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.