Archive for July, 2009

Funeral Director???

Um. So, okay, today was an incredibly depressing day.  Started off with a bang when I POAS and sat there silently watching as only ONE line showed up. Not even a hint of another line. No faint, maybe there is and maybe there isn’t tilting the damn thing toward the light just so… Nope. No second line. Nothing left. Not pregnant.

Yeah, I know. Duh. I KNOW I’m not pregnant. It’s just something so final about the line being completely gone that sets it in once again. I just can’t help this feeling of utter failure with this process. I know I’m not a failure. I know this isnt’ my fault. Yet something in my soul feels this way and my head can’t seem to change it. THIS is the one thing I DO. All those cutesy little sayings, like “I’m so crafty I make people”, and “I make milk, what’s your super power”. That’s ME!

I’m good at making babies, nurturing infants through sleepless nights and wonderful schedules and nursing months on end. I’m good at toddlers learning to walk and discovering how to clap their hands. Terrible 2’s and 3’s I’m still working on, okay? But the point is, THIS is what I do. Losing a baby just feels like failure.

And so, in a valiant effort to make myself feel better, I sat down with laundry to fold during nap time and commenced a Dawson’s Creek marathon even though I really should have been doing the million and one things on my to-do list for this weekend. Dawson’s always makes me feel better. Unless I’m sauced and annoyed with them. But that’s another story.

So I’m sitting there engrossed in this old episode where Pacey is talking to the guidance counselor and is trying to figure out his options. As soon as I saw Pacey get the news that he’s “failed” the aptitude test, I knew I had to take one for myself. You see, I was strangely bereft of normal guidance counselor type activities in high school. The one our school had was an idiot. And no, I won’t apologize for being that harsh, he’s the one that told my brother he’d never be accepted into Embry Riddle. He constantly told him he’d never get in and he’d never be able to afford it. He tried to steer him into the direction of the local community college instead. Thank God my brother is the type who actually buys into the whole, “where there’s a will there’s a way” mentality and brushed the guy off and never looked back.

I hoped he felt dumb when big bro worked for NASA.

Anyway, me being the not-so-confident high school student, believed him the first and only time I went to his office and thus the year off trying to make some money to put myself through school. (who, by the way, was NOT the one who got me into the program at CC) And I never got to take an aptitude test.

500 questions later (little did I know what I was getting in to!!) THIS is what pops up:


Um. Okay then.  I think my cynicism must be getting a little bit outta hand here.  Apparently I scored high on the sympathy end of things and that was oddly balanced out with high scores on the religious and moral side for this lovely combination.

Number 2 option for me: Vet Assistant. Sorry. My sympathy doesn’t transfer to animals NEARLY as much as you’d think. Call me crazy, sick and twisted, but my concern these days is taken up LARGELY by the little people following me around.

And last, but not least: Singer or Actor (performing arts). Gee thanks. I could’a told you that. And yet strangely not very comforting when I think of how much I used to want to do that. I never ever thought there’d be a time in my life where music would play such a small part. Mostly I sing bland little kid worship songs, the same ones, over and over until I want to poke my eyes out.

At least I scored high on the intelligence part. whoohoo for that.

Eh. Blah. Don’t listen to me right now. I’m down in the dumps and I know it. All day today I felt like deleting every post from my fb account, removing my blog from the stratosphere, and disappearing into a small black hole. I don’t know where to be. I want to talk about it, but I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want every conversation to be about THIS, or every conversation with anyone I haven’t seen face to face within the last two weeks to start out with this topic. I don’t want to cry, but I don’t want to be numb. I know you must be sick of hearing about it – because I’m sick of hearing myself talk about it. Just hard to move on, though.

And so, my night ended on a tired and frustrated note – with me in the kitchen trying to catch up on the chores I should have been doing earlier in the day, whipping up food for tomorrow and wondering why in the heck I didn’t remember to buy cranberry juice. Mmm.. cranberry juice…  sounds good, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, I couldn’t even come up with a substitute of any sort. I considered soy sauce for a second, but thought better of it. I thought about doing snake bites, too, thanks to my brother in law corrupting his wife, who now corrupted me almost as much she already did back in the day,  and even dug out the leftover lemon and smelled it (I will never look at a lemon the same way again). But apparently those are things you must do in a group. Didn’t even sound fun to do alone. Just … desperate. V&C, though, not desperate at all. Just good.

Must go to bed now. It’s late and I’ll be happy to put this day behind me. Still have a lot on my list to get done in the morning, and I’m sure it’s going to make for some fun times. Coffee is my friend again, for now.


Getting Dressed

It is Thursday afternoon and I have spent the day cleaning and getting ready for company. Now I have to get myself out of my comfy sweats and into decent clothes and get ready for company, a board meeting, seeing a bunch of people who still think I’m pregnant, and all the fun stuff that goes with that.

All I want to do is find a good book, curl up in my wonderfully soft bed and read the whole weekend long. Then maybe on Monday I can deal with the reality of what’s going on. When everyone else is done flailing their arms and wailing and walking on eggshells to see how I’m doing. I’d much rather keep this as my own grief, mine alone, but this time I’m just not afforded that luxury.

I hear the pied piper. He makes a mournful noise.

Over, again.

I knew in the night that there was no hope left. It’s over. There is no point in going up to the hospital for blood work, between the loss of symptoms, the cramping, the heavy bleeding, and the not nearly dark enough line on the hpt, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s going on.

I love my dear husband, who held me last night and grieved with me. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

And so the plans change, and change again. It sucks that I have to go through this so publicly this time. The very last thing I want, though, is to have people think, “Oh, maybe it was just a mistake, maybe she wasn’t really pregnant after all!”  So I will play out this charade for another few weeks to prevent such blasphemy. It sucks.

I called my mom last night and told her I didn’t appreciate her spilling the beans. I think she really thought, “no harm, no foul.”  Then I had to explain to her why exactly there was harm, and why now I would have to go through the process of telling EVERY ONE there would be no baby in march.

And then I had to pick up HER pieces. Why, oh why, do HER emotions get to trump everyone else’s? That’s the way it’s always been. Something happens, her emotions go wild, everyone has to stop and comfort her, reassure her, or otherwise intercede on her behalf. Or, rather, I should say, I have to stop and do these things. I think most everyone else just ignores her and lets her sort herself out. I seem to feel it’s my job to do, and I worry that if I don’t, she’ll be offended. Because it’s true! She will be offended!

It would just be nice to not have to do the comforting when I need the comfort myself. That’s exactly why I didn’t tell her last time – I just couldn’t bring myself to have to comfort HER for not being able to be here to comfort ME.  Exhausting.

More decisions to be made. I don’t want to go through this again, and we need to decide if we’re done or if we want to pursue a 4th child again but ONLY after some testing to see what my hormone levels are like. I was very serious about having messed up cycles and lower levels of progesterone than required to carry a pregnancy. Most likely that was the culprit in this case.

Black Velvet, if you please.

I was driving through annoying traffic today, kids in the back seat all trying to scream at each other or ask me yet another question about why we couldn’t go faster, when suddenly this song started up. Mind you, the sound of this song was quiet, in the background, barely audible above everything else. But suddenly it was all I could hear. Everything else faded into white noise as I was drawn into the dark bass rythmn.

I hadn’t heard that song in so many, many years. Black Velvet and that little boy’s smile. I was seventeen again, night time, cold and damp. I was standing outside the door of a truck, looking up at the boy sitting inside, his long skinny leg awkwardly dangling out the door. Black Velvet in that slow southern style. In my mind I can see the black velvet doors and roof he’d just finished hand making and installing. His face bent ponderingly over a tiny clipping of a newspaper article, a tortured expression in his eyes. A new religion that’ll bring you to your knees. His left hand absent-mindingly drummed on the steering wheel as the rythmn of this song played over and over.  I think he had this song set on repeat, it’s the only thing I remember hearing that night. Black Velvet, if you please.

He silently handed me back the clipping as the rain started falling. I stood there with my face upturned, waiting, until I knew he wouldn’t say anything, until I knew I was on the verge of looking like a fool if I didn’t already. Without another word I turned and walked back inside, rain slowly sliding down past my hairline and onto my cheeks, sticking on my eyelashes, landing on my lips like hot tears. The song faded away the further I got from that truck, yet it somehow was forever stamped onto my soul.  Funny how a song can be like that.

I stopped just inside the door and leaned back against it. I could have maybe seen the truth if I’d wanted to. Instead, I walked away choosing to think the tortured expression was somehow about me, about his decision about us. I hoped somehow the words I’d been screaming at him so silently had found a way in with that little newspaper clipping, and I kicked myself for not being able to speak a language I’d never heard before, one that I in fact could speak, if i just weren’t so afraid to. And one he would have heard.

’twas all for naught, as the saying might go. It was merciful I didn’t know what was really going through his brain that night. It would have killed me at the time, I think. I was still dying inside at the thought of not being with him for the rest of my life.  It was that little bit of hope that he was tortured over me that kept me going through that incredibly lonely year.