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.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
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/
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/
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Grief
Why can't grief be one directional and linear? Why must it be circular, a loop that leads back to nothing but sadness.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
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.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Maternal v. Paternal Grief & Judgement
Friday night C and I had dinner with 2 other couples. Both couples suffered losses later in their pregnancy. 2 of the losses were TFMR, and 1 was an actually delivery and loss incredibly late in her last trimester.
While we feel alone, we are not alone. We are never, ever alone. Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.
I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began. This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him. We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own. There is no shame in that decision. There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand. You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes. When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all. Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own? Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ? Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world? Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats. You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.
Millions of women cry every Mother's Day; women cry for the children they have lost, for the children they are yet to have. Women cry for the children they desperately want; whether they be babies who never graced the earth on their own, or babies that couples dreams about daily, and hoping beyond hope to one day conceive.
These women cry in silence; grieve in silence. Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them. Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents. Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged. But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother. And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.
Many of these couples have other children. They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain. They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children. But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause. They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.
Then there are the men. The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers. Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition. As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons. Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world. These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.". Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.
Some of these men were preparing for daughters. For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired. They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter. Part of them changed. Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out. And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.
I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself. I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son. He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world. C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all. Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over. He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered. The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.
C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.
The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant. And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it. Life changes. Life is never the same.
While we feel alone, we are not alone. We are never, ever alone. Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.
I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began. This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him. We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own. There is no shame in that decision. There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand. You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes. When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all. Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own? Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ? Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world? Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats. You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.
These women cry in silence; grieve in silence. Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them. Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents. Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged. But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother. And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.
Many of these couples have other children. They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain. They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children. But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause. They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.
Then there are the men. The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers. Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition. As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons. Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world. These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.". Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.
Some of these men were preparing for daughters. For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired. They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter. Part of them changed. Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out. And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.
I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself. I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son. He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world. C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all. Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over. He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered. The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.
C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.
The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant. And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it. Life changes. Life is never the same.
Small acts of kindness
I like to acknowledge small acts of kindness; especially those that truly go a long way with the recipient.
Today's acknowledgment, and thank you goes out to the obgyn I saw for 6 years, and had to transfer out of when I hit 1 weeks. She saw me through multiple miscarriages, comforted DH & I when we lost in January, and was genuinely so happy for us when we got pregnant this time. She told me when she saw ultrasound pics on her desk - she cheered for us. She also called me when she heard the 18 week prognosis from my current ob, just to see how I was doing.
On Friday I was waiting for my re-check I heard my phone vibrating. I couldn't answer it, but when I finally got to it, noticed the number resembled that of my normal obgyn. At my 12 week ultrasound my core ob finally congratulated me on my pregnancy (she knew up to that point I was too scared to hear that word), hugged me, and told me she would miss me. She said that at my 11 week scan (post a bleeding episode) the u/s tech handed her the u/s images she started cheering, because she was so happy that the blood was benign.
Well, it was my original ob that was calling Friday morning. her voicemail made me cry. She called just to tell me she was thinking of DH & I, hoping that we are well, and that if we ever need someone to talk to about this pregnancy, or as we approach the next, that her door is always open to us. The fact that I randomly crossed her mind, and that she actually picked up the phone just to ask, "How ARE you?", actually caring about the response, means so much to me. In my occupation I work with physicians on a daily basis, and so few of them actually move me and remind me that there are doctors who go above and beyond their typical call of duty. (oncologists & REs generally being the exception to this statement.)
Right now, I am floored by the kindness of this doctor and the fact that she went out of her way to call me. Just to say she was thinking of me, just to make sure I'm okay.. I'll call her back this week and thank her, and I hope she will be able to understand me through my tears - tears that are a mix of gratitude and genuine sadness.
Today's acknowledgment, and thank you goes out to the obgyn I saw for 6 years, and had to transfer out of when I hit 1 weeks. She saw me through multiple miscarriages, comforted DH & I when we lost in January, and was genuinely so happy for us when we got pregnant this time. She told me when she saw ultrasound pics on her desk - she cheered for us. She also called me when she heard the 18 week prognosis from my current ob, just to see how I was doing.
On Friday I was waiting for my re-check I heard my phone vibrating. I couldn't answer it, but when I finally got to it, noticed the number resembled that of my normal obgyn. At my 12 week ultrasound my core ob finally congratulated me on my pregnancy (she knew up to that point I was too scared to hear that word), hugged me, and told me she would miss me. She said that at my 11 week scan (post a bleeding episode) the u/s tech handed her the u/s images she started cheering, because she was so happy that the blood was benign.
Well, it was my original ob that was calling Friday morning. her voicemail made me cry. She called just to tell me she was thinking of DH & I, hoping that we are well, and that if we ever need someone to talk to about this pregnancy, or as we approach the next, that her door is always open to us. The fact that I randomly crossed her mind, and that she actually picked up the phone just to ask, "How ARE you?", actually caring about the response, means so much to me. In my occupation I work with physicians on a daily basis, and so few of them actually move me and remind me that there are doctors who go above and beyond their typical call of duty. (oncologists & REs generally being the exception to this statement.)
Right now, I am floored by the kindness of this doctor and the fact that she went out of her way to call me. Just to say she was thinking of me, just to make sure I'm okay.. I'll call her back this week and thank her, and I hope she will be able to understand me through my tears - tears that are a mix of gratitude and genuine sadness.
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