More than anything.

Hard Times

Hello everyone.  I'm Charlie.

First I want to thank all of you who have shared your prayers, thoughts, and good wishes for Cecily, myself, and our boys.  Your words of encouragement and support have been invaluable, and we are deeply and truly grateful for your generosity.

The events of the past 34 hours, as you may well imagine, have shaken us to the bone.  What began as a routine 22-week ultrasound for healthy mom and twins rapidly cascaded into a series of unforeseen tragedies.  I thank Sarah for keeping all of you updated as the details were revealed. 

With growing concern for Cecily's health and having received confirmation of her severe pre-eclamptic symptoms from our doctor and his colleagues, it became clear around dawn this morning that the time for difficult choices had arrived.  We were told in compassionate but firm language that keeping Cecily both alive and pregnant for the next 4-6 weeks, in hopes of reaching viability for the surviving fetus, was not a possibility.  We were also confronted with a staggering array of potential outcomes facing Cecily if we chose to attempt the impossible...ranging from liver damage and kidney failure to stroke and brain damage. 

With Cecily's health as our primary concern we reluctantly agreed to allow our doctor to terminate the pregnancy. 

* * *

Cecily emerged from the procedure this afternoon, but before I was allowed to see her I had a chance to meet with our doctor.  The idea of losing her, as well as our boys, was beyond my imagination, as was my relief when our doctor informed me that she is expected to make a full and complete recovery.  He believes that, although the specific cause of this tragedy may never be known, it was likely an isolated incident, and not predictive of future pre-eclampsia or other pregnancy-related problems for Cecily. 

* * *

I finally had a chance to see Cec, looking remarkably well, considering the circumstances.  They'd used an epidural to numb her lower body and thus avoided intubating her.  She is alert, talking, and hungry (a good sign).  Sarah printed out pages and pages of your good wishes and brought them to Cecily this afternoon.  Reading them has been perhaps the best medicine she could possibly receive at this time.

I'm sure she can convey her feelings far better than I can...and I'm sure she will when she returns home for a much needed week of R 'n' R.  As for the future, I can't say.  Grief, I have learned, is a strange beast.  And we both will need to take some time to say goodbye to our dear boys in our hearts.

Thank you all again.
-Charlie

The End...

It's Sarah yet again.

I am so very sorry to have to let you all know that I just got off the phone with Cecily, and they are going to have to terminate this pregnancy.

She had a very bad night, with throwing up and a severe headache that wouldn't go away and is a very bad sign.

Cecily is trying to be strong. I said 'If prayers were enough you would be fine right now...everyone is praying for you', and you know what she said?

She said "The thing about that is...it really helps me to know that everyone is praying for me."

So from her, thank you.

And from me, thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your prayers and wishes and please keep them coming for Cec and Charlie...I know so many of you sadly understand exactly how she feels right now because of your own experiences.

I am waiting to find out what time surgery will be, and am going to try to go be there for Charlie. I will post tonight to let you all know how things went.

Sarah

Oh God

Hello Everyone again...Sarah here with an update.

Thank you all for your good thoughts and wishes...we need them even more. Charlie just phoned and they've admitted Cec to the hospital. She appears to have severe preclampsia...protein in her urine is 3+. They are doing a 24-hr urine test to see if it drops and checking her pressure, which is hovering around 160/84.
The meds they would give to prevent seizures are too dangerous this early in the pg, apparently.

They may be faced with terminating this pregnancy.

Cecily asks for all your prayers, talismans, whatever you can bring, bring it on. She needs you now.

Thanks again for the support, and I'll let you all know tomorrow what is happening.

I can't believe this is happening. I know I'm in a state of shock still...I can't imagine how C and C are feeling.

Sarah

Houston: We Have a Problem

Hello Everyone. This is Sarah, Cecily's best friend, and she asked that I post for her today.

I accompanied her and her husband to an ultrasound appt. this morning--I've been wanting to go and finally arran