First period after D&E

32 days after my D&E my period returned.  I started feeling crampy around day 31 and knew that it was around the corner.  I also had tons of bright red cervical mucus on 8/20, so I assumed ovulation would be 8/21 or 8/22, which means that my period is here, pretty much 14 days exactly after I ovulated.  

I don't know what to feel.  I was recently pregnant; I thought it would be a year before I saw a period again considering I would be breast feeding.  I never thought I'd see my period in September 2013.  

I also can't believe how quickly the body moves on from the pregnancy. With an empty uterus my body just moved on, reset its program and once again started ovulated, preparing for another pregnancy.  How quickly the body forgets, while the heart and mind hold on, desperately hold on.  My period feels like it officially closes that physical chapter of my life, the chapter that will forever be known as the "olive chapter".  But my mind and heart will keep the chapter open, continuously writing and adding chapter after chapter, composing a book. 

I also find some solace in my period, in my body so easily returning to normal.  I know that there are some women who would kill for their period to come regularly, and those who required medical intervention in order for their period to return post D&C or D&E; so I should be thankful.  Part of me is, believe me, some of the tears I cried when I ovulated, and when I got my period were for the fact that my body seems to desperately want to regulate itself.  It seems to be returning to its "before" cycle - and that's more than I could have asked or expected.  I'll be thankful for that gift.

Ten perfect fingers & ten little toes (a poem)

You had ten perfect fingers,
Five on each hand.
I'm reminded of them each time I look at my hand.
And when I hold your father's hand,
I'm reminded that those ten perfect fingers,
Were a combination of ours.

You had ten little toes,
On two itty bitty feet.
Every time I wiggle my toes,
I wonder if you wiggled yours,
When you were inside of me.

You had ten perfect fingers,
and ten little toes,
But you never would have known they were there.
You would have never been able to grab those toes,
Or count on those fingers,
Because the neural wiring
Just wasn't there.

I keep a picture,
Of five of those perfect fingers,
Faced down in my center console,
When I step in to the car I'm reminded of my little angel
watching over me.

I hope where you are,
that you're watching me,
and that you're able to use those ten perfect fingers,
to grab those ten little toes.

I'll never feel your hand in mine,
Those soft fingers will never graze my face.
They'll never grab at my finger,
and hold on for dear life.
My dear angel,
it just wasn't your life.
The millions of tears that I cry,
will never make it your life.

Perhaps one day,
When my time on earth is through,
I'll feel those ten perfect fingers
and I'll kiss those ten little toes.

Copyright 2013 VMHC @ http://myjadedinnocence.blogspot.com/

Things that exhaust me

things that exhaust me:

• The never ending voice in my head telling me, "I am ok, I will be ok, life will go on."
• Smiling and laughing while out with my friends, because, well, it's "good for me to be out" and it gives the appearance that life is going on
• Life going on, as if nothing has changed
• The fact that everything has in fact changed
• Hiding my tears behind sunglasses
• Feeling like I need to keep my tears from my husband because he has already moved on to acceptance, and we don't need the two of us inhabiting my hell.  I don't want to reopen the compartment he has been been able to close.
• My body returning to "empty" (hormone levels, uterus, etc.)
• Knowing that my uterus is in fact empty
• Occasionally hearing the voice that screams, "I am not okay!" and desperately trying to close that compartment
• The seemingly never ending cycle of anger turning to grief turning back to anger
• Wondering why my baby wasn't fit for this earth, when every single day crack addicts and 15 year old girls give birth to physically normal children
• Acclimating myself to our new "normal"
• Accepting that this is our new "normal"
• Remembering that everything has changed

And, ultimately....

• Accepting the fact that I had absolutely no control over what happened, and have no control over future pregnancies. 

Loss impacting others, more guilt & the future

I feel like my main iPhone photo album (when you go to camera -> pictures) is just a linear history of a heart breaking.  There are photos of the positive pregnancy test from last July.  The one decision I will always regret.

Then there's the positive line from December.  I remember that morning so vividly.  It was a week and a half after we returned from Paris; our selected locale for trying to conceive for the first time.  We thought, how romantic to begin such one of the most loving of endeavors in the most romantic city in the world.  I remember putting my hand on my pelvis, and quietly saying "hello.".   I remember trying so hard to take a picture of that light, but oh so present line, so I could text it to my sister for confirmation that I wasn't going crazy.  It was 12/21.  I didn't tell C until Christmas morning.  Then I remember on 1/2, making a frittata, happily chopping vegetables, excited to use a new roasted tomato and artichoke spread that I had found at Williams-Sonoma.  But then I felt a warmth.  And it was like my heart stopped.  Instinctively I knew what the warmth meant; I knew that the pregnancy was over.  Little did I know that the next couple weeks would be crazy because while I hemorrhaged on 1/2, the pregnancy progressed for at least a week, and completed itself at the end of January.  Which is why we didn't try again until the end of March.  And, as luck would have it, I have a picture of the positive line from that single March event; it's another picture on my iPhone.

In December (and April) called my doctor for a routine blood test - she likes to monitor hcg levels and progesterone in women who have miscarried.  I had all the blood work, received all the confirmations; but never a congratulations.  My obgyn office does not congratulate a woman until she passes the first trimester.  As someone who has lost, I see why they do this, and I am thankful for this practice.  For first time mother's, they sometimes wait until after the 8 week ultrasound confirms a heartbeat.  I think that happens more when the women want to be congratulated.  I fit solely into the other camp, the one that does not want to be congratulated until the terrifying first trimester is over.

I find it to be so crazy that there are women that go through this process blissfully ignorant; convinced that their pregnancy will result in a baby; screaming immediately from the rooftops. Maybe I'm weird, but I just don't have that in me.  There's just so much that can go wrong; so much pain that can be caused; I just can't bring myself to help create hopes and dreams and excitement in others, knowing that in the back of my mind that it may not last.  No one but C knew I was pregnant in December - I told him on 12/25 and was able to keep it from his family the entire time, even though we were there for 4 days.  Somehow no one noticed I wasn't drinking.  Or I made virgin drinks and pretended they contained alcohol. I told my mother only after I miscarried.  I'm relieved I did it that way.  I'm relieved I saved her the pain of losing that grandchild - or rather, of expecting it to arrive only to find out that it wasn't destined for us.

And, considering for us, no pregnancy has ever truly lasted the test of time, I don't know when I'll again share my pregnancy.  This time around we told C's parents on Mother's Day because we had seen the heartbeat and I was about 8 weeks.  We told my parents the day after via Facetime because my sister graduated from college on Mother's Day, and I didn't want to take that day from her.  I wanted it to be about her, as it should have been.

Next time, I guess we tell after the anatomy scan?  After the CVS?  I mean, if the amnio and microarray from this pregnancy are clean, then we have to wait until after the anatomy scan as a 'perfect' CVS just wouldn't be enough.

I feel like with every pregnancy I'll be afraid of breaking not only my heart, but the hearts of all of those who love us.  How fair is that?  How do you deal with those feelings, too?  Knowing that the loss touches and breaks the hearts of everyone close to you?  I know I'm not responsible for the feelings of others, but once you have caused such intense pain in others, even when it's beyond your control, it's hard to imagine how you will react when put in that place again. My cries for the son I lost are the most primal, guttural screams of pain that I ever knew existed.  I contrast that with the joy on my mothers face when she opened the frame containing an ultrasound picture, how she jumped up and down, tears of joy streaming down her face.

All of that is gone now.  And I played a role in robbing it from her. From everyone.  It's like a highlight reel that runs through my brain that just cannot be stopped.  Everyone acts strong for me when they're with me, because they have to put on that facade; but I know that's all it is; a facade.  I know that the people we love still break down over this loss.  And those close to us with children grab their children and hold them closer, thanking whichever god they believe in that they were not us.  Hoping with all hope that they are never us.   And our friends who haven't started trying yet probably partly think we are pariahs, and hope that our bad luck/ju-ju won't rub off on them.

This event, these events, will truly reverberate in every word, every action, every decision we make in the future.  They have reshaped the way that we look at the world.  That song about painting with all the colors of the wind?  Well, our palette has forever changed.

Guilt

I often feel guilty for never speaking to my son while he was there.  In fact,  I recall sitting in the car, openly apologizing to him for my lack of verbal communication.  I told him I was sorry I couldn't find the words to speak or talk to him, but that I still needed confirmation.  I still needed to know that he was in for the long haul.  I told him these words when I "thought" he could hear, per the baby books of course, even though I knew he couldn't understand.  If he heard anything, he just heard the "blah blah blah"that the Charlie Brown characters hear whenever an adult speaks to him.

But still, I felt so guilty.  I would ask C if it was wrong of me.  At 18 weeks I was barely showing, it looked like maybe I ate an extra doughnut and couldn't button the top button of my Hudson's - so I bought maternity jeans - the only purchase made that put faith in my being in it for the "long haul".  I rarely ever touched my stomach, if I did, it was because I was uncomfortable and wanted to reinforce that there was, in fact, a baby in there.  Since he was a little small, it's possible I wasn't showing for that reason, or, it's possible I was bound to be a late shower.  My uterus did move up, so next time I may show earlier.

We went to Bellini, PBK, and I had planned a trip to Boston to go to RHB&C to look at nursery furniture.  There were a few other specialty shops on the list, but C & I went to Bellini & PBK together.  And I'll never forget the day.  He fell in love with a set at Bellini and wanted to buy it right there.  He was so ready, he was so "in".  But I wasn't.  My heart was still reserved and told him we had to wait.  The saleswoman assured us many times that the most we would lost if we canceled the order was $50.  What she didn't realize is that I didn't give a crap about the money.  If we were canceling that order it meant that it was because there would be no baby to sleep in it; that no baby would have come home.

I've told my therapist that if we are blessed with a next time, I won't be able to look at the ultrasound monitors or televisions until after the anatomy scan.  I won't be able to see anything on the screen.   A simple nod from the techs will be enough.  I waited until 14 weeks to start a pregnancy journal for this baby.  C put all the ultrasound pictures into the book, and put the book in the box, and the box is in storage.  All that is left of our son is in storage.  Whether or a storage unit, a hospital storage freezer, or recesses of our brans that we refuse to allow ourselves to enter.  That is where our son lives now.  C made the mistake of reading the journal before he put it in storage.  He was glad he did it while I was sleeping because he cried.  He cried at my words because my words told even the baby that I waited so long to write in his book, because I couldn't believe he was real, and that he would be coming home to us.  In it I wrote the story of the first time C heard his heartbeat via fetal doppler one morning at 9 weeks. We had had 2 ultrasounds at that point and saw Olive, but hearing his fast, strong heartbeat was a completely different experience.  C said hello to him and told him he sounded like a train.  and then nearly 11 weeks later, he said good-bye.

I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling guilty for thinking maybe I was at fault for not committing 100%; for needing so much to believe that my baby was healthy, and that in December he would be in my arms.  But now, with our ending, can you even blame me?

Hope

People keep asking, "How do you feel?".

Usually, I don't feel like answering the question.  In fact, I never want to answer the question.  It's not a question with a simple answer; and it barely has an answer.

My typical response is, "hopeful."

People must sigh with relief when they hear this response.  It's clean, it's cut, and it's dry.  People don't have to worry about tears, or an onslaught of emotions for which they are unprepared (and sincerely dreading)

People smile when they hear this response, clinging to the thought that we are looking into the future and perhaps moving beyond our past.

But what they don't realize is...

What other response can I give?

If there's no hope, what is left?

8 days later

Whenever I heard stories of a couple losing their baby, or child, I always wondered how the family coped.  How did they find the energy, the strength, the fortitude to get up every.single.day and wash, rinse, repeat.  How does a couple found a way to wake up every.single.day knowing that their lives are never, ever going to be the same.  How they would be able to look at each other without getting lost in grief, remembering what they almost had, or what they could have had if only the stars had aligned differently.

But then, suddenly, it does happen to you.  You're sitting there one day, grasping the hand of your partner, hoping with every ounce of energy, that you are going to hear good news.  But it doesn't come. (In my case, the bad news just didn't stop coming, but that's for later in the story.) You find your grasp becoming firmer and firmer, until it suddenly goes limp, and your hand is hanging there.  You feel like all of you is hanging there.  That you're slowly, but perpetually falling and there's no bottom to this cliff; there's no valley; there's not even a hell.  This perpetual drop (which also proves that gravity is much stronger than 9.8m/s^2) is in fact endless.  You'll spend days, weeks, month, or some inordinate amount of time in this free fall.  People tell you not to mark time by the loss.  That when the leaves change you shouldn't say, "He would have been 'x" now." or, "We would have been preparing the nursery now.  The crib would be arriving any day." because it's unhealthy.  It's not part of moving on.  And, at the end of the day, we need to move on.  We need to find a way to function on a daily basis knowing that the future that we were led to expect, is no longer our future.  That with the flip of a switch, that has changed.

I'm new to this free fall this time around, but in the grand scheme of things, I have lost before.  I lost in February 2007 - it was the one time C and I forgot to use protection, and 2 weeks later I was staring at a positive line.  We were engaged at the time, and we had no idea how we would proceed.  Little did I know that we wouldn't even have to decide because I miscarried.  Honestly, it could have even been a CP; the only evidence the doctor had of my pregnancy was the positive urine test.  We never did a blood test as I wasn't sure how we were going to proceed with the pregnancy.

I miscarried again last July, but that was *sigh* by choice, and a choice that will now haunt me for the rest of my life.  My therapist continuously tells me that karma doesn't work that way, and that I am now not being punished for my decision, but it's still difficult to keep my mind from going there.  It wants to go there because it wants to place blame, it wants a reason, it wants answers for what happened this time around.  I chose to terminate because I was taking class x medications at the time of conception, and even for a week or two after as I wasn't expecting to be pregnant.  All of my doctors were in agreement with my decision to terminate.

My loss in January is documented earlier in this blog, and I don't want to rehash it here.  Perhaps I will at a later point, but I want to be able to delve into the grief that my husband and I are feeling now as it's paramount on my mind, and is our current hell.

Initial reaction 24 hours post amnio

So, the 24 hours results are back....

1. Chromosomally male - scrotum may not have dropped or differentiated itself at this point.
2. Negative for trisomy 13, 18 and 21 - full karyotype will be in by next Tuesday
3. Amniotic AFP level should be in on Thursday, but other information will be trickling in daily.

Appointments at Columbia are Friday at 8am - ultrasound, fetal echo and genetic counseling.  The genetic counseling is really for DH as he still needs to be karyotyped, mine was done in January and is normal. 

If Columbia confirms Dandy-Walker we will *sigh* be terminating next Thursday or Friday.  I don't advise researching Dandy-Walker; it's terrible.  It's estimated prevalence is 1:~30,000 live births, and if it is completely random and LO is genetically normal, I truly hope that lightening doesn't strike twice.  We will be doing exome sequencing of the fetus to add to the total amount of genetic information that is available for DW, and to see if we can pinpoint a genetic cause.  Hopefully one day that information will help other parents.  After all we have been through between previous pregnancies and this one, we are strongly considering IVF with genetic screening next time around.  My peri feels that it's a very realistic plan that she endorses, and will work with setting me up with a top RE.

It will obviously take us a long time to heal from this, and I think my DH is having a much more difficult time coming to terms with it.  What hurts the most is that there is no way to heal this pain.  There is no way to fix it.  There is literally no way to put the pieces of hope and dreams back together.  There's nothing to stop the pain, and there is nothing that will make future pregnancies any easier.  They already feel tainted.  I feel like we lost our innocence through all the miscarriages, and now, with this pregnancy, I'm left with anger.  I'm mourning a life that will never truly come to be, yet was already full of so much love.  I'm mourning DH and I's sense of innocence, our faith that things will be okay.  In the end we will come to terms with this and accept the fate, but it will never, ever be okay.

Once this is over DH and I are going to take a long trip to Italy and do our best to heal together.  I will drink copious amounts of espresso, red wine and questionable cheeses. We are likely going to spend Christmas abroad because it's going to be too difficult to be here on my EDD and plan to move (though we will stay in our current area) because it's time for a change of scenery. I'm going to have olive trees planted in our parents backyards, and hope that they grow big and strong.  We will find peace, even though it will be at the end of a very long road.

4 years ago I lost my best friend to cystic fibrosis.  if there is a heaven, I hope she finds my little man and takes him under her wing.