Let’s see another picture of my dad:
Here’s to another 60 years!
Today is my dad’s 60th birthday.
He wasn’t looking forward to this day. It’s been hard for our family as of late, but all I could want for him on his birthday is to feel proud of the past sixty years. He’s helped make our family who we are.
He’s gone from taking his girls fishing on the pond and letting them do his hair, to teaching them how to drive a standard and scaring their boyfriends. He’s watched us leave for college and not come back (because he gave us the confidence to do so). He witnessed one start a life for herself, and the other try everything she could without direction, until it finally led her 3,000 miles away (and was excited for us both). He’s walked us both down aisles, giving his little girls away with hope that small parts of us would still remain his (they have). Now he’s watching us start our families with the same love we learned from him and mom. And he has been there every step of the way. To me, it seems like a damn good way to spend 60 years.
Dad, if I could tell you just how much you mean to me, I would. Your humor, your ease, your support, your love — this is our Dad.
I’ve been your little girl from the moment you held me in your arms; and even though I no longer fit, I’m still your little girl.
There could never be a daughter who loves her father more than I love you.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
A warning: this is going to be yet again another post about the insight into miscarriage and how much it sucks. So if you’re getting tired of reading these posts (as you should be), then you should probably skip this one. But please come back, I’ll try not to always be this depressing.
I had my first appointment post-D&C today and it was….well, it happened. I was okay up until about 2 minutes into waiting in the waiting room and watching glowing-pregnant woman after pregnant woman walk in and I lost it. The tears came and they weren’t going to stop. That was supposed to be me. I’d be 8 months pregnant at this point with the second one, coming in weekly by now, anticipating anxiously what the next month would bring. Or I’d be just starting to show with the third, coming in for my 12-week appointment. But I am neither. I am someone I can’t quite recognize just yet. I’ve said this a few times, but I feel like I’m stuck in the in-between. I’m no longer the woman filled with hope and excitement of being pregnant for the first time, all the thrill still ahead of you, none of the fear of what might happen. That woman is still lucky. And I’m also not the new mother cradling her newborn, or losing sleep with the midnight crying. Where does that leave me? They don’t ever talk about this woman. They don’t tell you what it’s going to feel like, how you’re going to feel lost and unsure of how to go about your life as this new unwanted you. I am sure women who decide not to try again figure out who they are, as do, obviously, the ones that successfully get pregnant. But not at this point. At this point, I can’t see the hope that everyone keeps telling me to have. I’m sure I will get it again, but not yet. I’m still pissed that I’m not pregnant, that my body failed for a third time to grow a baby. That I’m here again so soon.
When they put me in the room to wait for the doctor, the tears were able to freely fall and I starting sobbing like a 5-year-old that fell off the swing. Looking around I realized they put me in the only room in the practice with absolutely no baby pictures. I guess I should be thankful, but instead it bothered me. There is no ignoring the fact that I was pregnant, and now I’m not. So by putting me in the only non-baby room it makes it the white elephant. It puts me in that category that I mentioned above. The woman that no longer belongs in the room with smiling babies, but not in the room with the endangered animals, either.
So yes, there is no way to make me happy at this point, if that is what you are thinking. My doctor is ordering almost every test they can do, so perhaps we will get an answer. I asked her if we should want something to be wrong so that it can be fixed, or if we should hope that everything comes back negative. She didn’t have an answer for that one. I’m not sure which way I sway, but I kind of feel like having something definitely wrong would at least give us somewhere to start. That way we wouldn’t be working on just hope the next time around. And let me take this opportunity to say that I love my doctor. She is kind, to the point, and just seems badass. She’s definitely more Christina Yang than Meredith Grey (whew!), but with a little Izzy in the mix, too. I am happy she’s on my side. There’s something to be positive about.
I’ll keep you updated on the results of the tests. I am sorry that this entire blog is just one long crying session. I hadn’t intended it to be like this. Maybe the fog in Bodega will lift eventually.
Let’s a take a little break from the doom and gloom, shall we? At least long enough to appreciate some of the things in my life that are good. It’s been hard to focus on those lately, so this is my way of reminding myself that not everything is full of sadness.
Today, I am thankful for:
1. The shade of a tree in the heat I had to drive 2 hours to find.
2. My incredible husband that understands who I am and my need to be alone right now to deal with my feelings about all this. That and the fact that he supported – wholeheartedly – a few days away by myself (encouraged even!). I don’t know how I ended up getting him, but I sure am glad he’s mine.
3. The sun on my bare back and cool water below me.
4. The kindness of strangers offering me dinner, and the wine and conversation that followed.
5. The music that’s currently on my iPod (don’t you love it when you get it just right?).
6. And as a result of #5: Bob Dylan’s harmonica.
7. Knowing that I will be okay eventually, and not feeling like I have to rush to get there.
8. And lastly, for getting to see the sun this weekend, even if I had to drive to find it.
Life can be okay, even when it’s not.
You may want to rethink putting the miscarriage survival books sandwiched between What to Expect When Expecting and the Week-by-Week Pregnancy Guide. It kind of sucks looking through books you were planning on reading to find the book you never wanted to have to read.
Did every pregnant woman in Sonoma County decide to shop at the same exact time as me this afternoon at Whole Foods? Because every direction I turned, another pregnant woman was there. And then another. And another. It was ridiculous. And infuriating. And I know they didn’t do anything to me, and I know that I don’t know their stories, their struggles, their pain, what got them there. But I was still angry at them, unjustifiably. All 20,000 of them that decided to shop at the same time I did today.
I am having a hard time believing that I have to write this post again. I’ve been keeping a secret: I was pregnant again. I was keeping it a secret because I was planning on telling my parents in person that we were pregnant when I went home last week to visit. I was going to tell them I was 10 weeks. Instead, I had to tell them I lost another baby.
Without going into specifics, the baby most likely died somewhere around 6 1/2 weeks. I did see a heartbeat at one point, but it didn’t calm my fears of what ultimately turned out to be true. They did a D & C as soon as we found out; I was 9 weeks, 4 days.
Because I left for the East coast 2 days after I was in the hospital (and a morning after a cyst on my ovary burst), I buried my feelings under my attempt at excitement for seeing my family. I could feel that I should have been more excited than I was, but I just couldn’t get there. I had wanted to tell them I was having a baby that was sticking. I wanted to tell them that I was finally going to give them the grandchild we had been hoping for. But it’s not what I was going to be able to tell them. As soon as I did, I felt a little bit of relief, but it also allowed the sadness to surface. Being surrounded by my family that I want to add to with every ounce of my soul, was difficult. I love my family more than I would ever be able to put words to. They allowed me to be sad. They let me cry on their shoulders when the pain was too much to bear. They let me be happy when I was able to, and didn’t push me to get there sooner than I wanted to.
And they didn’t make me talk about it. I haven’t wanted to talk about it at all. I have a feeling my friends think I’m pushing them away, and I hope they know that that’s not my intent. (Please know that.) I am normally such a talker and reach out to those in my circle, but I just can’t do it this time around. The feelings are the same feelings from 5 months ago. There isn’t much more to talk about. Talking isn’t going to get either of my babies back, and I just don’t see the point. I talked my heart out the first (actual second) time…and I did it enough for this time as well. I am beyond sad. I am numb. I’m not sure where I stand as far as hope and confidence for the next time. I’m hoping it will come back, because right now I can’t see anything.
I never thought I would be this person. 7 months ago, I never would have believed that this is the woman I’d become. I’m a different person entirely. I’m a mother of 2 children that are no longer here. What does that even make me? It’s like I’m stuck between motherhood and the innocence before it. I just don’t know how to feel.
I wrote a few posts while I was pregnant but was keeping them private until I told my parents. I’m going to turn them on now even though they may be painful for some to read (mainly you, Mom). I hope that life starts to live up to title I gave this blog. So far, it couldn’t be farther from the truth.
(I promise I’m not as bad as the tone of this post may lead you to think. I am hanging in there. I don’t wake up crying in the middle of the night like the first time. I can get out of bed and face the day. I’m just trying to figure out what I’m feeling, and today, it’s sadness.)