RenovationGirl

Firsts

I finally have a friend who can fully relate to me...years and years of infertility heartache, a miracle baby, but only one. She has a son, just one, and only one child. It's nice to finally have someone who doesn't throw their many children in my face about how hard their lives are (what I wouldn't give!!!) or who doesn't understand why Builder Boy can't just "sit and color" when I need to do something. She understands what it's like to have one child, specifically a boy child. She understands that the mere nature of having an only includes spoiling not because you want to spoil, but because there's not one else who requires your attention. It's so refreshing! When we talked last Saturday morning and I relayed to her our Friday night adventures, she commented, "Well, of course you freaked out...this was a first, and as the parent of an only child, everything is a first."

She was commenting on our very first trip to the ER with Builder Boy. I feel blessed to say that in almost eight years, this truly was our first time. We've had our close calls, but nothing ever requiring an emergency trip. Builder Boy was in the after care program at school on Friday (and yes, if you know me, this added to my guilt immeasurably...you know, if mean mommy didn't have to work then mean mommy wouldn't have had to have him in after care and then this wouldn't have happened...) and when I went to pick him up, I noticed an aftercare worker rushing over to a child. In that split second, I thought, "Gosh I hope that's not my kid." Not even for one second did I think it was Builder Boy. Not even as I got out of the car and headed over to the sidewalk. Even when the kid started walking slowly, head hanging, blood pouring from his face did I think it was him. Because that day, of all days, he was in a different coat than usual and it took me a bit to realize that this kid, dripping with blood was mine.

"What happened?!" I screeched in the hysterical, high-pitched way I have when my kid is dripping blood. "Oh," said the dad watching the playground, "He fell." In retrospect, I should have slapped him across the face for his nonchalance. Oh, okay! Thanks for filling me in!

Turns out, Builder Boy was playing on the the playset, tripped, and landed on his face, full force. His bottom teeth went completely through his bottom lip, hence the obscene amounts of precious blood spilling from my baby boy. He was an absolute champ throughout it all! I got him to the bathroom to clean him up and he did not shed one tear, not even when I hugged him (which you know will do most kids in when they're trying to hold it together). He did take one look at his face and started hyperventilating, almost throwing up, but with some slow, cleansing breaths he calmed himself down. One look at his cleaned up mouth, which was still gushing blood, showed all teeth were presented and accounted for. The mothers at after care sprang into action, getting me a cup to rinse his mouth and a bag of ice to sooth it and work on the swelling. One looked at his mouth for me (again, I'm a novice at this) and pronounced the necessity for a check up. All this time he was holding it together while his adorable friends, even the older kids who didn't really know him well, hovered around him, making sure he was okay. He started to get teary, and so we made a beeline to the car.

We headed to the ER to see if stitches were needed. (They weren't.) On the way there, he sobbed his little heart out while I patted his leg from the driver's seat. Somehow, someway, I got him there and without shedding one tear myself. This is short of a miracle. Once we were there, as he was sitting on the hospital bed, I noticed the gaping wound on his jaw. I thought for sure I would pass out. I didn't, but he noticed my face turn ashen and asked if he was getting worse. I assured him that he was fine and he said, "but your face is funny." So much for that theater degree!

For a child who freaks out about every.little.thing, he always handles the big stuff well. At two, he went to visit his grandma after her hip replacement surgery and was not the least bit overwhelmed by her walker and immobility. At four years old, as he watched his grandfather having a stroke, he calmly asked me if his Pappap was dying. For the past three years, he has seen his mama have four surgeries and waited sweetly at home, preparing the couch with his pillows and stuffed animals. Now, his first ER trip and when asked how the pain was, he shrugged and said, "Not bad!" He cracked jokes with the nurse, challenged the doctor on how long it would take to heal, and asked for something to eat.

This was a tough first, but we did it. And while I'm sure many people can trump this visit with numerous ones of their own, I wish they would remember that this is my first. Every single time something new happens with my child, it's a first. I don't wish these types of experiences on anyone, but trust me when I tell you, I'd love to have this be no big deal because I have so many more kids.

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...

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. 

 

 

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...

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.

If It's Too Good To Be True...

it probably is.  And this time, it was too good to be true.  While everything seemed to line up well, lots of mature follicles, a great response to the meds, a casual cycle, the cycle didn't work.  Blood tests results came back on Monday with a big, fat negative.  I wasn't surprised.  I really wasn't.  But it truly doesn't make it feel any better.  I found that it wasn't hearing that the test was negative that was hard-it was the telling.  Telling all the people I included on this very personal journey that our last hope had been dashed.  That we have reached the end of our journey without the results we wanted.  That it's over.  It's why I waited to write this post...the telling really is too hard.

Sigh...

So now we pick ourselves up and move on.  We figure out a way to heal our hearts and provide a happy life for ourselves.  We'll be fine, we always are.  But in the meantime, I'm a little sad. 

 

Bubbling Over

During the last few days of that ill-fated last cycle, I kept having huge anxiety attacks.  While not paralyzing, they were crippling.  They always started slowly, with a slight catch in my breath.  As time progressed, I began to feel a weight slowly but surely pushing down on my chest.  That pressure would get so unbearable that even deep breathing wouldn't relieve it.  I would feel as if I was suffocating.  Nothing released me from this grip until it would get so bad, I could literally feel the grief and nerves bubble over.  Into the form of tears.

I'm a cry-er.  I cry at movies, I cry when friends cry, and I cry at my own grief.  I cry when I get super mad or super silly.  I don't think this weakens me; if anything, it makes me more authentic.  And during this last cycle, not many friends in real life knew what was going on...well, a few did, but most of our family did not. And those who did know, well, are probably sick of it.  We've done this so often before with no luck, at some point, my friends are going to stop caring about our infertility.   So I spent much of the time ignoring what we were doing until it was time to race to an appointment  or get stuck with another needle.  Holding it all in is not a good thing for me, but I discovered how therapeautic crying can be.  As soon as I let free the floodwaters, immediately, the weight was lifted from my chest.  I realize this is not a news flash.  For me, as a mom, though, I hold things in to protect my son from our infertility.  No need to traumatize him with a grief he can't understand about a potential sibling he has never asked for. 

I'm glad that the bubbling over has stopped, for the most part. I'm doing okay with everything.  Life goes on, right?  I have three jobs to work, a child to care for, a house to clean, food to cook, laundry to do, etc.  Life is busy and moves forward even when we want to just stop and indulge in the grief. 

When Negative Results Are a Bad Thing

It seems kind of funny to me that most people who get medical tests done are hoping for a negative.  You're getting tested for cancer-it's negative-Hallelujah!  You get tested for an auto-immune disease and it's negative?  Praise be!  But with infertility, you hope and pray for that positive result.  Infertility is weird that way.

As suspected, we did get a negative result yesterday.  It was not surprising, but still as devastating.  Probably most upsetting, besides the stupid things people who have no understanding of this say, is how crushed my doctor's office sounded when they called to tell me.  I had told them earlier in the day (when they called to see why I didn't go first thing to get my blood work...I figured, why stress myself out getting up early, still being late for work, for a negative result?!) that I had peed on a stick and it was negative...I was reprimanded for that.  Later in the day, when they called, I think they were glad I was prepared.  I, of course, let the call go to voice mail...it makes it easier on all of us.

So, I stopped taking the progesterone and wait for the hated period to arrive.  The doctor is gung-ho to try a new protocol, and even though we said we were done, I won't lie and tell you I wasn't considering it.  The money isn't there (this doctor only takes cash/checks, no credit) so we definitely can't do it this month, and quite frankly, I'm not sure we can handle it emotionally this month, either.  But I've never had a new protocol.  Ever.  We have always done follistim-and that was it.  This past time, we did add ganirelex (sp?), but that's wasn't such a big deal.  So, if you're a fellow infertility sufferer, let me know if you've done a lupron flare and/or menopur, which is what he's hoping to add. 

The day itself was filled with little blessings and little annoyances.  They balanced one another out well, which made it bearable.  Certainly, Builder Boy's snuggliness and sweetness (he must have said, "I love you, Mama" dozens of times!! which is a rarity!) made everything seem just fine.  And the salesman at the Pretzel Factory who struck up a conversation with me while we were waiting for our pretzels to finish baking kept me from breaking down in an embarrassing heap after my blood test.  And the nice lady who let my car into heavy traffic eased my anger a bit.  Although, the phlebotomist who was maybe 20 and who insisted calling me "honey," almost got decked. And the pathetic excuse of comfort from certain friends enraged me a bit.  But, finishing the day off with another wonderful conversation with PorscheNut, a few episodes of Raising Hope (dear Lord, that's one funny show!), and a chapter of the current book I'm reading, calmed me enough to get to sleep.

I'm not sure where we go from here.  I know, ultimately, we will be fine.  That's what life is all about...pain, disappointment, then recovery.  We will find joy, we will find purpose.  But this is not easy.  And I am very angry. 

Prayers for a Lonely Child

Yesterday, a good friend of mine shared a beautiful poem written by her daughter for a college class.  I was so touched that she wanted to share it with me-this friend is a very private person, one whom I often have to browbeat in order to get her to open up about things that are bothering her.  (Love you, K!) In the poem, her daughter was so honest and raw and authentic.  We giggled over the lines that aired out some family issues in a perfectly poetic, and thankfully cryptic, way, and teared up over her the very clear expressions of unconditional love and gratitude for her family.  One in particular line brought us both to our knees...she wrote something along the lines of a house "filled with the prayers of a lonely child."  You see my friend started her family a bit earlier than she intended, and as she struggled through those early days of motherhood, another child was not on her radar at all.  She was just hoping to survive the first one!  Five or so years later, she and her husband did add to their family, welcoming another daughter.  The poem revealed how desperately her oldest wanted a sibling to ease her loneliness.  It was beautiful sentiment of a 20 year old written with the raw honesty of a five year old. 

My friend has now agonized over the fact that she shared this poem with me.  You see, in her own desire to share this most beautiful poem with me, she feels she failed to recognize my own struggles with having an only child.  When I commented that that line really got me, too, it hit her that these could possibly be the same prayers Builder Boy prays.  I have tried to console my friend, that my issues are my issues and that I feel privileged that she wanted to share something so personal with me.  Granted, if someone else had showed me this poem, I might have been upset and felt their insensitivity.  But never in a million years would I find it insensitive that a friend wanted allow me into her family's history. 

Remodel Man and I do feel blessed that Builder Boy has never really asked about wanting a sibling.  If anything, he has made it very clear that he does not want a brother or sister.  This does help ease our guilt over our infertility.  Just today, in one of those intuitive moments that children have, Builder Boy, while watching an episode of Arthur where Arthur's little sister, D.W., yet again drives him crazy, Builder Boy commented, "That, Mama, is why I'm glad for your internal organs."  I looked at him quizzically and asked what he meant. "You know, because your insides only had one baby."

Where he comes up with this stuff, I'll never know, but I'm glad that he's grateful for my flawed organs.  ;)

Surgical Regrets

Remember the Frank Sinatra song..."My Way?"  Let me refresh your memory. "Regrets...I've had a few..."  I find myself singing this song today for that line.  I had my laproscopic surgery on Thursday to determine if I had endometriosis and to remove any scar tissue found.  Last week was a whirlwind of fear and unexpected hospital stays that culminating in a surgery that may have proved to be unnecessary.  Let's recap.

On Sunday, my father was taken to the ER for two days of vomiting and severe stomach cramps.  He was admitted and had his gallbladder removed Monday night.  Besides finding an adominal anuerysm, all went well.  I was going to cancel my surgery yet again, but because they were able to do the gallbladder removal laproscopically, I decided to go ahead with my own procedure.  The days before I had to spend figuring out how to get Builder Boy to and from school, have someone to watch him after school, how to get me to and from the hospital, and how to function alone post-anesthesia.  My go-to gal (my mom) had her hands full with my dad and my other go-to gal (my sister) is so busy at work we didn't want to bother her.  It was stressful to say the least.  Couple this with an overwhelming fear that I would die during the surgery and I was a pleasure to be around.  I spent showers sobbing thinking about all that could go wrong and that how irresponsible this was fo us to do while we already had a child.  I wasn't sleeping as I thought about poor Builder Boy growing up without me.  And I thought of all the pressure on Remodel Man to go it alone.  Yes, I know this was anxiety working on me.  A very dear friend pointed this out to me and it helped me in dealing with the fear. 

Dad came home on Wednesday and was doing well, so mom and dad decided that she would come down and pick up Builder Boy from school and stay with him until we got home.  This alleviated some stress, but also added to it-dad would be home alone and what if something happened? With my aunt and my dad's best friend on call, mom headed down to help out with many phone calls home to her honey.

I woke up Thursday less anxious and feeling more prepared.  The hospital we go to is an amazing place with the kindest staff I've ever experienced in a hospital.  They held my hand (literally) through both D&Cs and encouraged me to cry as we waited for both procedures.  They asked me questions about my life and got to know me.  They cracked jokes and answered questions.  This visit to the hospital was no different.  They were kind, supportive, encouraging and put me at ease.  They clearly respect my doctor and he clearly holds them in high esteem.  The procedure went fine and I went into recovery with another set of kind and amazing nurses.  Besides throwing up immediately upon waking (OUCH!), the rest of the recovery went okay.

So the regret part?  The doctor found some signs of scar tissue, which he removed, but it wasn't much.  Stage 1 or maybe Stage 2.  Just from some minor research, with such little amounts of it, the surgery was probably unnecessary and was probably not the reason for our inability to get or stay pregnant.  And this was very discouraging.  I feel very weepy about losing out on a beautiful fall weekend with my son because of a procedure that probably isn't going to give him a sibling.  I am using up three precious sick days for nothing.  I woke up last night sick with a fever that has yet to break.  I am worried about infection or something worse.  And for what?

I know there was no way to know how severe the endometriosis was without surgery, but I just feel like our desperation has reached new levels when I thought we were heading into the acceptance phase of this infertility journey. Our next steps?  No idea...