RenovationGirl

If These Shower Walls Could Speak

If these shower walls could speak, they would tell a story of a woman with a secret...

They would tell of the past few weeks of worry and anxiety and hope and bridled excitement over a last chance...

They would tell of the awakening showers spent staring at the once barren belly, glad for a reason for the bump...

They would tell of the fear and desire and time spent just breathing...

They would tell of the bruised veins and hurried time making the many appointments...

They would tell of the solace received in the only moments of the day when she could really feel what she was feeling...

They would tell of the past few mornings where her tears mixed with the water until there was no distinction...

They would tell, too, of her strength...and how she knew it would end this way again-the fifth time-and how this time would be the last time...

Because she just can't do this again.

The Year of Me

I usually hate New Year's Eve. It is such a lot of pressure (a big party! the perfect dress! ) for just another 11:59 PM turning to 12:00 AM. A sadness overcomes me as I recognize how quickly time is passing (especially since becoming a mother) and I have trouble looking to the year ahead. This year, however, New Year's kind of sneaked up on me and I was like, whatever! (as the kids say...) I mentioned to Remodel Man that past years, I was ready to kick the previous year in the butt-they had been filled with tragedy and sorrow, illness and strife-but this year, well, it just was. He kind of looked at me funny, and waited. And waited. And waited. I guess I'm kind of slow because it hadn't occurred to me that this year, too, was sorrowful. We lost our fourth baby. We had two failed IUI cycles. I had a breast cancer scare. I had heart issues. I was horribly depressed.

Wow. Not exactly an easy year.

But this year's passing was a bit different. While our infertility journey ended and we still hurt over that, we feel resolved that we are done. We are a family of three. This is okay. We have learned to deal with this and have moved on. While there are reminders of it everywhere, we experience momentary sadness, then pick up and move on. There is an intense relief in this. So as we moved from 2011 to 2012, it was with a sense of, eh, whatever.

This year, however, I have dubbed "The Year of Me." This sounds incredibly selfish, doesn't it? I don't mean it to be, but I do need to focus on me a bit more. My health is suffering. My mental wellness is, well, pathetic. My life is a constant chaotic mess. This all needs to change and only I can do that. Hence, the year of me. While I don't want to make resolutions, I do want to better myself through all the normal New Year resolutions kind of way. Exercise. Better eating. Getting organized. Paying down our debt. Being more mindful. Working more on my spiritual side. See, all the normal things.

So here I am, embarking on another year with the resolution to be a better person. The Year of Me! Yippee!!

Let's Bake Some Damn Gingerbread Pirates

Today is our last day off after Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for this extra day. Since I worked Black Friday (and by Black Friday, I actually mean Thanksgiving night as we head to clock in by 11:45 to work the opening midnight shift...another post on that to follow...), I spent all of Friday recovering. Apparently, my body can't handle a 24 hour day like it used to! Builder Boy and I are both off today, and after a weekend of work, recovery, cleaning, and more work, I set a to-do list that included mostly things we do together, and with as little television as possible. On my list was read together, work on his homework, and study for yet another test (did I mention that he has a test almost every day of the week???). On his list was bake gingerbread pirates. Yay! Get some holiday baking done, spend some time together, and have him removed from the television for a few hours-it was win/win.

Our day had been going well...shortly after he got up, he asked to watch Empire Strikes Back. I was still finishing up some grading I was working on, so I put the movie on, made him some popcorn, and knocked a few things off of my list of to-dos. We had lunch and then settled in to bake some cookies. During a conversation, I answered a question he asked (when can he start using his advent calendar?) and he was not pleased with the answer (Thursday). "But Dad told me advent started Wednesday!" Me: "Well, he must have not looked at the calendar...December 1st is Thursday..." BB: "No, it's not. Dad said Wednesdsay." Me: "Well, buddy, I'm looking at a calendar and it says Thursday." BB: "Well, it's wrong. Dad said..." We went round and round like this for awhile until I hit my breaking point.

This happens a lot around here...Dad is always right, mom is always wrong, and stupid, and not as smart as a teenager (Builder Boy's words, not mine...). I have told him before how hurtful these words are. I've asked him to imagine what it would feel like if someone said that to him, but he doesn't get it. I'm his mom, a metaphoric punching bag for him. I get it...he and his Dad are the best of buds...a lot of that comes from the common interest in all things boy. But a lot of it comes from the fact that I am always working. Always. If I'm home, I'm cleaning, cooking, paying bills, working my cyber teaching job, grading papers. Or I'm at school or my retail job. Dad is here in the morning to get him off to school. He's here on the weekends and nights when I work my retail job. He's here to play with while I make dinner or make calls for work. Dad is here. Mom is not. To say I am okay with this would be lying.

I see the major divide. Them versus me. The boys against the girl. I have no other children to take to a movie or read with or be stupid for. When Builder Boy hangs out with Remodel Man, I am alone. Just me. By myself, existing in all the failure I see surrounding me. Being reminded of my infertility. Forcing me to acknowledge how I've failed to reproduce and even worse, failed to be the mom I wanted to be to the child I do have. Friends are too busy or too far away to fill the void. Just me.

So today, as I informed Builder Boy in no uncertain terms that I am NOT stupid and it's hurtful when he says that, I turned to him and said, "Now let's bake some damn gingerbread pirates!" Yea, how's that for some good bonding time with the world's greatest mother. Perhaps I should just find a fourth job to take...

Present and Accounted For

Hi there. Here I am! A horribly bad blogger. A horribly overwhelmed human being. A horrible person who at this very moment in time should be doing 10 other things, but I figured I'd better get something up here or I'd lose all of my readers (all five of you!). Since eloquence has gone out the window only to be replaced with incoherence and exhaustion, I will leave you snippets of my life right now.

The reasons I am a bad blogger:

1. Last year, I had 44 students at one job and 23 students at my other job. This year, I have 87 students at one job and 115 at my other job. Um, yeah....

2. Builder Boy is in first grade...it's going to kill me.

3. We have at least 7 projects going on at the moment...all need to be finished and there is only one Remodel Man and no money or time.

4. I took a good look at our finances the other day. If you're me, I don't recommend doing this.

5. I have a new boss at my job...this person does not have any education experience. It's comical, and sad, and a very public situation.

6. I am begging for technology for my classroom...and by technology, I mean an overhead projector that works. Hello, 1978! (I'd love a VHS that works, too, but really, that would be way to 1985 for us!)

7. My brain is mush.

8. I realized the other day that if I died tomorrow, I would die unhappy, and that would make me even unhappier. (Yea, I get it, I'd be dead and all, but you know what I mean.).

9. My prayers have gone from asking for help and guidance to downright begging. I'm thinking the Lord thinks I'm kind of pathetic.

10. Pregnant women and babies are all around me...I'm doing mostly well with it. Mostly. Well, sort of okay. Okay, let's just say that all those years of acting are an immense help to me right now.

11. I am gaining weight. I'm flabbergasted by this. Yet, I won't stop eating.

I cannot tell you how many times I have opened up my Compose Post page, filled with words and thoughts and ideas, only to close in back up in fear. Fear of what? No idea, but I close up once I actually commit to writing. I think it's partly because I've said it all before...there's no new ideas in there. I live the same day, month, year, over and over again, and frankly put, it's depressing. So very many of my blog friends are joyful where they are in their lives and I don't want to rain on their parade. So I don't write. And yet I want to. But I don't. ARRRRGHH!!!

I'm still here and hoping that this post will open the floodgates. That I will make time to write. But this school year is kicking my butt, so all I can promise is that I'll do my best.

Back At It

Tomorrow is the first official day of school for where I work.  No big deal....this will be the twelfth year I head into the classroom. I have done this twelve times before.  I am not at all prepared...not my classroom, not my lessons, not my photocopies.  Nothing.  But I am a veteran teacher with years of experience, lots of skill, and a calling to teach, so I will manage. The teaching part, that's easy.

The being in the school again, well, that's been kind of rough. 

As I sat around last week at our in service sessions, it occured to me that when I had been here last,  I was pregnant.  Inside of me a life was struggling to grow.  As I moved around the building, I took care to remember this little life inside of me, so desperately wanted, but destined to leave us.  As I cleaned up my classroom, I thought, "This time next year, you'll be in my arms."  And I thought I was cleaning up the room for the last time ever.

The remembrance of this fact, the fact that I had been pregnant when I was last at work hit me kind of hard.  I found it hard to listen to how fabulous everyone's summer breaks had been.  How relaxing!  How fun!  How joyous!  I thought of all the doctors appointments, the surgery I went to and managed alone that took my fourth child from me, of my aunt's cancer treatments and my own breast cancer scare, my chest pains and anxiety, my impatience with Builder Boy, and all the hours lost between appointments-and I was angry.  All of a sudden, out of the blue, it all hit me all over again. I lost my baby.  I lost four babies.  How did this become my life?

I'm not sure why the work environment brought it all back, but it did.  It's not a constant feeling, but just a nagging sensation of something being off.  Tomorrow will come, and I will face the day with purpose and fortitude because I have to.  These feelings will wear off like they have at home, in the car, or when telling others about our struggles, but that won't stop that nagging sensation of the swelling belly I would be sporting now or the new maternity clothes that would be working their way into my wardrobe.  Perhaps once I make it through the nine months that would have been, I can shake off this feeling of missing something. Until then, did I leave the oven on?  No?  Hmmm...did I forget to lock the door?  No? 

Oh yeah, that's right, I lost my baby. 

 

 

Everyone But Me

I work part-time in a pharmacy.  I see what scripts come in and what prescriptions go out.  I know that huge number of the population on some type of anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-your-life-sucks-and-you-need-to-take-the-edge-off.  I also know that many, many friends place a call to their doctors asking for anti-whatever, and over the phone get prescribed something.  Isn't everyone on something??? 

So imagine my surprise when my doctor refused to put me on something for my horrible, can't breathe, think I'm suffocating, anxiety attacks I've been having.  For years, I have suffered...I have meditated, and drank chamomile tea, I have talked with friends and blogged, I have thrown things and petted things.  I have tried to overcome this alone, not afraid to ask the doctor, but convinced that it would go away-but it hasn't.  But she doesn't care about this...she still refused to put me on something. Instead, she is forcing me into therapy.

Not let me state clearly that I am a huge proponent of therapy.  I believe we all can benefit from a little therapy now and then.  I have sent myself to therapy years ago to get over a broken heart that was refusing to heal...it helped.  It really did.  It helped me see why I was feeling that way I was feeling and it allowed me to talk about the situation freely without judgement or worry.  But this time, it's different. I know what I am feeling.  I talk about it all the time to anyone who will pretend to  listen.  I blog about it.  I read others going through it.  I seek help from those who understand.  I cry.  I get angry.  I let myself feel all the yucky the infertility brings.  I'm sad.  I'm mourning.  I'm angry.  What can the therapist possibly tell me that will shed any light on this?  Yes, I'm sure there's things we can talk about, I'm sure the therapist will show me the many errors of my ways since birth (and the ways of my parents, too, no doubt), but what good will that do?  When you are already stressed to the hilt because you don't have time to anything, what will adding another appointment 35 minutes away do to help?  Having to pay for a babysitter with money I don't have to go to an appointment to talk about feelings I acknowledge every day? 

I'm so angry about this.  I understand thattruly, general practitioners should not be doling out prescriptions for psychiatric drugs.  It's not their specialty.  But when you have a patient who jumps through all your flaming hoops (bloodwork, stress tests, echo, EKGs), who deals with you honestly, who pays her $20 copay twice in two weeks so you can meet with her for five minutes, who admits that she's pretty sure she would only want a short-term prescription to get over this nasty hump she finds herself at, why could you not throw her a bone?  Give her three months, for goodness' sake! 

The general consensus is to find another doctor, which I will do in the near future.  For now, though, I'm just dealing.  Not drugs, of course, since I can't get a darn prescription for anything...but dealing nonetheless.

Approach With Fortitude Then Run Away Scared

I did it today...well, part of it.  I've dreaded it for years now.  The thought of it made me physically ill and created panic attacks of epic proportions.  But I put on my big girl panties, walked up those flights of stairs to our third floor and walked right up to those boxes and bins.  I walked up to them, determined that I would show them who's boss around here.  I waded through piles of stored items until in the farthest corner of the room, buried deep amongst Christmas wrapping paper, newly put away preschool toys, a play kitchen, and cookie tins, there they were in all their glory.

It was a bit of a showdown...I stared at them, and they stared right back in all their dusty glory.  I would not be deterred, no sir.  I dropped my hand right into their midst and grabbed the first thing my hand felt-a small bag. I whisked them away from their counterparts, bigger and fuller boxes and bags, and marched back downstairs, threw them on my bed, prepared to show them that I meant business.  I ripped open that bag and the items scattered across the freshly made linens. 

Oh...

It took my breath away.  Literally stole the breath from my body.  Out tumbled pastel fluffiness.  And I thought my heart might break. 

In this small bag of items that had been forgotten when the initial box of baby items had been sent into storage seclusion was a mishmash of babyhood.  A few small changing pads, a few bibs, a couple of hats, and a sheet for the pack and play.  That's it.  Nothing more.  No cute socks, or a favorite outfits, or cuddly blankets.  Nothing that held any particular memory.  Yet, that mishmash of forgotten items with no particular memory instead held all the memories.  All the things I have feared facing as we end our journey. 

I have left all of Builder Boy's clothes, toys, and linens untouched.  We have had no need for the space, and so there has been no need to purge any of the baby things.  I kept them at first for our next baby.  When the next baby alluded us, I kept it for the "just in case baby."  But "just in case" baby has become "never gonna happen baby."  It's time.  I feel it.  It's time to let go...of the journey, or the dream...and all of the baggage that goes with it.

In the midst of writing this,  reliving that brief moment, I had to stop.  On the verge of hysteria, my only thought was, "Call PorscheNut."  We spent some time crying on the phone together...she's already done this purging of baby items...and talking about how it was the memories that mattered, not the things, and that this parenting step was so incredibly hard.  Now still feels like the right time, though.  With Black Belt Mama expecting her baby boy soon, now is the time to move on, let someone else use the precious items.  It seems a whole lot easier to give them to someone I love instead of packing them up in garbage bags to be sifted through at Goodwill. 

I ran away from that little bag upstairs.  It's all waiting for me on my bed.  I will have to confront it at some point before bedtime.  Then again, I can always sleep in the spare room...

Five Hours That Postponed A Decision

I met with the RE today for my post D&C appointment.  We were supposed to go over the lab results of the D&C (they're still not done testing them) and to schedule the next cycle, if in fact we decided to do it.  Even this morning, as Remodel Man was leaving for work, I asked again what he thought we should do...he's 50/50 on it. 

But it didn't matter.  Because we couldn't make a decision. 

Wednesday morning I woke up, turned to say goodbye to Remodel Man, when a searing pain hit my chest, right under my left breast.  I've had this type of thing before so I wasn't too worried.  It feels like a stitch in your side, but it's under your chest in your ribs.  You cannot take a deep breath because of the pain, so instead you take shallow breaths which eventually makes you woozy because you're not getting needed oxygen.  This usually last a few seconds to a few minutes and I can usually change position or control my breathing enough to get rid of it.  But this time, nothing was working.  It went on for hours.  After two hours, I called the dr. She wanted to see me, but the nurse told me, "I don't want to alarm you, but if it gets worse in the next 30 minutes, I want you to go to the ER." 

Had I been at any of my jobs or if it was a weekend and Remodel Man was home, no problem.  But I was home alone with Builder Boy.  I couldn't help but think, "What if I drop dead...what will he do?  He will be so scared!  and alone! and without a mama!" And so as soon as he got up, we reviewed dialing 911 and I showed him how to use the house cordless phones.  (As a side note, as children, we merely picked up the phone and dialed, but today, there are steps you need to take in order to make a call...I kind of forgot this, so while Builder Boy knows to dial 911, I'm not sure he knew how to dial!!) He rolled his eyes and watched tv. 

I kept my cell phone in my pocket and thought I would probably be able to hit 9-1-1- on my cell while suffering from my heart attack and hopefully the GPS would track me to my house so they could send an ambulance.  (Friends, there's a whole lot of crazy going on with me...I go there, oh yes I do!) I set in a big comfy chair in our kitchen, trying to stay calm, trying to control my breathing, willing myself to feel better.  I stressed about the state of my kitchen, a sink full of dishes, counters littered with days of cooking and not cleaning up, the giant tub of cheese balls taking up ridiculous amounts of space, and worried what the paramedics would think and how Remodel Man would get this placed cleaned up after I dropped dead. 

I worried momentarily about driving myself to the appointment, but it seemed that things were settling.  And as I drove, I felt the pressure and pain lifting.  By the time I got to the dr's, I felt better.  This was over five hours later. 

They did an EKG and it was "perfect."  No sign of a heart attack and my heart sounded fine as well.  But it naturally was concerning and my PCP is very thorough and cautious.  So I'm going for a stress test.

My RE couldn't believe it when I told him.  I know it's anxiety.  The amount of stress I am under right now and have been for years is just not manageable-and yet I manage it.  Until now. But I can't move into a cycle until these test results come back.  I have to be in tiptop shape.

I then mentioned to the RE that I never went for that mammogram he wanted me to do last year.  He had found something last year, was sure it was nothing, and somehow life got in the way and I never went.  Then my aunt was diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer (my other aunt died from it many years ago) and I was desperately regretting that I hadn't gone.  He immediately did a breast exam (well, he let me get undressed and put on the paper gown before he started...) and found a lump.  Probably a cyst. Or something benign.  He's 95% sure. 

Monday I go for the mammogram.  And I'm freaked.  But I'll save that crazy for another post.

For now, though, no decision on the next cycle.  Not until this 38 year old body starts acting like it's 38 and not 78!

The Turning Point

At some point during a personal struggle, there is a turning point. That moment when you realize that you will be okay, that you will make it.  This time around, I didn't think I'd get there.  It's been a week and a half since the D&C...it feels like a lifetime.  When I wrote the last post, I was rock bottom.  In a place where I feared to go, but I never truly knew the depths of this place.   I commented to a friend today that in retrospect, it seems so silly, yet in the moment, the despair and darkness is terrifyingly overwhelming.  All was lost in my mind.  No happiness could be found.  That was the end for me.

Shortly after I wrote the post, I received word from some colleagues of a rather bad situation at our work.  It wasn't surprising since the professional atmosphere is practically non-existent and there was some foreshadowing of this situation. As soon as word got out about this, the phone calls commenced.  Just the mere talking to colleagues about work helped to start pulling me out of the pit I was in.  Concentrating on something else besides me and my struggles lifted some kind of weight I had been feeling.

This is not to say that it's easy to pull out of those times.  It's not.  It's not a quick fix.  You don't just jump back to your former self.  There is a void and a pain.  There is an ache.  Some days, you move along perfectly fine.  Other days, you feel paralyzed by your grief.  But not feeling the constant weight every second of the day is forward movement. 

I've learned during this last loss that for the most part, if someone hasn't gone through pregnancy loss, especially recurrent loss, they have no idea how difficult it is.  I've felt "blown off" by many people close to me and I truly think it's total ignorance.   They have no idea.  I thank God for my sister-in-law whose support and prayers have been an immeasurable help to me and for the friends who have reached out, especially those who are blessedly fertile and have no idea what any of this is like.  I have work friends who I know only through work (and therefore only in that barely know you except for work way) whose hearts broke with mine when this all happened.  It is because of these people that I am still kicking along.

So I work on moving forward.  I'm working on enjoying these beautiful summer days with Builder Boy, finding lots of fun activities to do, or just generally enjoying our home and yard.  I suppose if you must go through a loss, having it during sunny summer days help to lift your spirits.

A Blank Mind and a Full Soul

Many years ago, what seems like a lifetime ago, I was distraught over a recent breakup.  This short, bizarre friendship-turned-relationship was never healthy, never meant to be, yet it destroyed me to the core.  We were just a year out of college and all living in different places.  Our core group of friends was still  close-knit and tuned into the one another's lives.  "Real" jobs, marriages, kids and general adult responsibilities hadn't yet taken hold of our lives.  And so after a particularly raw and gut-wrenching phone call with a friend six hours away, my doorbell rang and standing on my threshold was another of our friends holding a six pack. 

This memory remains one of my best and most amazing friend moments of all times.  Being so close-knit, the friend who was six hours away called the friend closest to me-an hour and a half away.  She immediately hopped in her car, grabbed a six pack, and showed up at my door very late at night just to be there for me.  To help me get through that dark time.

I am not well.  This pregnancy loss (#4 for those who stopped counting) has been by far the roughest on me.  I have attempted to write about it for days now, but words allude me.  I told Remodel Man that it's as if I feel like I don't exist and that I could explode all at the same time.  I feel as if the world is moving around me, not even knowing that I am there.  I feel very alone.

I'm not sure why this one is so bad.  Perhaps the sheer number of losses is adding up emotionally.  Perhaps it's because we had moved on from this journey only to be pulled back in so cruelly.  But what I really think makes this one the worst is the fact that I have not talked to one single person about it.  Not one. 

My mother is dealing with my aunt's Stage III breast cancer diagnosis.  My sister has been out of town.  Remodel Man is overwhelmed with his new job.  And not one person called me.  I sat alone in that hospital bed, waiting for them to take my baby, and I sit alone now.  Sure, I could call any one of my friends and ask if they would listen, but who wants to have to do that?  Why should I have to?  I'm the one in pain...What I want is someone to have called me...not email, not text, but call.  Live person breathing on the phone.  Hearing a voice.  Knowing that someone is taking the time to make that call.  Taking their precious time to see how you are.  To be there. 

Instead I go through the motions of my day. I parent Builder Boy (not well these days, but we get through), I work, I cook, I clean, I talk to neighbors.  As the day goes on, as darkness descends, the grief overtakes me.  I lay in bed, exhausted yet wide awake.  A blank mind and a full soul.  Prayers are fleeting.  Words desert me. 

Then morning comes and I do it all again.