Uppercase Woman

Those Bad Moments: The Long, Long Road of Grief After Losing a Stillborn Child

Yesterday at my recovery meeting the person speaking shared for the first time about the son she lost when she was seven months pregnant three years earlier. She shared so openly, and so honestly, and with such raw emotion that it was one of those meetings where time stands absolutely still and every single person in the room (about forty of us) was holding their breath as the story is told.

I'd already connected with this woman about this subject the first time I'd met her. Then, I remember thinking she was so composed, and so graceful about her loss... I had no idea the rage and sorrow she had warring in her heart. Wait, that's not true: I didn't want to see it because I was still hurting and I wanted to believe I could also be better, and be like her.

While she was sharing yesterday I was struck with a memory that popped into my head so sharply and clearly that it feels like it happened recently. I remembered my first visit back to the fertility clinic after losing the boys. I was standing in the phlebotomy line; well, maybe I should explain a bit about the clinic first. My clinic, while successful and relatively inexpensive, was a factory. Everyone had to do the same thing, and that meant that anyone undergoing treatment had to come in to the clinic before 9am to get blood work and an ultrasound done. So often there were twenty or more women waiting to get their blood drawn and to drop their drawers for an ultrasound at any given time. It was crazy, and that's not even getting into the fact that nearly all the blood and ultrasound techs seem to have come from the same Eastern European country.

Anyway, on this day the line was longer than usual because one of the blood techs was sick, and it was taking forever, so the women were all chatting. Soon, all the women around me were sharing their stories, and eventually someone looked at me and wondered why I wasn't speaking. Finally I admitted I was planning to do a frozen embryo transfer, at which point one of the women asked, "Oh, I'm sorry, did your first cycle not work?"

I stood there for so long without saying anything that immediately all the women tensed. Of course, my first cycle was the one with the boys. I stood there, wondering what my story had to offer these women; hope or despair? After all, the infertility treatment was successful even if the pregnancy was not. So I finally said, haltingly, that yes, my first cycle had worked, and I'd gotten pregnant with twins. Immediately all the women exclaimed with joy, and with excited voices they asked, "So, you're ready for more?"

For just a fleeting moment, just a second, really, I considered just saying, "Yes." Let them think Nicholas and Zachary are alive. Why bring them all down? Besides, I wasn't feeling up to all the tainted sympathy they'd offer; the sympathy of women desperate for their own children who are terrified that my experience will somehow be contagious and they will all want to get away from me as quickly as possible.

But, finally, I realized that I could not -- not even for a moment -- deny either the boys or my grief, so I told them what happened. I added a caveat at the end about how the loss had nothing to do with the infertility treatments, that preeclampisia happens to all kinds of women, although not usually as early and as badly as it did with me.

After murmuring appropriate sympathies, the women did all, as much as they could in a line waiting to get blood drawn, moved away from me. They talked amongst themselves and ignored me. I waited in silence for the rest of my time in line.

While my friend was speaking at the meeting yesterday, I was struck again with how incredibly isolating pregnancy loss can be. I don't know anyone in my circle of friends that has experienced a loss like mine (although  many women in my recovery meetings have). While Charlie had the same loss, it doesn't continue to effect him (so it seems) in the same way it continues to effect me. Sometimes I feel like I'm damaged or broken in some way, or that I am not normal in the way I am still grieving. Luckily, I have the internet and all my friends I've met online who have been through a similar loss and all share about it in exactly the same way I do, or the way my friend shared at the meeting yesterday.

Losses of children shape us, and change us forever. I am beginning to see that now, and accept that this deep grief is a permanent part of my landscape, although it is not as crippling as it once was. But yesterday was yet another profound kick to the chest, reminding me that my despair over losing my sons is not gone, and it probably never will be.

But today the sun is shining, and I am going to embrace my living child with a bit of extra joy, because I can, and because it helps me. Tori is having an adorable, "I love you!" phase, where she announces every few minutes that she loves me, that she loves her daddy, and that she loves Bubba. Sadly, she also claims to love the television, and as she watched a bit of The Little Mermaid she said, dreamily, "I love Flounder." As silly as it may seem, that great big capacity she has for love is what fuels my engines these days, and helps shine sunlight on the darkness of my grief for her big brothers. And that makes life worth living, doesn't it?

Riptide

I woke up feeling good today. The pending anniversary of the loss of the boys was there, though, like a small sad stray dog that I am trying to ignore. Wait, that's not a good metaphor. I would never ignore a small stray dog. More like a giant unpaid bill I'm hoping will go away if I just don't pay any attention. Yes, that's a better metaphor.

I drove off to my recovery meeting, feeling fine, until the bastards at my local radio station played Johnny Cash's version of Hurt and I completely fell apart. I have been crying on and off since then, which made driving really fun, especially when you toss in the toddler in the back yelling, "Mommy, no crying!"

When I get like this, I become hard. I don't want hugs. I don't want comforting words. I would prefer, in all honestly, to check into a hotel room alone for the next several days and wallow alone in my pain with no internet, no family, no friends, no recovery, and for fuck's sake no God.

I've written so much already on this blog about grief, I feel there is nothing more for me to say. Grief and I have not had a much of relationship; until about seven years ago I worked hard at suppressing my grief and instead feeling anger and rage. Grief was simply too consuming and useless: anger, after all, I could turn to wit and use it as fuel. Grief just flattens me and makes me pathetic. Why would I want to allow myself to indulge in grief? Yes, I said indulge. For me, grief was a luxury I couldn't afford.

But now I know that simply sitting still and feeling the grief is much healthier, and it passes, and there is beauty on the other side. But that doesn't make the time I'm sitting in the grief any better. It sucks. It sucks ass. I don't like it, and I don't want to be here.

The recovery meeting I go to on Tuesdays as had six speakers in a row, all women, who have lost children (mostly stillbirths). There are three babies at that meeting, including one just a week old. This has forced my grief to the surface in a powerful way. Toss in the fact that this is a presidential election year--as it was the year the twins died--and I am frequently overwhelmed with sadness. I feel very much like I did that time I got caught in a rip tide; I can't find the surface and I can't break through. I just get knocked over with it again and again.

It's hard to believe that four years ago I was a happy woman. I was in the third trimester of my pregnancy, the boys were beginning to move a lot, I had dealt with my ambivalence about having sons. I had one crib and was scheduled to pick up the other. The nursery had been cleaned out and was awaiting decoration. I'd thrown caution to the wind and completed my baby registry. I was looking forward to the new crazy life I'd have as a mom of twins.

But instead, four years ago on Sunday I lay in a hospital near death with an empty uterus, my sons gone before they'd arrived, just another note in a medical chart.

I have nothing new to say about this old grief. I'm struggling, not just with having the grief but with feeling entitled to it; after all, it's been four years already, and I have a healthy daughter. There are many that cannot say the same. There are people who have lost living children; I lost only a whisper, a hope, a dream of children. I never held my sons in my arms. I never saw their faces, kissed their lips, or hugged them tight to my breast. Do I deserve to feel as much pain as I do?

I don't know. I don't know much of anything except that right now it feels like it would be easier to just cut my heart out with a kitchen knife rather than go on feeling this agony--whether or not I have a "right" to this pain.

I hold on to that Buddhist ideal like my daughter holds on to her pacifier; that my sons, like all stillborn and miscarried children, were old souls that had already passed through this world many times. They merely needed to touch down long enough to be wanted and loved one last time and then they got to go straight to Nirvana without having to struggle through another lifetime. This is my only hope, that this is true, that my sons are peacefully residing in a place where God has a face and they know God's name, that same God I abandoned with their loss (and that God I miss almost as much as I miss my sons, but have yet to forgive). Nicholas and Zachary, you were loved. You are missed. I wish you peace. I wish peace for us all.

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

October 15 is the day to remember all the lost babies. Because we obviously don't think about them any other day, right? And what's the appropriate card or gift to honor the day?

I know, I'm trying to make light of a shitty situation. I can't help it. Sometimes I just don't know what to do with the thoughts and feelings I have surrounding the loss of my sons. But Mel asked for someone to write about this subject for Bridges, and how can I resist a woman who says that hugging me is like drawing from a well?

So here I sit, the eve of the big day, dreading the final presidential debate and once again trying to find a way to dip into the deep lake of agony that is the loss of my sons--without falling apart.

I've already written about how hard it's been this year; the anniversary of their loss is only a few days away. The combination of time of the year along with another intense presidential campaign--just like four years ago--has made the pain much more acute. Additionally, I've been going to a couple new playgrounds and for some reason the two Tori has picked as her favorites are simply awash in twins (at least four sets at one, and three at the other--that I've seen so far). When I see these sets of twins, I'm filled with conflicting feelings. Now living in the full throes of toddlerdom, I don't envy the parents of those twins--I can't imagine my life with two 3 year old boys. Gah. I can barely handle the single child I've got.

But I still miss them. I still feel like I can almost see their faces when I close my eyes. I still remember the horrible sinking feeling I had when the doctors said we had to terminate. I still remember trying to walk off the operating table. I remember being alone, in my hospital room, feeling an emptiness that cannot be described.

Healing has happened, of course. I no longer cry when I see little boys, or even twin little boys. I feel a sense of overall peace about the loss; it has certainly been mitigated by the overwhelming love I feel for my daughter. I generally, on any given day, am not a walking wound. I'm happy. Content. At peace.

But, of course, I miss them. I will always miss them, as will every other mother that has tread this path before me. Lately I've had the chance to see four women--much older than I am--all share about their loss of children and how it changed their lives. Losing a child, whether at eight weeks, eight months, eight years or even eighty years hurts like nothing else. We do not "get over" it. It merely becomes yet another piece of our busted-and-mended hearts.

Thanks to my blog, I've heard nothing but words of comfort from you folks about the loss of Nicholas and Zachary. Today, instead of saying it again, share your stories. I want to hear about what today means to you, either as someone who has felt a loss or someone who has helped a friend cope. I have found that grief shared is grief lightened--let's all lighten our loads today.

Let's all remember.

Clarity, with Rambling

I've finally figured it out. I now know why this year I am so much more in touch with the loss of Nicholas and Zachary than I have been previous years. It's so obvious now, I can't believe I didn't think of it before.

It was an election year that year too.

All these feelings--the political outrage, the fragile hope of change--are wrapped up tight in the loss of my sons. I remember writing this post after I got home from the hospital, and despairing because it seemed so clear to me that there was no hope that Kerry would win, that we would be stuck with George Bush for another four years.

No wonder I'm feeling so raw this year. No wonder I'm jumping at shadows, and overreacting to the comments posted by anonymous people that don't give me an email address so I can actually talk to them.

No wonder. God, what a relief to know. I feel like reason, sanity, and perspective have all returned.

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Tori has suddenly developed separation anxiety. Whenever she goes to day care or the "playgroup" she goes to while I go to a couple of recovery meetings every week, she cries and cries and cries when we leave.

I'd worry that it was something about the morning care place that she hated except she's now doing it at all these other places too (my two meetings are at different locations with different babysitters, both of whom she loved as recently as last week). She stops crying a minute or so after I leave (I've stood outside the door listening), but it breaks my heart to see her so upset.

I asked the guru and she said it was normal and to just continue like normal, but GAH. It sucks.

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I don't often pimp things here on this blog (do I? I don't think so), but consider yourself pimped: you simply MUST buy my friend Nancy Falkow's new collaborative album Under the Stars (OK, the group is actually called Sunflow, but whatever, it's Nancy). It's a group of ten gorgeous songs for kids and parents--songs kids will love and parents will gladly play for them because the are AWESOME. In fact, parents may like them better than the kids do. It was originally intended to be an album of lullabies, but it really is something more than that.

My only complaint about the album is that there isn't enough Nancy, but that's because Nancy is one of my favorite singers (hell, one of my favorite people) so I'm biased.

Here's a little music video she did of one of the songs on the album. I hope you like it, and you buy the whole thing and support an awesome musician who should be more famous than she is.

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There's a new review up at my review blog for the WarmMe WarmMouse (cross posted at Type-A Mom).

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I have to thank everyone for the support you gave me with my last post; I'm sorry the comments got so out of hand. I deleted several comments from folks on both sides, and I've closed comments on that post now (I think it's done enough damage). I do feel that I have a better understanding of Susan than I did after her first comment. But I still don't like being called a murderer (can't imagine why).

I watched the debate last night and I was very, very sorry to see choice barely mentioned (and then only by Biden). I really think Palin's choice stance is extreme (she doesn't support abortion, even in cases of rape or incest) and I would have liked America to know that. Overall, though, she did well (albeit a tad robotic--boy was she ever coached!), even if she is also someone that would think I was a murderer.

Sigh.

Enjoy your weekend, folks. I plan to enjoy mine.

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.

Quiet

I'm having, well, a day. A random series of events--a woman at my recovery group having her fourth child, another one due in a couple weeks, a friend asking me to record a video of my infertility history--have all conspired to swamp me in grief.

I'm grieving the loss of the boys hard, again, as we approach the time of year when I lost them four years ago. I am grieving not having other children, rather unexpectedly (the grief, not the decision to not have other kids). I'm thinking a bit about my dad too.

I know this is temporary, but I just feel too sad to post much today. I want to retreat away from the world, and I'm not being very accepting of the hands outstretched to help me. I just need some time to cry. Sorry.

I promise I'll post something uplifting and happy soon. Swear.

Remembering

Today is that day again, the day I eye planes flying in the sky differently and I wish my house wasn't so close to the airport (it's a few miles away, but still). 9/11 was such a beautiful day seven years ago; I remember driving to work with a neighbor (one of our cars was in the shop, hers or mine, I can't remember which now so we shared a ride to work) and remarking on the amazing day.

But not too long after I got to work, I passed by another office and saw everyone gathered around a television. It wasn't long after that when Sarah called and asked if I knew what was going on. I got her call just in time to see the second plane hit the second tower.

It was an awful day for all of us, but more awful for some. For those that lived in New York then, for those that had family in the towers. Today I find myself thinking of them differently; now that I have Tori I can empathize, so much better, with the magnitude of loss some experienced.

My heart is with those of you still suffering today, and my prayers go out to all of those that lost someone, and to those of us that still feel grief and rage about that day seven years ago.

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Naturally, when I think of grief, I think of my sons. Recently Tori has begun to grasp the idea of siblings, thanks primarily to her closest playmate, a boy about six months older than Tori, who now has a four-month-old baby brother. When we tell Tori that Eli is Samuel's little brother, I wonder what she thinks.

I find myself wanting to tell her about her big brothers, her guardian angels as I like to think of them; even though I'm not big on angels, I like the idea of Tori having two guiding spirits that love her and want the best for her. I haven't said anything to her yet, but I know I want to soon. I want her to grow up knowing about Nicholas and Zachary; I don't want what happened to Charlie to happen to her.

Charlie was 17 when his father died. At the hospital, as he was absorbing the news of his father's passing when he overheard the priest say, "At least he's with his daughter now." Charlie, until that moment, had never heard that he'd had an older sister*. It was a terrible way for him to find out.

So I'm curious; how have you guys handled this issue? What do you say?

*Charlie's older sister Victoria Ann died a few days after she was born. While on a trip to Europe, Charlie's mother was given thalidomide to treat her morning sickness; the medication caused Victoria to be deformed so badly she couldn't survive. And yes, Tori is named after her aunt, although we put an E on the end of Anne to also name her after my mother, and of course her second middle name is after my best friend Sarah.

Mother's Day

It was Mother's Day again today. I woke up as I often do--with a splitting migraine. Charlie got up with Tori and I had a blissfully medicated extra hour of sleep, and then got up to make breakfast for a trailer full of people (I did have help, thanks to Sarah's daughter). Sarah, the other mother present, ended up doing the dishes.

Mostly what today was--and I am grateful for it--was NORMAL. It was simply another day.

Mother's Day is like navigating a field of  land mines for those going through infertility. I lived through at least four Mother's Day celebrations while trying to get pregnant. The worst one, of course, came three years ago after I'd lost the twins (oddly enough, when I went back to find what I'd written that year, I find that I was so busy buying and selling a house that I managed to stuff my feelings completely and I didn't write about it at all).

Last year on Mother's Day I was still full of bitterness, even though I had Tori. I'm not sure why, but I think while Tori was a baby I found myself feeling the loss of the boys so much more acutely than I do now, both because of the passage of time and the fact that I've never really been able to think of the boys as anything other than babies (if you know what I mean).

This year, though, I am so tired from chasing a toddler around that I find myself just feeling grateful that the only real thing I noticed about the day is that I didn't have to change a poopy diaper. Which is a pretty awesome Mother's Day present, after all.

Today was just a day. I paused several times today to hug Tori and thank her for making me her mother. But that's about it. I didn't honor or acknowledge the day otherwise (oh, ok, I called MY mother).

It's not that I've forgotten about the infertile years. Or that the scars from those years have faded in any way. But I no longer feel like the world is full of sharp and pointy edges that will snag my heart and rip it to pieces at any given moment.

And that has made this my favorite Mother's Day so far.

I hope some of you feel the same, and for those who still find the world sharp and pointy, I'm thinking about you. May you someday also enjoy a Mother's Day free of poopy diapers; but while you wait, I'll keep you in my heart and in my prayers. I hope today wasn't too awful for you.

Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

I've been a pretty strong doubting Thomas since the boys died. Worse, I've been all "Yeah, God might exist but he doesn't love ME." It's been an uphill battle changing my own mind about this the last few years. My minister on Sunday closed his sermon with a story that touched me profoundly. He told about a young boy living on the frontier with his grandmother, and how one night their house caught fire. Because it was a frontier town, there wasn't much of a fire department, so although the grandmother tried to rescue the boy on the second floor, she was overcome by smoke and perished on the first floor. The boy was upstairs yelling for help as a crowd gathered, not knowing what to do. Finally, a man in the crowd pushed his way forward and began climbing up the iron drainpipe to rescue the boy. The drainpipe, of course, was searing hot from the fire, but the man managed to get into the room, put the boy on his back, and climb back down while the crowd cheered.

After the fire burned out, and things had settled down, a town meeting was called to decide where the boy would live. The whole town came to see to the boy's fate. A farmer stepped forward, and said, "I'll take the boy; I can teach him a valuable trade!" Everyone nodded with approval. Then the town's teacher stood up and she said, "He can live with me; I'll make sure he gets a wonderful education!" More heads nodded. The town's banker stood up self-importantly and said, "I'll make sure he lives in the largest house in town!" Everyone seemed to think that was splendid.

Finally, the meeting leader asked if there was anyone else. There was a pause, and then, from the back of the room a man stood up and said, "I can't offer much. I can't teach a trade, or provide a big house or a great education. All I can offer is my love." Then he pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and showed the scars covering them and of course it was the man that had climbed the drainpipe and rescued the boy. The boy ran into his waiting arms, and the meeting was over, because the decision had been made.

...

This story was, of course, compared to Jesus. My minister compared the burns on the man's hands to the scars from Jesus being nailed to the cross. I must confess, while I remain steadfast in my refusal to fully succumb to the allure of Jesus-ness (Jesus-ocity?), I was moved. Deeply moved, and deeply humbled.

I realized that God doesn't promise us much; not big houses, not great educations, not even the rescue of our loved grandmothers that burn to death below us--or, if you will, the loss of our twin boys. But God did sacrifice something--I'm not sure what (Christianity says God sacrificed his son; interesting parallel there, no?) to bring us that love.

Oh, it's been such a long time since I could feel that so clearly.

I hope I'm telling this right. It's so hard to communicate it effectively. I've been trying to impart a tiny piece of this truth, or maybe this hope, to our friend Fred (remember Fred? the guy from my church that was working for us?) who is continuing to struggle. He's not struggling so much with his sobriety these days, but that's only because he has no money to buy drugs with.

I've been trying to explain to him the idea of pride, and the idea of humility. I've had some good lessons in humility lately, such as my unattractive reaction to the woman that attacked me last week (respond, don't react--I'll file that one away), and the gentleman that took me aside at one of my meetings and asked me to share more kindly about my husband (ack), among others. For me, my spiritual journey is a constant battle of humility and pride.

Fred's battle with pride seems unlikely, considering that he's homeless. He was kicked out of living at the church (for good reasons I won't get into here). He briefly went into a rehab, but left after a few weeks. He recently was offered a dishwashing job but had a communication issue with the boss (primarily because he doesn't have a phone and uses ours) and took that as a reason to not take the job), and actually said he was better off sitting outside on a bench than washing dishes.

I got so angry with him. When I told him to practice some humility, what he hears is he has to eat shit. When the jobs he wants won't hire him, he says to me, "Do I have a sign on my forehead?" and I think, yes, Fred, you do, you have one that says, I won't take any shit and that make bosses not want to hire you. He cannot see that the situation he's in is one of his own making and that he has to bow his head and act humbly if he wants his life to change. Even though the only time he eats is when he's here (I just found this out yesterday, and it makes my heart hurt). Even though he gets maybe five hours of sleep a night at the shelter.

He cannot see God's love. He does not see the scarred hands. All he sees is the lack of the nice house, and the good education, and the job. He only sees deprivation. He refuses to see the abundance, although it's hard to blame him--it's got to be difficult to see abundance when you only eat four or five times a week and you are living on the street.

I do not know how to give this to him. I do not know how to impart humility. I do not know how to give the gift I've been given--the ability to see past all the pain, and instead see the joy. I have been given a great gift! I have such an amazing life, and somehow, after all my railing against it, all my self-pitying bullshit, I still have God's love. What a wonder.

But no matter what I do, I cannot take Fred's face and force it into the light. I do not see good things for him right now. I do not want to withdraw my helping hand, yet I do not know how much more I can do. He sees our helping hand withdrawing and it only makes him more bitter, more sure that God has rejected him.

It's hard work, being the only tenuous connection someone has to God. Especially when you aren't sure if that is what you are actually doing; if instead, what you might be doing is helping someone continue to tread water when they should actually be swimming to shore.

But I digress. I wanted this to be a happy post about how I felt so sure that I could once again feel God's love; and it is, and I do. Oh man, I really, really do. But that makes it all the more clear that some people don't feel that same love, and that hopelessness I feel from Fred is so stark and awful I can almost not bear it.

So, I'll ask a favor of you all. Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. Because I think the end of this road for him is coming; either he will turn toward the light or he will turn toward, well... the place that addicts and alcoholics go when they don't: jails, institutions, death. But I hope he turns.

Because MAN is this a great place to be.

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.

That Time of Year

I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that March 1st would have been Nicholas and Zachary's third birthday (had they been born on their due date, unlikely, of course, with twins). Last year and the year before I took note of the day and talked about how I was feeling about it. This year, while I noted the date to myself and Charlie, I found that I didn't have a strong urge to write a post about it. But I've spent the last ten days watching the early signs of spring arrive and being reminded of that spring after I'd lost the twins, how dead inside I felt, and I've wondered why I didn't feel much of a need to publicly mark the boy's birthday before now.

The grief is still there--of course--and it always will be. But now it's more like an arthritic ache rather than a sharp stabbing pain. And, frankly, with so much life around me in a the form of a frisky toddler, it is really difficult to spend a great deal of time on regret and sadness. Sometimes I see a little three year old boy and I feel a pang of what might of been, and other times... well, other times, like when Tori lies thrashing on the floor screaming because I made the mistake of singing along with Elmo during Sesame Street I must admit to feeling just a teeny, tiny, itsy bit of relief that I only have one toddler at time to cope with.

There, I said the terrible thought out loud. I'll admit it; as much as I loved the boys and wanted the boys desperately, I am very, very happy with how my life has turned out. Tori is perfect in every way, and exactly as much as I can manage.

But I still watch everyone's daffodils coming up and feel waves of sadness washing over me (for those that don't know, for Nicholas and Zachary's memorial service we had our friends plant daffodil bulbs since we lost them at the end of October but their due date was in March). I often wish things had turned out differently, that I'd had a normal pregnancy and things had gone just fine.

But then Tori runs to me and gives me a hug for no reason, and I can't imagine life without her. Life without Tori seems to me a life without sunshine. Maybe that was God's plan all along--a twisted, fucked up, demented plan, but one with a happy ending. Tori is the light of my life, and I'm lucky to have her.

Sleep safely, my little lost boys. Mommy misses you, but wishes you nothing but peace.

Dealing With The Grieving

Tertia recently got an email from someone that was similar to emails I get now and again; the email basically said, "I know someone just lost a baby/pregnancy/child/husband/sister, and I don't know how to approach them, but you lost your kids, so what do I do?" This inspired her to ask a bunch of us who've been through something similar to write about their experience with grief and dealing with other people. Here's my take.

Many of you were around during the worst of my grief and sadness in losing my sons when I was 22.5 weeks pregnant. What can I say about it? It completely fucking sucked. It was like having the rug pulled out from under me, like finding out that God was dead, and like, well, losing a fucking pregnancy nearly two thirds of the way through it (it was a twin pregnancy, so by twin pregnancy standards, I was two thirds through). There was such a sense of being fucking robbed; it was just awful.

But I got through it, and you know what? There is no way out but through. You can not beat the grief, hide from it, will it away, eat it away (although I sure tried), drink it away (would have loved to give that one a go, but I know better) or anything it away. Grief is just a process that has to be slogged through. It doesn't, in my experience, really ever end--it merely reaches a level of manageability and tolerability that means you can eventually get to a point where taking a deep breath doesn't make you cry and seeing a twin stroller doesn't feel like an actual blow to the chest.

I think that is one of the things that surprised me the most about grief; it is damned physical. I felt heavy, like my limbs all had 100-pound weights attached to them, and each memory or moment of painful sadness ranged from a dull throb to an actual needle-sharp stabbing agony. It is not all in our heads; grief permeates our cells and fills us  head to toe with dread and sadness. If it were a color, it would be gray shot through with the colors of flames, burning as much as it left dry, dead ash in it's place.

It is no longer as acute, the pain of losing my sons. And I now have much more perspective on my loss. This week I'm getting together with a woman who also loss twins on the anniversary of her loss. She delivered her sons and had to watch them die. I am so fucking blessed that I was spared that; she is so much stronger than I am to have endured it. Tertia is stronger than I am to have been able to hold Ben and lose him anyway, but a terrible part of me is horribly jealous that she got to see his face. That is what grief does to you; it makes you alternately gracious and kind, and also small and mean.

I'd had other losses before that hurt badly. My dear friend Web who killed himself, and my grandparents. Other losses of places and people that didn't involve death but were agonizing all the same. But nothing like the loss of my boys. Nothing like that. That was horrid.

Since Tertia led this charge to help people know how to offer comfort to the grieving, I will first say this. A lot of people said a lot of things to me after I lost the twins. By some miracle, I didn't kill any of them that said things like, "They are in a better place," or "God called them home." (Although I did say to someone, "Well, then, God's a selfish bastard.") The best one? "I'm so sorry." There is nothing else to say. If that was accompanied by a hug, or better, some chocolate, that was great.

The only other thing that someone told me was the Buddhist theory on stillborn and miscarried babies. I've mentioned it here multiple times, but it's so good, I'll say it again. The Buddhists believe that babies lost before they live are souls that have already taken many turns on this earth, and they have already endured all the suffering they needed to. They merely needed to touch on this earth one last time long enough to be loved, and they get to stop being reincarnated and go straight to Nirvana. I love that. I love the idea of my boys in Nirvana. I hope they are happy.

I think the biggest thing about grief is that when someone you love is experiencing it, you have to be PATIENT. Some days they will laugh, and then they will spend nine days in row where they won't put any clothes on or bathe. Just accept this. Don't cajole. Don't force. Don't go out and buy them antidepressants (unless they want them, or they are doing harm to themselves. Nine days without bathing is not harm). Let them BE. Or, if they want to get drunk and pick up guys, DON'T let them be. Go with them! Just allow them to go through the process they need to go through. I am so glad I had this blog; without it, I think my friends would have found me unbearable. I've been reading Patty's blog and she is struggling so hard with the holidays. It's painful to read her blog, but I won't turn away. She needs to be hear. That's what all people grieving need.  Or at least, that's what I needed.

Patience, love, kindness. Those seem to be the basic watchwords with grief (or, with all, actually). I am so grateful people did that for me.

I hope this helps people. I'm not an expert, at all. But when Tertia says jump, we jump. :)

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.

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*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?

Moving On

I know, I know, I've been a rotten blogger.But I'm straddling two jobs and feeling the strain a bit; my computer time has been dedicated to the new job and my work hours are filled with trying to clear projects before I leave there (in four weeks!).

But I haven't forgotten you guys, and I hope you'll be patient until things level out.

By the way, the other day Tori learned how to high-five AND how to bop her head to music--while I was at work. I've never been so sure that I was doing the right thing by quitting my job.

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After I wrote this post--and then read all of your comments--I had to do a lot of thinking. Was I really ready to find out what happened to the boys after my surgery? Did I really want to look at photos if they exist (being fully aware of what I would see--a 22 week fetus is not a full-term baby, after all)?

I'm still not sure, but I've taken some steps to provide myself with the option. With the help of a friend, I'm getting my hospital chart. Whatever questions remain after I look at that, I'll ask Dr. Mama directly.

I still feel sad, more sad than I've felt in a while about the boys. I feel very raw about it too, but that's good--I know that healing is hovering in the shadows. Or, I should say, further healing.

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Because I'm not the first woman (sadly, nor will I be the last) to lose a child before or shortly after birth, I'm happy to pass on a link to an amazing site that Kristie (no blog, Kristie?) told me about. Before you click on the link, be prepared: this is a site that connects families with photographers that are comfortable taking photographs of babies that have recently died. They are willing to come to the hospital, at short notice (and in the middle of the night), and give you mementos I wish I had (sort of--I wish I had lovely photographs of full-term infants, which wasn't an option for me, since the boys weren't full term. Actually, I wish the boys had been born healthy and full term, but you get what I mean).

The site is a wonderful resource, but there is a video clip on the front page that will have you bawling your eyes out. So be prepared. Here's the link.

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The last thing I'll say in this definitely-lacking-something post is, WHAT A DUMB ASS. But as someone I know pointed out to me, Don Imus says nasty-ass shit like that about women all the time. Would we have even heard about it if he hadn't also been racist? I would love to live in a world where an idiot like this man didn't have a job because no one wanted to listen to his vile hate filled jabbering.

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.

The Road Not Traveled

Today I visited my friend Zenzi at the hospital. She delivered her babies by c-section on Monday, but I hadn't been able to reach her and get the news (she's a popular lady, and her phone was busy! Sorry I didn't let you know sooner).

She delivered two baby boys!

One baby is just a tiny thing at 2 pounds 8 oz (don't quote me on these weights--I should have written them down). But his APGAR scores weren't too bad, and shockingly, he's breathing just fine on his own. He only has a feeding tube and is under the lights to treat mild jaundice.

The other baby is a much healthier weight at over 5 pounds, but he's having more difficulty breathing. After a couple of days on the CPAP machine he's doing better with just the little nasal plugs now. His jaundice is worse too, but he's doing pretty well overall.

The twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome may have been a misdiagnosis. She doesn't know; they've sent the placenta out for testing and hopefully that will provide more information soon.

During most of our visit today I watched her struggle with the breast pump. I kept telling her it would get easier, but we all know how fucking frustrating it is when you first start. She's finally producing enough for them to eat now, but that's mostly because they are only eating 4-6 ml at a time. I also brought in some milk for her to use (most people bring flowers; me, I bring breast milk) but they won't let her use donated milk at the hospital. She's going to take it home with her for a back up later in case her production doesn't get any better. I'm betting, however, that it's going to be fine--she started leaking when I was leaving which bodes well for her milk supply.

After the pumping fun, we walked over to the NICU (ok, it was up a floor, so we used an elevator too) and I braced myself.

I've never been in a NICU. Sure, I've seen all of your photos from the NICU and all the TV shows about it. But actually walking in is a different story. Especially to see twin boys. Especially so close to Nicholas and Zachary's due date.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how things went with that pregnancy, especially ever since the story of the 21-week survivor broke. I was 22.5 weeks pregnant when I lost the last surviving twin and I was told that even if that baby wasn't already in serious distress (which Charlie tells me he was--I actually didn't remember that at all until we discussed it the other day), there was no hope for survival.

But sometimes, of course, I can't help but wonder. What if we gave it a few more days? What if I'd chosen to deliver and we went ahead and tried to save him? Would we have been the proud parents of the youngest survivor ever?

It doesn't do any good, of course, for me to spend that much time thinking about it. The boys are gone. But... you know. I go there. I'm human.

So this is what I was thinking about when I walked in to the NICU with Zenzi.

Of course, when I saw her babies, I thought about my son. I wondered how it would have been to have to go through the NICU stay. How stressful. How hard it would be to bond with the baby behind all that plastic. How exhausting and debilitating it would have been to go home without my baby every day.

But then I saw her face light up when she introduced her sons to me. And I watched her discuss their condition with the nurse, and gently reach out and touch her son's hand.

I could have done it. I know I could. But part of me is so fucking grateful that I didn't have to.

Anyway. Without much more ado, please welcome to the world two of the cutest little boys you ever did see...

Tiny little August:

and his slightly more robust brother Miles:

They both totally have her nose. Thank you all for keeping Zenzi and her boys in your prayers. No need to stop now, right? Let's keep those prayers coming until they all three come home.

Release

I find myself thinking quite often of how I was a year ago. I see by looking at my July archives that I was visiting the RE to gear up for trying again, preparing to settle on our new house and move, and then buying everything in sight to furnish it.

What I don't see clearly in those post is how fucking depressed I was.

Prior to losing the twins, Charlie and I spent the summers camping and hiking to our heart's content. We usually logged about 30 nights a summer under the stars, and probably hiked over 50 miles a month. But not last summer. Last year we barely managed a dozen nights out, and I think we hiked maybe twice.

At the time I blamed it on the move; but now I now that the entire house hunting/buying/moving thing was actually a treatment for my depression and grief. Don't get me wrong--I'm thrilled we moved, I love our new house and the park and playground a block away. This is the right place to raise Tori. But I spent all last summer in a locked-down emotional state, knowing that we were going to try to get pregnant again soon.

I think I wasn't sure I could survive another pregnancy; and I'm talking this time only emotionally.

Last year, there is no way I would have walked a mile across town to go see the local fireworks*. I would have either a) driven there; b) not bothered to go, claiming to not want to deal with crowds or c) made excuses about how I don't really give a shit about fireworks any way (which is a total lie).

The fact that I'm willing to walk anywhere is evidence of my depression lifting. The fact that I think about walking every day is astonishing. The fact that I cannot WAIT to go camping again, even with the additional stress of having an infant with us, is more proof that I feel normal.

I feel better now than I have felt in over two years.

I'm sure, given time, I could have gotten to this place without having a child. But Tori is speeding up my healing process so much. I hesitate to talk about this; I know that there are so many still in the trenches of infertility and loss, and I don't want to sound like I'm bragging or smug.

But my truth is simply that I feel better than I have for two years and it's all because of a little ten-pound (I'm guessing, we'll know next week!) girl named Victoria Anne Sarah**. Without her, I would still be struggling.

The weirdest thing about this speedy healing is that I have come to finally be able to really and truly say goodbye to the boys. It's so strange; part of me now knows more fully what I've lost; I mean, once Tori was here I could more clearly visualize what it was, exactly, that I'd lost.

But the deeper truth is that I cannot imagine a world where Tori doesn't exist. And the simple fact is that if the twins had lived, Tori would not be here.

The gifts Nicholas and Zachary have given me are tremendous. They taught me how to love, and then they taught me how to grieve, and now they are teaching me how to let go. Their brief lives taught me how to argue discuss without anger and how to be compassionate to the views of others--a trait I seriously lacked before I lost them.

And now their sacrifice, if you want to call it that, have given me the little girl I always dreamed of. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world, and know that I am really and truly blessed.

Thank you, Nick and Zach. I miss you, even more than before, but I thank you for your brief visit to my life. You have given me so, so much. You taught me how to be a mother and how to love your little sister. I do not regret any of it now. Not one minute. Thank you.

________________________________________

* Yes, we took Tori to the fireworks. Don't worry-- I smushed her one ear against my massive boobs and held my hands over the other one. When they got really loud, Charlie added his hand. I am so glad we went--the fireworks locally are AWESOME, and we got all covered in ash and cinders (don't worry, a blanket covered Tori) we were so close. And they lasted over 35 minutes. Very, very cool. Oh, and we converted the Bugaboo from a pram to a stroller, and Tori LOVES it. She looked like a can of corn rolling around in the pram, and the stroller setting--laid flat, of course--really cradles her. It's awesome.

** We got Tori's birth certificate and social security card (although they left the Sarah off the SSC, sadly). So very, very, very cool.

Loss

Yesterday morning I awoke to an NPR story about two mothers whose sons were killed in Iraq. One of them said, “I saw a photo of an Iraqi woman, dressed in a long black robe, holding on to a coffin. I knew the look on her face, because it was my face. I just wanted to fly over there and give her a hug.”

I remember when I was pregnant realizing that if I had sons someone could send them to war. The thought paralyzed me with fear. The idea of my child, across the world fighting, killing, and dying was too awful to consider.

When I think about Nicholas and Zachary,  I mourn the loss of potential. They’ll never pee on me as I change a diaper. I won’t see their first steps, or send them off on their first day of school. Sometimes I can imagine what they would have looked like, especially when I look at photos of Charlie as a boy.

But the women on NPR are mourning true memories. While my sadness is like getting a tooth drilled, their sadness must be more like teeth being extracted without anesthesia. I cannot comprehend the grief and agony they are in.

As the count of American soldiers killed in Iraq continues to arise, I have to admit: it could have been worse. There are 2,004 mothers across the nation weeping over their children. Crying over photos of first steps and first days in school.

Although my heart is broken, it breaks a little more thinking of them. Tonight I will say a prayer for all of us—all mothers and want-to-be-mothers, each of grieving in our different ways.

Thinking about it now, I wonder what insanity possessed me to proceed with an embryo transfer this month. If it had not been successful, I can’t imagine how I would have felt yesterday and today, the anniversary of our loss.

But it did work, and my beta doubled perfectly to 743. Next beta will be on Saturday, and our first ultrasound will probably be Monday or Tuesday. Personally, I think we’re looking at a single (with the twins, my beta tripled—not that betas are the best way to predict, but still). Charlie and Sarah both are convinced it’s a girl. I’ve always wanted a girl, but at this point I’m not too fussy. I just want a baby that isn’t dead.

I will keep you all posted as things develop. Thanks for all your kind words of yesterday.

Black Day

I just finished a book called The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Night-Time by Mark Haddon (see, Sarah, it took me two days to read it, not one!). It’s a marvelous little book written from the perspective of a boy with Asperger’s Syndrome. One of the symptoms of his disease is to see patterns in everything in order to make sense of chaos, and one of the ways he does this is to count cars and their colors on his way to school each day. If he sees three red cars in a row, it’s a Super Good Day and he is very happy. If he sees a lot of yellow or black cars it becomes a Black Day and he doesn’t speak to anyone or eat anything all day and he Takes No Risks.

Today is a Super Black Day for me. Not because of cars, but because of hormones. My period arrived yet again, and although I had absolutely NO expectation that it wouldn’t, it still sucks ass and makes me angry and sad. Even though I’m also a little relieved because then I won’t be bleeding next week on vacation and there is little that sucks as much as having your period while CAMPING—which I’ve done twice this summer already.

I didn’t realize that it was a Super Black Day until my dear friend Jo arrived at work with her two children. When she asked me to hold her baby while she ran to the bathroom, I lost it and said no. She, of course, was very sweet and understanding and didn’t get mad, just went to the bathroom with the baby while I watched her older son. When she was done she came back and gave me a big hug and told me she loved me and only wanted good things for me, which made me feel like the biggest bitch in the universe.

Truth is, I’ve been feeling pretty rotten and really missing the boys these last couple of weeks—since the last time I held her baby (sorry, Jo!). And I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of the grief. I’m sick and tired of gazing helplessly at every baby I see. I hate feeling this way. I can’t believe that still, ten months later, I felt like if I held that baby today I would have to kill myself*.

I’m tired of writing this entry. I’ve written some 50 versions of this same entry and I’m bored stiff, and I imagine you all are too.

Gah.

Ah well. The mighty period is here, so this way of hormonal psychosis and misery will pass in the next day or two. Thank fucking God.

I promise to be cheerful soon. Really.

*I’m not going to kill myself. It was a fleeting feeling. Don’t send me any more numbers for suicide prevention. Really, I’m fine. You know, in a way.

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.

Fucking Fuck

Today was frustrating.

First off, I woke up thinking about the fact that I had to confront one of my employees. I hate waking up worrying about work things—and one of the things I love about my current job is the fact that kind of stress is not usually an issue. The only employees in my little shop are work-study students, so having to yell at them and teach them how they are supposed to behave at a job is par for the course, but annoying none-the-less.

Secondly, I tried to schedule an appointment to see a couple of houses, and my realtor—very kindly—told me it was rather a waste of her time to show me houses when we couldn’t really make an offer, since our house isn’t listed yet (and we have to sell our house to buy another). And there is a house I don’t want to miss out on because I think I had a dream about it (seriously), and it will probably sell this week before we can make an offer.

The reason our house isn’t listed yet is because a very dear friend has just gotten his real estate license, and we wanted him to sell our house as his first listing (roll your eyes all you want—this is how recovering drunks help each other). Problem is that he is an agent, not yet affiliated with a broker, and only brokers can sell houses (at least in my state). So he’s been running around trying to find an agency to work with (but this issue should be resolved tomorrow, or we’re going with someone else).

Lastly, I’ve really, really, REALLY been looking forward to going camping this weekend, and early in the week the weather report looked awesome. But this morning they switched it up, saying it would rain on Friday, and now they are saying rain for Saturday too. Because, as I frequently say, I need more fucking evidence that GOD HATES ME.

So I did what any woman would do when her morning started that way—I picked a fight with Charlie. As he was driving me into work, we argued back and forth about all of the above, until he asked for a break. I burst into tears and said, “But I never get a break, why should you?”

Realizing at that point that I was being INSANE, once I got to work I decided to ask a wise woman with many years sober what was wrong with me. She said that nothing was wrong, these were all frustrating things and I had a right to be irritated and sad. We agreed that I should go to a meeting. Which I did.

After the meeting, I was wandering back towards work when I stopped in a random store for some window-shopping. As a woman finished checking out at the register, she told the gal behind the counter, “Happy Mother’s Day!”

The girl said, “I’m not a mother yet, but I wish I was!”

The woman replied, “As long as you are someone who cares about children, Mother’s Day applies to you!”**

I suddenly started sobbing.

Fucking manufactured Hallmark bullshit.

.
.
.

**Please don’t tell me that I am a mother even though my sons died. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, it doesn’t really help me. Honest.

Now for how I really feel.

***THIS POST HAS BEEN EDITED TO REMOVE SPECIFIC NAMES. I've also deleted comments referring to what I changed, so please don't mention it.***

So, I’m sitting in therapy this morning, right? And my therapist is all like, how are you, and I’m all like, oh, fine, except yesterday was the boys’ due date. So she asks me how I dealt with it, and I said, oh, you know, worked, posted on my blog, went to a meeting. She’s all like, did you cry? I’m like, no. I don’t want to indulge myself in that way.

So she gave me that look. You know, that therapist look.

I was telling her about yesterday’s entry here, and she gave me that look again. She said, well, yes, I’m sure it’s very well crafted, but how do you really feel?

I don’t like how I really feel. It’s mean, it’s ugly, and it’s fucking painful.

Yesterday I spoke briefly with my good friend Dave. Dave is one of the absolute rocks of my life; he is just super solid and present and a great, great friend. Usually, when we chat, I feel better afterwards. But yesterday he told me that a mutual aquaintance--let’s call him, oh, The Cock Sucker—just had a baby girl.

The Cock Sucker was the bane of my existence for about a year. I always knew he was a misogynistic asshole, but then Charlie and I rented a house from him (we eventually bought it, thank god) and it turned out he also was a pain-in-the-ass landlord. Then I served with him on a committee organizing a recovery convention, and I wanted to murder him daily (he once actually said the sentence, “I wish everyone would just let go of control and LET ME DO EVERYTHING!”).

After the convention ended, I was grateful for the fact that I would never again have to deal with The Cock Sucker on a regular basis. Later, he opened a business near me, and I heard he was sued by his partners for embezzeling. One of those bits of gossip that secretly (ok, not so secretly) fills me with glee, like finding out a cruel ex-boyfriend has been horribly dumped, or that the evil boss that drove you out of your last job was laid off.

So when I heard that The Cock Sucker had a baby, I was furious. Cause it’s just not fucking fair that an asshole like that—a man who alienates anyone who spends more than an hour around him (except his wife, oddly enough)—gets to have a baby, and I don’t. It pisses me the fuck off.

Soper posted an interesting question about the blogging world, and whether or not we are a real or illusionary community. It was an interesting discussion, and I loved reading everyone’s comments, but it reminded me of a point I’ve been embarrassed to admit here.

I started this blog about a year ago, and no one in the infertility blog world was pregnant (or if they were, they didn’t stay pregnant for long). Soon after, lots of people got pregnant, and now have all had their children. A whole fresh crop is currently expecting.

And it feels totally fucking unfair.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I love all of these women and I desperately wish them happiness. But sometimes I just want to smash my head into the pavement over and over until it all makes some fucking sense. Why, why, WHY did my sons not make it when others did? Why do other's successes make me feel so damned alone again?

I’m so angry. I’m just wrecked with it.

Sometime last year, Charlie asked me (with despair in his voice), “Do any of these women you know ever actually have a baby?” I can answer, now, that yes, yes, they do. But I didn’t realize it would make me hurt to see others succeed.

Flame me if you want to. Like I said, I wouldn’t wish my misery on anyone. I’m so grateful I’ve gotten to know these women and see happiness at the end of the agony of infertility.

But I sad, I’m angry and I’m just so tired of feeling this way. I realize that I’m feeling raw because of the due date anniversary (can I call it an anniversary? I mean, nothing really happened yesterday, so what am I remembering?). I know I’m probably suffering from PMS. I also know, of course, that this will pass, and reading the pregnancy/baby blogs won’t make me feel like I’m drinking ground glass anymore.

After I left my therapist this morning, I was driving back home when I spotted a little girl, a toddler, in one of those silly jester-style hats. She stopped walking and just stared at me as I passed. I smiled, and she gave me a big one-tooth grin back.

Then, finally, I was able to cry. I just miss them so fucking much.

I hereby announce that I am founding a civil rights organization demanding that the Gods make life more fucking fair (and that the phrase, “Well, life isn’t fair!” be banned from all languages). Would you like to be a member? No dues or fees required. The only requirement for membership is sheer emotional exhaustion. Do you qualify?

Confessions

So every night I spend about five minutes pinching and poking at my nipples so that I can express a few tiny drops of breast milk. Why do I do this? Because it makes me feel like I’m a mother.

The painful, swollen breasts are gone, so I feel less compelled to try to dry them up. Now, I find these tiny beads of fluid to be a daily comfort, and a way to hold on to my sons, a way to prove that there were babies here--they were here, I swear, see? I can prove it.

Charlie and I both had an intense resurgence of sadness this weekend. Of course we didn’t expect it to be gone so soon, but we didn’t expect it to be nearly as bad as it was the first weekend again either. I comforted myself by eating large numbers of the 4,987,081 Dum-Dum lollipops we have left over from Halloween, and he spent the weekend on the computer arguing with other train geeks.

And of course, we both seized on the distraction of Holly like a life preserver.

One of the most comforting yet most heartbreaking things that I learned early on in recovery was that I wasn’t alone. Every dream, every fear, every thought in my head had been thought, dreamt, and frightened someone else before me. I would share my deepest, most secret thoughts to other recovering people, and they often greeted those thoughts with nods of recognition, or worse—the laughter of recognition. It was both wonderful and disconcerting. I’d thought I was so rare, so unusual, so unique.

So I’m not terribly shocked that so many of you told me when I wrote that I was afraid I’d killed my babies with my fatness that it’s completely normal for me at this stage of my grief to be trying to find a way to blame myself. I’m no longer shocked to find I’m normal, instead I’m comforted.

So, tell me: is the breast-pinching thing normal? Seriously. Cause I'm wondering if I'm being a big fat freak in that area.

I've also begun to be able to just say, "Thank you" when someone tells me how sorry they are. I no longer have to say, "Yes, I'm sorry too, it really sucked" or "No, it wasn't a miscarriage, I had preeclampsia and had to actually kill my baby cause God was too shortsighted to take care of that for me*" or "Yeah, God is an asshole, isn't he."  I'm able to just take the cookies, or the candied almonds, or the cards that my co-workers give me with one of those brittle grief-stricken smiles and quiet words of thanks. I no longer have to play the martyr and be overly dramatic about it all. I've begun to be gracious again even though it feels, in a way, like pulling out fingernails.

Hopefully, this will all die down very soon, and no one but me and my breasts will remember that I was pregnant. Funny how I don't want to share my grief any longer.

You all will probably tell me that's normal too.

 

*Just want to make clear that I am NOT disparaging the pain of miscarriage in any way. Miscarriage is an agonizing thing to suffer through, and I know you all have been through hell. I just wanted to point out that I can be a whopping pain in the ass when I'm hurting and like to try to make others feel as bad as I do. Just so ya know.

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. 

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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