We're outta here.

It's nearly 6 on Thursday. In 12 hours, we'll be doing the last minute we-gotta-get-outta-here stuff.

Those of you that emailed or Facebooked and haven't been responded to, you will be. But in about 10 days I'm afraid.

It's been so hard to be in this state of mind and pack for a week-long trip. Two hours of crying today wasn't helping - needed as it was.

Going on this trip is a real privilege. I'm both grateful, and glad we're going. But my mood is not in the mood. I was telling someone else this yesterday. It's like my heart is naturally inclined toward sadness right now, but the trip will be inclined toward fun and excitement. It's very grating.

And yet, I'm glad we're going. Emotions are complicated.

We'll spend all of Friday traveling. Saturday will be the Redwoods - if I'm still gutsy enough to risk the ticks at that time. Sunday is multiple church services. Monday afternoon, the conference starts. It goes through Wednesday night. We fly home Thursday.

We're going with 2 other couples that we're close to. Or rather, we'll meet up with them when we get there.

Someone from the vet is coming twice a day to give Molly her insulin. (The picture is from when she still had the IV catheter in her arm. She had to keep it in over a weekend in case of another run to the critter ER. By the way, she really likes D's shoes. Did I tell you the story of her barfing in his dress shoe a couple years ago?)

I'm taking the bear our church sent "us." On the plane and in the car and sleeping with it and and and. (That's him in the picture.)

I spent a good hour and a half today just taking care of my pills. Deet, people. Deet.

And did I mention that J's and T's urns being only different in color is seriously messing with my head? I'm still living in "no way did this happen" land. But T's looks like an awful lot like J's. THAT really DID happen again. I can't even grasp it.

We may have some access to email this week. Not sure. We will have our cells.

Gimme 10 days.
Adieu

... worth a thousand words.

We have a big wall calendar - about 2x2 foot sheets of paper that hang from the top.

Yesterday, I had my left arm full of teddy bear. So, writing something on July, I picked up the sheets of paper with my right hand, dropped them over the back of my head, wrote on the calendar, and to get out from under the paper, ducked and stepped straight back. Something grabbed my head. I turned and looked in the mirror.

And there I am, pen in my right hand, bear in my left arm, and the business card from the funeral home securely paper-clipped to the top of my head.

I 'bout fell over laughing. Nice visual. Story of my life - as modern art.

Balancing Miracle and Medical. Mar. 27. Week 8.

The following are some quotes I took from an email I wrote on March 27 - the day after the u/s where we couldn't even see Baby.

~~~~~~~~~~

"[I'm analyzing all these medical options] at the same time I really am asking God for a miracle. It's like when Nebuchadnezer threatened S,M,and A with the furnace. They said they knew God could save them, but they didn't know if he would...

I'm believing he might, and planning that he might not. Weird place to be."

After the first 2 ultrasounds (10 hours apart) where we couldn't find a heartbeat, we started praying for a miracle. Literally, we were praying that God would raise the dead. I'll ditch an explanation, but we hardly view God as being limited!

In the same moment, we were needing to face that he might not do it, and think about what was best in terms of how to get Baby out, and how long we were willing to wait.

It's a hard balance to strike.

Last year, we didn't really know that God could (still) raise the dead. This year, just realizing that he's capable made a huge difference in my level of peace.

~~~~~~~~~~

"My belly is continuing to grow. I currently look the most pregnant I ever have. (J must've prepped me.) D took some pictures of me Wednesday night."

This was exactly 2 weeks before the D&C - the day T was "born" on. Something interesting about being pregnant with a baby who died - you keep growing. Everything continues. You're still pregnant. In fact, you can keep choosing the perfect shirt to show off your belly-lette with right up until... maybe a week past the baby coming out.

(On that note, the pictures I mentioned can be sent to anyone who asks for them.)

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The thing about the D&C date being the day he was "born":

I don't hear this talked about much. I figure it's the same as with a C-section. The baby was still "born" and still has a "birthday" - not a "surgery day." If the C-section happens and the baby died a bit beforehand, he's still "born" and had a "birthday."

I hadn't thought about this myself until now.
I never used any such terminology with E - it was more of "she made it to 5 weeks." Nor did I with J - it was "I was in labor on January 28th." (No denying labor! Sheesh!) But the idea in the above paragraph just hadn't clicked with me.

I'm adamant about giving my babies the same level of respect a 40-weeker or adult would get. Real people. Really matter. Really truly just like the rest of us. And yet, this one detail never clicked. Can't catch it all I guess.

The T Plot. Feb - Apr, 2009.

The basic story, to get you caught up...

We found out that I was pregnant in late February, and because of E and J, went to the OB the next day. Baby ("T") was due in early November. I started taking progesterone the night of that appointment. Otherwise, everything was fine.

We were both excited. I was nervous. We both really thought T was more likely to live than not. We had thought that we lost E and J because of the Lyme - and I'm pretty healthy now.

I was nauseated, but could atleast snack. Too fatigued to stay awake all day though. Everything smelled nasty, and I couldn't get enough Panera. And I thoroughly enjoyed the "I know somethin' you don't know" feeling when out of the house. :)

We had the first ultrasound scheduled for 7 weeks, 2 days. Knowing it would be pretty tell-tale, I kept saying "I just want it over."

Twelve hours before this ultrasound was to take place, we were in the ER. D watched the u/s screen at about 1 in the morning, then told me with bright eyes what he'd seen; body, head, and a little arm. But he didn't see a heartbeat.

We kept the appointment the next morning just to make sure. No heartbeat.

And then came a couple weeks of about 50 people asking and pleading with God to "wake him up."

Over those weeks, I went from knowing that he could and would, to knowing he could and wondering if he would, to knowing he could and realizing he probably wouldn't, to wondering if he *really* could (truth be told), to just saying, "Get me through this."

But let it be known: I don't regret fighting the battle.

A week after the ER, we had another ultrasound. The sac had grown, but Baby couldn't be seen. Five days later, just for the sake of my emotions, the OB did another one. Baby was "a grain of rice." That's what we have a picture of.

Staring at our "grain of rice," I was willing to schedule a D&C. We greatly preferred that I miscarry at home, and thought I would. But by the D&C date, I was 10 1/2 weeks - only 2 short of when I went into labor with J. Honestly, if you don't have a baby to protect, full-blown labor is a pain worth avoiding.

Miscarrying can happen really fast, so I stayed home from church the Sunday before the D&C. And on Thursday, April 9th, we headed for Labor and Delivery.

Having the D&C is a story unto itself. I'll skip it. But I kinda freaked (I'm sure that's unusual), and though we got home in the early afternoon, I didn't feel like we were home until the next morning.

Before we left, when I was still unable to put much of it into memory, D took care of funeral home arrangements, I tried to bite a beeping wire that was attached to my chest, and the chaplin called Baby "sweetpea" - which made me wish we'd used a more clever nickname than "Baby."

We were given a folder with stuff about grief in it. Most of it had to do with loosing a third-trimester baby though. I can't relate to being able to hold my baby, ya know? But how I long to.

The funeral home picked up the remains from the hospital. Exactly a week later, we went to the funeral home, filled out the death certificate, saw the remains, and left a little blanky to be cremated with him. We'll pick up the urn tomorrow - 16 days after the D&C.

Hardly the end of the story. But we can call that the end of the plot.

"T"

I just realized that in my last post, I forgot to say that Baby will now be "T" on here. So, we have "D, H, E, J, and T."

We'll go pick up the urn tomorrow (Sat.) "Urn?" "Ashes, cremains, or T?" I still don't know.

The follow-up appointment was ok. Nothing to tell really.

I've got this sinking feeling that everything is just about over with. I mean, I'll still cry sometimes when I'm 90. But the *physical* part is about over. Not much related to being pregnant is left. It's a relief. And it's horrible.

I've learned at this point that I can't presume I'll ever be pregnant again. (I mean seriously, how eager would you be to try?) I can't help but think this is the last of what pregnancy is for me. I don't want to let go.

Besides, it almost feels like it's the last few moments of having T - and that's a whole other ball of wax.

I've been in my prayer journal 2+ hours a day for the last 4. Been awesome. Know what I mean that the hardest things you go through with God are the sweetest? Not that I'd volunteer really.

We have one single ultrasound picture. It's printed on receipt paper. I've been warned that they fade just as bad and just as quick as receipts. This weekend, we'll take it somewhere and get it copied onto actual photo paper. I seriously hope it works. It's a bad pic, but it's what we've got.

What I can't feel hurts.

I hate grief. Especially when I can't feel it.

My stomach's tight, my skin tingles, my head hurts, all my limbs are heavy, and I can't take a deep breath. But I don't feel grief.

All I feel emotionally is weary. Almost sad, but more empty than sad.

Empty. Yeah. My jeans fit now. After all the concern I had for my jeans being tight in high school, I despise them fitting now. A few days ago, I was still rationing my shirts so I'd always have something that covered up the bella band. I have a large wardrobe now. Whoopty do.

I'm angry. I don't know who at, I don't know why, and I don't so much as have a direction to point it. But I'm ticked.

The anger is coming from fear. And the fear is coming from the extremity of the pain... or rather, what I know the pain will feel like, once I can feel it.

Pain leads to fear leads to anger. Which has no outlet except punching the couch at 1 AM.

And I just had a knock at the door. Big ole vase of flowers and a currently-under-my-arm teddy bear. If I keep on this topic, the effect the flowers and bear are having will be ruined. So...

~~~~~~~~~~

We sent out a little note to people with Baby's name and some other details. Though I may change my mind, I hesitate to put his name on here. Find us in church, email, Facebook, or comment here if you want to know his name, or want the note.

~~~~~~~~~~

It's only in 9 days that we leave for a week. A lot needs done before you leave for a week, and I'm as perky as chamomile tea (see above.)

After a trip to the critter ER last Thursday, we found out Molly has diabetes. Cat blood sugar should be about 100, like humans. Molly's pushing 600. I'm giving the cat 2 insulin shots every day. Did you even know that could happen?

We have my follow-up OB appointment tomorrow morning. But I'll avoid lapsing back into what the bear is fixing.

We should be able to pick up Baby's ashes this week. Hopefully D will get a phone call about it today.

Most of you know about my bracelet with the kids' names on it. We could've ordered the 3rd strand and had it back in time for Mother's Day. However, that would've meant not having the bracelet at all while out of town. I can't quite explain it, but that comes with a terrible "We forgot the kids!" feeling.

So, we'll order the 3rd strand right after we get home. I'm off to figure out what I want it to look like.

Thursday. Some month in 2009.

The following was written the night of Thursday, April 9th. At the time, "some month in 2009" was the closest I could come to knowing the date.

It's 12:22 AM. I just took my midnight dose of methargine. It's a little pill designed to make your uterus cramp, pinching closed the bleeding blood vessels inside. Anyone want my 6 AM dose? I don't.

What's left of my baby's body is in a freezer at the hospital, probably in some kind of plastic. The 8 inch blanky I set aside to wrap him in is on my pillow. I never even saw what I was supposed to gently wrap up.

The anesthesiologist was very concerned that I might, some millenium, have no choice but to have the spinal he wanted me to have. So he stood over me for five minutes talking about how unnecessary my fear was. Meanwhile, I clamped my eyes closed, and hid my head under my arm. I swear I'm not a drama queen. I didn't even know I did it until afterward. It was by far the worst moment of the day, and the one I've played through my head the most times now.

Shortly afterward, David and I stared at each other wide-eyed as we heard a woman across the hall push out her baby. Then there was a little squawk that made us both smirk. But all I managed was the one smirk. My baby was about to come out too.

We'd both thought this baby was “the one.” The one that would live and come out alive. What are the odds that in a family of 5, the parents never would see one of their children alive? Makes a good tear-jerker of a magazine article. But it doesn't happen to real people.

Our daughter had come out easily 2 years before. She died very early.

Our son was born about 13 months ago – a nightmare 5 hour labor, with about 2 hours' worth of a single crushing contraction – an unprepared uterus trying to push. Excruciating pain, throwing up, eyes crossed, and moaning with every breath. The ambulance had been called right before I pushed him out. Over the next 3 days, I was on morphine and ativan, and still wide awake with the fear.

Never again.

Instead, this year, I unknowingly opted to feel attacked by a guy I'd never seen, and hear a baby be born not 50 feet away... all within 2 hours of the surgery that would pull my baby out of me. I thought I made the choice that would get me out of pain.

I thought, too, that once “the physical part was done,” the fear would be alleviated, and I could melt into the grief. I have the experience to know how bad it would be. But I could at least feel safe, able to drop my defenses and start getting out the devastating tears I've kept canned these 3 weeks since we knew our child had died.

But getting “the physical part done” only let the 3 weeks of fear burst out with the grief. Now I'm awake after a long day filled with grief, fear, pain, and things like methargine. I think I'm awake because I have so many “normal” years' worth of pain to pack into these current months. It doesn't fit. Maybe I need to fold it different.

Maybe my brain can't remember what it's supposed to do at 1 AM. Maybe it has too many other things to remember. It can't figure out how to fold stuff any better than I can. Does the joyful memory of finding out the baby was in me go with the memory of finding out he wasn't? Or does that fit better with how funny my pickle craving was? What about the memory of David telling me, with wide-eyes, that the baby on the ultrasound screen had tiny arms? We were in the ER. So does that get filed with my thrill at realizing he was ok, or with my blank stare when he said, “But I didn't see a heartbeat?” What's a head to do?

Do I feel grateful that I got out of pushing this time? Or do I grieve that I can't say, “I had my baby?” There won't be anything to show off. My stories and memories are all I have. Actually, I have a slightly larger belly to show off. But no one will ever notice. I've never worn “painted on” clothes in my life.

And that's another thing. What is my life? Who am I?

I'm a 27 year old mother of 3. I'm happily married, live in a cute little apartment on the edge of a big city, and we have a ridiculous number of pets.

My oldest child is no years old. I must say, she's the most beautiful little girl you've ever seen. Not that I'm partial.

My middle child is my first son. He's no years old too – no, they're not twins. Everyone thinks so though. Ya know, I forever think he's going to put a plastic bug in my bed. But he never once has.

Our youngest was just “born” today! He's ... I mean she's ... well, I don't know much really. He didn't do very well and had to stay at the hospital tonight. No, I didn't want to come home and leave her there. But I didn't have much option.

No need to worry though. They think he'll be able to leave in a few days. It's kinda weird, but we're gonna have to get a friend from the funeral home to pick her up and watch him for a few days. Crazy couple of weeks. But she'll be safely sleeping in mommy and daddy's room soon, safely by his big brother.

Something weird about being a mother though, nobody has ever called me “mommy.” I'd always assumed that went with the job, but I guess not. There's a lot of stuff I'd always thought went with it that doesn't. Funny how you get those ideas when you're growing up.

Actually, there's also a lot that happens I never realized would! I had no idea what kind of love would come with being a mom. Good grief – it'll floor you sometimes! Like on the floor “floor you.” It's crazy.

And I'd always heard that “having a child changes everything.” It's one of those things you can't understand until you're there. Nothing looks the same once you're a mom. Your values change. You re-evaluate everything you ever thought you knew. The words coming out of other people's mouths don't even mean the same thing they would have pre-motherhood. Reality flips upside down. All at once, you're scrutinizing the planet, scouting out danger, while struggling to not coo over the nearest earthworm or flower – for fear of the neighbors not knowing what's caused your odd behavior.

Maybe the cooing doesn't cause problems when the neighbors can see your baby though. I assume that to be the case. I don't actually know.

Maybe though, I'm just delusional. I'm not sure the pain meds have worn off yet anyway. But if they have, now that I think about it, I've always thought this way anyhow. Ever since our daughter came along. Two years ago. Feels like I've always been this way.

It's 2:02, and I told my dear husband I'd at least lay in bed tonight, even if I didn't sleep. I guess I'll go join him. The poor guy's exhausted. He's been standing most of the day, right at my side, holding my hand, sturdy as an oak tree. It's good to have a husband like that when you're having a baby.

But he'll have to be the topic of some other wee-hours thought. I'm off to stare at the bedroom ceiling. The oak tree hath spoken.