Letters to Ronan

Four Years

2012-01-26T21:57:00.002-06:00

My dearest Ronan,

When I found out I was pregnant with you, I knew immediately that you were a boy. It was late July 2007, and I got up early to test and when I saw the strong line, I crawled back into bed and hugged your father and said 'it's positive, Daddy'. We were so happy and in love. And innocent. So very innocent.

I don't know why it was in the cards to only have you for 28 short weeks, but I want you to know that you have forever changed us. You made us patient parents who really take the time to listen and enjoy our children. Even when we are frustrated with your sister's terrible 3s tantrums! I think R would have made you laugh on a daily basis, and you would've fiercely guarded her tender heart, which is always so pure and sweet that it should be a crime if anyone ever tries to break it. Your baby brother is such a sweet, gentle soul. He smiles and coos in such a way that you can't help yourself when you want to hold him tight and kiss him. R adores him. We all do.

I really believe that all of you knew each other before you all were born and came into our lives. And I believe when we take our leave from this life we will all know each other again. But the mortal part of me is forever selfish. I wanted you. I wanted to see you grow. I wanted to kiss your sleepy baby head, to cheer at your ballgames, to see how you looked at your fiance walking down the aisle to you, to see you hold your own children. This is the part that hurts the most, and it is what lingers as I watch your siblings do and learn all these fabulous things.

I know you know my heart, and how you will always have a place there. Thank you for being my son, and making me a mother. I promise I will always try to make you proud.
I love you Ronan. Forever.

Love,
Mommy

Perspective

2012-01-25T19:54:00.002-06:00

I had a horrible day.

It started on Monday with a crashed hard drive and the agonizing wait for 2 whole days to determine how bad the loss was.

Since moving to Ohio our fail-safe back up was not an option--and I will admit I got lazy with the back ups to the extremely slow external hard drive. I had hope that the damage wasn't so bad. The teenaged-looking tech told me that he saved '90%-95% of the hard drive'.

But when I got it back, that 10% had all the vital things I needed. My final reports, my signed documents, my FY12 proposals, all my mail from 2011, my data sheets. Everything. That. Was. Important.

I closed my office door and I cried. The sleep deprived-Reese couldn't pull it together, couldn't take it in stride, or even convince herself that it would be ok. I cried angry, tired tears at the unfairness of it all. My team started to whisper that their fearless leader was melting down. I IM'd my boss that it was all gone. He walked down from the Commander's Suite and offered condolences and bad jokes that eventually lifted my mood. My sweet tech slid a latte across my desk, and quietly said he thought I could use a pick-me up.

I managed to get it together about an hour later. I made a strategic plan about how to bounce back, channeled a little William Wallace ala Braveheart to pump myself up from this awful blow.

Then in the middle of clicking on the files and muttering that this sucked and how awful it all was, I caught glimpse of the date.

Four years ago I was in labor--hellishly awful labor to deliver my dead son.

And it occurred to me that if I survived that, lost files were a cake walk.

Happy New Year!

2012-01-01T13:49:00.005-06:00

It's amazing how quickly time passes from one day to the next.

We came home with a little nugget of a boy, barely 6 lbs 5 oz after losing almost a pound in the hospital, and struggled through a lot of November to put him back to his birth weight. We struggled with breast milk jaundice, which was a huge slap in the face since this time around I had milk aplenty to feed the boy. This basically kept the boy jaundiced (not extremely so), kept him sleepy, and it was such a challenge to wake him up and feed him. I did all sorts of tricks to try to overcome it, and it worked pretty good but not great, and I was mentally and physically exhausted from everything.

Then there was a hole in the heart scare that started with a murmur and a chest x-ray and escalated to an immediate trip to Children's to rule out what the technician thought he/she saw. God bless the wonderful African-born cardiologist with her familiar accent who walked into the room after the echocardiogram and said "First off I wish to say I bring NO BAD NEWS". Until that moment, I didn't realize P and I had been holding out breath. Henry lay lazily against my chest, stressed out and exhausted from the traumatic ordeal of having his heart ultrasound.

We started supplementing a simple 2-4 oz a day and finally countered the damn jaundice and Henry woke up and started eating like there was no tomorrow, gaining 13 oz in a single week once he stopped being so damn tired from the excess bilirubin that just refused to break down and go away.

We had a few people over for Thanksgiving, and then we had visits from P's parents and my father and step mother that were nice and exhausting all in the same visits. It was difficult to convey to them what we needed, how we could be helped and it amazed me how they would stand there and await instructions on what to do with their granddaughter, or stare at dishes and not wash them. I had never been so glad to have them gone, because it was like taking care of a multitude of people, and it just was so damn exhausting just taking care of Henry.

Trying to get ready for Christmas was insane. We managed to get the tree, decorate the tree, pull out the decorations, shop and truth be told, it's all a blur. The girl had a fantastic time, and so did the boy, but all Christmas felt to me was the endpoint, for it was the week after Christmas that I was due back to work.

Sweet Girl With her Dolly

Sweet Boy with his Reindeer Rattle

This past week was my first week back to work, and it was a great time to go back because almost 95% of my team was out on vacation. I managed to get my bearings and get over my frustrations out about things that just fell apart. But I was grateful the lab was in one piece--it's really all that I could ask for.

Pumping has been going pretty well. But most people were gone this past week, so I could relax and let it happen. When everyone is back, knocking on my door, demanding my attention, we will see how it goes.

There is more to say, about how the hole in the heart scare really shook me to my core, and how all of this has segued into the shit month of January. The highs of the girl's birthday in less than a week and the lows of Ronan's 4 year anniversary.

I can't get my head around the fact that it's been four years. Jesus, where does the time go?

Carry On My Wayward Son....

2011-11-21T11:13:00.007-06:00

Around 4am on Halloween morning I woke up feeling contractions. Nothing too crazy--I thought that they could be Braxton-Hicks. But by 6am I was feeling the same pain at the top of my belly in a rhythm--indicative of true blue labor. By 7am, I sent a text to 2 of my team members to implement the 'I am in labor' plan, because I was suppose to give a brief that morning, but luckily, we had a plan in place just in case. At 7:15 am, I got in the shower and told P that I was in labor, but I was going to get a shower before we went to the L&D.

We got to L&D at 8:30, and the nurse at the doc office already called them and told them that I was en route. This labor was already different from the previous 2. I was having contractions every 5 minutes, and my belly ached. They put me in triage, and put the Doppler on to measure the heart beat and contractions. The doctor on call for the group came in---and of course she was the one doc I had never met. She was older and kind of a no-nonsense kind of girl. Didn't seem too friendly, and I was already sad that this was going to be the person to deliver me. But, after 2 more interactions, she smiled a little at my smart ass comments, and I knew we would be a-ok.

By 10:30 I was being prepped for surgery. And the majority of the prep was the trying to find a vein for an IV. I have terrible veins (deep and hidden), and the anesthesiologist came in (another woman) and was so warm and friendly, that she made me love her right away. She tried only once to find a vein (after numbing me no less!) and then called for the Doppler and did it properly. It took about 30 minutes for that whole procedure to be completed. She explained everything in great detail and patted my arm, assuring me that everything was going to be ok. She asked how many children we had, and I told her we lost our first child to stillbirth from Trisomy 18. She said she was so sorry to hear that. It was nice that she was sympathetic. Everyone was that heard our story.

It happened so fast. The being wheeled to surgery, the spinal block, the sheet being lifted above me (which incidentally, was a lot LOWER than when we were in San Antonio. I could see the docs pushing and prodding. Craziness!), the feeling of panic that always sets in when they are pulling things.

"The fluid is clear" the resident said.
"Here he comes!" the anesthesiologist said.

And I heard the wondrous sound. The cries. And cries. And cries. He cried more than the girl did. I was actually awake for this, and could see them working on him and give him a kiss while my innards were being pushed back into me.

Around that time, I was feeling some searing pain in my chest. Burning in my breasts of all things. Hormones? It was so painful that Dr. Wonderful Lady gave me a shot of something and I was loopty-loop for the rest of the day. The very wonderful nice thing about this hospital was that Henry was with us from the second he was born. He was not whisked away to another area. He stayed with me in the OR and in recovery. It was a nice thing to always have my {now very much drugged} eye on him.

Recovery in the hospital was going well until the end of the 2nd day. My blood pressure really spikes after delivery, and since I didn't actually labor long (which is where it tends to get out of control high because of the pain aspect of it all), I really thought it wasn't going to spike this go round and I could go home early. Nope. By Wednesday morning Dr. P came in and said "you know the drill. We have to get you stable here before you can go home. We want to make sure that you are not going to have to come back to the ER, because then you are not in our hands anymore". Which made sense. My BP was reaching the 160/110 range (on meds!), which is high, but normal. The nurse (young thing as she was) was freaking out a little, which in turn made me freak out. Deep down I knew it was normal, but something about a medical professional freaking out unnerved me.

I was getting stir crazy, and a bit lonely. It was hard not having the family there to keep me company. P would run home and spend some time with the girl and bring her to visit, but by Wednesday night, I was pretty much done with that place. I had a lot of pain (more so than last time) and I just wanted to be home in my own bed. (BTW, who designed those damn beds? Insanity).

By Thursday I was given my fistful of meds, including the powerful BP drug (and my BP is slowly coming down from insane range to the mid-high range 140s/90s). I had to deal with an incision infection that was caught early (thanks be to Jesus for my background as a microbiologist), and two hematomas that are causing me grief at the ends of my incision. But it has really been only this week that I have felt some semblance of normalcy. I thank the NP at my doctor's office, Carol. She has been a blessing, letting me come in weekly to make sure this scar and hematoma are under control. She asked about my mood the last time I was there, and I said with all honesty, I was feeling better. Much better than week 2 when I was convinced I was going to die from a virulent infection or from a stroke.

Henry is a sweet child. He sleeps a lot, but when he is awake he just hangs with you and just is.... He is most comfortable in the arms of anyone. There is only one time that in my sleep-deprived state that I mumbled his name and accidentally called him Ronan. And then I cried when I nursed him. I don't know how the hell I did that. I purposefully did not name him an "R" name because I didn't want to chance that happening on a regular basis.

He and Radha look the same. And they both resembled Ronan. It's a nice thing that my children look like each other. I feel somehow that I can imagine what he would have been like at these different ages.

On the second day, a nice young lady photographer came in and offered a photo shoot of Henry. I let her do it. She took a sleepy Henry and posed him in his nice, new blankie and snapped his picture.

"Do you have any other children at home?" she asked in between snaps.

"He's the second child we are bringing home," I said.

She stopped snapping.

"That's what I say. I have two at home and two in heaven," she said.

We nodded in respect for each other's loss. It was like my words were equivalent to the secret handshake. She knew what that meant, the power of the phrasing of those words.

She did good work. This was my favorite pic out of all of them...

And there was that moment, when we were about to leave the hospital, P snapped this picture of me holding Henry. He looked at the camera, and he wept when he saw the picture. The last time I held a baby boy we were not able to take him home...

There is not the blanket of grief on us this time, but the dusting that remains. And it will always remain....

Happy Halloween!

2011-11-02T08:42:00.003-05:00

Baby Henry came into the world about 11:45 a.m. Halloween morning. Guess he was too excited and couldn't wait for his scheduled C-section on November 4th! :)

He weighed 7 lbs 5 oz and was 20.5 inches longs. He has a head full of dark hair and is really one of the sweetest babies I have ever met.

We are doing fine, and hoping to be home in a day or so.

XOXOXO---Reese

November 4, 2011

2011-10-25T20:35:00.002-05:00

D-Day.

This is the day that they will go and fetch the boy if he does not end up following his big sister's footsteps and come on his own early.

We are just hanging out. I have doctor's appointments 2x a week. Everything seems fine and dandy. I am slowly biding my time.

I do find it amusing that the Perinatologist keeps asking if I am still working 'outside of the home'. I feel like asking him "this is the US, no? We haven't woken up in Canada, Finland, or the UK where we actually give proper maternity leave, now have we???"

Work is crazy busy, but as my Colonel pointed out, I'm just going to have to let go and assume it will get done.

That's all from here, folks. Thanks for checking in on me. :)

Blood Pressure and Sugar

2011-10-07T22:29:00.003-05:00

So, did I ever mention that I get hypertensive with pregnancy? And that I get gestational diabetes?

The hypertension was pretty intense with the girl. It climbed up slowly starting at about 24 weeks, and I was popping methlydopa like candy by the time I delivered. A lot of it was just the stress of the unknown. And the gestational diabetes was well maintained with diet and a smidge of metformin.

Fast forward to this pregnancy. Blood pressure held off until 33 weeks. Since it's been 3 years, they decided to try a new drug on me, convinced that methyldopa doesn't work well. I took it in the morning, and two hours later there were bugs crawling on my face and I was vomiting in the bathroom next to my office. Back on methyldopa I went. And my blood pressure has been pretty stable with no protein in my urine. So this is PIH (pregnancy induced hypertension) and not pre-eclampsia (in case you were wondering).

The sugar situation is the same, but I have been doing really well with the diet, but for some UNKNOWN reason, they have become a bit psycho in the medical community about keeping fasting blood sugars below 90 in the morning. Mine hover around 93. So, after a week of more than 4 readings coming in above 90, they prescribed a med to help lower the fasting blood sugars. They started me on the lowest dose a couple of days ago. My blood sugar was 80 this morning. And I was starving. Like insane hungry. Then about 4 hours after lunch today, I started shaking. Badly. I took my blood sugar and it was 60! One of my Colonels (who is an M.D.) was trying like hell to find something for me to eat quickly to get my blood sugar back up. His daughter is Type I diabetic and he was (is) at a loss on why they prescribed a med when I was not having fasting glucose above 100. As I was leaning against my car I joked that they were trying to make sure the last 4 weeks of pregnancy were complete and utter hell on me. He agreed.

I am 35 weeks on Monday. They are going to fetch him at 38 weeks because of the PIH (even though it's under control). That means the week of Oct. 31-Nov 5 will be D-Day.

We've had lots of ultrasounds, and they show his chubby cheeks and a head full of hair. I get weepy at the thought that I get to meet him in a few weeks.

I have a baby shower tomorrow. Gifts have been spilling in. Little outfits of blue and brown. Blankets with monkeys on them. I feel almost normal.

Almost.

Boys Vs. Girls

2011-09-14T20:24:00.003-05:00

I start twice a week monitoring next week. 6 weeks until D-day. And I am beginning to really start to feel what bringing this baby home will mean.

The beautiful thing about bringing the girl home after we lost Ronan was that she was a girl. I prayed when I got pregnant again that it wasn't a boy, because I was worried about the shadow of a son after losing a son. I didn't know if there would be comparisons, or a deeper guilt because his brother was not here.

I worry about that now. Is it logical? I don't really know....

For those of you who brought a baby home that was the same sex as the one you lost---was it tougher, do you think? Or am I just overanalyzing everything now?

Lattes and Cancer

2011-08-22T19:57:00.003-05:00

The first time I ever had a coffee---the type with all the chocolate, cream and yummy yummy sinfulness---was in 1997. I was taking Physics II at a ridiculous hour, like 4:00-5:15 Tuesdays and Thursdays. I hated that class, hated that the teacher was not a teacher but more of a paid babysitter who used his paycheck to funnel his wickedly clever ideas. I was rolling into the Science building and my friend Taindee was manning the newest coffee cart. 1997 was the year that Starbucks and its competitors really hit Texas. The idea of paying $3 for a cup of coffee was completely all the rage. Until this point I had swallowed coffee with 30 creams and 30 sugars to make it through all-nighters at the Jim's down the way from the university.

Taindee was the happiest of people, and was always ready with a smile. She also had this infectious laugh that got everyone going. We were in two student organizations together, and it was always a good time when Taindee was at an event.

"Hey Reese, how's it going?" Taindee asked, smiling.
"Ugh, horrible. I hate this class," I said.
"What class?" she asked
"Physics II," I said.
"Ah, the smart people's class," she joked. Taindee was an art major, truly talented in her own right.
"Here. Take a coffee with you," she said.
She began to steam, froth, and drip. Two minutes later she handed me a tall cup of dreaminess that forever changed my perception of coffee.
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, reaching for my wallet.

She winked "First one is free."

I found Taindee again on Facebook about a year ago. The first thing I noticed about her profile pic is that she was bald. Chemotherapy bald. My heart sank.

She seemed upbeat, but she was battling lung cancer. A freak cancer with an unknown cause. She had never smoked. She assumed the fumes from the chemicals in the art room may have caused it.

She was on her third relapse when I got in contact with her. Medicaid agreed to let her try to battle it one more time. Her Facebook posts got few and far in between. I went searching for answers about how she was doing today and found that she lost her battle a couple of months ago. I was mad at myself for not keeping up like I should have during that time. I blame the move, the insanity of pregnancy, everything...

She was a good person. The kind of person who brings light and happiness on a dark day. The most depressing thing about all this (other than the fact that cancer blows), is that I am getting to an age where people I know are dying, or enduring life threatening illnesses. I have another high school friend that is battling cervical cancer, and this is her 3rd time to bat as well. I foolishly think that 35 is young, and that life is boundless and infinite. I know it isn't, but on paper and in theory it is, no?

I am better for knowing Taindee, and I guess in the end that is all we can ever hope to gain or leave behind---our legacy of sorts. The memory that someone holds of you in some random moment---a nice moment where we take the time to sit and smile.

Taindee and coffee are my random moments. I wonder what random moments someone will hold of me when I'm gone?

Thirteen More Weeks

2011-08-08T19:55:00.002-05:00

A lot of things have been keeping me rightfully distracted the last 26 weeks.

Wow, I am already 26 weeks.

Work, primarily. Work. I have been acting Chief for a few months, and they officially made me the Chief two weeks ago. I have been doing all sorts of Chief and Senior Scientists things that have me in meetings, or calls, or turning in a million things at once. I was in DC last week, making friends and influencing people (ha!). And in two weeks, I will be flying down to Texas for hopefully my last meeting. I am drawing the line at flying after 30 weeks.

I had my follow up ultrasound today, and the boy cooperated and showed me and the ultrasound tech 4 chambers of his beautifully beating heart. He also showed me that he has his father's feet and his cheeks that are starting to fill out.

I registered. That was a surreal experience. I am trying to move forward, move like a 'normal' preggo woman. But then I get a phone call from an old friend, who wanted a sounding board for her co-worker who's wife is pregnant with twins, a boy and girl. The boy was diagnosed with Trisomy 18. They are trying to figure out what to do. I gave my 2 cents. If it was me, I would wait it out. They are 27 weeks along. I passed along my email and phone number. Just to make them feel they weren't alone.

Who am I fooling?

This is my new normal. I am pregnant with a seemingly healthy boy on the outside, but in my mind I have seen the light. The creepy crawlies that lurk. For every 10 babies born healthy, I hear of 1 that hasn't made it. And it doesn't so much hurt my heart in a devastating way so much anymore, but rather I feel I am a warrior now in this battle, seasoned and maybe a little pickled. I am the one the young ones come to when they are scared, or when devastation comes knocking on their door. I don't know how to feel about that. Honored? Bitter? Complacent, maybe.

I have 13 more weeks to go. And I told my doc this morning that there are many mini battles to be waged in this time period. She agreed. But in the meantime, my body seems to be cooperating. Fingers crossed that it continues.

Singing in the Rain

2011-07-26T21:34:00.005-05:00

One day my itty bitty baby turned into a little girl. How the hell did that happen?

She is an avid singer of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, The ABCs, Sesame Street, and Elmo's World theme song.

She can count to 20, expertly forgetting the number 13. Not quite sure why.

She is a bit of a stinker. If you tell her to take her finger out of her nose, she places the other one up her nostril and smiles.

I love her so much, and I think she will be an excellent big sister. I pray that she gets that chance....

Boys Will Be Boys

2011-06-29T20:07:00.002-05:00

20 week Level II ultrasound.

The heart remained illusive, which means that I have to return soon to get a look at the 4 chambers.

The spine looked good, and all measurements were within 1 week of my due date.

In the midst of measuring the femurs, I saw a peek-a-boo, confirming what I knew to be true from the get go. He is a boy.

I remembered when we found out Ronan was a boy. I remember being happy, scared, and a million things. Now I feel mostly scared. Scared that I won't bring this one home either. It didn't help that they made an appointment for 28 weeks to look at the heart. It was too deja vu for me. I have a regular appointment in a couple of weeks. I am going to ask my OB to schedule an ultrasound before then to look at the heart. (Ronan's heart had a ventricular septal defect, and I just want confirmation that this baby's heart looks good).

I know this baby is a different child, but there are feelings that linger, and will always linger. I just hope I am up for the challenge. Because today it just seems like too much for my poor soul to bear....

1230 Days Later

2011-06-11T11:34:00.003-05:00

I remember being about 10 days into this new life. I was completely post-partum, bleeding, breasts sore, filled with milk with no baby to nurse. I felt I had been ripped physically from the life that was rightfully mine. I stood in the cool February evening, and I thought if the world swallowed me whole, I would not ever fight it. How does anyone move from that place? How does anyone ever laugh or smile again? The world seemed so different at this point. I equated it to being dropped at the top of the mountain and told to climb down. The first inclination was to say f-it and just jump. It would’ve been so much easier.

People closest to me buzzed around me lost, not knowing how to cope with witnessing their ‘rock’ crumble to pieces. I had one friend called me up hysterically crying telling me she felt useless to help me, and begged me to help her help me. And I all I could do was sit down and exhale. Numb. Defeated.

The world moved forward. My friends started to give birth and produce the shadow babies that would follow me and remind me further of what I lost. My best friend from childhood took the prize home for the most gut-wrenching blow when his son was delivered healthy on Ronan’s due date that April. He wrote me an e-mail and said that he understood if I hated him forever. When I read his words, and saw my gentle friend offer his heart and our almost 30 year friendship up as a sacrificial lamb in hopes to take away some of my pain, I crumpled to the ground and left that grief-strickened, heart-sick girl there on the floor. And a new Reese stood up.

The road was filled with hellacious downs, and seemingly ok days. Part of the really low times were hormonal. Those first few months, especially when the evil period showed its head again, I could feel the roller coaster making its ascend up the scary incline. And I was powerless to stop it. I learned very quickly that I just had to buckle down and let the horrid ride finish its course. It was then for the first time that I understood the power of the chemicals in my body. These hormones that excacerbated my grief 1000x, bringing to light all the minor details my brain tried to hide from me in my day-to-day existence (Remember his red lips? He had your nose. Do you remember how you thought he was thrashing around earlier that day? That’s probably when he died, and you did nothing about it). The ride was evil, harsh, and there was more than one occasion when I wanted to put a bullet in my head to stop the video of his silent birth being played over and over again in my mind.

We went through the motions of my surprise pregnancy with my daughter with the idea that we would not get attached and when and if disaster struck, we would at least salvage the small part of our heart we had begun to reconstruct. Dr. S was ecstatic for me on that first appointment, congratulating me to the point that I had to run out of the room to throw up in the adjacent bathroom. I was numb again. He sighed said that it was going to be a long 9 months. Little did we know.

There were appointments with high risk docs, tests and more tests. Scans and more scans. All of them showed a healthy baby. A healthy baby due on the date that Ronan was born---January 26th. None of it made me feel less anxious, less doomed. There were all the problems of incompetent cervixes, cord accidents, placental abruptions, etc. etc. that still had to be overcome. Every month I came back to my OB with a list of complications that I wanted to be assured I didn’t have. I’m sure he kept a 5th of vodka in his bottom drawer just for me those days he saw me. Then she started to move, and I eased up a bit, but then she never kept a pattern and I began losing my shit on a daily basis. I would constantly poke, dig, drink coffee, whatever to wake this child up. And then on a scary ride into work after Thanksgiving, even after eating a sugar breakfast, coffee, nothing woke her up and I was convinced she had died too. I sat in my office not knowing what to do. In a last ditch effort I placed a cold Coke can on my belly, exactly like I did on the day I discovered Ronan died, and after 2-3 minutes of nothing, she awoke with a start and kicked the hell out of me. I sat on the floor on my office and wept.

By Christmastime P and I would lay in bed and talk to her, tell her we loved her, begged her to please hang on so we could meet her. The self-protect shields were down. We wanted our baby. And if we lost her too, I honestly didn’t know what the fuck we would have done.

Her birthday came earlier than expected, and in that wondrous moment of meeting her and bringing her home and getting used to everything, we cried and wept as the 1 year anniversary came and went, saddled with grief for him and a loads of guilt for her. We were mourning all over again, but with hope this time and not desperation. It was such a bittersweet moment.
As I was rightfully distracted, I can tell you that in those moments of quiet when the baby, husband and dog were asleep that I found time to sit with my son. And I would remember him, talk to him, tell him that I miss him. And in those moments where I felt I was falling back down into a pit, he would send a sign to me---a crazy bird following me around, dragonflies buzzing, or a deep need to look at the moon which would be revealed to be a sliver moon (my favorite), and I knew he was never far from me. The more I mention him, the more that people came to understand that he was not this tragedy that happened to us, but rather a part of us indefinitely. And that’s all I could ever hope for.

I am pregnant again. And I suspect that it is another son. I walk around less scared about losing this baby, despite the scares we have had already, 17 weeks in. Maybe it’s the belligerence in me, to try to have a ‘normal’ pregnancy, or maybe it’s because I’ve already been through hell, and a repeat visit would suck, but I think I could do it if I had too. I worry more about losing P or the girl, because that would be devastation. I worry about dying and leaving those that love and depend on me behind. If I am honest, I will say that it’s another ruse, another way to be distracted. As this one starts to grow and move, I really can’t wait to meet him, but know that if he resembles Ronan, it will be another mental battle to overcome. That’s basically what this life feels like now---a series of infinite mini battles that still peck at you to remind you that something inherently changed in you, and it will never be 100% alright. And I am resigned to that. It’s a lot more liveable than the all-encompassing grief that I was in those early days.

If you have stumbled here raw and red from this just happening to you, I would like to tell you that I am sorry you have to go through it. It is indeed the most horrible thing you will ever feel. You will hate the sound of your sobs, the taste of your tears, and you will ache like you have never ached before---mind, body and soul. But if I could sit with you, I would hold your hand and tell you that time is the only answer. You are incapable of thinking past the day 1 or 20 of this journey. But somehow you keep moving, and day 10 turns into over 1000 days behind you. You wake up one day and decide that maybe today will be an ok day. You will stop and admire something small in life, and it will move you to remember that life is worth living. You will smile, you will hear yourself laugh, and you will find yourself happy for someone again.

But you will never be the person you were. The new you will probably be more sympathetic, more cautious, more aware of the fragility of life. And all in all, that's not such a bad thing.

Higher Ground

2011-05-18T19:17:00.002-05:00

The baby was fine. Just a lot higher than where dipshit Doc was looking. I told her I thought my uterus was a lot higher than it usually is at this time and she scoffed and said I was wrong. The u/s tech started low and ended a few inches from my belly button.

"Wow, you're higher than most women are at this age" she said.

Hmph.

And there he (they think it's a he) was hanging out.

I moved my appointments to Monday or Wednesdays, to make sure an U/s tech is available until this baby gets big enough that you can hear the heartbeat. I also made sure never to see that particular OB again.

I am freaking exhausted. With the bleeding and the nausea/wanting to die side effects from the progesterone and the fucktard doctors deciding to be morons with an evil doppler.

It makes me appreciate the simplistic views of pregnancy from the olden days. Just let the baby be. Whatever happens, happens. So help me God.

Amen.

Doppler Effects

2011-05-17T19:45:00.002-05:00

Went for my normal 14 week appointment today. New doc. Asked a million questions. She gave a blow-by-blow about when I would go off the progesterone, when I would get my level 2 ultrasounds, how many NSTs I would have, how many more follow-ups I would have. Yada Yada Yada.

Then at the very end she pulls out the dreaded doppler.

The doppler and me are not friends. The window to start using it on a skinny girl is around 12-14 weeks. A plus-sized girl, usually around 17-18 weeks if you're lucky.

She tried in vain. 4-5 times. She couldn't find the heartbeat. I knew she wouldn't find it.

"It doesn't mean there is something wrong," she assured. I just shrugged. Numb.

"I can schedule an ultrasound for peace of mind, but I can't get you in until tomorrow"

"Tomorrow is fine," I said. Numb.

She continued on with wanting to see me in 4 weeks, like nothing is possibly wrong.

I don't remember much after that. It's cold and dreary here, and I sat in my car and called P. Told him I was ok, but that the doc couldn't find the heartbeat. He was quiet. I told him it was early. It could be nothing.

And in my heart of hearts it feels different than with Ronan. I don't feel a sense of dread. I don't think that this baby is gone yet.

I hope, anyway.....

{Sigh}

NT Screen

2011-05-03T20:14:00.004-05:00

"Results are within normal ranges for maternal and gestational age"

The news didn't send relief flooding through me like I thought it would. Detachment is such a bizarre feeling.

I don't really want to be this way, but I don't really know how else to be.

Pregnancy is no longer a wondrous thing. And I am so jealous of the women walking around who have that look of bewilderment and awe with round bellies.

Sigh....

Jane Says {Insert Wretching Sound Here}

2011-04-19T19:44:00.002-05:00

It's been a horrible few weeks, ya'll.

I have been sick. Hellishly sick. The sick that overtakes you, that makes you want to curl up in a ball and pray for death.

And I haven't been sleeping. I wake up at the same time every night and try to find a happy memory to ease my mind back into a nice, comfortable sleep. I usually can trick my mind with the warm waters of Maui, the whale watching in Maine, the crazy goats with no ears in Whidbey Island. Sometimes I can't. And then I am forced to let the pain and the nausea win.

Add to all that that the girl was stomach buggy this past week, and we were cleaning up vomit and poop for 5 days straight and some serious feelings of despair overcame me. I felt like I was drowning, and I was tired of swimming and fighting. This is my 3rd time to bat, and I have never felt like this before.

I finally went and googled the side effects of progesterone supplementation and lo and behold--it's thought to 'exacerbate' the symptoms of pregnancy.

I had my regular appointment today, and I mentioned all this to the OB. I was even more disheartened when he said that I was going to stay on supplementation until 16 weeks (because he wants to assure the placenta has totally taken over the production). So, he prescribed a med for the nausea to help take the edge off.

I go for genetic testing on Friday. D-day. Praying it all goes well....

Grapes of Wrath

2011-04-04T19:49:00.002-05:00

The doctor walked in after the initial 30 minute meeting with the pregnant nurse.

While I was waiting (over an hour) in the waiting room, I saw two infants, two about to pop women, 2 very menopausal women, and 2 women looking terrified sitting next to their boyfriends??? It was nice to see a variety of women. I was stuck somewhere in the pregnant and terrified.

The nurse was sweet, but I did have to resort to a bit of sock puppetry to explain the past and current situation. She seemed to get it, and I was a bit sad to see that my tale scared the bejesus out of her. She confided in me that she had already had a ruptured ectopic, and two early miscarriages. She was currently 24 weeks. I didn't want to tell her that she could breathe easy. I think working in that office, she already knew the reality.

Dr. Mc was thin, older, and very nice. He had a Post-It note on him when he walked in.

It said "Trisomy 18" and "Early Bleeding"

After a lot of talking, mostly by me, he examined me and basically told me that he saw no bleeding and that my uterus felt 'about 8 weeks'. He kept me on the progesterone and agreed that I would be high risk and scheduled me with a perinatologist. That appointment is in 3 weeks.

So I am here. The blueberry is a grape this week. And it is still hurry up and wait.

Blueberry Hill

2011-03-26T08:24:00.004-05:00

So, um.....yeah.

In the midst of packing up a lab, packing up a house, driving 1200 miles and receiving our household goods, I found out I was pregnant.

I am a little overwhelmed with the speed in which I can get pregnant. I know better to complain, as there are lists of women 17 miles long that would love to have my 'problem', but I am asking that you understand the insanity surrounding my life in the last 2 months to get us from Texas to here and then to add to the drama that surrounds pregnancy in general now that I am a golden member of DBL.

At first, I couldn't believe it. I went around in a daze like "OMG, I ruined the girl's life. She's gonna hate us for this". Illogical, I know.

Then I walked around with "OMG, I have to find an OB who will listen to all the drama and give me the same treatment that I had in SA" then I was super depressed that I didn't have Dr. S to get me through all of this.

I called an OB group here, and by default, they see you at 10 weeks. I was like "Um, hell no, you will see me before that" so I had an appointment for April 4th, where I would be around 8 weeks.

And then I had to come back to San Antonio to help shut down the lab and tie up loose ends this past week. I volunteered when I saw no one else would go.

So, last Sunday I took the late flight out, and arrived around midnight in SA. My father-in-law picked me up (I was staying with him) and drove me to base in the morning (he also works there). While I was working on Monday, I started to spot again.

I have been spotting since I got pregnant. It hasn't been a lot, but it's there. So, I called Dr. S's office and they said I could come in for a 9:30 appointment the next day.

On Tuesday I went downtown to the office where I spent 9+ months of my life trying to assure that the girl would arrive safely. Dr. S saw me and hugged me and said "I thought you were moving!" He confirmed I was pregnant, took blood for a progesterone level, and sent me for an ultrasound.

And there I saw the blueberry with a fluttering heartbeat. Everything looked good. He wished me well, sent me along my way with prenatal vitamins and asked me to send him a picture.

Wednesday morning I was getting reading to make a run to pick up some supplies, and I go to the bathroom.

Blood.
Everywhere.
Soaked through my panties.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I had a pad in my purse, and I cleaned up best I could and called P. Told him that there was real blood, and this may be it. I called Dr. S's nurse and got a bit of the runaround until I insisted that I was NOT going to the ER. She made me an appointment for 2:40. It was noon by now.

One of the guys I was working (R) with came in and I lost. my. shit in front of him. He was concerned and wanted to drive me to the ER immediately, but I told him that I wasn't bleeding that much. So we sat there in silence until I finally sent him to go get some food.

I talked to P the whole time R was gone. We prepared ourself for this. I told him I was calm. I just needed to know what to do/what to expect if this was truly over. I sent a text to a few people who knew I was pregnant. Everyone was on high alert.

R came back with food and we talked about philosophical things, but he mostly just sat in silence with me until it was time for my appointment.

I can't tell you what I was thinking as I was waiting. I think I was pissed that I was about to add miscarriage to my history. And even though I know it's quite common, I just was pissed off that it was happening to me.

I finally was brought back from the waiting room and Dr. S just stared at me when I saw him in the hall. He asked about the bleeding, took a look and said that my cervix was still closed tight. He saw old blood, but nothing fresh.

And then he said that the ultrasound tech was busy for the next hour, but he wanted to check to see if the baby was still there.

I read People magazine and sent texts to the people waiting along with me. I was pretty calm. My friend G asked if this was the longest wait ever for an ultrasound. I said no, waiting for the ultrasound tech to come tell me Ronan was dead was by far the worst.

The tech came by 20 minutes later. And I stripped down like I had the day before. She slid in the wand, and I saw the blueberry again.

And the flutter.

He/She was still alive.

And had grown since the previous day with a stronger heartbeat.

"Looks good," the tech said.

My progesterone level is down, and Dr. S seems to think that this may be confusing my uterus, causing the blood. He sent me to a compounding pharmacists (the ones who actually mix up the drugs) for progesterone suppositories. The man, Harvey, was 135 years old, but kind and assured me that many, many, many women have come to him with this problem, and his concoctions work like a charm.

I took my prescription and loaded up for the airport.

With all this drama, basically the entire family knows. My FIL asked if I didn't have this scare, would I have told him. I said 'no', and then for once in his life, he seemed to really {understand} why pregnancy was not a happy-go-lucky thing with us. He was worried. He was concerned. But he was hopeful. Essentially, he was experiencing what we were, and I gotta tell you it was a relief to finally see him get it. My MIL on the other hand....well, we are still working on opening her eyes a bit.

So the moral of the story dear readers is that until I am, until told otherwise, still pregnant. I have a follow-up appointment with a new OB here on Tuesday for a progesterone re-draw and a crash course introduction. He is an older man, and I pray he is caring and understanding.

Nothing is easy, but I am glad I can come share with you. Wish me luck...

Midwest Love

2011-03-11T21:07:00.003-06:00

We are finally in Ohio, settling in nicely.

We bought a house and are enjoying seeing our stuff fit like it like it always fit here. My new lab is state of the art and I feel like one of the luckiest girls in the world when I walk around the still nearly empty space and realize that someday soon I may be running this place ;)

And in other news---there is other news.

But I'm not quite ready to talk about it yet ;)

January 26, 2011

2011-01-26T08:44:00.002-06:00

David Cook wrote this song in tribute to his older brother who was dying of brain cancer.

A few weeks after his brother's death, he stepped in front of millions of people and sang it live--completely composed, professional, finding a place deep within him to overcome the incredible sadness and sorrow he felt.

The show must go on. Life, must go on.

At the three year point I can tell you that our lives have moved on from the moment where we heard the words 'nothing' and the moment where I held my stillborn son in my arms for the first and last time. There are times when I feel it was so very long ago, but others, like today, I feel like we have not walked but two steps away from those people in the hospital room.

I wish my son was here. I wish I could have had the pleasure of knowing the person he would have become.

Happy Birthday, Ronan. Mommy and Daddy love you and miss you.....

We Just Lost The Moon

2011-01-11T22:30:00.006-06:00

I read about a woman on one of my message boards going into early labor. She had an incompetent cervix that began to open. They held off the inevitable for as long as they could, but the baby boy was born, very premature at 26 weeks.

People started sharing their thoughts and well wishes as they began their roller coaster ride in the NICU. The mom kept an on-line journal about the terms and updates they were throwing at her on an hour by hour basis.

I read this thread, and I said a prayer for her and that baby boy every night. I tried to reach deep down and find that positivity that the old me used to have at the ready. "Of course things would be fine", the old me would think. "I prayed for them--1,000 women are praying for them---so it will all be ok."

But the new me had a nagging feeling. It was a dark and thick feeling, like bubbling tar. The odds were not in this boy's favor. As I read the mom's journal, horrible words like brain bleeds, NEC, air in the gut, murmurs in the heart just made that tar-like feeling just get worse and worse. So much so that I could not even bring myself to comment on the thread. But I continued to pray, grasping on to the micron of hope that this boy would defeat the odds.

He didn't. That sweet boy passed a few days ago. The tar had been laid, and this new road emerged. And this poor woman is now on a path that she had already been on once before. It is fucking unfair, and there is no point in the universe to make someone suffer once, yet alone twice.

I want to live in a world where hope lives again. When someone's life is on the brink, I want to believe that they will be saved/make it/have at least a fucking fighting chance for a happy ending. Since Ronan died, I have realized that there are so many more tragedies than happy endings. Where are all the happy endings?

One of my favorite movies of all time is Apollo 13. Not because Tom Hanks is in it, (who the hell doesn't like Tom Hanks), or because I toyed with the idea of being an astronaut when I was a kid---it was because after all that hard work and effort by 10,000 people---after all the tears, the fears, and the prayers---the astronauts made it home safely. Hope prevailed. Happy ending achieved.

My ability to hope has been altered. It is skewed. The compass that runs it has been broken. And I have no idea how to fix it. I don't even know if it can be fixed anymore.

But a part of me, the residue of the old me, still wants to be believe it can be.

Time Keeps on Ticking---Into the Future

2011-01-05T22:21:00.006-06:00

Happy New Year!

I write that, but then I have to remind myself that it is January, which begins the monumental highs and lows associated with this month. It includes the girl's wonderful birthday tomorrow and ends with all the painful recollections that start out like a mild mist and ends in a full blown hurricane that makes landfall near the end of this month.

I hate this month. I loathe it.

It started on the drive into work on Monday. My mind was focused on driving, happily listening to Duran Duran, remembering how I loved Simon Le Bon and wrote him a fan letter that I'm sure my mother tossed in the garbage rather than pay the air mail postage to send to him. Then my subconscious caught a glimpse of something, a sign, a bird, something--- and I was crying for no real goddamn reason, other that the fact that it was January, and that's what my mind does to me every January.

I feel different this year. I don't know if it's because it's three years out, but I feel less guilt about wanting to run away from what awaits us. The first year, I had to face it, all post-partum-y, sleep deprived, and uber guilt ridden. Last year, it was a quiet resignation. January 26th came and we paused, knowing we would have to stop and feel his loss all over again.

This year I am walking around with my ears covered like "la-la-la-la-la not listening". I stupidly think that if I keep moving that I won't have to feel what I have to feel. But then I see a picture on a Christmas card of my friend Ben's son, who was born on Ronan's due date in April 2008, and it takes all I have for me not to crumble to pieces.

I feel so old on this journey. It has gotten easier with time. But I feel the reason for that is because of distractions. If I didn't have so many distractions, I could sit in silence and remember how I felt holding him, and how it hurt so bad to not take him home. I could sit and remember how salty my tears tasted, and how the taste of them now makes me physically ill. I could reflect that my son would be three, and wonder if he would have had the same curls that his baby sister has.....

I will keep up my distractions until the sheer pull of the need to stop and grieve overcomes me.

And it will always overcome me, that's a given.

It's the law of this land.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T11:28:00.004-06:00

I am officially an Auntie. :)

Baby C came into the world just after midnight on the 23rd. She was 6lbs 6oz, 20.5 inches. Everyone is doing well.

I have learned that I am a master at the art of disassociation. Holding other children, helping friends through labor and pregnancy---I find that very little reminds me about Ronan or the birth of Ronan. I am able to be in that moment, the moment of joy that comes when a new life is brought into this world. A moment when new parents are so excited to finally hold their new bundle of joy. A moment where grandparents hold the baby and make funny voices/noises to them. The moment of pure hope and love.

And I am truly thankful for that. It makes me hope that I will become less jaded with time.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and yours!

XOXO

The Final Countdown

2010-11-21T20:47:00.002-06:00

My SIL thinks she is labor tonight. She is 39+ weeks, officially due on Friday.

P and I have been sick for the better part of 3 weeks. I keep praying that I wake up in the morning without coughing up my lungs/blowing green gunk into 400 tissues/swallowing more Dayquil horse pills so that I can make it into crappy work.

We are under contract for a house in Ohio. Part of me can't really believe I have been so low-key about it. I think HGTV has jaded me. It's a nice house. Has a lot of nice things about it, including a park nearby for the girl AND it's a mere 7 minutes from work. Part of the charm of the house is that the same couple has lived in it since right before P and I were born. They raised three babies there. They hosted parties there. They had their grandbabies sleep over there. Now they are sick of the cold and want to move to Florida. I feel like they are passing on their home to us to take care of it--to make our own memories there now. It's kinda nice.

We are in a real bittersweet moment in our lives here. Thanksgiving is around the corner. Then Christmas. Then the girl's birthday. Then Ronan's birthday. A month after that, we pack up and head North.

I vividly remember when we left for Michigan. It was June of 1999. My dad had driven up to help drive the U-haul. P and I had been dating 2 years, and our entire lives up until that moment, was in Texas. Our friends saw us off at a local burger joint the night before we left. My BFF Chris had tears in his eyes when we said goodbye. We stayed overnight at P's parent's house before we took off early the next morning. I cried myself to sleep that night, because leaving was so scary, yet exciting. How easy it would have been to just stay and go to grad school here in town. To do what was easy. The drive to Michigan took 2.5 days. We arrived on a Friday afternoon. It was 70 degrees--cold! compared to what we were used to for June. My Dad flew back the next day. P and I got lost coming back from the airport.

We were waxing philosophical over coffee in Ohio a few weeks ago. Part of the pain of our memories in MI were because I was in grad school. We were broke. Everything was fucking expensive. Everything was unbelievably hard. But now, I have a proper job. We have money. We (almost) have a house. Life is monumentally different than the time we took this voyage 11 years before. I find myself getting excited about the endeavor. I imagined Radha in the seasons---playing in the Fall leaves, making a snowman. And it was just such a nice feeling.

Yet tonight we walked into another local burger joint. The burger joint where my BFF introduced me to his new (and pregnant) wife 2.5 years ago. The joint where we went monthly while I was pregnant with Radha, where we brought her monthly after she was born. The staff fawns over her. They call her 'Angel'. Tonight she played with all the booster seats as I placed them on the floor in a nice little circle--the Knights of the Booster Seat Circle. As she sat in all of them, one by one, I heard P say "I'm going to miss this place."

And the familiar feeling comes over me. Our lives are here. I could do what was easy. I could try to stay.

But then I remember all the good friends and times that I had in Michigan, and it is enough to remind me that there are other adventures to be discovered, other joints to call home, other friends to meet and make memories with.

And I can't hardly wait.

Happy Fall

2010-11-14T11:27:00.003-06:00

I hope you all have the chance to stop and smell the 'roses'. :)

2010-10-24T22:12:00.003-05:00

It's a typical Sunday dinner with P's family.

My SIL is there, beautifully pregnant, due in the next few weeks. P and his brother find a corner to look at things from their youth on his iPhone. I dispense advice about labor, and the days afterwards. We assume everything will go to plan. We don't talk about the possibilities of things that could go wrong.

An hour later we scoop up the girl and load up the car with leftovers and toys. I put the car in reverse, look in the rearview mirror and drive away slowly, always ticking off a mental checklist. Did I pick up her bag? Her sippy cup? The 10,000 coupons my MIL clipped?

I drive away tonight thinking I am missing something, that I am totally forgetting something.

As I am half-way home, I glance at the car seat in my rearview mirror, watching the girl fight sleep.

And it hits me.

I am missing another one.

He should be here.

Idle Chatter

2010-10-01T20:48:00.002-05:00

I was in the backseat of the car watching the rain beat down on the passenger window. The Director of Department X was driving. He and my boss (Bossman) were in the front seat trying to navigate us to Langley AFB in a torrential downpour. Both men were engaged in idle chatter about the weather, their time in Hampton/Norfolk back in the day. Then outta the blue they changed the conversation....

DDX: Did you know Cathy? Worked in the front cube?

Bossman: I don't think so.

DDX: Well she had a baby last week. A girl.

Bossman: That's nice.

DDX: She had a few miscarriages in the past. It was a huge relief that the baby was born.

Bossman: My first wife had 2 between our two daughters.

DDX: My wife had 3 after our son. We intended to have one more, but it got to the point when I said "hey, honey---I think we need to shut it down. We are not getting any younger and it's not worth the risk, you know?"

Bossman: What year was that?

DDX: Between 1994-1998. My mom--she also had a few miscarriages too between kids. Maybe it was genetic. My uncle (mom's brother) only had three children, and lots of kids lost--all boys. He thought he carried something that prevented him from having sons...

I remained quiet and continued to look out the window.

Wonders never cease.....

Help Support MISS

2010-09-25T15:26:00.004-05:00

MISS's Dr. Joanne Cacciatore needs participants for a study dealing with the loss of a child. I encourage you to participate if you can.

CLICK HERE

XOXO---Reese

The Reflecting Pool

2010-09-02T20:50:00.004-05:00

I was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Monument, trying not to act like a tourist. My friend J (who works in D.C.) had met me for "Lattes with Lincoln" which tuned into "Ice Tea with Lincoln" because it was so stinkin' hot.

It was nice in the shade. There was water in the Reflecting Pool (there wasn't the last time I was there---about 7 years ago), and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. It was a good time to reflect about life, and breathe after the insane conference I attended earlier that week.

J and I were talking about life---how far we have come from the two young, wet-behind-the-ear girls we were when we met 10 years ago in grad school. J is starting her career as a researching professor, just recently awarded her K grant (top score---go J!). As we were reminiscing, my phone rang.

It was my other friend J. Two things alarmed me about the fact that she was calling me.
1). J rarely calls. She is a text-type of girl.
2). It was the middle of the day on a Thursday (she's a school teacher).

I picked up and assumed the worst.

She told me in a matter-of-fact voice that she had a miscarriage. I almost didn't hear her/believe what she was saying. Partly from her tone, and partly because it was very much assumed that she and her husband had made the decision NOT to have children. This was not even in my radar. I was expecting something happened at work/to her husband/to her mom or dad.

I wanted to ask questions, but only asked two. "How far along were you?" (almost 8 weeks) and "Are you doing ok?" I said I was sorry. I was out of town, but I would be available by phone if she needed to talk. She whispered "Ok" and hung up. I felt like complete shit for her.

I know that it must have taken some serious, monumental effort to change her mind about children. And I feel awful that she was dinged with this the first time out. I have tried to assure her that the fear will subside, usually enough to try again, but I know that fear. It's palpable. You are scared to get your hopes up--scared to love the child that is but a mere mass of cells the second you get a positive pregnancy test. But you do. It's innate. You try to disassociate, but you don't {really}. In your inner workings of your mind, you have already allowed yourself to imagine, if only briefly, if they will have your eyes, his nose.

I didn't say what I'm sure the other 'well-meaning" people may have uttered. "It was probably a good thing---genetics and all" "You can get pregnant again" "It wasn't in God's plan". Because all of that (which may be true) doesn't mean shit when you have had life in your uterus and then ripped out without a live, breathing baby to show for it.

I do hope she tries again. I do hope she finds the strength that I know she has. I hope that the next baby sticks. I hope that she can look at her own child like she has looked at mine.

I hope....I hope....I hope.....

The Small Blue Box

2010-08-12T20:54:00.004-05:00

I was lying in the hospital room crying in earnest after they told me he was gone. The evil techs who tried in vain to start an IV (7 times) were shooed away, and Peyton and I were left there to ponder the next move by ourselves.

It's a horrible, gut wrenching feeling knowing that the news you just received was just the beginning of the horror that you are going to have to endure. His heart broke for me, because in the end, I was going to have to labor. I was going to have to deliver him dead. He knew it was horrible. He knew it was cruel. And I knew he would take it away from me and do it himself if he could.

We knew that we would have to call a funeral home. We were informed of that when we were given the bag full of stuff. The 'so you're baby died, now what?' stuff.

"I don't want him buried here." I said.
Peyton nodded through his tears.
"I don't want him buried. When we leave in a few years, we will have to leave him behind, and I don't want that," I said.

His parents came. My parents came. My friend Gina came. We called everyone under the sun. It was getting late. A million tears were shed. I remember how Peyton's father cried as he looked out the window. I remember how my father was trying so hard not to cry. I remember apologizing to his mother for this monumental fail I did as a daughter-in-law. She burst into tears and hugged me and told me that it was not my fault--that I did nothing wrong, but I didn't believe her.

The night nurse brought us a sandwich that she swiped from the doctor's lounge. And a bag of chips. Peyton and I split the turkey sandwich like two children in a school cafeteria. We chewed. We cried. We choked down two bites before we gave up. We fell asleep holding each other on the 'daddy' fold out couch.

At two in the morning I crawled back into the hospital bed. I lay there in the dark and held my belly and cried. "I'm so sorry, Ronan" I said over and over again. "Mommy is so sorry,"

I fell asleep, and sometime around 7 am a tech with a doppler came in to start the IV. He kept chatting. He kept saying things that didn't matter in my world anymore. He said that most women handle the pain of an IV no problems.

"How 'bout the pain of delivering a dead baby?" I asked.

He shut up.

Later that morning Dr. C. came in and introduced himself. Said he had talked to Dr. S and was going to help me deliver today. He said that I could have an epidural. "No need to suffer anymore than you need to," he said in his soft spoken way. Five minutes later he inserted the Cervadil.

4 hours later 2 more went in, and the pain began in earnest. And it was more intense and horrible than I thought it could ever be.

The cramping was intense. I thought I was being split down the middle. I was in full-blown labor and not progressing more than 2 cm. I was given a shot to calm the pain, but it wore off in 20 minutes. Tannya came in with the hard stuff that was being shot into my IV at a snail's pace. I could feel the numbing come, but underneath, the contractions were still there.

Peyton had whispered to me that our friend Jeff was in the waiting room and he wanted to come and see me. I nodded ok in my narcotic-induced haze. Jeff, who is a sweet man unique in his own right, came up to my bed and held my hand and looked at us with so much love and pity that I started to cry. He held Peyton's head in the crook of his shoulder. When people mention Jeff's name now in passing, I see that image of him consoling us in the midst of my labor-hell.

I was allowed an epidural, and as Peyton cradled me in his arms as Dr. K numbed my back, I remember thinking {this} was the part of the process I was so afraid of. The needle in the back. I felt the prick. I felt the threading of the line. The pain was gone in an instant, and the storm was over.

I slept that night, but awoke shortly around 2 a.m. Peyton had finally fallen asleep and I was alone with Ronan again. I knew our time was coming to an end. My body was ready to deliver him, and I would never see him again.

"We're going to get through this, you and I" I said.

I prayed to a God I barely believed in at the time to please be kind and let the delivery be easy. And to please spare my uterus.

"Please let there be a chance for children again," I asked. "Please don't let this horror be all I will know of carrying a child"

At 4 a.m. my water broke. At 6:49 a.m. Ronan was born still after 4 pushes.

I was transferred to the 'sick ward' for recovery, and Ronan was brought to us by Jennifer who was escorted by two police officers. One of the police officers was a Hispanic male, about 50 years old, who hugged us and cried and said he was sorry for our loss. We thanked him, and every time I want to think all cops are assholes, I think about that man, and how the loss of Ronan brought him to tears.

We were visited by counselors, nurses, psychologists who were also women of God. They asked if we wanted to have a prayer service or a dedication there in the hospital. We agreed.

Our parents and friends stood in a circle around the hospital bed as I held Ronan. I took in his soft skin, his dark hair, his fuzzy eyebrows, his ruby red lips. The women prayed, told God that my son was now His. My mother-in-law wept loudly. Everyone wiped their tears.

After the dedication, the family left us alone. Peyton and I held our son and each other. He grew cold, and any bit of spirit that had remained of him was long gone. By late that afternoon, we had to let him go. The same police officers who escorted Ronan to me were responsible for escorting him back with Peyton. I was grateful that compassionate people were taking him to his final resting spot.

I handed Ronan to Peyton, kissed him on the forehead and wept as they took him away.

I sat by the window and forced myself to look at the sun setting. I named the colors that I saw. Pink. Orange. Blue. White. I told myself he was not in that body anymore, but that he was in the light.

A week later a funeral director slid a small blue box with a white sateen pouch in it across the table to me. My fingers rested on the box. Peyton grabbed my hand and I stood with him, cradling the box to my chest.

I walked out of the small office, and saw how people looked at me in the lobby. They looked at the small box. They looked at the grieving couple. And they bowed their head because they knew what was in the box, and the reality of it made their hearts heavy.

That small blue box sits in another box in my closet, along with his pictures, the clothes he wore, and the cards we received. As we prepare to finally move from this place in the next few months, I prepare to move his box to take it with us....

Can I Borrow the Car, Ma?

2010-07-29T20:34:00.003-05:00

So, Julia posted the question on Glow in the Woods today about what do you want people you meet now to know about you? (in regards to your child who is no longer here.....)

I want them to know that even though we are blessed with her, we will always miss him. And a day doesn't go by that I don't wonder 'what if'. Even 2.5 years out.

I want people to stop asking me when will I get pregnant with my 'second' baby. The next baby (God-willing) will be my third, people.

I want people to know that I take nothing for granted. I sing You Are My Sunshine to my sweet girl every night, and pray that she is alive the next time I go to check on her. There is a section on the MISS site dedicated to the loss of young children/toddlers. I can't even look on that thread. It breaks my fucking heart to think a thread like that exists.

I want people to know that the grief I carry is a shapeshifter. It is a fuzzy bunny one day and the next day is a freaking rabid wolverine. And I never know the shape it will take until I stumble upon it.

I want people to know that there are times I wish I never knew this world existed. But then I feel guilty for wishing that, because it means that I will be undoing all the true beauty and joy I have witnessed that only comes from being in a place of true sorrow and despair.

I want people to know that it's not easy being me. But I get that it's not easy being you either.

I want people to respect the journey I am on, but don't dwell on it, or marvel that you could never be on it or yourself or you would DIE or KILL YOURSELF. Doesn't make me feel better, and it makes you look weaker than you probably are.

I just want people to know. To get it. To understand.

And if you don't get it exactly, that's ok.

That's ok.

But please say "sorry to hear that."

That's enough, and it's ok.

Back to the Future

2010-07-22T20:29:00.003-05:00

We're moving.

Have I mentioned this already?

To Ohio of all places.

The Job is moving. I am an 'integral' part of the team. I make good money. I have wonderful benefits. I need to go with my team. My career is on a specific track. It makes perfect sense.

{Sigh}

The logistics of moving back to the Midwest (as you may recall, P and I came down to Texas from Michigan, so we are effectively doing an about-face just over 3 years later) are rather daunting. Both personally (Jesus, I need to clear out my garage) and my lab. MY LAB!

Ever move a lab 1200 miles? Yeah, I moved a lab 2 floors down and lost a ton of stuff. The very thought of that is making me pop Zantac like Chiclets.

Am I thrilled it's the Midwest? Meh. I feel kind of been-there-done-that. I am looking forward to the LACK of ridiculous commute. 10 minutes to get to work? HEAVEN. FOUR seasons? Imagine that!

Will I miss my family? Meh. My family barely sees us without some monumental effort on our part. P's parents are making their exit of Texas as well and will most likely end up on the East Coast, so, a day's drive.

Will I miss my friends? Sure. But what the hell is it about life that really gets in the way of connecting with your friends? I used to be really disappointed about it, but realized that I should just be grateful for the moments of time carved out with other people who love(d) you. The truth is that my friendships have evolved since Ronan died. Some for good, some for bad, and some TBD. I have no idea what the future holds, really. My friends from Michigan are excited to have us within driving distance of them again, but 4 hours is a long trip. And truth be told, I expect to have phone/Facebook contact like always and prepare for the carving of moments once a year if I am lucky.

Although Texas is my home, I feel that when we came back here September 2007 we were just visiting. I accepted the job knowing that another move was eminent. But I reasoned that being home for the birth of our son was logical (versus Iowa, which would have been my other option). That our family would have the opportunity to get to know him--even if it was only for 3 years.

I didn't know it would be for only 1 day. Shortly after Ronan died, P and I were laying in bed, crying for the 100th time and he said that he wanted to leave Texas. Said that this place would always be the place where our son died, overshadowing all the wonderful memories we had shared here, back when we first met in 1997.

I wonder sometimes what would have happened if we had been in Iowa when this happened to us. Alone with just us dealing. Sometimes I feel it wouldn't have made much difference, as the obstacles and the day-to-day were still awkward and hard, but just witnessed by more people who knew us from before.

In the meantime I look up homes in Ohio. I imagine life there, less complicated, and me less jaded.

Maybe leaving is a good thing...

Never Say Goodbye

2010-07-11T21:09:00.004-05:00

I don't quite know what to do when a fellow blogger decides to stop blogging.

It started with Antigone. At first I thought she was taking a break, busy with Perseus and all, but then the break was two weeks, a month. And that was all she wrote.

I wonder if Antigone still reads my blog---passes by to get glimpses of what the girl looks like now. I sometimes wish she would give me a glimpse of P now. I can imagine what he looks like--I assume that he is hitting all similar milestones, since he was born 5 days before Radha.

And of course I don't blame her. She had to do what was right for her, but I still felt like I lost a tether---someone who was holding me taut during this new, crazy adventure we shared.

I don't know if Charmed is still blogging. She set her blog to private, and I have to believe that she felt exposed or just took it down when she decided to try to move away from DBL. She too was a voice, a fiercely strong one, that I grew to love and depend on.

And now it appears that another is also taking her leave. I was reading her {last} entry a few days ago and felt a wave of sadness just overcome me.

Or was it jealousy?

Is there a point where you stretch your wings to check to see if they have healed enough to try to fly away? Leave the security of the nest for good?

I don't feel that I will ever leave this nest, but I do feel strong enough to wander away from it for stretches at a time. But when others leave for good, I am left feeling torn between my loss and sadness for seeing them go and a sense of that I should be following suit.

I wrote once that this was a journey, not a destination. Losing Ronan and the grieving process has been anything but linear, with snags of grief that knock me on my ass when I least expect it. I have become more matter-of-fact in the last year about his passing, a nice thick wall of scar tissue has covered my broken (but healing) heart. But things like seeing my OB/GYN a couple of weeks ago (for potentially the last time as we are set to move to Ohio in a few months) really, REALLY cut me deep. For every step I try to live away from the nest, it is still my safety net, and I feel (or fear?) I will never be able to leave it.

But why should I fear that?

Is there anything wrong with sticking around? Am I like a 5th year senior if I stick around? Old, uncool and ridiculous looking?

I just don't know anymore....

Filed Under: Misc.

2010-06-11T15:03:00.006-05:00

Today is the first time I can really sit down and exhale from all the crazy.

We went to San Diego and it turned into a very child-unfriendly ordeal. American Airlines, whom I have hated since I was 21-- (when I was flying to Ft. Lauderdale for a conference (with a stomach bug) the bitchy stewardesses made me hold my barf bag of vomit for three goddamn hours because they didn't want to dispose of it!) ---lost our carseat AND broke our stroller. This was a big stroller of the $$$ variety (graciously given to us by my work buddies). The frame was bent, and would not snap back into place.

We discovered this at the gate in San Diego as I was trying in vain to snap the fucker in place while P holding a very pissy girl who had been cooped up in a plane for three hours, and was calm until she realized that she was not going to be able to chill in her ride.

We dragged the broken stroller to the luggage claim, which felt like it was located in San Francisco, only to find out our car seat didn't make it on the plane from Dallas. We did a lot of cursing in that terminal, let me tell you. Especially after being told that our stroller was now a very expensive door stop (we don't cover strollers, sorry, read the fine print). I threatened bodily harm if they didn't find our car seat. They did, and it was delivered to our hotel 5 hours later (they loaned us a crappy carseat to get us to the hotel).

And although the meeting was good, it was just a blah time. Radha just was not diggin' San Diego, and her blase' attitude was spilling over to us. P and I enjoyed the zoo, but she slept through most of it. I was cursing the damn umbrella stroller that we bought at a Target to get her to and from. Damn thing moved like a $30 stroller. Enough said.

We got back from San Diego and had exactly 24 hours before our friends from Michigan arrived. We planned this deliberately as I had Memorial Day off and a Comp day, so I could spend more time with them.

We were all trucking along, having a grand old time. On Memorial Day, Radha woke up at 4 am with a fever. Low-grade, but a fever. We gave her Tylenol, because she was uncomfortable. She fell back asleep, but battled the fever all day.

P had invited his parents over and he grilled while I was trapped upstairs trying to calm a sick, crying child. I had no idea what was wrong with her, but her fever kept spiking and she was miserable. At 6pm, I took her temp and it read 104.9.

I. Lost. My. Shit. I paged her Pediatrician and near hysterical, told him her temp and her symptoms. He said to take her to the ER.

We loaded her up in the car and she was burning hot to the touch. I do not have to tell you all what horrible thoughts ran through my head as I was hauling ass to try to get the the Med Center. I made P sit in the back with her, and I could see her dozing off from sheer exhaustion in the rearview mirror, but panicking, I told him to keep her awake. The fear in me was carnal. Awful. I felt vomit in my throat.

We walked into the ER and when the receptionist ask what was wrong, I burst into tears. I am sure they are used to seeing this, but I was just losing. my. shit. P had to tell them what was wrong. Radha was lying so still against his chest, cheeks flushed from fever. She slowly reached out to me and I held her. She was so hot.

We sat in the waiting room where there was a gigantic aquarium. She lifted her head to follow the colorful fish. They finally called us back. They took all her info and did an ear read for her temp and it read 100.3.

?????

Did her fever miraculously go down 5 degrees in 30 minutes or was one of us off? I told the nurse that we had a read of almost 105 on our thermometer, and she nodded like she didn't believe me. She gave Radha some more Tylenol and brought us to a waiting room where we changed her into a little yellow gown. It was so cute, yet so sad to see her in that.

Long story short, the ER Ped felt it was viral, and reassured me that because her shots were up to date, it most likely was not bacterial meningitis. He checked for a UTI, negative. And her ears and throat were clear. She was responsive and cried every time someone with scrubs walked in. He said he was thrilled to see that, and they sent us home with a fever-buster plan. But after the dose of Motrin that night, she slept soundly and didn't spike a fever again.

She woke up in the morning smiling like NOTHING was ever wrong. This was Tuesday. We spent all day watching her like a hawk and she was cool. Go figure.

Wednesday morning, a few minutes after I got out of the shower, I got a text that told me that my Grandfather was not doing well after his surgery the day before. When I was driving into work, I called my family and learned that it was the worst case scenario. A routine surgery to remove a kidney went horribly bad, he bled out, and they had no hope for his survival. At 9:30 a.m., he coded, and the old man took his leave.

By this time, my poor friends were thinking they were bad luck. We did manage to get through 2 more days before I put them on the plane and drove south 5 hours for the funeral. We left Radha with my in-laws, not wanting to chance any more freaky-deaky fever things. I am glad we did, because it was 80% humidity and 95 degrees at 10 a.m. Saturday morning before the funeral.

It was worse the second time around. Putting my grandfather in the ground meant the end of an era. Many tears were shed that day, and by the drive back home the next day, I was completely and utterly spent emotionally.

I am glad to be home. It's quiet right now, and if it stays this quiet all summer, it will be a-ok with me....

A pic from last August. Radha was the lastest great-grandchild, and my grandfather tried to hold her after my grandmother's funeral, but she was just not having it. She cried. LOUDLY. He laughed and said she was just like me. He told a story about how my parents left me with them when I was about that age---they wanted to get away for a weekend. I cried so much they called my parents to come pick me up three hours later! :)

In loving memory of my Grandpa Ray....

Pray For Us Sinners

2010-06-03T18:36:00.001-05:00

Dios te salve, Maria.
Llena eres de gracia:
El Señor es contigo.
Bendita tú ere entre todas las mujeres.
Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre:
Jesús.
Santa María, Madre de Dios,
ruega por nosotros pecadores,
ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.
Amén.

The rosary was supposed to be in English but there was a mix-up at the church and the women leading it that night were native Spanish speakers. I sat and watched my Grandfather stare at my Grandmother's body as the rosary was recited. He looked like he was in hell. Purgatory, maybe. Grief sat so heavy on his chest, it was difficult for him to breathe.

He sat there from noon until 9pm that day, and the day before. All day, greeting countless people while he stared at what was left of his wife. I sat there watching him instead of reciting Hail Marys, and really took in his face---the deep lines of sorrow, the fatigue, the helplessness, the defeat.

It got me thinking about how we all handle our grief. I wrote early on that grief was exhausting. I swear my teeth hurt along with my heart. He looked a lot like I did after Ronan died---lost. Like he wanted to climb in that casket and die holding her.

Someone told me once that the loss of child and the loss of a spouse were very similar. I hope to God that I never have to find out--because I never want to feel the way I did January 26, 2008 ever again.

---------

I wrote this when I returned from my grandmother's funeral last August. My grandparents were married for 54 years, had 12 children, 37 grandchildren and 17 great-grandchildren. My grandparents loved each other very much. Deeply. They always looked at each other like they knew an inside joke.

I remember vividly how they spoke to each other: Carefully. Jokingly. Respectfully. Kindly.

I sat at the house after my grandmother's funeral and watched how life buzzed around my grandfather as he sat on the couch, lost in thought. Lost in transition. Lost in translation. What does he do now? How is he supposed to move from this horrible place where there was no Teresa?

I turned to Peyton and said "I don't know if he's going to make it."

We have all read the stories about how some elderly die shortly after their partners do. (Statistically, if they make it over a year, they will probably live much longer). I have always found this to be poetic. A wee bit romantic.

Two weeks ago, after many months of agonizing silence, my grandfather finally complained of pain in his side. An MRI revealed his left kidney was double the size it should be. A biopsy revealed kidney cell carcinoma. Surgery was supposed to be performed last Tuesday to remove the kidney and assess the cancer. It was bumped to this past Tuesday. He woke up from the procedure, where they found that it had spread to basically every organ, including the liver (which was evident from the jaundice). Tuesday night in the ICU he took a turn for the worse. At 5 a.m. I got a frantic text from my mother, and by 9 a.m. he took his leave. On his terms. He was ready to go, just nine and a half months after my grandmother....

I like to think my grandmother was waiting for him on the other side.

Meerkat Manor

2010-06-01T19:57:00.002-05:00

Ever wonder what zoo animals think about when we take their pictures?

I can imagine a Jersey accent "What YOU lookin' at, eh?"

A British accent: "Wanna snap me pic, eh?"

What do you think they are thinking?

California Dreamin'

2010-05-22T21:11:00.002-05:00

Just a glimpse of what I hope to catch on my business-vacay.

See ya'll in a week!

XOXO---Reese

Coincidentally, speaking

2010-05-18T20:25:00.003-05:00

It was a 'suggested' training. Suicides are up in the military, and as a supervisor, I was told it was a good idea to go.

My MSgt gave the briefing this morning. We sat through a video of 'Charlie' having a rough time. He didn't like his deployment, his girlfriend and him were shaky, he is losing it at work. We went over the warning signs and what to do. We talked about civilian versus military actions. We talked about a lot of things.

This afternoon, I get a random phone call from a new Contractor who is trying to get things going on a project. We were playing phone tag--told him I would be around after 3 p.m., so he could try me then. At 4:05 (we usually leave around 4:30), he showed up at my office, unannounced. This was the first time I had ever met him.

He was an older man, soft spoken. He looked nervous. Kept mumbling that he was new and he wanted to get this 'perfect'. He asked me for help filling out some forms, but they were all financial in nature, and I had never seen them before. I suggested a few people who could guide him through the process.

He stacked his papers, and then I saw it. His face fell, and he started to cry.

Out of no where, this poor soul was having a meltdown in my conference room!

I patted his back, offered him water. I used my soothing voice. He told me in so many words that he is going through a bitter divorce. His wife basically spread poison that got him a horrible reputation, liquified all of his assets, including his retirement, and put his daughter against him.

"I haven't seen her in 3 years. This will be the third Christmas that I haven't seen her," he said and broke down again.

"It was all lies," he said. I never pressed on what were all lies, but he kept saying "I have to get this put right," over and over again.

I have seen many a man, woman and child shed tears. But it cuts something deep and awful in me when an older man is broken. It just seems.....wrong.

I said that I would help him to assure that this was perfect. For him not to worry about this. I will put him with the right people to train him, to assure that this was done right. I was upbeat, and he seemed to take refuge in my support. He pulled himself together. I told him I would call him tomorrow, and he thanked me again and again for my help.

I sat in my car for a few minutes and thought about what the hell had just happened. I called my boss, calmly told him that I was in Bizzarro World, and explained what happened. We calmly figured out what we would do in the morning. He did not seem suicidal to me, but it seemed like someone needed to watch out for him.

I don't know who that is, but I pray for a solution tomorrow....

{Sigh}

What Dreams May Come

2010-05-13T22:33:00.002-05:00

It started out fuzzy, but it became clear that I was at the hospital helping my SIL during labor. She kept saying something didn't feel right. My BIL was off to the side, looking tired and worn out.

I looked down, and I saw the head crowning. I yelled at BIL to get the doctor. I told SIL to hang on....to not push, but the baby was coming regardless.

I delivered him. A boy. He was so still at first, but I told myself that he was alive. And then he moved. He cried.

The nurses and doctors rushed in. After a few minutes of frenzy, they handed him to her. Her son.

A son that lived....

Near Misses and Counting Blessings....

2010-05-05T21:19:00.004-05:00

Our new technical editor and I have a standing lunch date on Wednesdays. I like her a lot. She is a petite Jewish woman from Cali, who is pretty worldly---married to a Japanese man, speaks three different languages.

Sandy picked me up at 11:00. I was actually on time to meet her at the back entrance of the lab. We drove off, left the base via the back gate and traveled down a road we drive down all the time to try a new Mexican food restaurant---her neighbors owned the restaurant and she wanted to check it out.

We drove past a refinery that is located right by base at around 11:02 a.m.---they load tanker trucks with jet fuel that services a lot of the bases in town. At around 11:05, a tanker caught fire and exploded, sending flames and smoke that could be seen up to 40 miles.

At 11:32, one of my contractors called me and asked me about the smoke---he was still on base and they could see the black smoke and flames. I had no idea what he was talking about. He got off the phone with me, and come to find out, our base had to be evacuated because of the fire.

We all calmly left work (Sandy and I could never get back to base after lunch, so we hung out at her house until my boss graciously swung by to pick me up to drive me home as my car was still at work). Come to find out that had the firefighters not done their jobs perfectly today, the 100,000+ gallons of jet fuel could have ignited and blown a huge hole in the south side--my lab right in the path.

I feel luck was with all of us tonight---no one died from the explosion, and Sandy and I just barely missed driving by at the exact time the initial blast went off.

Now, please excuse me while I go have a heart attack....

2010-04-28T20:19:00.004-05:00

My SIL is pregnant.

Although this was expected at some point, the news was still wrapped in with a sort of dramatic pause that Peyton and I were not completely prepared for.

Irrespective of her and my BIL (because of course we wish them all the happiness and joy with this endeavor), this pregnancy generated a lot of chaos in a pretty stable/nice existence that P and I were riding. When SIL told us the news (basically in a series of texts messages in which I guessed what the big news was that she wanted to announce at a party with all her friends on a Saturday night), we were happy for them. But when we found out that they were going to announce it to the world when A) they had not been to a doctor yet (and still haven't--insurance reasons) and B) she was only about 8 weeks along I stopped cold in my tracks. Well, I didn't really stop cold, somewhere in the depths of my cranium I was screaming "WHATAREYOUDOINGAREYOUCRAZYYOUHAVEN'TEVENSEENAHEARTBEATYET!!!!!!!!!" On the outside, we swallowed our compulsions to say anything in a warning tone and only said positive things.

We had dinner plans with my friend H and her family that same night, so we missed the festivities. The next night we were having dinner with the family at a restaurant, and when we arrived (late as always), my MIL, BIL, and SIL were there sportin' buttons that said "Grandma to Be", "Father to Be" and "Mommy to Be". By our place setting were 2 buttons for us "Uncle to Be" and "Aunt to Be". It was then that my good graces flew out the damn window and I think that was the first time that my SIL realized that both P and I were not comfortable with this display. At. All.

Come to find out the buttons were complements of my MIL---who held Ronan for an hour after he was born still, who was there throughout every horrible goddamn minute of labor up until I got the epidural. Who was with us for Ronan's 2 year balloon release.

P and I were quiet through most of that meal, and on the ride home we decided that we should kindly remind my MIL that this was not something we were comfortable with---and also to remind her that pregnancy (in general) is not a happy-go-lucky topic with us.

When I called my MIL the next morning, I calmly told her that P and I were not able to participate in these kinds of activities, because it made us ridiculously uncomfortable, especially because it was so early in the pregnancy. I reiterated that we were not wanting to poo-poo how my BIL and SIL chose to handle this pregnancy, but the innocence of pregnancy has left the building for the both of us. Forever. In the vein of not being Debbie Downer, we felt it was best to not put ourselves in a position where we were uncomfortable. (Because sure as shit, no one is looking out for our comfort in this situation, so it HAS to default to us). We told her the best way for us to be supportive was one-on-one, and not in crowd form.

She seemed to understand my feelings, up until she suggested that P and I talk to someone about our feelings---like there was something wrong with feeling this way. Then I lost it a little bit. I told her that if there was any indication that women who had been through the hell we had been through did NOT feel the same way as I did, then maybe that would be a valid suggestion. But because I KNOW a whole mess of other women who feel the EXACT same way I do about pregnancy, then no, I don't need to see a shrink, thanks very much. She tried to back out of the corner she painted herself in, but it was in that instance that I realized that my seemingly supportive MIL doesn't get the hell I (and P) go through on a a daily basis, or COMPREHEND what we went through when I was pregnant with Radha. It seems, dear readers, that she too was under the delusion that Radha was the happy ending to a horrible story, not the bright spot in an alternate, fucked up reality that I will forever be living. And then I realized that she was living out a bit of her own fantasy with this pregnancy---the ability to go crazy and cutesie with the anticipation of a grandchild. Something I never let her do. And the whole thing made me really, really, really sad.

It was a terrible fall into the pit after this conversation. And I hate that something like this---something I have no utter control over---can send me over the edge. Still. Two years later.

I haven't really talked to my MIL since then. The madness of the announcements have died down. SIL still hasn't been to the doctor yet, but hopefully in the next couple of weeks.

I will continue to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.

Because that's the way I roll now...

Welcome Spring!

2010-04-18T12:38:00.003-05:00

Bluebonnets finally bloomed this year, after two consecutive years of piss-poor showings. The record heat and drought of last summer actually helped the wildflower season this year.

There is a tradition in Texas to photograph your children/family/dogs in the bluebonnets. Since they are usually found along state highways, it is not unusual to see cars pulled off to the side of busy highways and see children being rushed into a field, parents flailing their hands while frantically trying to set up and snap a picture, and then frantically ordering the children back into the car. All at lightening speed. A Texas version of a Chinese Fire Drill. :P

One of my college friends is starting her photography business and found a safe place in a neighborhood where someone had planted bluebonnets years before. She got permission to use the field, so we took Radha over there for a couple of shots.

For the record---the tutu was her idea :D

Happy Spring, Friends....

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There's Signs

2010-04-12T19:53:00.006-05:00

We were in Seattle this past long weekend.

I love the Pacific Northwest, and had things gone the way I planned it, we would have been there for at least the Fellowship portion of my education. But alas, they didn't, I ended staying in Michigan and then moving back to Texas.

The last time I was in Washington State, I was at a writer's retreat for 3 weeks in 2005, and this year I felt the call to go back and decompress. So, for my 35th birthday, Peyton and I took a 4.5 hour plane ride without the girl, to reengage with adult life, and to exhale for the first time in a long time....

Tulips are my favorite flowers (I have always had an affinity for bulb flowers. I like the idea that a seed planted in the Autumn must endure the harsh winter in order to bloom in the Spring). At Pike Place Market, there were rows and rows of tulips, bringing me a kind of innocent joy that I haven't felt in a long, long time....

We ate fresh crab, drank Starbucks, shopped, laughed, and talked like we haven't talked in a long time. About life, about future, about our children.

We headed out to Whidbey Island, walked along Double Bluff Bay, and I vividly remembered walking on the same beach 4.5 years before, thinking about returning home, my future, my reunion with Peyton, and the possibility of starting our family now that school was over.

On this day, we saw a group of people walking along the beach, and Peyton, who was walking ahead of me, made an about-face and told me not to walk that way. The woman told him that there was a dead baby seal over there, and the smell was unbearable. I looked in the general direction, and could see a small outline in the sand, and a raven bending over to examine it.

It is common for me to associate seals with Ronan, as that is the literal meaning of his name--"little seal". I was grateful that the woman said something before we stumbled across it. I don't know how upset I would have been bearing witness to that.

But it was the raven that signified something more to me than the presence of a seal on that beach. Ever since Ronan died, birds follow us, and show up at the moments where grief is the heaviest. Driving back from the funeral home in silence, we saw a gigantic vulture perched on a light post with his wings in some grand contortion, looking like a bird on a crest. It made Peyton and I both take notice. When I was driving to work the first day after my 'maternity leave' after he died, a bird flew beside my car window at 20 mph until I went on the highway. When I stopped off for coffee, I walked back to my car to see a small bird hanging out by my car door. Even this past January on Ronan's 2nd birthday, a roadrunner crossed our path, and stayed there as we walked by---which is most unusual as those birds (ridiculously depicted by Looney Tunes), do in fact hustle the hell away from people (and coyotes).

The raven walked it's circle around the seal and came to spend a few moments walking with us before leaving.

Whatever the meaning, even if you take nothing from it other than a freaky coincidence, that image of the raven and the seal will stay with me forever.

35 is halfway to 70....

2010-03-27T09:31:00.003-05:00

At least that's what I've been told.....

Red Means Stop

2010-03-23T22:29:00.004-05:00

I joined MISS over 2 years ago, and I can say that it was the beginning of the healing process after Ronan died.

I wasn't a serial commenter, but when I needed help or advice, I would post and someone would come a runnin'. It was nice to know that in a sea of computer screens, some one had my back. I still visit that site daily, as a touchstone, for guidance, and to offer advice if I can....

There are many Admin people who serve as the 'elders' of the board--Christa B. was one of them. In a parallel universe, she was my twin---science gal, same age, lots of weird coincidences. We only chatted a few times, but I saw her around all the time, holding the hands of whomever needed her. She had lost twin girls and had twin boys 1 year later (who are now 6 years old). She had married her high school sweetheart. She was making progress to defend her PhD this year....life really seemed good for her.

Last week Christa was driving near her local Kroger and got T-boned by an 81 year-old man who ran a red light. She died later that evening.

Out of all the emotions that have spilled through me this week, anger is lingering--at the fucktard old man who probably had no business driving (and survived!!!!), at the universe for fucking with a family that had already had it's share of tragedy, at the fact that she had some of the best years of her life ahead of her--what a damn waste.

But I am most angry that there are no guarantees--that we are not immune from tragedy...that there are no free passes in any stage of life...that life can be so damn unfair.

For all the things I love about life, these are the things I loathe, and continue to wrestle with until the day I perish.

God-willing it won't be while I am making a bagel run to Kroger.

In Memoriam
Christa Bowen
1975-2010

Sometimes....

2010-03-11T20:49:00.003-06:00

I am reminded how fast life moves forward....

Welcome Home!!

2010-03-10T21:41:00.004-06:00

The lovely C welcomed her sweet girl on Monday.

The Pink Post-It list continues.....

You Don't Know My Name

2010-03-01T20:43:00.004-06:00

Blame it on growing up, moving in different directions, being in different places----

Blame it on the ugly scar that resulted when my soul was slashed the day my son was born dead.

Blame it on the rain, or hormones, or the isolating loneliness that finds me when I least expect it.

But, I woke up this morning feeling that no one knows who I am anymore...

....least of all me.

I want my MTV

2010-02-23T21:43:00.002-06:00

I am addicted to 16 and Pregnant.

Don't ask me why. There is no real reason I watch these shows, and the closest excuse I can muster is that I am addicted to teenaged drama. Waxing nostalgic? Hardly. I secretly say a Hail Mary that I was a geek, pretty level-headed and had no chance to go through any of this drama myself.

That being said, one of the youngin's who was knocked up decided, with the support of her very much in love BF, to give the baby up for adoption. They were 16. They were poor. They wanted more for their daughter.

I haven't cried this hard in a long time. I felt fucking awful for these kids---who obviously loved each other and their baby--who made such a selfless choice to give their daughter a fighting chance for more. The young father cried hysterically when his girlfriend was pushing. I am sure he was counting the seconds and knew that as soon as the baby came, she would be gone. The planning, the preparing, the mental pep-talks didn't soften any blows once they heard that baby scream.

Reality is such a bitch, no?

It made me remember the 17 hours I had to mentally prepare for Ronan's birth. The mental pep talks, the reassurance that I could do it. The tears, tears, and more tears. But when it came to push, and he was out, born silent---reality really set in. And that was the worst part of it all---having to live in this pseudo messed up reality.

Catelynn also lost her baby. Although her baby is alive and growing with another family, she lost her ability to see her grow, and she will have to carry that loss with her for the rest of her life.

That's a bitter pill for anyone to swallow---let alone someone who is only 16.

Pink Post-It Notes

2010-02-20T21:31:00.003-06:00

I have been going through motions for a few weeks now. Not really in the pit. Not really happy. Just sitting with the day-to-day.

I have had a few friends who have recently had babies. My best friend had a precious baby girl. A girl I went to high school with delivered strapping twin boys a couple of days ago, and my friend H gave birth to a gigantic baby boy (9lbs 4oz!) a few weeks ago. When Radha was born, H held her a few days afterwards, crying tears mixed with my joy and her loss. I promised myself that when her son was born, he would be the first infant boy that I would hold.

He slept quietly in my arms, long fingers stretching out in an imaginary dream. His jaw was chiseled like his father. He will be tall just like him, I imagine. H looked so beautiful holding him.

I know many, many, many, many, many, many of you are waiting for your dreams babies. My friend K is also waiting. She is on strict bed rest with 'mild pre-eclampsia'. She is 32 weeks and she has had 5 early losses. We are praying that the 6th time is a charm.

I have her name and your names on a pink Post-It tacked next to my desk. I don't even know some of your real names, but I have your blog names written down. Every night I say a prayer and add "come home safely wee ones".

Come home safely wee ones....

Release

2010-02-10T21:13:00.002-06:00

As the blue balloons climbed up to the heavens, I imagined you catching every one of them. Happy Birthday, my sweet boy...

Jan 26, 2010

2010-01-26T13:07:00.005-06:00

He was more than a tragedy that happened to us.

More than a random act of nature that came along with ridiculous odds, sent here to break our hearts.

He was flesh and bone, created from two people who were committed to the love they shared, and the family they so desperately wanted to make.

He was the hope of grandparents, of camping trips in the mountains, mud pies in the backyard, rides on the lawnmower, giggles and laughter on Christmas morning.

He was the nostalgia of good friends, who eagerly awaited the transformation of their old friends into parents, and for opportunities to whisper secrets of what they were like at that age into his ear.

He was the metamorphosis of a man and woman who were scared at first of this path, into a mother and father who could not imagine any other.

He was a lesson of eternal love, of picking up a million shattered pieces one shard at a time, and of trying to find happiness in a sea of sorrow.

He is a daily reminder of how life is messy, beautiful, cruel, kind, and is never what you had planned.

He was here only briefly, but he was real. And he was important.

His name was Ronan.

And he was so much more than a tragedy....

Still Loving What's Gone---

2010-01-24T22:13:00.000-06:00

Those Lovely Bones

2010-01-21T22:03:00.003-06:00

I hear the news and I try desperately to recall a memory---a good one, one with meaning, one that is novel-esque and makes people's heart strings tug a little.

But all I have is the image of him dressed in red footed pajamas WITH the trap door.

We were in high school One Act Play. I played Troll---the assistant to the Prince who, while handing out invitations to the ball, fell down the well on some hick's farm. He played Mr. Snow, the insane farmer who walked around the whole play in red footed pajamas WITH the trap door asking about his pants.

He was Todd, a guy I knew from school and church. A quiet kid with dark brown hair and blue eyes. A jock in a Letterman's jacket who decided out of the blue to audition for One Act Play that year--which he was great in. Collectively, we all were---we almost advanced to State competition--unheard of for a comedy. When we graduated, we lost touch. I hadn't really heard much about him until I got the news this weekend.

Todd died on Sunday. He had terminal cancer and died peacefully in hospice surrounded by his family and friends. He left behind a young son. He was only 36.

I have been thinking a lot about what death means these last few weeks. In the spiritual way--the religious way---the physical way.

Death has never really scared me. Part of this stemmed from my parent's work as paramedics. Back in the 80s they volunteered for the small town EMS, and would often be out (with me in tow) when they were paged to help with an accident. They would park the car on the side of the road, and I would witness the frenzy of people, lights and sirens---all hovering over the injured, and respectfully covering the dead. When I was about 7 or 8, my parents responded to an accident at night involving a car and a truck and parked quite close to the scene. I sat quietly in the car for over an hour staring at the back seat of the small hatchback, crushed almost all the way to the front. In that back seat I could see a silhouette of a man. When no one came to rush to help him, I knew that he was dead. That night, though, it took well over an hour to cover him with a sheet.

During this time, I thought about where this person was now that he was dead and what he was feeling bearing witness to this accident from heaven. Even at that age, I somehow connected death with peace. I knew, inherently that he was OK spiritually, even though his body had died.

Now that I am older, I think I still feel that way--about the one dying.

It's the living without the person who died that royally sucks and that part of death that scares the crap out of me.

What do you think happens to people when they die? Do you feel it's all over---fade to black? Do you think that there is an afterlife? A heaven? An in-between where spirits reside with us?

As for me---I liked to think that Todd may be up there, sipping on a Coke, pain free, lounging in those damn red footed pajamas, with the trap door....

RIP Todd H.
1973-2010

Time Stand Still

2010-01-10T21:33:00.001-06:00

2010-01-06T15:52:00.005-06:00

I went into labor on the evening of Jan. 4th, but didn't get to the hospital until 4am on the 5th. I was calm, she was moving, and I was certain that this was really happening. I had known deep down that she wasn't going to make it to her induction date, set for January 12th.

It was surreal being back in the same hospital where I delivered Ronan. I kept saying over and over again that we had lost a child last year, and the nurse was kind enough to ask me which room I was in, and she placed me in down the hall in the opposite corridor.

Labor was uneventful up until then, but many nurses that were with us the previous year came and said hello, and were happy for us. My nurse who was looking after me in the morning until 7pm was fantastic, and she let me talk and talk about how I felt, how I was scared and happy, and how I was grieving all at the same time.

The 7pm-7am nurse was sent from the depths of hell. I don't want to waste a lot of energy describing her, but she was pure evil, cold and I was in a living hell in the overnight stretch. Radha was not engaging with my cervix, and although I was almost fully dilated, her head was too far back. They told me it would take 2 hours to push her down into the birth canal. It seemed hopeless. She lectured me that my attitude (sheer exhaustion by this time) was not helping the situation, and if I didn't get in the right frame of mind, I would be one of the bad mothers who needed a C-section. She also had my pitocin set to fucking ridiculously high and I was contracting every minute 45 seconds with a completely crap epidural. My blood pressure was out of control because I was in so much pain, and the bp alarm was going off every 2 minutes, and had to be manually shut off---by Peyton. Night nurse was no where to be found. No one got any sleep and I was out of my fucking mind by the time the morning came.

By 7am, the same morning nurse I had the previous morning came back in and said "OH MY GAWD, YOU ARE STILL HERE?!?!?" and I burst into tears and weepily told her that the stupid night nurse was evil and wouldn't let me talk to the doctor and my pitocin was set to KILL ME and the alarm was set to BATSHIT CRAZY. Beautiful morning nurse grabbed my hand and assured me that it was not my fault, and that night nurse, was in fact, INSANE and no one really liked her. She left me to go grab Dr. T, Dr. S.'s colleague that was on call that morning.

Dr. T was a tall man with a mane of salt and pepper hair. He checked me and said "she is not 9.5 and a lip, she is barely 7cm!" He shook his head disapprovingly and asked how long I had been there.

"Since 4am on the 5th" my beautiful nurse said.

He looked at his watch.

"I have a c-section at 8am---you are after her. This has gone on long enough--" he said.

It was like bees descending down on me---people swarmed in to prep me for surgery, and in walked Jennifer---the nurse who helped deliver Ronan---who bathed him, swaddled him, measured him and stayed with us most of the day. She was assisting with c-sections that day and seeing her brought Peyton and I to near hysterical tears. She was super sweet, remembered us, and said that seeing us there made her day.

By this time, the maternity ward was full---and everyone at one point rushed out because a woman was delivering a baby in the HALL! I was rolled down with happy doctor who was overzealous with the numbing drugs, and I was numb from the neck down.

Panic set in, and I tried not to hyperventilate. I was scared shitless. It was happening so damn fast. They put the blue gown up to cover the bottom half of me. Peyton eventually walked in and then out of the corner of my eyes I saw the anesthesiologist inject something into my IV.

And I felt it within seconds. Morphine

Morphine knocks me out. Little or big dose. And I was about to fall asleep and miss it all.

I fought sleep like hell. There was no way I was about to miss this moment. The moment I dreamed about. The moment where a baby is born and I get to hear cries.

"Please hurry," I said softly, panicking.
"We are almost there..." I heard Dr. T say. I felt tugging and more tugging.
"Please hurry!" I said again.

"She's out! She's big!" they said.

And I heard her. Her cries. Her beautiful cries. Tears stung my eyes. Relief filled my core.

I turned my head to try to see her. I couldn't see her.

"Peyton?" I asked.

"She's beautiful," he said.

And I allowed myself to let the drugs take over.

And I slept.

Jan. 6th, 2009 around 1:30 pm---I finally held my baby girl....

And it was all worth it.

Happy Birthday, sweet Radha....

Ying and Yang

2010-01-04T21:00:00.005-06:00

Why did the worst day of my life and the happiest day of my life have to happen in the month of January?

I feel manic/depressive. Happy. Sad. Laughing. Crying.

Flashes of that horrible day are bombarding me. The drive into the hospital to get 'checked out', the still ultrasound image, the sound of my cries, the taste of my tears, the sweet smell of my son....I remember how red his lips were.

I am trying to prepare for Radha's first birthday party this weekend. I write my to-do lists and try to shake these horrible images out of my mind.

I sit with grief tonight, because I cannot fight it anymore.....

Happy 2010!

2010-01-01T12:05:00.001-06:00

Merry In-Between

2009-12-28T19:04:00.005-06:00

It was a busy holiday. Lots of family with lots of roller coaster emotions.

Great highs, great big lows. My only living grandmother suffered a stroke a few months ago and is in a nursing facility. She is slowly regaining the movement of her right side. Her speech is slurred and she is eating baby food. She wept when she saw us, and especially when Radha held out a hand to her.

"It's part of the stroke---the process," my step-mother explained, repeating how the staff psychologists explained the weeping to them a few weeks ago.

Sitting there, half paralyzed, watching your family and life pass you by, unable to participate, hardly able to explain what the hell you need or want at any given moment, hell I would be weeping too. People often mutter that getting old---that kind of old when you are basically digressing back into a child---is the worst thing that can happen to you. I often wonder if it is.

I sat and watched my grandmother during these weepy episodes, and I could see her feel the frustration, the fear, the hopelessness, and then she would wipe her eyes, tell herself that it's ok, reassure herself that she could handle this, and she would reengage in the conversation.

It was exactly how I was in the hospital before Ronan was delivered.

If I have learned anything through these past couple of years (other than the fact that I am cut from the same cloth as my grandmother) is that many of the things that come our way, bad and worse, from our birth until our death, are survivable.

Wishing all of you beautiful survivors a wonderful new year.....

Viability

2009-12-22T10:08:00.001-06:00

I read about the Duggar’s 19th child Josie being born at 25 weeks at a tiny 1 lb 6 oz last week, and I was filled with conflicting emotions...

I was angry that the media underplayed how serious the situation is. Like severe prematurity was just a small blip---no big deal. A little stay in the NICU and all will be magically better!!!

Never mind the 20% survival rate at this age. And never mind the 90% neurological issues within that 20% survival rate.

Then I thought a little more, and laughed bitterly because in the Duggar world, (where the only loss they had was an early miscarriage their first try out that resulted in the abandoning of all birth control whatsoever), this would probably, in fact, be magically better. And then I became pissed again because sometimes I feel like some people never really experience reality first hand--and witness how it can crap on other people. Repeatedly. I was chatting with my friend M, a doctor who trained in Pediatrics, about this situation, and I was bitching that my first try at motherhood I got dinged with Trisomy 18. Nineteen babies in and this is the first scary, shit experience that they face?!?

Which brought me back to my ranting about faith…. is it truly God who chooses the path, or is it really the luck of the draw? If you are on the argument side of God’s blessings to those who believe, I would be happy to point out the wonderful and faithful DBL mommies who prayed for their miracle at 25 weeks (or later), and only were allowed a precious few minutes or hours before (or none at all) before the Lord took their children away. Many their first child. Many their only child…..Not their 19th.

It is a bitter pill to swallow, and a tangled web I weave. As my faith is being held up with toothpicks during this time, I don’t want to succumb to the ugliness that points and compares lives and blessings. I don’t want to lament about how someone has it so easy and some have it so freakin’ bad. I don’t want to know why some women can have 18 children with no problems, and why some can only have 1, with a massive amount of help, only to lose them.

My heart is heavy enough as it is. I see little boys who are playing with trucks, who are running around, jumping and laughing. I look at my Christmas tree and see an ornament of remembrance, but no gifts for a 2 year old boy underneath….

I guess the point of this whole thing is that I just want my boy....

Cows, Moons and Tears....

2009-12-21T23:19:00.002-06:00

Infinity

2009-12-07T20:22:00.004-06:00

Haven't felt like writing much lately. It's the season, the weather, the inevitable...

I go from feeling blessed and so incredibly grateful to feeling pissy and worn-out.

Why does everything have to have a caveat? Is there such a thing as a moment where the hum of unfairness doesn't permeate into my present life? Will I truly be planning the Christmas card thinking "if only?" 10 years from now?

I want a reprieve. Can't I have one?

But then I feel like the worst fucking mother in the world for wanting one.....

It's so damn unfair.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-25T18:47:00.001-06:00

I am thankful for you all and wish you a great holiday!

100% Chance of Rain

2009-11-20T21:27:00.003-06:00

The memories are starting to come to me during the hour commute to and from work....My soul knows it before my mind recognizes it.

The coming storm. The anniversary.

Even with all the weather warnings, I cannot escape from it's path. I cannot hop in a car, drive safely inland, and watch the news unfold on the ticker from afar, safely nestled away.

I have to board up the windows of my home, make sure I have enough water and supplies, and pray that it is not too devastating. I pray for a tropical storm.

I beg for no Katrina.

Angels Watching Over Me

2009-11-06T18:15:00.001-06:00

About a week after I saw my doctor who confirmed I was pregnant with Radha, I boarded a plane for a conference in Boston. I remember asking him what I do if I start to miscarry on my trip. He stared at me, and scolded me for not being more positive.

"I need practical advice. You can be positive, I need to know what to do if I start to bleed," I said firmly.

He sighed, and instructed me to go tp the local ER if that happened.

I spent a few days, walking around Boston, really trying to grasp what I was about to get myself into. The worry was already palpable. I was remembering my deal with God---if it is not meant to be, let it come early. No stillbirth this time. I made a million trips to the bathroom, checking.

On Thursday, Peyton flew out to meet me. We were going to spend a few days in Rhode Island and in Maine. We walked around the Swan Point Cemetery looking for H.P Lovecraft's grave (Peyton is a fan). It was a dreary, overcast kind of day, and there weren't many people around the property. We snapped a few pictures of the flowers. It was a wonderfully peaceful place.

This particular statue resonated with me. The Nightingale Angel. A turn-of-the-century art piece symbolizing the angels that are watching over the children. And there were so many children with the same birth and death dates. So many children....
And when I walked around that cemetery, I wondered if the child I was carrying would make it. The angel haunted my dreams for many, many months after we left Rhode Island.

I think about taking this journey again, and how insane it would be. I am an only child, and I did not like being an only child. My parents were not doting (in the least), but it has made me the person I am now. I make friends pretty easily, and I have some very good friends that have been with me since I was a wee child.

But I have to tell you that as I sat around my friends' dinner table when I was a kid, I found myself quite envious. Of the dinner table. Of family. Of sister/brother; sister/sister; brother/brother interactions. Deep down I wanted someone to get me like that, and share my history from as long as they could remember. I wanted funny, humiliating stories shared about me when people were visiting. I wanted to laugh so hard about a memory from childhood that my sides ached. As good as my friends were, I still had leave them to go home to my lonely house.

I feel that I owe Radha the chance to have that. But then I worry that she will be angry that she is not the only. That her parent's attention is split. How many people wished that they were only children?!?!

I know that if we cannot have any more, for whatever reason, she will be ok.

The question is, will I be ok? If I can. If I cannot. Am I ready to have this internal battle again? The daily demons, the fear, the loathing, the high blood pressure, the 10+ anatomy scans.....all of it?

I don't know yet. Do you ever really know for sure?

Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

2009-10-26T22:18:00.008-05:00

(October 27, 2001)

For my 22nd birthday, he bought me a Sarah McLachlan CD and the DVD of The Secret of Nimh. He wasn't my official boyfriend at this time, but I knew he would come around. ;)

We could talk for hours when we first met about anything (and still can).

He told me he loved me first, but only beat me to it by about half a second.

I knew I would marry him when he told me a story about a ball and his baby brother who was only a year old.

He proposed on Christmas Eve 2000, handing me a card that I read by the lights of our tiny Christmas tree in our first apartment in Ann Arbor. He got down on one knee, and we both cried when he pulled out the small gray, velvet box.

His laughter stirs something deep in me, and when he holds me, it's like coming home.

I will never forget how beautifully proud he looked when he was holding Ronan, and how it was the exact same way he held on to Radha for the first time.

For Better. For Worse. Good Times and Bad....

I love you Peyton.....

And We Remember....

2009-10-15T18:01:00.005-05:00

Ronan
Paige
Myles
Henry
Maddy
Jacob
Brenna
Callum
Caleb
Hannah
Jack
Sam
Cooper
Brayden
Zander
Tristen
Liam
Jenna
Gabriel
Serenity
Noah
William
Jacob and Joshua
Emi
Daniella
The Twins
Anna

And the others who went before in hopes no more will come after.....

Turning a Deaf Ear

2009-10-06T19:01:00.005-05:00

I know I don't post much about Radha, and that is a little deliberate, but I gotta rant about the asshat pediatrician that WAS her doctor. As of 8am this morning, another, much more nicer, competent doctor is now Radha's pediatrician.

So, to premise, we have had some issues with Radha since birth about gaining weight and pooping regularly. In short, her stomach has always given her some issues. And since I breastfed her, I have had to deal with MANY, MANY, MANY people (including up to the end, her fucking retarded pediatrician) blaming me for it.

I have been saying FOR A LONG TIME now that I think she has acid reflux. I could hear her constantly swallowing and burping and she would make that face like 'Jesus, that burned something fierce'. We could not feed her more than 4oz. at a time in a bottle, because she would spit up the excess. Every. time.

When I told him for the gazillionth time, he said "all babies spit up"--even as she was dropping from the 25th percentile to the 5th. I decided that I had enough and booked her with another pediatrician.

This morning my little elfin princess got on the scale, I was very pleased that she gained almost a pound since last month (and that is with some serious effort on Peyton feeding that poor child every 2-3 hours during the week and me nursing every 2-3 hours during the weekend). She is 14lbs and 11 oz. She should be around 16-17lbs. The new doctor asked "has she always been small?" and I say yes and proceed to tell him the drinking no more than 4oz at a time, and all the other things that the asshat Pedi dismissed.

"I don't agree with him at all. She has classic reflux, and it is most likely the reason she has not put on the weight she should"

I looked at Peyton and shook my head.

The good news is that she is healthy otherwise, but just small. She is a few weeks behind in milestones, and you can argue that is because she was three weeks early, but MY GOD! With a small dose of a PPI, the acid churning in her stomach, burning her poor, tiny esophagus could be kept under control and she could nurse to her heart's content. I am so freakin' livid about this.

I think there are too many damn instances where we try like hell to tell a doctor there is something wrong, and they turn a deaf ear, annoyed that the internet has interrupted their golf game and they now have to, you KNOW, work for a damn living. Even with my OB, I had to push, and I swear the only reason he listened to me was because I had a PhD and made it a point to show him scientific literature to show he was wrong.

Why do we have to do this? What makes me cringe is how many people sit there and listen to doctors because they are 'experts' and 'doctors' and know everything. How many women have sat there and listened to this asshat tell them that their milk is no good and they should probably switch to all formula? Damn him, and damn all those other 'professionals' who honestly don't give a shit.

Okay....now that I said my peace, I will end by saying this....

Ain't she cute?

Slivers of Hope

2009-10-01T21:37:00.003-05:00

On Monday one of my Sgts softly told our Program Director that her son, who was visiting his father, had not been returned on the scheduled date. Her 3 year old sees his father once or twice a year for a week, usually in the same city as them. For some reason the father wanted to take the boy on a Disney cruise this visit. She agreed and he was supposed to return the boy Saturday.

By Monday, the father was talking weirdness. He had just lost his job and was lashing out, rightfully scaring the Bejesus out of my friend. He could not commit to a date when the boy would be returned. The boy told his mom he was having a good time and he 'just saw his new school'. All hell was breaking loose.

We all tried, in vain, to offer help, support, suggestions. The police would not get involved because it was a civil matter. But, since there was no real custody agreement, as they were never married, so some law enforcement officers and lawyers thought it could be kidnapping. What made matters worse, the father had dual citizenship in the US and in Ghana, adding a cherry on top of an already shit situation.

I went home on Monday fucking sick to my stomach. The bile was in my throat, and I could not concentrate. I had restless sleep, and Tuesday I fumbled through work as I kept an eagle's eye on my friend. She was on the phone, calling anyone who would listen to her story. She didn't know where her son was, and the father was not answering his cell phone.

By the afternoon, she was determined to get on a plane to go find her boy, and reluctantly, the father finally called back and said he was bringing the boy (who was sad now, because he missed his mommy) that evening. He was returned early Wednesday morning and the asshole was served with custody papers, so that he could not visit again without sorting out this limbo mess that my friend inadvertently placed herself and her son in.

When the good news came, we were all relieved, but I nearly cried. I was surprised by my guttural reaction and I really had to take some time to evaluate why I felt this way. I was talking to my friend Gina about my reaction over dinner and she said "You are a mom, it is scary when you see a mom potentially losing her baby"

But that was not quite it.

What got me the most about all of this was watching R's face throughout the course of the day. She had that look.

You know the look.

It was the look we all had on our faces when we discovered that something was not quite right with our babies. When we were laying quiet and we saw the ultrasound tech's expression when witnessing something on the hidden screen, or the look in the eye of the nurse when she placed a wand on a belly and heard silence, or saw the alarm of the ER doctor's face when he slid a finger to check the cervix.

The blood pressure rises, the adrenaline kicks in, and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears. As more information is gathered, the fear is all over the face. And until you know the final answer, you grasp at that sliver of hope. That--I am scared out of my fucking mind, but I am not going to believe the worst until I hear it/see it/live it--hope.

She had that look on her face all day Monday. By Tuesday she was nearing hysteria. I felt so helpless and useless, and my prayer was that this did not turn out badly. I prayed that her slivers of hope would be enough for the universe to make it right, and that her boy come home to her safely.

The slivers were enough this time. Sometimes they are. I have to remind myself of this sometimes.

Fine thanks, and you?

2009-09-28T22:10:00.006-05:00

"Hey, have you heard from J? She is doing very well...."

I was back in Ann Arbor this weekend, visiting old friends and colleagues. While I was visiting my friend T's lab, I was chatting with a fellow we all worked with a few years ago, including my friend I talked about here and here.

I glanced over at my friend T, who stared sadly at me. He knew the answer to that question.

"No, I haven't heard from J since Ronan died. She kinda fell off the face of the earth and never called me or e-mailed me again," I said.

"Oh," the fellow said softly. You could tell he was surprised. (As was I)

"Well, what can you do?" I said and shrugged, trying to cut the awkwardness.

"What can you do?" T repeated.

We didn't talk about what J could have done. Things like call, e-mail, call again. E-mail again. Things that T did. It seems like a moot point, no? I get that she was uncomfortable with my grief. I forgive her. I would tell her if she ever picked up the goddamn phone again.

I have been on this path for almost 2 years. I know a lot of you who read are not part of DBL (and believe me when I say, I am grateful you are not). I know a lot of you know me in in real life, and have been following this journey with me for a while, and it may seems like I am a friggin' broken record sometimes. Wah-wah-my baby died. I should get the hell over it. Wah. Poor me.

But, for all the times that I feel I should apologize, I read the words I feel from another blogger, or three, and think, it's too late to apologize.

I welcome you to read my exact thoughts written by another DBL mamma, for a fresh perspective.

Give it to me....

2009-09-23T21:24:00.002-05:00

I need good news.

I want to hear what happened GOOD to you today (yesterday, last week). You found $20 in your old jeans. You saw a child helping an old woman across the street. Something. Too much negative thoughts and happenings are going on in blogland. I need reassurance that in the midst of all this insanity, my besties are still feeling and seeing some positive things....

XOXOXO

Reese

Great Expectations

2009-09-20T21:01:00.004-05:00

He was born a month before Ronan's due date. A surprise baby, welcomed home by his two older brothers. She was wishing for her girl, but when the ultrasound showed another tiny penis in black and white, she shrugged and said "hey, at least I know what to expect".

I never thought I would see this boy, as he is my BFF's nephew. The last time I saw BFF's brother (and family) was in 1999, before I left for Ann Arbor, and there was only 1 in the brood. When I managed to get the courage to finally meet BFF in April 2008 (and ignore his new wife's 5-month preggo belly), I asked did his brother and sister in-law have their baby. He said yes. He mumbled the name to me, but I ignored it and focused on dipping a french fry in ketchup.

Of course they had their baby. Of course he was healthy. Of course their family is complete.

This past June, when the girl was 5 months old, we walked into BFF's house for his son's birthday party, and lo and behold, the prodigal brother was there with all his children in tow, including the new son, who was now 15 months.

I avoided this kid like the plague. I hardly looked at him, didn't touch him, didn't ask about him. When he was near me, I found reason to get up and tend to Radha. The kid may as well been a pit viper. It was all very immature, but hell, sue me.

Yesterday, at yet another birthday party at BFF's house (this time for his step-daughter), the brother and family were there (much to my surprise since this was not a blood relative's party). I was sitting on the living room floor with Radha, playing with building block and shadow baby J wandered over to me and handed me his sippy cup.

I instinctively grabbed the cup and the boy sat down next to me and stared at me, sizing me up.

In that moment I had to come to terms with the cruelty of time. I feel like Miss Havisham on most days, but this boy, reminded me that life is continuing on. Two years will be here before I know it, then three, then five, then ten. I wondered when I will not feel such devastation. Will it always be there? Most days it is like a small hum, an undercurrent that something is amiss. But then there are days when I wake up drowning and it is takes so much to overcome it. This is truly the crappiness of this world. You never truly get a reprieve. Your child is never not dead.

The boy smiled at me, seemingly reading my thoughts. Someone once told me that children know your true heart. I handed him back his cup. He stood up, touching my hand, and I didn't flinch but instead reveled in the stickiness of it.

It was a start....

Kissing Cousins

2009-09-18T22:24:00.005-05:00

He is blonde and on the cusp of turning 3. He loves Hot Wheels, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cereal, and has more energy than a nuclear reactor.

He stops during his daily run of the perimeter of our living and dining area and kneels in front of Radha, who is sitting in her bouncy seat after a meal of oatmeal and fruit.

"Hi Row-ah" he says, and kisses her cheek. She closes her eyes slowly and smiles shyly at him.

He pats her head, kisses her again, and continues on his run.

A surrogate big brother.

A million images of what could have, should have, would have been flutter like butterflies behind my eyes--if only.

If only.....

Shadow Babies

2009-09-08T21:31:00.004-05:00

We all have them.

The babies that came along just before or just after the death of our children. The babies that survived and continue to remind us what can never be...

Well, my shadow baby had his first haircut this past weekend.....

Every time. It hurts every. time.

Siblings

2009-09-03T20:59:00.002-05:00

I want to ask a question:

Do you have siblings?

Is your sister your BFF?

Is your brother a complete ass and you haven't talked to him in years?

Please share your stories. I am interested in the dynamic that I never experienced (being an only child).

Thanks for sharing!!!

How and Why?

2009-09-01T20:54:00.004-05:00

The path is slippery, cold and uncertain.

I wish none of us were on it.

And I wish that there were guarantees that no more tragedy awaited us at the end of it.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

What Gives You the Right?

2009-08-29T12:05:00.004-05:00

I was reading the message boards on the MISS website today.

I caught a thread that made me so unbelievably angry--and I haven't been this angry in a long, long time.

The nutshell of this post was a woman talking about how her SISTER of all people was calling her psychotic for remembering the daughter she lost last year. And by remembering, this woman basically did a balloon release this year on her child's birthday.

The letter was awful:

you having a birthday party and even posting photos is very sad and disturbing, what does Jason think of all this. I have MANY friends how have lost children in many stages of their lives. NONE of them have gone to the level is psychotic. I debated adding you as my friend because of what you post. I do not want my friends to see how disturbed you are. I have blocked you from my wall. Please seek help to remedy the loss you have experienced. Please move on with your live and live in the present not the past. What happened happened. I love you and want you to close this chapter and begin a new one. Christina is alive and so are Charlie and Roman. Take pleasure in them not the child you lost. She will never be on this Earth while you are. We are sad for your loss.
Rhonda, Elaine, Gammie, Cory, Katrina, Dana are just a few people who have lost children and they are living their lives not dwelling in self pity and sorrow, waiting for some one to keep feeding this addiction.

The poster's response:

You know I held my tongue the last time you called me crazy,
as much as I wanted to do nothing but cuss you out and defend my
feelings. I just can't keep quiet anymore...

Firstly, I am NOT the only mother or parent of a child who has died
that has had a birthday or angelversary celebration for that child.
Jason even helped to pick out the balloons and got them out of the
tree so we could get them soaring to heaven as intended.

Secondly, I know you have had some small amount of schooling in psychology,
but that doesnt give you the right to say I or my actions are psychotic!
Maybe I am the only one not putting on the fake "Oh Im ok and don't miss
my baby" face. Maybe I am working thru and dealing WITH my grief, not
shoving it down inside until it explodes out of me in 20 years. Maybe you
just don't understand, and I f**king thank God for that! That means you
haven't had to suffer the loss of a child.

Thirdly, I am seeking help, even if that is none of your business.
I am just as "normal" as the people in my support group and the online
child loss group I belong to. I am not living in the past, I am keeping
Elora alive and in the present. Just because I like to talk about her,
doesn't mean I'm dwelling or not moving on. All I'm trying to do is
honor her.

Lastly, I know good and well my other three children are alive!! I take
lots of pleasure in celebrating them and their lives. They like to talk
about and remmeber their sister too! By the way, I did not make them wear
the cremation jewelry they have. They chose the urns on their own to
suit their own personal style. It was charlies idea for all of us to put
tokens in the casket before she was creamted, so that we would have parts
of all of us...together as a family...in the charms.

I'll bet if you gave your friends a chance, and actually asked them how
they are doing, they might tell you the truth. Did you ever think that
this attitude keeps them from opening up around you, and letting you know
that they are still hurting? You don't just lose a child and
then move on after a while!

Until you can treat me and my family with respect, and the grief that we are trying to get thru,
I don't want to hear anything else you have to say!

The death and birth of Elora did close a door
to the previous chapter of my life. Like it or not, this is the new one...

Her sister's response:

Now you have pissed me off. I sent that to you, not all your friends. Thanks for the privacy.
Treat yourself and your family with respect!!! You are not just honoring her. You love her more than your living children. That what it seems like from here. And the memories that they have are what? A few hours of holding a dead sister. Yes I have asked my friends how they are doing. Dana had a difficult day 7 years ago on her son's 10 anniversary of his death. You know what, she was at work. Now visiting cemeteries, not baking birthday cakes for 17 years, no she is living her life and had a child a few years after the death of her other one. He was 10 days old and died in her arms.
Gammie- gave birth to two children between Mom and Uncle Jerry. She lived. She took them on vacations across the country, raided them on her own after her husband committed suicide. She was and is a very strong woman. one was 2 weeks old, the other a few hours.
Rhonda- had two living children. She has a husband who tried to commit suicide and is now in a full care facility. She still had one in high school. She is doing well, i ask her how she is holding up, and how her kids are dealing with their father like that. Years ago she lost a child. She is actually a happy person.
Elaine- lost a child, a few days old. She is very funny, positive and had managed to have a good life.
Cory, has one child. She went on maternity leave and came back to work 2 years ago. Then she left for a couple weeks, she lost a baby to SIDS. She was devastated. She managed to come back to work and care for her family that was living. She will always remember her girl but she moved on.
Katrina has had 2 miscarriages this year!! After the "safety point" she has managed to stay herself and is pregnant again. We are all praying for her to keep this one. She is 27 years old.
Bonnie- her oldest son was killed by a drunk truck driver when he was 16 years old. She did have a hard time dealing with her loss. however, her oldest child and youngest child helped her to move on with her life and not dwell on something she could not change. They helper her live.

I have kept quiet for a long time. I am the only one who will say anything to you about this. I am glad you didn't come to my wedding. I did not meed your pathetic, pitiful, pay attention to me, feel sorry for me, because you will keep this up for year to come. You love the attention.
As for your group. They are dwelling in sorrow from what is sound like. It is a perperual circle. You all just sit around mourning for what will never come back to you while you are on this earth. Why do you insist that she will come back? you will meet up with her when it is your time.

The Poster's Friend's 2 cents worth and her Sister's reply---

Me Today at 12:50pm
I'm not sure if you remember me or not, but I'm a friend of Kim's. I've just read your email to her and let me just start by saying I have never in my entire life come across someone as completely heartless as you.

To say the things you've said to a complete stranger is bad enough, but to your own sister? You have absolutly no idea the total devestation a person suffers at the loss of a child. Just because you know people who have lost them does not make you privy to what it feels like. And I hope to God you never do come to that full realization yourself.

Kim is not crazy, nor are her actions in grieving Elora psychotic. Keeping her daughters memory alive is the only thing she has left of her. Why you can't seem to understand that is beyond me. This wasn't some aquantience, this was your niece for crying out loud. That if nothing else should garner some sort of respect.

Your words and actions toward Kim are completely unacceptable. How dare you even think them let alone say them to her. The fact that she has three other surviving children does not, and never will ease the pain of the one she lost. Nor does that make Elora any less important to Kim, and to those who love her.

To say that you love her in the same breath as saying all the other horrid things you did, just in that one email alone makes me wonder if you are the one who is psychotic. Quite honestly it shows exactly how little you care for your sister and the loss she has suffered. All it does is prove exactly how heartless, self-serving and concieted you are.

At the very least you owe Kim an apology. Although I honestly hope she never accepts it.

Mother of the angel Brianna Christine

Chandra R. Today at 1:23pm
You are not my family nor did I post that to anyone but her. She is not healthy. She is living for a dead person. You cen't just keep feeding her addiction and I know that people do not become obcessed with the dead being a good healthy thing. I am not heartless, not cruel. she needs help. Medical attention. For all I know you are a freak. By keeping this going you are aiding her living for a dead person , not the ones who area still alive. Waiting for her to love them. They are not getting attention and love they deserve. She loves a child that has gone to heaven more than the ones who are alive. That is even more sad.

Me Today at 1:39pm
Wow, you really just don't get it do you. Granted you've never suffered the loss of a child and to that great extent you never will fully get what it's like.

I on the other hand have. I know exactly what Kim is going through, I've been through it myself having lost a daughter 16 years ago.

The loss of a child, or the grieving that goes with it is not an addiction, it's a process. There is no set length of time for that process, especially when that grief is over the loss of a child. And there is absoulty nothing unhealthy about it.

Kim is getting the help and support she needs both through her AGAPE group as well as her friends and family. I'm sorry that you don't have it in you to do your part in helping her. Because what you are doing to her is only hurting her further.

There is no need for anyone to wait for her to love them. She loves Christina, Charlie and Roman with all of her heart and soul. Loving and missing Elora does absolutly nothing to take that away.

What is sad is that you can't see that. What's even more sad is that you are doing everything within your power to further the hurt and suffering she feels.

No other e-mail have been sent from the sister to date. And the poster wanted to share that the responses she got from her real friends----those who were NOT related to her, were wonderful.

I know that people who witness us going through all of this don't really get what this is like. They read our blogs and maybe talk to us about it once in a while. To the outside person, it may seem that we are not moving on, or that we are clinging to the past if we continue to talk about what happened and what we have lost. It is these thoughts, like this fucking idiot sister, that had women swallowing their grief 50 years ago, insisting that they never speak about it, that caused a lot of fucking neuroses. Closet drinking, whoring around, whatever they could do to numb the pain. Talking about it until we are blue in the face is a lot easier, I think, than watching your love one self-destruct. No?

If I had a sister who told me this crap, I would sever that tie. I am grateful that only one person tried to play shrink with me never tried to again. That being said, I am quick to slay anyone who thinks that I am crazy, citing references and making sure that at least my fucking spelling is correct. Call me Type A, whatever.

Crazy and grieving are two entirely separate things, but because we as a society have been told that grieving should follow a certain protocol, when our grief falls outside the scope of comfort, it must mean that it is wrong, and that we are wrong.

We all adapt to carry this burden. No one has the right to tell us that how we carry it is wrong.

No one.

HOLA!

2009-08-27T20:36:00.003-05:00

I know it's been forever since I have posted, and for the 5 people who read this, and have been checking in--sorry for the delay.

The funeral and trip down South to pay respects turned out as well as could be expected. I have a whole lot to write about the service and the flood of memories about Ronan's service that overcame me, but I have been busy as hell lately. My cousins who were around my age were nice and happy to see me (even though it had been 15+ years), and my aunts in general were too wrapped around in their own grief to start bickering crap with me. It broke my heart to see my grandfather stare at the body of his wife of 54 years during the rosary. But after the funeral he seemed at peace with it as he held and played with Radha's feet. Overall it was a pleasant trip and I am glad I went. It was nice that even the young cousins (who are mostly teenagers) knew who I was, and held my first grandchild ranking with some respect. In their hearts, we are family, irrespective of time and distance. That's all I ever wanted. And it was I who took up the rear in the line of family that followed my grandmother's casket to the hearse to be carried to the cemetery. It felt appropriate. And I was grateful to be a part of it.

After we got back from the funeral I dived head first in proposal hell and tried to prepare my team to deal with my absence as I was scheduled to go to DC and make a presentation this week.

It was hell preparing to leave Radha for the first time. And I know that I can share with you here that the thoughts that go through your head once you are a member of DBL are not rational and tend to be more in line of slightly morbid. Planes crashing, cars crashing, fate being cruel and awful, etc. etc. My heart was breaking because I didn't want to leave and I didn't want to place our family in fate's hands. Again. I know they make drugs for this, but listening to In Cold Blood on audio downloaded to my ipod seemed to take the edge off the plane rides.

It turned out fine. I was worried I was going to dry up (I am miraculously still breastfeeding), but lo and behold, pumping went beautifully---a 1000 times better when I was relaxed in a hotel room versus held up in my office under the crunch of deadlines and bullshit. The conference went well, but a quick scan of the audience revealed that my nemesis was in the audience. She sashayed up to me and shook my hand, I smiled a "DIE BITCH!!!" smile, which my boss's boss picked up on and smiled an amused smile, but alas, she was too wrapped up in her hairstyling products to notice. What I noticed was that there were A LOT OF promises of change---especially of how money is doled out, and her sugar daddy's power is supposed to be lessened, and a working group is supposed to take the helm and decide who is worthy of $$ and projects---based on merit, not bra size.

I don't know if it will come to fruition, but props to one of the Directors who gave a talk about our Division who made it a point to make me and my colleague stand up and announce that we were responsible for about 90% of the projects that he was discussing. I made it a point to be charming and lovable when meeting new people, and I took it as a great sign that the Director of my wing (who is a very high ranking Civilian) made it a point make my talk, because he was impressed with me when he met me three months ago.

Perhaps 97% is worth something in the long run. A girl can dream, no?

Hope you all are well!

It's time....

2009-08-14T19:48:00.001-05:00

My Grandmother finally passed away today. Monday is the funeral.

{Sigh}

You Have Mail

2009-08-11T21:25:00.002-05:00

The alert reminded me for the 8th time that if I didn't archive my messages that they would send the e-mail Nazis after me to break my knees ala Nancy Kerrigan.

I spent some time yesterday moving messages from 2008 into the archive. All my e-mail started March 3, 2008---when I returned from my 'maternity' leave after Ronan died. 5 weeks later and I was back at my desk typing, typing, typing......numb. So very numb.

I read some of my e-mail from then. They are coherent and concise-- well thought out and professional. I remember typing back then while thinking WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING BACK AT WORK?!?!?! MY SON JUST DIED!!!!

There was a request from a Colonel that I had lunch with 3 weeks before Ronan died. She asked for my help and I answered her e-mail quickly and professionally. She sent back a thanks and a line:

"I was so sorry to hear about the baby, Reese"

I didn't tell her thank you. My fingers froze on the keys. My professionalism suffocated by the reality that I was typing so fast to forget.

Everything had dates and reminded me of that time between March and May---the time we were waiting for the test results (mailed out on my 33rd birthday), the appointment with the geneticist, the plans to meet up with old friends in Boston, the day I found out I was pregnant again, etc. etc.

I put those messages in an archived folder.

I pray I never have to open it again.

Relatively Speaking

2009-08-03T21:44:00.002-05:00

I want to talk frankly about family.

To preface all of this, let me start by saying that my maternal grandmother is dying and will probably pass in the next few days. As I am getting this news, I am a little shocked that I don't have more feeling about it.

So, I have been delving into memory banks trying my hardest to try to come up with a memory, any memory at all that would be 'grandmotherly' in nature to associate with my grandmother.

And I got nothing.

My mother comes from a large family (12 children that lived, a couple of stillbirths also in there). So, my grandmother was always busy having kids/raising kids, so much so that my grandmother's youngest child is only 3.5 years older than me. She was not the affectionate grandmotherly type. Her feelings were always guarded. She didn't bake or hell, even cook all that much. She never sat down in any real attempt to get to know me. Once when I was in college, she called and asked if I could pick up her son at the airport (who, would be my uncle) but she made it sound like I was an acquaintance she was asking for a favor, not her granddaughter. To this day, it still blows my mind about how Peyton's Nana treats him and his brother and how my mother-in-law treats Radha. It is what you read about--that blind devotion. My paternal grandmother is a little more like that---but there is a language barrier that always seemed to get between us.

When I went to college, I attempted to bridge gaps with my maternal grandparents. I sent a few letters to let them know how I was doing. I invited them to my graduation, which they attended, said hello, and skipped out on all the festivities in lieu of a shopping trip in San Antonio. I continued my card/letter writing when we moved to Michigan. In 6 years of writing, my grandmother wrote one letter, a few lines, to tell me that her mother had died and she was devastated. She also said she wished me well and apologized for not writing more.

When Ronan died, there was nothing. Not from her or anyone on that side of the family---even from my aunt who lost 2 boys to Pompe disease, and knew personally the hell we were going through. It was like I had been written off already, the eldest grandchild. Gone.

I have been doing well not caring about it---until now that the very real reality of her dying and me having to make a decision about whether or not I will drive 5 hours to attend her funeral is upon us---Can I handle watching all my aunts and uncles and the grandchildren who were loved sob over a woman who I just remember as being so very cold?

On one hand, I keep saying that I am an adult. I should be respectful and give respect even though it was not given to me.

On the other hand, I am bitter, mad and wanting to throw a tantrum about the crapiness of it all. It really pisses me off that I have only one side of my family I can depend on. And not to be too stereotypical here, but I am a Mexican American. And Mexicans PRIDE themselves on family (LA FAMILIA!!!!!). How in the hell did it even get to this?

I can already tell you I am going. Whenever it is. Because it is the right thing to do.

But I gotta tell you, this grown up shit sucks.

The Wonder Years

2009-07-26T21:55:00.005-05:00

Maybe it's the fact that my supposed good friends from back home have decided to post all these God-awful pictures of me from junior high/high school, maybe it's the fact that I caught someone in a pretty big lie and she tried to blow it off like I was a little girl who didn't quite get it, but I am reliving a lot of my school days over again and again in my brain this weekend.

I was not cool or popular, but I was well-liked. The happy go lucky nerd. And this is a point of contention that I have now, reliving these damn moments in time-- if I was so damn well-liked, how come my life wasn't different, with boys, with life, with everything?

I wrote something on my other blog (back before I ended up in DBL hell, I kept a blog to help me through graduate school) that when I defended my thesis, and was welcomed into another, prestigious club of PhD-dom, that none of that would have happened if my life had been different in high school. If I had been Prom Queen, had the serious relationships, the 'peaking' at 16, then I would have never taken this type of path. I do not regret any of it, rather I have embraced it somewhat, as it is fundamental to who I am now. I don't regret not getting the guy then because I have my Peyton, my love, now. This is not regret I am feeling, but rather a what-if that tickles my brain with a feather.

I have also been looking at my cousin's wedding photos. She is 23 and they are both beautiful and so in love. They had a wonderful Costa Rican honeymoon. I wondered today if they were going to wait a while until they have children. Hoped they wouldn't, but then wondered why I had that thought.

I guess it's because I wonder that if this would have happened to us if we had tried for a family when we first got married (I was 26). Would this have happened? Would I have a 6 or 7 year old now? Would Trisomy have come knocking on our door if I had gotten pregnant in August rather than July of 2007? Would I have a healthy 1 year old child now?

It's something that we all do, this what-ifing. But with DBL, it seems to compound any other issues that I have, past and present.

Bah, humbug.

Filed Under: Utterly Bizarre

2009-07-19T10:24:00.003-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. To be fair, I love it most days. I enjoy catching up with old friends and seeing how 15 years have changed them (most of the time). I appreciate sending a few SOS's out there and getting reassurances that I am not mentally incapable when it comes to raising a child, although I can feel it on a daily basis.

And then there are the surprises that come into my inbox. One of them was this guy.

So, it has been about 17 years since I have seen or heard from him. And, I gotta tell you, when we befriended each other, I had no earthly idea where that would take me. He is 40 now for all you math people out there. Married with 3 kids. And a man of God.

(Try not to snicker.....I know it's hard. I had a hard time trying not to....)

Seriously, aside from his day job, he found the Lord, got a degree in Theology, and is the associate pastor at an undisclosed church. I was sitting there reading that, trying to take that all in, and immediately he wrote on my wall how happy he was to find me.

Then in a 4 day e-mail string we caught up. I laid it on him---the good, the bad, and the ugly. The really ugly. I challenged conventional religious beliefs. And I don't know if I felt the need to question his God (who, incidentally, is MY God), because he was who he was and I had a little bit of history with him, or if I just took an opportunity to blast anyone who happened to be supposedly more enlightened than me.

And this is what he wrote:

It's OK to feel the way you feel. I will never know exactly what you went through, and for me to say anything to resemble an understanding remark would be arrogant, and probably self-serving. The only thing that I would ask of you is to believe that God doesn't mean any harm to you. The best Theological advice I can give people comes from an honest heart that I personally believe that everyone can see through. My answer is that I just don't know. I don't know why God does what He does, or allows what He allows. I just have to trust that He knows what He's doing, because the alternative is to be a victim of my God, or worse, at war with my God. And, for me at least, that's unacceptable. I think that you are dealing with your plight the best way that you know how, and I'm very proud of you. If you haven't already, I'm sure that one day you will wake up and notice that it hurts a little less.

When I was waiting for this response, I seriously thought whatever he replied would piss me off, make me roll my eyes, or make me vomit a little in my mouth, but, surprisingly, it did not. I actually felt his warmth through his words. Felt that he was coming from a place of compassion, not the need to be right, or the arrogant -time-will-lead-you-on-the-path-back-home.

I have moments where I am still grappling with faith and fate. I used to be a big believer that everything happened for a reason---until I could not find a reason when Ronan died. And then out of the blue, some jerk who broke my heart when I was young and naive and didn't know a kiss didn't mean the world, comes back into my life and sits down with me. Holds my hand. Tells me that it sucks but we can make it through it. And the ice melts. Just a little. Very weird. A little bizarre.

And, yes, to be petty, I look WAY better than him after 17 years. Chump.

Debbie Downer

2009-07-13T11:38:00.000-05:00

So, I am giving the middle finger to the pit. I am tired of it. Saturated is a better word. Do you know what I mean by that? It's like watching too much of the same tv series all weekend long. Your mind becomes nothing but the story line, the plot twists, the characters, what happens next. Then you walk outside, rub your eyes at the glaring sun and realize how much time had passed.

I don't choose to fall in, but I can work like hell to get out.

So there.

I had a good week last week. My friend Ryan was in town (he was living in Brazil) and we sat down to a meal for the first time in 15 years. That is a funny thing about my childhood friends. Most people I know went to high school with 600 people. I went to kinder-12th grade with the same group of people (*hello small town, Texas), and pretty much maintained some level of civility with the majority of my classmates. Ryan was a football hero. One of the only 2 sophomores to make Varsity. He was still all mouth, bald as a cue ball and still loyal. Fiercely loyal. One of the reasons I love him.

He got married (for the 3rd time!) to a woman from Venezuela. Very kind and very Spanish, kissing me on both cheeks, draped in a wonderful shaw in the 100 degree heat (mostly to hide her post-pregnancy belly). She was warm and comforting. I loved her immediately. Ryan has a son who is almost 3 and a 7 week old son, who was sleeping soundly at the restaurant. He handed the infant to me, and I had mixed emotions. I had prepared a speech about how I was not prepared to hold a baby boy, haven't held one since Ronan, and really had no intention of holding a boy other than Ronan.

But then suddenly I was in it, and the wee child squinted at me, confused about who I was, and he whimpered a little. He was not Ronan. Didn't look anything like Ronan. I reminded myself that there was no crime in holding another, that it did not diminish any memory I held. I was nice and detached.

This past weekend Peyton and I made an impromptu trip to Austin to see old friends. We hung out, ate, watched movies, ate, made funny faces at the girl, ate. All in all, a very enjoyable weekend.

I am still dealing with evil redhead issues at work. My boss took a bad tumble on his bike and is on medical leave recuperating from breaking, essentially, the entire left side of his body (shoulder blade, collar bone, 6 ribs). Thank God he was wearing a helmet or this story could have had a much worse ending. In his absence I have been dealing with, for lack of a better word, ridiculousness. I was asked today for a projected budget for 2012. To which I said "are you freakin' kidding me?!?!?!?" I have 2 projects due in a couple of months, and they want me to look 3 years into the future RIGHT NOW? Gotta love the government.

1,000 Yard Stare

2009-06-29T21:51:00.003-05:00

I re-read the cards that were sent to us after Ronan died. I did this a few days ago when I was in the pit.

How difficult those words must have been. Friends, far and near, sitting with their pens in their hands, looking at the blank paper, wondering what the hell to write. What do you say to a woman who has had her whole world turned upside down?

The letters came in full force from about early-mid February. We got some surprise cards, cards from our friend's parents that I barely knew, a haiku from an old co-worker back from Michigan with a picture of her son by a barren tree on a cold winter's day. She said that the picture of her son in the distance reminded her of Ronan.

We received cards from a few older women that I didn't know that well, and it dawns on me now that they probably knew exactly what we were going through, as this DBL extends many generations, from the dawn of man. I am not special. Many women have carved out their stories in hieroglyphs, and yet they managed to go on. It is that very fact that calls to me like that goddamn Drill Sergeant from Full Metal Jacket, dragging my heavy soul out of bed.

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE TO LOSE A BABY? GET YOUR DAMN, CRY-BABY SELF OUT OF THAT BED AND TEND TO YOUR LIVING CHILD. WHAT IS YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION?!?!?

I am tired of this war.

STOP THE INSANITY

2009-06-25T19:23:00.004-05:00

Farrah.

Michael Jackson.

And, the pit.

Yes, loyal readers, the pit doesn't get any less deep and dark because she is here. It just means that instead of sobbing in public, I lock myself up in the bathroom....

I got a 'please forgive me' e-mail from a friend I e-mailed a year ago about Ronan. He claims he stopped checking that e-mail and just came across it.

"I am so sorry. Please forgive me for not being there for you...." he wrote.

I closed my office door and sobbed. Sobbed because he was a good friend. Sobbed because, really, if he were a better friend, he would have asked me over a year ago how Ronan was growing. Sobbed, because I don't know who's who and what's what anymore. Who are my friends anymore? Who is really out there listening and hoping the best for me? I wrote him back, told him I was hurt but I understood and I wished his family well.

I wished him well.

Despite the 1.5 years of silence, I wished him well. Shouldn't I wish him harm and hurt and every creepy, crawly emotion I have experienced in the last year and a half?!?!?

But I didn't. And I won't.

Because even in the pit and with the whisperings of doubt, I can still get a glimpse of who I was before all of this happened.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T10:20:00.003-05:00

I have little words today, so these pictures will have to suffice....

Happy Father's Day, baby!

Love Actually

2009-06-11T22:02:00.000-05:00

If a rose were called April Rose

2009-06-11T21:25:00.005-05:00

Would it still stink as bad as this story?

I am sharing this with my non- DBL friends as well as those who may have been out of the loop of this in-frickin-sane tall tale.

Apparently numnuts Beccah decided it would be cool to start a blog for shits and giggles about her fatally diagnosed baby (diagnosed with Trisomy 13 which is fatal, like Trisomy 18). She got all sorts of women involved in this insanity, including the Christian community who promoted her blog, held her as the poster child for Pro-Life---held prayer circles, baked cookies, etc. You get the picture. It was a hot mess.

Well, numnuts Beccah decides that her baby girl April was going to be 'born' at home (Seriously?!?!?) and blogged a real-time assessment of the whole ordeal a couple of days ago, which began the snowball effect of something stinks in suburbia. She was outed by the 'heathen' while the 'righteous' threw their stones of do not judge until we know everything, but finally gave in and agreed it was all a hoax.

A batshit crazy girl preyed on the hot button topic of baby death. Shame on her. So what should we do about it? Feel sorry and pray for her troubled soul as the 'Christians' continue to push on their blogs? Burn down her house and drag her by her roots, put her in a burlap sack and beat her with a 1,000 reeds? (which is what I'm sure a lot of people WANT to do).

I tell you what I am going to do--

I choose to sit here, shake my head, and hold those who truly have walked this path in my heart tonight.

That's what I am going to do. I hope you join me....

A Wrinkle In Time

2009-06-06T18:32:00.002-05:00

I was reading one of my friend's responses to a Tooth Fairy issue she posted on Facebook. It was quite a tale about her son suddenly wanting all his teeth back from the Tooth Fairy in lieu of money (!)

And while I was reading, I caught a glimpse of her, and all of the girls who shared their stories, of us in junior high---with big stripes and permed hair telling each other that we finally French kissed that cute guy in the class.

I wanted to tell the nerdy 7th grade me with the glasses (because my father didn't want me to get contacts until high school) about all that she was going to do---and to hang on and not get so damn depressed because the cute guy you liked thought you were not cool enough for him. (He didn't turn out so hot, so I am not all that depressed about it).

But I also wondered would I tell her what had happened to us last year? Would she even believe it? And if she knew about it---would she even had tried to get pregnant in the first place?

What would you tell your young self?

97%

2009-05-29T18:18:00.004-05:00

There is a book series by Alexander McCall Smith called the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. It is set in Botswana and is about a woman of ‘traditional’ build who inherits a bunch of cattle when her father dies and decides to open up a detective agency. It’s a warm series, made to make you feel good about simple life, simple things. Recently, HBO picked up the series, and it stars the beautiful Jill Scott as Precious Ramostwe and the wonderful Anika Noni Rose (of Dreamgirls fame) as her ‘side-kick’, Grace Makutsi.

Grace is a dowdy kind of girl who attended the Botswana Secretarial College where she excelled and earned 97% for her final grade, a record in that college. But, she often remarks that women who scored 40% but wear short skirts and allow their male boss to chase them around the desk are far more successful that she is. There was a beautiful scene where Grace is talking to her HIV-positive brother about a run-in with one such girl. Grace was caught on her hands in knees trying to catch a dog when one such girl she went to school with is dressed to the nines in a short skirt and a fancy handbag and brags that she has a fabulous position and her boss takes care of her. Grace tells her brother that she was rude to the girl but felt badly about how she reacted. Her brother, who is very ill at this point, says ‘you’ll do better than all of them’. And you can tell that Grace wants to believe it.

I am Grace Makutsi. I too have lived in this delusion that if I work hard and obey {most of} the rules that I will be rewarded for all my hard work and sacrifice. I am learning on a very personal level a very difficult lesson--- in this day and age, women in short skirts being chased around are still getting further than I am. And I don't know what to do.

I went to undergrad with a girl, who made it a point to use her charm and good looks to get ahead. She would befriend a nerdy male in every difficult class and basically use him to get extra help---letting him fall madly in love with her then dumping him at the end of the semester. You know the type. I knew she did this, however, when my friend M fell under her spell in one of our classes, I said nothing. My punishment for my silence was a devastated M at the semester end who became deeply depressed and suicidal, needing to seek serious professional help. Thanks be to Jesus he pulled out of it, but it was a sin I never forgave that girl for, because there are just some men that it should be a crime to abuse. M had a kind spirit. He did not deserve that.

You can imagine my surprise when I report to my new job a year and a half ago and find out that this same girl managed to get her PhD and had a very cushy position at a neighboring base. I was appalled, but say nothing, assuming that A) she is down the road (out of sight/out of mind) and B) she is tasked to do other things differently from our mission so we should never really run into each other. Wishful thinking.

Lately, we have been needing to deal with her and all of her insanity. We (my group) have found that some of her practices are highly questionable, but when we called her on it, (and by 'we' I mean my work group as a collective), she pulled a male out of her hat--a particularly powerful male that is pretty high up in the food chain. And suddenly demeanor changes around here, general pissiness and vows to have her head and/or make sure she pays are replaced by grumbling silence. She has obviously bought this protection somehow (and intra base grumblings are pointing to her old ways—old dogs, old tricks) and it leaves me feeling vomitous. I am fucking sick about all of this.

It truly makes me wonder why I worked so hard back in undergrad or grad school. It makes me wonder why I work so hard now. But, being the bigger person, (literally and figuratively) I am opting to continue on with my job, do the best I can without trying to pay much attention to her. But then grumblings in the hall of ‘guess who got a multi-million dollar project to do XYZ?’ are uttered, it takes everything in me not to go postal.

I look at my infant daughter, so naïve and unsuspecting. We all tell ourselves that we will tell our children that they should always do their best and the right thing and they will be rewarded. But as I see that iron cocoon 10 miles down the road over a woman who calls everyone sweetie while flashing a flirtatious smile, it almost makes me wonder why bother to lie to Radha. I should tell her the truth. There are times when you work your ass to the bone and all you have to show for it is a boney ass. There are times that you KNOW women will sometimes use their charms to get ahead, but doing the right thing means it's better to be able to sleep with your conscience at night, even if it means that your reward does not come. At night, when I put my daughter to bed, I pray for her safety and good health. I pray that she will be a good person and that she is deliriously happy. I whisper that the world is truly beautiful now that she is in it.

This woman also has a young daughter... I wonder what she whispers to her before she puts her to bed at night.

Molly Fucking Sunshine

2009-05-24T22:31:00.002-05:00

When I was in high school, my 'friend' Ronda exclaimed to me one day "You are the most negative person I know, Reese!"

To put this in perspective, I grew up in a town of about 5,000, so she really didn't KNOW all that many people. But that being said, I still don't know what I said to invoke that particular response from her. I remember being really pissed because I thought I was pretty pleasant and upbeat for the most part.

Lately I seem to be hearing Ronda's voice (all whiny and condescending) now that I am in Facebook hell being reunited (and it feels so good--not) with some people from my past.

One particular girl who I didn't really like all that much but our mothers were friends was all like "Hey Reese, how the HELL have you been, girl? It's been ages."

So, I wrote her a quick note to tell her how the hell I have been.

...And the equivalent of crickets chirping was her reply.

I KNOW people don't want to be slammed with DBL news in their happy, innocent inbox. But, for fuckssake, if you ASK how I am, I will TELL YOU how I am. I am doing ok, but I have had a rough year. Thank you for telling me that my daughter is beautiful and I am blessed, but, can I pretty please put my 'perfect' life in perspective? Thanks ever so much.

Then It occurred to me that honesty can be perceived as negativity. I think that is what happened with Ronda. If my memory serves, she asked how I was doing in the hall that particular day and I said I had a bad day. And gosh darn it, it was not what she wanted to hear.

People gush about Radha and I want to immediately mention Ronan but I am shushed like an old woman shushing me in church. I am finding that people want to do this hand waving thing. Look at your DAUGHTER and don't mention your SON for Chrissakes! It makes people FEEL bad.

That so?

I am not a good faker, people. My grad school mentor told me once that I wore my emotions on my sleeve. To which I said "why the hell should I hide how I feel from you?" He just shook his head.

I mean, I get it. I work for 'powerful' men. I know how to hold my tongue and not to cry--basic essentials to being a woman.

But if you ask how I am....I am grateful for her and forever missing him.

I don't think there is anything wrong with saying that.

Philly Bound

2009-05-14T21:09:00.002-05:00

Work is sucking.

Big time.

Some day over a tequila I will babble the ridiculousness I have had to endure in the last 2 weeks. It has to do with an evil red-head and the flu.

I have a conference in Philly next week.....Thank God!

Hotel sheets, here I come!

Saving Private Reese

2009-05-07T20:56:00.002-05:00

It starts out a little choppy. Like the boat ride before we get to the beach.

I manage to get my foot on the sand and then I hear the first shot. I am under attack. Memories come whirling past me like bullets.

That first night in the room after everyone had left for the night, Peyton closed the door, walked up to me and I sobbed like a little girl as held me tight.

I hit the ground, but it is a storm all around me.

He had Peyton's feet. A tiny replica of Peyton's feet.

It's the hormones. I can feel the familiar tightening of my uterus. I am on a pill that does this to me twice a month.

I lie on the ground and pray for a cease-fire.

Like a Virgin--

2009-05-03T21:32:00.006-05:00

It was a gigantic steam bucket in the JC Penney's studio this afternoon. My MIL wanted us to get one of those family portraits, you know the ones that looks something like this:

Swearing the whole time that we would look 1,000 times better than everyone else ever did in these freakin' things.

We sat in weird positions, my MIL, FIL, BIL, and SIL, Peyton, me and Radha---all wearing blue jeans and a shade of some sort of blue in our shirts. Radha had just eaten and was being cooperative for the camera, and we all were misty and red cheeked from the heat as the young girl snapped us in several, mostly unflattering positions. Peyton and I were asked if we wanted to sit alone with Radha for a pic, and I agreed to a couple mostly to appease my MIL. But in all honesty, when I envisioned ourselves taking these kind of pictures, I saw us outdoors, in clothing that we liked to wear, looking as natural as we could.

We snapped one where we were teetering our huge asses on tiny benches, my 2-baby pregnancy belly hanging out, and one where Peyton and I were staring at Radha staring at the camera. That was the most flattering one, so I decided to buy it.

"You should get the 8 x10," my MIL stated, "Get the big one since it is your first mother's day,"

I looked at her and paused, but she did not see her error.

"It's your first mother's day, so you should splurge!" she repeated again.

I looked at her again. She was still not getting it.

I sighed, ordered the 8x10 and decided to let it go, but it gnawed at me all day.

You know. IT.

I was a mother last Mother's day too. My son just happened to die.

I know she wasn't thinking about that, and I am inclined to give her a pass since she has been particularly good about remembering Ronan with charms and balloon releases on his birth date in January and so forth. But, seriously, I don't really think this is semantics, (but maybe unique in my thinking), but when Ronan was born, I became a mother...end of story.

How do women who lose older children handle Mother's Day? Are they no longer a mother because their child dies? Is there a statute of limitations of how long the child has to be alive in order to be considered a mother? What do you all think? What truly constitutes the definition of a mother?

Blessed Art Thou Among Women

2009-04-21T20:58:00.003-05:00

We have been taking some blows here in DBL. Women who have lost once have lost again. New members are appearing daily. My heart has been heavy, and it started about 3 weeks ago when one of my on-line friends Andrea lost one of her triplets after she hung on for 6 1/2 months.

I have known, in my utmost core, that life is not fair. It is random and messy and it is easy to shake your fists and wish that you were living a charmed life, still stuck in the cocoon where things like children dying don't happen.

The charmed life--the life that we think the other girl is leading.

On the surface it looks perfect. Perfect husband, job, life. Dammit, you think....if only I could have a life like her....

When Ronan died, I thumbed through the leaflets that accompanied my DBL Mom package, the pamphlets that emphatically stated it was not my fault, the ones that talked about how I should deal with my grief. There were numbers for local bereavement groups, and a link for MISS. When I went to that website, I was welcomed into a world of ‘Holy Crap! It could be so much fucking worse’.

One of the first stories I read was of Amy, who lost her boy Liam 1 hour after he was born and they didn’t know why. I was reading stories of how babies were lost at 34, 37, 40 weeks, and some while pushing the babies out. My loss at 28 weeks felt like small potatoes. I felt lucky in a way.

And I have had and read a lot of this line of thinking as I have maneuvered through DBL in the last 15 months. In the last 3 months alone, I have been told over and over again that I am blessed. I have a baby girl now, I am blessed. I have a husband who stuck around. I am blessed. I didn’t have to spend $$$ to try to get pregnant again. I am blessed. My baby girl made it through a healthy pregnancy and she was born healthy. I am blessed.

And it's not to say that I do not feel blessed. Of course I feel blessed, but I feel that these statements are coming at me through the undercurrent of comparison. If we compare, (which is fucking retarded to do in the first place, but hey, women are notorious for it) of course someone always has it worse. I think about all of the women who cannot get pregnant, or the women who keep having recurrent miscarriages after their loss. I think, so what if you had a stillbirth, after reading about a poor woman who had 12 miscarriages and finally had a healthy baby on #13. At least you had good doctors who delivered Ronan, I thought when I read about a girl's sister who delivered her son stillborn on the floor of a county ER--who made her wait for 8 hours as she slowly almost bled to death.

And so on, and so on. It's like I try to be grateful for my pile of shit, grateful it was small, or not so bloody, so completely downplaying the glaring fact that it is, in fact, a pile of shit.

I know I am not alone in these feelings of comparisons of blessings. We do the sign of the cross when we read about tragedy, grateful that we were not caught in THAT particular statistic. If we think hard about it, we are the charmed ones to several women who are alone, feel they will die alone, and never get their chance to even try for a baby.

Bizzare, I know.

Charmed lives are a Red Herring. No one can really know what is beyond the polished exterior. For every beautiful, charmed woman, there is a story of anorexia, self-loathing, debt up to their eyeballs, gay husbands, and so forth. The stone cold reality is that we live in a world where someone always has it worse. But I keep trying to tell myself that someone else's tragedy doesn't mean that any of us were dealt something any less devastating than the next woman.

My friend H came to visit me after Radha was born. She had started volunteering at Legal Aid, helping the unfortunate with their legal problems. She told me that she felt guilty that she felt bad about her daughter dying when so many people had it worse off than her. It was right then that I saw the utter heartbreak in that statement. H's daughter had just DIED a couple of months earlier. After she carried her to term with Trisomy 18! She had every right to grieve for what she lost.

And I believe that for everyone out here. We should not feel guilt because we are where we are now when others are on a completely different path. We should not downplay the feelings we have about our losses or our joys, or make someone else's tragedy worse than our own. We should acknowledge that we were all robbed, that we are all dealing the best way that we can, and that we all are living this new life the best to our ability, trying to find the blessings when and if they come.

We should...but even in writing this down, it feels like a weak battle cry.

Out of Africa

2009-04-15T22:07:00.003-05:00

He grasped my hand and smiled a brilliant white smile. “Pleasure to meet you Dr. S,” he said in the perfect African English. If you have ever met an African, you grow to love the accent—proper British slangs with a hint of tribal dialect. He was a General from Tanzania, interested in becoming partners with Global Epidemiology to aid in the effort to stop the flu outbreak, if there ever was to be one. I was asked to sit in on this meeting, just in case he had questions about the science. I watched the plump man partake in a pastry, sip his tea and was immediately reminded of my trip to Nigeria. It was during the Summer of 1997 and I was 22 years old, mouthy, such a typical Texan---thought I knew everything, even though I had barely set foot outside of the state. When I landed in Kano, I was immediately thrown into another world. Men guarded the airport with machine guns. In a sea of black, we were the minority white. We were hustled into a long line where one rather large, unfriendly Nigerian examined our passports, asked gruffly what we were doing there and laughed a bitter laugh as we fumbled unsuccessfully for an answer.

We were no longer in Texas anymore, Toto.

The drive to Maidugurri from Kano was long---6 hours in a van that felt every pothole in the poorly kept road. Our overseas mentor, Dr. Shatima, a young pediatrician (32) who was slated to work with us in the hospitals, sat in the front seat. He was very tall, rail thin, and pensive. The quiet type. I realized early on he was an observer and he did not like to make a lot of conversation. He initially struck me as a bit of a snob, frustrated that he was stuck with some bratty American kids. Weeks later I would learn that he was not a snob, but rather quite shy, a hard worker who was very good at carrying out orders, no matter how ridiculous and demeaning they were to him. Twelve years later he would become an important pediatric consultant, run his own clinic, and work for the higher ups in government. He would also become my trusted friend and colleague, travelling all the way from Nigeria to Michigan in the dead of winter to witness the hooding ceremony for my doctorate, establishing his place in my adopted family circle of friends. When I wrote to tell him I was pregnant with Ronan, he was so excited, glad that I was finally to become a mother, thrilled to be his 'Nigerian Pediatrician'. When I sent an e-mail last February to tell of Ronan’s stillbirth, he sent back a letter stating he was heartbroken to hear about the death of ‘our son’. He did not write ‘your son’ but ‘our son’, because in his heart, Ronan belonged to him as much as he belonged to us, and his death resonated all the way across the Atlantic, ignoring all religions, tribes and creeds.

I am amazed, even to this day, how a baby only 28 weeks old could bring with him so much love and emotion.

While in Nigeria we stayed at the medical school hostel and my roommate Lisa and I also became fast friends with 3 boys---Jacob, Yakubu (affectionately known as Yaks), and Aliyu. We spent the entire summer with them, playing cards, talking, eating, hanging out like we had known each other forever.

Jacob was the youngest at 20, and very inquisitive. I must have answered 1,000 questions he asked about the United States. Yaks was a cut-up, the class clown but deeply loyal and smart. And there was Aliyu—the class president, a born leader, razor sharp wit and intellect. Aliyu and I would talk for hours like long lost friends, but not about the simple things Jacob was interested in (like if all Texans rode horses like in John Wayne movies), but more philosophical things---like God, and the right to let women lead their own lives. We shared such similar ideas and values, as if we were raised together and not half a world apart. He spoke often about his younger sister Awa, about how hard it was for his mother to raise all the children alone, and how he worked hard now so that someday Awa would have the chance to have adventures like me.

There was an honesty and a friendship that I had with Aliyu that I have not had with anyone else. I could tell him anything, anything at all, and it would be accepted unconditionally. Everything was so easy with him. When I left Africa, I felt incredibly sad that I would not interact with him on a daily basis. We tried writing, but it was never the same as it was that summer. Perhaps it was the situation, much like Lost in Translation, of how you find someone in an unusual place and feel bound to them forever. I knew what I experienced with him was special, and even if I lived to be 100, I would not find that kind of connection with a human being again.

In April of 2002, Dr. Shatima wrote me an e-mail to inform me that Aliyu and his younger sister Awa were travelling back home for Easter when their car struck a truck head-on. They died instantly. Aliyu had just turned 28, Awa was barely 14. I cried for days when I read the news, wept for the injustice of it all---the recently promoted Aliyu, the young Awa and her quest for adulthood and Reese-like adventures. Most of all, I wept for the memory of 2 young kids in Africa in 1997 that sat around contemplating the meaning of life. A couple of years later I was taking a walk one summer evening in Michigan, and I saw a young black man, dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and white pants walking towards me. In the dusk of night, I saw Aliyu’s face, smiling at me and it took my breath away. I stared at that poor man so intensely that he eventually crossed the street, but it was the first time that I truly believed in angels.

A month after Ronan died, I lay awake in the middle of the night and stared at the blank walls of our bedroom. I was still reeling from grief, fighting the horrible thoughts crashing into my poor, weak mind (exacerbated by hormones). I was startled awake that particular night with a question. Who was taking care of Ronan in heaven, if there was a heaven?

The question left me with a new rub of salt in my still bleeding heart. The vision of my poor child alone up there was enough to bring on a fresh, new set of hysterics. All I could do was imagine my son alone. I was panicked, and damn near hysterical to the point of waking up Peyton. I tried to recall those who had passed before me. Who did I know? Who would be there to show Ronan the way?

I saw my grandfather who died when I was a young girl. He couldn’t take care of him. I saw my godfather, Bole, a good, funny man, but I still felt that he was not the one. My mind was burning and the grief was washing over me. Who? Who?

And then I saw Aliyu’s face.

I stopped crying.

I knew Ronan would be safe with him.

How about them transparent dangling carrots...

2009-04-07T16:21:00.005-05:00

April 7, 2009

Dr. S,

I wish there were words to adequately describe the overwhelmingly tragic scene that we were living January 24, 2008 when we first met you. That day had started out with an underlying sense that something was wrong, and transitioned into what would be the worst day of our lives. When we were in L&D that night and it was determined that our son had in fact died, the nurse asked me again who my doctor was, and all I could do was blurt out your name. But, even as I uttered it, it felt like a lie. That was because we had not yet met you. 2 weeks earlier an office slip up resulted in us going to the office for our first appointment when you had canceled your appointments (because you fell out of a deer lease and broke some ribs). The staff frantically shuffled us in to see Dr. C, and we had made an appointment to see you 2 weeks later. As fate would have it, we would meet 2 weeks later, but not in the traditional way.

While we waited for you in that delivery room last January, we were all in a sort of suspended animation. Peyton and I went through the horrible motions of contacting our parents to tell them that their first grandchild, a son everyone was eagerly waiting for, had just died. I don’t recall a lot about that first night, except for the stinging memories of what Peyton’s voice sounded like as he called his father and how my father cried silently as he hugged me when he arrived to the hospital 2 hours later, never remembering a time in my life when I saw him cry. In all that tragedy, I remember you. You came in wearing those damn green scrubs you always wear, said you were so very sorry, grasped mine and Peyton’s hands and said you would take care of us—your patients that you had never met.

It took a whole year to fully appreciate the power of that statement. After Ronan was born and the testing came back for Trisomy 18 three months later, I told Peyton I didn’t know when and if I would ever want to try again. The pain of living in this new world, this Dead Baby Land as we affectionately call it in Cyberspace, was still too much. I was angry, lost, and damning the god(s) who took away our child. But for all my rebellion came a dream one night of a baby wrapped in pink and a positive pregnancy test 1 week later. Little did I know the fear and damning would come in full earnest as I was about to embark on a journey that had an unknown ending. You were happy for us when you saw me again in June, shook my hand, assured me it would be different this time, but all I felt was complete numbness and a growing whispering in my ear of what the hell have you just gotten yourself into?

I know that as a doctor you see the caution and the hesitation-to-be-happy-until-the-baby-arrives-screaming-9-months-later in your patients who have had previous losses. But I would like you to know that the emotion a woman feels carrying another child is deeper than just caution. It is caution mixed in with everything else in the spectrum of emotion, good and bad. But, in that caution there is also hope flickering ever so small, like a single ember still lit after a campfire has been doused with water. It takes several people to help fan it to set it on fire again---family, friends, and of course, the medical staff that is overseeing the pregnancy. The fire lights, and then it putters out, and it is truly one of the most exhausting and frustrating courses, those long 9 months of constantly fanning a flame--sometimes without the help of the mother, who sometimes just wants to lie down, let the fire die, and let her fate come.

Thank you for fanning the flame, for answering every stinkin’ question that came to my mind, for seeing me every week 4 weeks earlier than you would any other patient, for understanding that this journey was difficult and taking the punches when I had lost my mind and my patience. Thank you for being patient, for being strong when I was weak, and for lighting a candle of hope in my darkness. For all your efforts, our daughter Radha (Row-ah) Elise came safely, albeit 3 weeks early. She had her brother’s birth date as her original due date, but I think she wanted January 26th to remain his special day. Her name holds 2 meanings--in Sanskrit it means ‘success’, but in Irish, it means ‘a vision’, an affectionate reminder that she announced her presence to me in a dream before I knew she was coming.

I don’t know if I have it in me to try this journey again. The fear and anxiety is almost too much for me (read: my husband) to carry again. But, I do know this---if we do decide we are crazy enough to try for another, I know I want you by my side.

Respectfully,

Reese

They Say It's Your Birthday....

2009-03-29T22:09:00.004-05:00

I turned 34 on Friday.

Last year, it was a quiet sort of day.

This year, many people took the time to celebrate what a difference a year makes.

We drove to my father's house on the coast, introduced the girl to extended family and friends. It was a nice weekend.

All alone in the dark, with Radha in her pack-n-play I imagined an alternate universe in which Ronan would be sleeping in a crib.

But to have acquired that moment, I would not be having these moments.

My beautiful baby girl...sighing sweetly. Cooing and smiling at all the wonderful people who were so happy to have her there.

My uncle's long time girlfriend got teary at the very sight of her. "She's such a blessing, such a blessing," she muttered over and over again.

My grandmother held her in her frail arms and said in English (a departure from her usual Spanish). "I am so happy..."

Lumps in my throat. Enough to choke a horse.

All of it, every stinkin' bit of this journey, is so goddamn bittersweet. I can hardly stand it anymore....