RenovationGirl

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.

A Hushed Message

A few days ago, a got home from work to a message on our voice mail.  In very hushed tones, PorscheNut said, "Hey, call me back when you get a chance.  I have a story to tell you.  Porsche Peanut told me she and Builder Boy were playing truth or dare in his bedroom..." Click. 

Um.......

Since it was late at night, I couldn't call back right then, but truth be told, I wasn't ready to call back.  I wanted to talk first with Builder Boy to get the scoop, or at least hisscoop, as well as collect myself.  We knew the day would come when we'd have to worry about the boy/girl thing, but they're only going into first grade!  I was getting a little hysterical on the inside thinking of all the things they could have been doing during the clandestine game of truth or dare.  And since I have the boy, well, I was sure it'd be his fault whether is was his fault or not. 

In the meantime, before I could begin the interrogation, I talked with PorscheNut.  The following morning, I questioned Builder Boy about the situation. 

Me: (slyly) Builder Boy, were you and Porsche Peanut playing truth or dare in your bedroom?

BB: (without missing a beat) No. 

Me: (thoughtful)  Hmmm...really?  Because Porsche Peanut said you guys were...

BB:  (introspective silence)

Me:  (going in for the kill) You wouldn't have been daring one another to lick the bottoms of your feet, would you?

BB:  (stopping suddenly, he throws this over his shoulder) Stay out of my business, Mama! (and stomps off)

Oh boy, we're in trouble...

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...

Back From The Beach

Every year, as we venture to the beach, ee cummings' poem, "maggie and milly and molly and may" comes into my mind.  Particularly the last couplet, "For whatever we lose, like a you or a me / it's always ourselves we find in the sea."  It's so true isn't it?  Something magical happens at the beach...the rolling of the tides, the sounds of waves crashing against the shore like they've been doing for a gazillion years, the warm sand caressing your shoe weary feet, the slight wind tousling salt-water stiffened hair...you feel at peace, at home, free. 

 

This vacation was nice...not as relaxing as I would have liked since I have to work throughout the vacation (and without a reliable internet connection, I did most of the work on my phone-ugh!), but we had some good family time.

Builder Boy is a total fish...he just loves to be in the water.  Big giant tumbling waves?  No problem! 

 

9 feet of water in the pool, bring it on!

 

Thinking about life while looking at the water? Oh yeah!

 

Builder Boy is so natural in the water and around it.  He feels at home, at peace...it's his thing.  This made the entire vacation a perfect vacation for me-for Builder Boy to have a sense of peace and comfort surrounded by the waves. 

Just Try To Wipe This Smile Off My Face (Final Episode of the Boob Saga)

Monday to Wednesday night had to be some of the longest days of my life.  I tried very hard to stay in a good place and focus on what the doctor said...it looked benign.  People who know these kind of things assured me that she wouldn't have said this if she wasn't very sure of this.  And I did really well. 

The doctor had told me that the results would come back rather quickly and I could hear as early as Wednesday.  Of course, I spent much of Wednesday sneaking away from the training session I was in to see if she had left a message.  On the drive home from the training session, it all kind of hit me.  How life-altering this message could be. The plans that would have to be made.  The decisions.  The management of it all.  It overwhelmed me.  After holding it all for two days, the floodgates had opened.

I had just enough time to drive from one part of the city to the other, hopping from one job to the next.  I spent most of that time losing it and controlling myself on a repeated cycle.  As I got closer to work, I managed to pull myself together enough.  But I did spend much of my time there continuing to check my messages.  Finally, after 5, the doctor had called. 

Let me just interject here that this imaging center has provided me with the utmost care and concern.  You always expect pediatric places or places that deal with potentially terminal conditions will give incredibly kind and compassionate care. Unfortunately, this isn't always the case as my aunt has discovered as she battles breast cancer.  But the place I went to was amazing from setting the appointment to talking to the doctor about the biopsy results. 

So I called the doctor, on her cell phone!, and she told me the news.

BENIGN.  Come back in a year.

And since that moment, I haven't stopped smiling. 

It Won't Be As Bad As You Think (Part II of the Boob Saga)

(For the first part of the Boob Saga, go here.)

After the doctor told me there was a mass in my breast and that it would need to be biopsied, I won't lie to you...she might as well have been the teacher from Charlie Brown..."mwa mwa mwa mwa biopsy mwa mwa mwa incision mwa mwa mwa mwa blood mwa mwa mwa mwa bruising."  While she informed me of all these very critical and necessary things, all I could think was, "don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry."  I focused on her lips moving and the sound coming from them.  I focused on the now blank ultrasound screen.  I focused on this very funky, cool, and expensive-looking necklace she was wearing, even thinking, "I should tell her how much I like that." 

The ultrasound technician came back and brought a nurse friend and they prepped me for the biopsy.  I was pretty wide-eyed, maintaining composure externally while still telling myself, "don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry."  The technician patted my arm and told me, "It won't be as bad as you think it will be."  On the inside, now I was laughing.  Yea, right, sweetheart!  A needle?  In my breast?  Taking samples? Did I mention this was in my breast???

Truth be told, she was right.  It was all relatively pain-free.  The worst part of the whole procedure (besides the whole facing your own mortality issue) was the Novocaine shot to numb you up.  And even that wasn't so bad.  For hours, I had no pain, and then what little discomfort I had was easily managedwith extra-strength acetaminophen.  Certain things would freak me out a bit...like when Remodel Man said to me, trying to sound calm but clearly freaking out, "Oh, there's a little blood on your shirt..."  They had warned me to not do anything with the upper body that required even a little bit of strain.  But, I had to make dinner and help Builder Boy and drive the car.  I had also forgotten that the doctor told me to put on a sports bra to help keep things nice and tight in there-oops.  So as soon as the bleeding started, I donned the sports bra and it did help. 

Emotionally, it's been odd.  I broke down just a bit when I called Remodel Man to tell him, but quickly recovered.  But then I had to call the retail place I work to call off and the manager on duty was not the least bit sympathetic.  "Well," she said, "If you don't want to be penalized, you'll have to provide a doctor's excuse." If I could have quit, I would have done so right then.  I understand that the level of professionalism in these type of companies, especially at this level, is very low, but seriously, did they really think I would lie about having a breast biopsy?  Especially with all I've been through.  I was dying to show up there on the way home, lift up my shirt and bra and show them the darn  incision.  (Remodel Man calmly suggested that this was not a good idea.  )  This whole situation upset me so much that when I called to tell my parents and my dad answered, it was all over.  I was a sniveling mess.  (But daddies can do that to their girls...I just heard his voice and broke down.) 

But I'm okay.  I'm freaked and tonight as I read to Builder Boy, his soft smooth skin under my hand, his face intent on the story we were reading (tonight's selection was a Splat the Cat book), my heart broke about what could happen.  Quickly, though, I pulled myself together.

What really helped calm me is this piece, sent to me by a friend.

I may visit this pretend place momentarily, but I don't want to go it alone. 

Irony at Chest Level

Going in for a mammogram is never an enjoyable experience.  It doesn't hurt, although it can be uncomfortable...but the worst of it for me is mental-here we are all, sitting around in the secondary waiting room in our lovely pink hospital gowns, trying to inconspicuously pull shut our flapping gown-all about to bare our breasts to a stranger who will pull and squeeze and push these appendages in ways you can't even begin to imagine.

Before my first one at the ripe old age of 34, my mother gave me some information that saved me from screaming at the technician, "My breasts are exploding!!!!"  She said, "Just when you think they can't squeeze them anymore...they do!" Seriously, it's crazy that they can do that to this body part and there's no damage.  Clearly, a man came up with this!

So off I went yesterday...I wasn't scared.  Having spent the night before praying and meditating and reading comic websites, I felt centered.  It's just a cyst, I told myself.  That's what the doctor thought at my exam...  I got a little freaked out while filling out the questionnaire when it asked "Date of your LMP (last menstrual period"-ummmm, D&C on 6/24. Does that count?  Then it asked, "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" Hmmmm...again, D&C...maybe had sex once since then, so yeah, I guess? When I took my papers up, the nurse was all, "If there is any chance you could be pregnant, they're not going to do this..." (you read that with a whiny voice, right?  if not, go back and read it again in that voice....) and she grilled me about it.  Finally, I grabbed the papers back and signed my name to the "for sure not pregnant" line.  Nurse Lady, I get it...I get that this is dangerous for a fetus.  But right now, after all these years of infertility, I'm more concerned about being alive for the kid I do have.  Thanks, though, for making this all the more difficult! Strangely, when I met with the technician in the exam room, she asked me about the pregnant issue and when I explained, she merely said, "I agree...better to make sure you're healthy" and put a shield on my abdomen. 

Mammograms are useless to me...as the doctor explained, the tissue in the breasts is so dense it shows up as all white on the image.  Masses also show up as white. So looking for something on a mammogram for me is like "finding a snowball in a snowy field."  So I will always need to have an ultrasound.  Which I did. 

Having spent many a morning with feet up in stirrups, watching the ultrasound screen for fetal movement or growing follicles or thickening uterine wall, I'm getting better at actually seeing things on the screen.  She did my first breast, the one that supposedly had issues, and deemed them just cysts.  PHEW!  We laughed in relief and she mentioned that if I wanted to have them aspirated, I could do it right there today.  "How nice," I told her, "to be able to do this all at one place in one visit!"

She moved onto the other breast, the one without issues.  The air in the exam room was comfortable...this was, after all, just protocol.  It would be silly to come in and just view the one with issues.  "Ever feel anything here?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.  "Um, no." I waited.  She said nothing more.  And then I looked at the screen on the ultrasound machine.  I saw it, too.  A mass.  Not black on the screen like  a cyst filled with all its not-going-to-kill-you fluid.  Nope, it was grainy inside and grey.  And the air changed.  And all of a sudden that air-conditioned room didn't feel so cool anymore.  "Okay, wipe off and the doctor will be in to see you." 

It wasn't a long wait.  The doctor explained that the breast with the original issue was just a cyst.  A few of them, actually,  and big.  Unusual for a woman of my age, but nothing of concern.  She did not offer to aspirate it.  "However," she said, "Sometimes, when we go for a test, something shows up we weren't expecting."  If this were a movie, this is where all the music would stop. 

There is a mass in there, most likely benign.  They did the biopsy right then and there and we should have the results by week's end.  Part II of this saga tomorrow...my reaction and the rest of the day.  For now, though, this is enough.

*For those professor types who may read my blog, yes, I realize that this is not, in fact, irony, but it made for a good blog title.  Forgive me.  :) 

While Everyone's Asleep

Everyone is asleep in the house.  The cool, night air, a welcome relief from the glaringly hot day, laps into the house.  I sit, in the kitchen.  The place where I spend most of my days at home.  It is a mess and I should be cleaning.  But it can wait.

For now, I focus on the positive.  The fun summer times we are having as a family.  How our summer focus is on family and not the house.  Bike rides and trips to the zoo and a visit (twice) to a historic village in town and lots of days and nights at the pool. Play dates with friends and long conversations with kindred spirits who are too far away.  Breathing in the clear nights and allowing the sun to soak into the skin.  A birthday celebration and time with family and a trip to the sandy beach soon.  A mother who gives her everything and more for her family and a grandfather who loves spending time with his grandson at a coffeehouse under a shady tree.  Watching the Stars Wars movies, starting with 1 and working our way to "our" Star Wars movies.  Ice cream and homemade popsicles and eating dinner on the patio.  Veggies and  potato packs on the grill and fresh cherries we could eat by the poundful.  Reconnecting with close friends and making new ones. 

What I will not focus on is my mammogram tomorrow or my aunt's fatigue after her first round of chemo.  Builder Boy's breakdown earlier today or Remodel Man's stress.  My sister's loneliness or my mother's concern for her family.  Our financial stresses or the overwhelming work schedule this week.  A school year that has already started with drama and stress and a little bit of comedy.  Buying school supplies in mid-July.

No, for tonight, I will focus on the quiet of the night.  I will focus on the life we live now.  I will focus on the family I have been blessed with and the friends who support us.  Because while everyone's asleep, the mind can take me to the bad places, but there is time for those places...or not.  I'll focus on the not...

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!