October 31, 2009
"Oh, this is what I love," I said to Jeremy, clapping me hands with a big smile on my face. "I know you do Abby. I've got the manual on you," he said. There are moments in my life that are so fulfilling, I can hardly stand it. Last night produced quite a few of those for me. Might I share with you?
My former supervisor at work, Ford, and his wife Marie came over for dinner last night. Ford retired in August, and I hadn't seen him since his last day of work. Ford is one of the most gentle souls I know, and he and Marie together, well let's just say I hope that Jeremy and I are as simpatico as they are when we've been married forty years.
So hostessing and entertaining is a huge pleasure for me. And quite honestly, since my illness, it has become much less stressful. It used to be that if we were having people over for dinner I would more likely than not end up with a tension headache during the dinner. I worried about the cleanliness of my home, the timing of all the food being ready, etc., etc. But something happened to me when, during my hospitalization, people were in and out of my house all the time without me being there. I realized on a very deep level that what people care about is me. It's not my house or my food or anything else. That realization has really affected me in a positive way.
So it was with a relaxed effort that I prepared for the dinner last night. On Wednesday evening I buttered and brown-sugared the butternut squash and baked it till it was tender. I scooped the flesh out and saved it in the fridge until Friday night. Thursday morning during my morning off from work I mixed and rested my pie crust dough, then gently battled with it as I formed it into a very homemade looking crust. I beat together the eggs and sugar and Karo and pecans and then filled the house with the scent of warm pecan pie as I set the table. Little tiger pumpkins, green apples and candles ran in a row down the center of the table as my centerpiece. It was all coming together in my mind and I could hardly wait!
Jeremy is always in charge of the music rotation when we have company, and I love it! He and I are in sink about the mood we want to set. Sam Cooke, Neil Halstad, Tom Waits, The Cheyenne Mize and Bonnie Prince Billy, and Dean Martin took turns crooning out tunes as I began chopping the Granny Smiths for the apple salad and Jeremy lit the fire and the candles throughout the house. A quick phone call to mom: "I thought you were having company tonight," she said as she answered the phone. "I am. I don't have much time to talk, but I wanted to know what's your ratio of mayonnaise to sugar in the dressing you make for your salad?" She laughed and told me. I whipped together the dressing and added a touch of cinnamon. The walnuts were toasting in the oven. I could smell them. Oops! They were burning just a touch - time to pull them out! I tossed together the apples, walnuts, and dressing and then added a little feta cheese and set the dish in the fridge.
Ford and Marie arrived just as I was slicing the bread for the bruschetta. Jeremy opened a bottle of Shiraz and a bottle of Pinot Grigio and we all sipped our wine as we chatted while I brushed the bread with olive oil and a little garlic salt while simultaneously browning onions in olive oil and adding the ginger and chicken stock. "I think we should toast adoption," Marie said as she raised her glass. "Oh I think that's a great idea!" We all clicked glasses and began excitedly talking about the adventure Jeremy and I were embarking on. I interrupted the talk with the noise of the food processor as I put the final components of the butternut squash soup together. A dollop of sour cream in the middle and a dusting of ground up flax seed and we were ready to sit down to dinner.
We sat and ate and talked and drank. After our meal we moved to the other half of the room and sat in front of the warmth of the fireplace and talked some more. I plated the pecan pie and brewed a pot of fresh coffee. We laughed and ate and shared some more. Oh it was just all so relaxing and good. These are the moments . . . the very fulfilling moments. And I just wanted to share because most of the time I use this blog to sort through all the tough stuff, but it isn't always tough. There is richness and pleasure and pecan pie!!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Such small things
October 29, 2009
It was either the 29th or 30th last year when I was finally discharged from the hospital after my second surgery. My mom had flown out so she could be at home with us for a while to help out, unfortunately my hospitalization was longer than anticipated, so we only had less than two days with her at home. They had discharged me the day before but I began vomiting on the way home and had to turn around and go right back to the hospital - same room and everything for another day. I was so frustrated.
I remember the day I was discharged Jeremy came home from the grocery store with a pumpkin and as he spread out newspapers on the floor in front of the couch I was sleeping on, he began carving it. I knew he was doing it to cheer me up. Halloween night I positioned myself on the couch so I could see all the adorable little trick-or-treaters coming to the front door as my mom and Jeremy handed out candy to them. I cried that Harper wasn't there to dress up in one of the baby costumes. I've never been a big Halloween person, but I did look forward to participating in the festivities with a little one in our brood.
Mom left on November 1st. It broke my heart to see her go. When she left, it meant Jeremy and I were alone with our exhaustion and our fears. I had my PIC line hanging from my arm and was getting IV fluids all night long, every night. Jeremy had to help me hook up the fluids. He was so diligent about making sure each port was sanitized before he'd hook me up. If his fingers even brushed against one of the sanitized tubes he would re-sanitize. The last thing we needed was for my PIC line to get infected (which did end up happening by the way - which caused hospitalization number-I-lost-count to happen).
A few days after my mom left, my sister-in-law Heather came out to help us. What a blessing. She cooked wonderful food for us to try to encourage me to eat. She went to my follow-up surgeon appointment with us. She gave me hour long foot rubs every night as I fell asleep, easing the pain with something nice. God bless her, she was willing to put herself in the middle of all our stress and sorrow to help us. I had so many breakdowns while she was here. She was in the back seat of the car on the way home from my appointment with Dr. V when she witnessed Jeremy and me arguing quite loudly about the fact that I had lost another two or three pounds. "It's not like I'm trying to lose weight Jeremy! You don't understand! I can feel the food coming out of my stoma while I'm eating. It's not particularly appetizing. And I'm scared that I'm not going to chew enough and get an obstruction. But I'm trying!"
"Well you can't keep losing weight Abby," his voice got louder and louder. He was so panicked. "You can't just waste away." That's what the argument was really about. Stupid me, I had put to voice the thoughts that were going through my head a while before: I can't do it any more. I wish I could just stop eating and fade away. But it really wasn't my intent to starve myself to death. I really did want to put on weight, but every time I put food in my mouth I had to force myself to chew and swallow. Food was stressing me out.
Man, just writing about this I'm once again reminded of the emotional burden that Jeremy was carrying around for me. It brings me to tears to think about him worrying that I was going to starve myself to death. I was always honest with him too about my desires not to live any more. I knew that if I was going to survive I couldn't keep those thoughts to myself, so I dumped them on him. "I'm not going to do anything to myself Jeremy, but the thoughts are there all day long." The pain was just too much - emotional pain, physical pain, exhaustion. And really, I dumped those thoughts on every member of my family too. God, the fear they must have all felt. I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry for putting my loved ones through that.
When I say that words of encouragement from friends and family meant the world to me, that is no exaggeration. E-mails, cards, voicemail messages, they all reminded me that there was goodness and love out there if I could just hold on. Sometimes now when I hesitate to call someone for fear I'll make a pest of myself, or debate about taking the time to stop and pick up a card for someone, I remind myself of how much those things meant to me and I end the hesitation. Such small things can be so powerful. We just don't even know, do we?
It was either the 29th or 30th last year when I was finally discharged from the hospital after my second surgery. My mom had flown out so she could be at home with us for a while to help out, unfortunately my hospitalization was longer than anticipated, so we only had less than two days with her at home. They had discharged me the day before but I began vomiting on the way home and had to turn around and go right back to the hospital - same room and everything for another day. I was so frustrated.
I remember the day I was discharged Jeremy came home from the grocery store with a pumpkin and as he spread out newspapers on the floor in front of the couch I was sleeping on, he began carving it. I knew he was doing it to cheer me up. Halloween night I positioned myself on the couch so I could see all the adorable little trick-or-treaters coming to the front door as my mom and Jeremy handed out candy to them. I cried that Harper wasn't there to dress up in one of the baby costumes. I've never been a big Halloween person, but I did look forward to participating in the festivities with a little one in our brood.
Mom left on November 1st. It broke my heart to see her go. When she left, it meant Jeremy and I were alone with our exhaustion and our fears. I had my PIC line hanging from my arm and was getting IV fluids all night long, every night. Jeremy had to help me hook up the fluids. He was so diligent about making sure each port was sanitized before he'd hook me up. If his fingers even brushed against one of the sanitized tubes he would re-sanitize. The last thing we needed was for my PIC line to get infected (which did end up happening by the way - which caused hospitalization number-I-lost-count to happen).
A few days after my mom left, my sister-in-law Heather came out to help us. What a blessing. She cooked wonderful food for us to try to encourage me to eat. She went to my follow-up surgeon appointment with us. She gave me hour long foot rubs every night as I fell asleep, easing the pain with something nice. God bless her, she was willing to put herself in the middle of all our stress and sorrow to help us. I had so many breakdowns while she was here. She was in the back seat of the car on the way home from my appointment with Dr. V when she witnessed Jeremy and me arguing quite loudly about the fact that I had lost another two or three pounds. "It's not like I'm trying to lose weight Jeremy! You don't understand! I can feel the food coming out of my stoma while I'm eating. It's not particularly appetizing. And I'm scared that I'm not going to chew enough and get an obstruction. But I'm trying!"
"Well you can't keep losing weight Abby," his voice got louder and louder. He was so panicked. "You can't just waste away." That's what the argument was really about. Stupid me, I had put to voice the thoughts that were going through my head a while before: I can't do it any more. I wish I could just stop eating and fade away. But it really wasn't my intent to starve myself to death. I really did want to put on weight, but every time I put food in my mouth I had to force myself to chew and swallow. Food was stressing me out.
Man, just writing about this I'm once again reminded of the emotional burden that Jeremy was carrying around for me. It brings me to tears to think about him worrying that I was going to starve myself to death. I was always honest with him too about my desires not to live any more. I knew that if I was going to survive I couldn't keep those thoughts to myself, so I dumped them on him. "I'm not going to do anything to myself Jeremy, but the thoughts are there all day long." The pain was just too much - emotional pain, physical pain, exhaustion. And really, I dumped those thoughts on every member of my family too. God, the fear they must have all felt. I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry for putting my loved ones through that.
When I say that words of encouragement from friends and family meant the world to me, that is no exaggeration. E-mails, cards, voicemail messages, they all reminded me that there was goodness and love out there if I could just hold on. Sometimes now when I hesitate to call someone for fear I'll make a pest of myself, or debate about taking the time to stop and pick up a card for someone, I remind myself of how much those things meant to me and I end the hesitation. Such small things can be so powerful. We just don't even know, do we?
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
It ain't that easy
October 28, 2009
He brought it up, which was unusual. I honestly couldn't remember a time that he had brought up the topic. I'm always the one who tentatively broaches the subject, all the while thinking to myself, Is talking about this going to stress him out? Will he get protective and scared? Or will he be able to join in the excitement? But Saturday night, it was Jeremy who started the conversation about us adopting.
"I'm excited about it," he said looking at me with a smile on his face. (Granted, his emotions were a bit lubricated with IPA and barley wine (was it?) as well as an emotional bon voyage dinner with a dear friend who is more like a brother to us . . . but I digress.)
"Really? You're excited? You've never really said that to me before."
"Yeah. I'm excited. I like seeing you excited too. I'm not scared Abby." Yes. This is what the conversation was really about: fear. And all of a sudden the flood gates opened and he was weeping, his face contorted from the emotion. "I think about how I looked at you through the camera week after week all beaming and happy and all I could see was my own fear. I feel so much guilt that I didn't get excited with you. I wish I could dump these feelings." More sobs.
After I reached week 12 of my pregnancy with Harper and began to show, we took weekly photos of me in the same position to document the growth of my belly. They are hard photos to look at now. They were on the same "roll" of film as the photo of my positive pregnancy test, and then also the photos of Harper when she was born.
"Jeremy, you were scared. That's okay. You were allowed to be scared. Do you think for a moment that I would have chosen to have a baby with you if I wasn't certain that once she was born you were going to let go of your fears and embrace her with everything you had? Is there something you need to hear from me to allow you to let go of the guilt?" I wanted to fix this for him. It broke my heart to see him in such pain, carrying that heavy burden with him. Couldn't I do something to release it for him? Sometimes in the twisted corners of my mind, I get lost and confused and feel like this was all my fault. After all, I was the one who got pregnant. I was the one who got sick. I was the one who lost the baby. Couldn't I also be the one to make this all better for him?
"No. I want to hold on to it because I never want to do that again. I want things to be different this time."
"But don't you think that if you're parenting from a place of guilt, you won't feel free?" But I understood what he was saying. He's learned something from the guilt, and he wants to keep that lesson close to him. It's a fine line to walk though. It's a fuzzy line too.
I told him I loved him, my sweet lover, partner, friend. That was all I could do. And I realized that though we are bonded as one in our commitment to each other, we are still two very separate people, processing grief in our very different ways. It's not always about you Abby. Just because you've let go of the guilt (for the most part) doesn't mean that's where he's at too.
I hesitated to share this conversation because it is one of those intimate moments that I hold dear to me. One of those moments where we were raw with each other, raw and exposed. But this conversation typifies the confusing, complexities of grieving together. You don't just go through a period of sadness and then come to a place where you're happy again. It ain't that easy.
He brought it up, which was unusual. I honestly couldn't remember a time that he had brought up the topic. I'm always the one who tentatively broaches the subject, all the while thinking to myself, Is talking about this going to stress him out? Will he get protective and scared? Or will he be able to join in the excitement? But Saturday night, it was Jeremy who started the conversation about us adopting.
"I'm excited about it," he said looking at me with a smile on his face. (Granted, his emotions were a bit lubricated with IPA and barley wine (was it?) as well as an emotional bon voyage dinner with a dear friend who is more like a brother to us . . . but I digress.)
"Really? You're excited? You've never really said that to me before."
"Yeah. I'm excited. I like seeing you excited too. I'm not scared Abby." Yes. This is what the conversation was really about: fear. And all of a sudden the flood gates opened and he was weeping, his face contorted from the emotion. "I think about how I looked at you through the camera week after week all beaming and happy and all I could see was my own fear. I feel so much guilt that I didn't get excited with you. I wish I could dump these feelings." More sobs.
After I reached week 12 of my pregnancy with Harper and began to show, we took weekly photos of me in the same position to document the growth of my belly. They are hard photos to look at now. They were on the same "roll" of film as the photo of my positive pregnancy test, and then also the photos of Harper when she was born.
"Jeremy, you were scared. That's okay. You were allowed to be scared. Do you think for a moment that I would have chosen to have a baby with you if I wasn't certain that once she was born you were going to let go of your fears and embrace her with everything you had? Is there something you need to hear from me to allow you to let go of the guilt?" I wanted to fix this for him. It broke my heart to see him in such pain, carrying that heavy burden with him. Couldn't I do something to release it for him? Sometimes in the twisted corners of my mind, I get lost and confused and feel like this was all my fault. After all, I was the one who got pregnant. I was the one who got sick. I was the one who lost the baby. Couldn't I also be the one to make this all better for him?
"No. I want to hold on to it because I never want to do that again. I want things to be different this time."
"But don't you think that if you're parenting from a place of guilt, you won't feel free?" But I understood what he was saying. He's learned something from the guilt, and he wants to keep that lesson close to him. It's a fine line to walk though. It's a fuzzy line too.
I told him I loved him, my sweet lover, partner, friend. That was all I could do. And I realized that though we are bonded as one in our commitment to each other, we are still two very separate people, processing grief in our very different ways. It's not always about you Abby. Just because you've let go of the guilt (for the most part) doesn't mean that's where he's at too.
I hesitated to share this conversation because it is one of those intimate moments that I hold dear to me. One of those moments where we were raw with each other, raw and exposed. But this conversation typifies the confusing, complexities of grieving together. You don't just go through a period of sadness and then come to a place where you're happy again. It ain't that easy.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Mother's Club
October 27, 2009
I'm feeling so restless these days. I say to myself time and time again throughout each day, "Enjoy the here and now Abby. Don't miss out on the goodness today has to offer." I think what's really happening is that I'm feeling a bit hopeless about the baby situation. The adoption process is just so slow, and it feels like such a long way off, it's hard for me to believe that it's really going to happen. Meanwhile, I sit and listen to the women in the mother's club talk about the trials and joys of parenting, waiting for my time. I'm an outsider for now. Any woman who has struggled with starting a family understands the mother's club. You may have the skills, the love, the knowledge - you may have everything it takes to be a great mother, but until you have the child you have no way of paying your dues to join the club. Maybe the mother's club is a figment of my imagination. Maybe it's paranoia at my pain and loss and desire being plastered on the front of my chest in big red words. Hmmm . . . I just don't know.
So a month or so ago I started on this organizing frenzy in our house, right? Nesting, I think. But I don't know how far to go with the whole nesting thing. Would completely converting my study/craft room into a nursery right now help me feel hopeful, or would it be painful? I was watching Law and Order the other night (I get sucked into Law and Order) and there was an episode where this woman, this crazy woman (who turned out to be the murderer of course!), was setting up a nursery in her home even though she was having a hard time getting pregnant. The show was obviously trying to make her look as crazy as could be, but it kind of made me laugh and kind of upset me all at once. I guess it just made me aware of how society too characterizes those of us on the outside of the mother's club.
Geez, I think I'm starting to sound a little bitter here. I better stop. Sorry.
I'm feeling so restless these days. I say to myself time and time again throughout each day, "Enjoy the here and now Abby. Don't miss out on the goodness today has to offer." I think what's really happening is that I'm feeling a bit hopeless about the baby situation. The adoption process is just so slow, and it feels like such a long way off, it's hard for me to believe that it's really going to happen. Meanwhile, I sit and listen to the women in the mother's club talk about the trials and joys of parenting, waiting for my time. I'm an outsider for now. Any woman who has struggled with starting a family understands the mother's club. You may have the skills, the love, the knowledge - you may have everything it takes to be a great mother, but until you have the child you have no way of paying your dues to join the club. Maybe the mother's club is a figment of my imagination. Maybe it's paranoia at my pain and loss and desire being plastered on the front of my chest in big red words. Hmmm . . . I just don't know.
So a month or so ago I started on this organizing frenzy in our house, right? Nesting, I think. But I don't know how far to go with the whole nesting thing. Would completely converting my study/craft room into a nursery right now help me feel hopeful, or would it be painful? I was watching Law and Order the other night (I get sucked into Law and Order) and there was an episode where this woman, this crazy woman (who turned out to be the murderer of course!), was setting up a nursery in her home even though she was having a hard time getting pregnant. The show was obviously trying to make her look as crazy as could be, but it kind of made me laugh and kind of upset me all at once. I guess it just made me aware of how society too characterizes those of us on the outside of the mother's club.
Geez, I think I'm starting to sound a little bitter here. I better stop. Sorry.
Friday, October 23, 2009
When Harry Met Sally
October 23, 2009
I've been home sick with the flu today. Ugh. I have to remind myself when I'm sick that I also tend to get a little more emotional and that it's not just that I'm losing my grip on things. That being said, I had a bit of a When Harry Met Sally moment this evening. This is how it started.
I was making some plans for February (Yes, February. I'm a planner, what can I say?), and I realized that in March I will be turning 35. 35. Wow. (If you're a Harry and Sally fan, you probably already know where I'm going with this.) Okay, so that was the first thought in my breakdown movie moment.
The next thought you may file in the TMI category, but if you read my blog, you know that there really isn't too much information that I don't share. So the next thought was about my cycle. It's been a little off, and other than the post-surgery-post-pregnancy-underweight time in my life, my cycle has never been this off. Some posting I read on the j-pouch site months ago kept going through my mind where a woman wrote about going through early menopause. So of course that's where my neurotic mind went, right? What if I'm going through early menopause? You wouldn't think that would be a big deal, especially since Jeremy and I have decided to adopt, but still, the thought caused some fear.
Thought number three followed suit: I'm going to be an older mother by the time we have our baby. Yeah, yeah, I know that my generation is having kids later and later in life. I understand that, but still, this wasn't what I had in mind.
And so were the thoughts that tumbled around inside this fevered head of mine when I talked with my sister this evening. (And here is when the When Harry Met Sally moment arrived.) "I'm going to be 35 soon . . . and I don't have a baby!" I sobbed to her. I think I had as much snot coming out of my nose as Meg did during that scene too. As the sobs kept on coming I felt a little puzzled for a minute because I didn't realize I was so sad about this, but I decided that if the tears wanted to come, I should probably let them (a very important lesson I've learned in this process). And then I realized what this was all about as the words fell out of my mouth and into the phone. "This wasn't how I saw my life," I explained to my sister. Yes. And there it was. That was the loss I was grieving. The loss of the plans I had laid out for myself and my life many years ago. This was not where I was going to be at this age.
I'll admit that the conversation with my sister turned a little negative then. I started complaining. I didn't want to think about all the blessings I've had. No. It was pity party time. There really aren't people who will argue with me when I do the pity party thing. What are they going to say? "It wasn't so bad, losing your baby and your colon." No. I have to reign myself in on my own when I start to pitying myself. But I went there anyway. "Couldn't we just have something good happen to us?! Haven't we been through enough already?" The therapist in me can recognize that this too is grief. It's anger over the loss, and that is normal and healthy and necessary really for healing to happen. I'm just not really comfortable with anger. I feel guilty for feeling angry. But that's a whole different topic. Anyway . . .
Sara managed to talk me down by listening and understanding the helpless feeling I have at not being able to control the things that happen in my life. It felt good to let loose and cry. I guess I got it out of my system. For the night anyway (smile). (It also made me miss my sister a heck of a lot.)
I've been home sick with the flu today. Ugh. I have to remind myself when I'm sick that I also tend to get a little more emotional and that it's not just that I'm losing my grip on things. That being said, I had a bit of a When Harry Met Sally moment this evening. This is how it started.
I was making some plans for February (Yes, February. I'm a planner, what can I say?), and I realized that in March I will be turning 35. 35. Wow. (If you're a Harry and Sally fan, you probably already know where I'm going with this.) Okay, so that was the first thought in my breakdown movie moment.
The next thought you may file in the TMI category, but if you read my blog, you know that there really isn't too much information that I don't share. So the next thought was about my cycle. It's been a little off, and other than the post-surgery-post-pregnancy-underweight time in my life, my cycle has never been this off. Some posting I read on the j-pouch site months ago kept going through my mind where a woman wrote about going through early menopause. So of course that's where my neurotic mind went, right? What if I'm going through early menopause? You wouldn't think that would be a big deal, especially since Jeremy and I have decided to adopt, but still, the thought caused some fear.
Thought number three followed suit: I'm going to be an older mother by the time we have our baby. Yeah, yeah, I know that my generation is having kids later and later in life. I understand that, but still, this wasn't what I had in mind.
And so were the thoughts that tumbled around inside this fevered head of mine when I talked with my sister this evening. (And here is when the When Harry Met Sally moment arrived.) "I'm going to be 35 soon . . . and I don't have a baby!" I sobbed to her. I think I had as much snot coming out of my nose as Meg did during that scene too. As the sobs kept on coming I felt a little puzzled for a minute because I didn't realize I was so sad about this, but I decided that if the tears wanted to come, I should probably let them (a very important lesson I've learned in this process). And then I realized what this was all about as the words fell out of my mouth and into the phone. "This wasn't how I saw my life," I explained to my sister. Yes. And there it was. That was the loss I was grieving. The loss of the plans I had laid out for myself and my life many years ago. This was not where I was going to be at this age.
I'll admit that the conversation with my sister turned a little negative then. I started complaining. I didn't want to think about all the blessings I've had. No. It was pity party time. There really aren't people who will argue with me when I do the pity party thing. What are they going to say? "It wasn't so bad, losing your baby and your colon." No. I have to reign myself in on my own when I start to pitying myself. But I went there anyway. "Couldn't we just have something good happen to us?! Haven't we been through enough already?" The therapist in me can recognize that this too is grief. It's anger over the loss, and that is normal and healthy and necessary really for healing to happen. I'm just not really comfortable with anger. I feel guilty for feeling angry. But that's a whole different topic. Anyway . . .
Sara managed to talk me down by listening and understanding the helpless feeling I have at not being able to control the things that happen in my life. It felt good to let loose and cry. I guess I got it out of my system. For the night anyway (smile). (It also made me miss my sister a heck of a lot.)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Taunting traces
October 21, 2009
I've been following the blog of a new friend who just had her colectomy (step one in her three step process of life with a j-pouch) done a few weeks ago, and I'll tell you what, every time I read her blog I am transported to the darkest time of my life. All I can do is read what she's going through and encourage her. I'm helpless.
Today I read in her blog one line in particular that stuck out to me about her husband helping her get to the bathroom. All day I've been playing out scenes in my head of Jeremy there with me, helping me, encouraging me, holding on to me, and I almost panic thinking about it. God, what did he go through? How did he survive it? There I was wrapped up in my own little world, and rightfully so, I was trying to survive, but there beside me was this man whose experience I will never fully understand.
One scene in particular has been on repeat in my head. There I am sitting on the couch, hunched over, a pile of flesh and bones with a bag of feces attached to me. I feel so completely defeated, I can't even raise my head to look at Jeremy. I know that the woman that he fell in love with is nowhere to be found. I know that it was my confidence that he found sexy. And now, there is no confidence. There is a huddled up child who is afraid of the world because everything hurts so very much. Does he see me birthing our dead baby when he looks at me? I don't even want him looking at me, so I cover my face with my hands and sob. "How can you love me? How will you ever find me attractive again? I don't know if I can even go on any longer. You should just leave me now. Just go. I won't blame you. I will understand completely." They weren't words spoken to manipulate: Tell me how much you love me, how devoted to me you are, how you'll never leave me. No. I was a burden to him and I wanted him to know I understood that and that if it was just too much for him, he could leave. I would understand that too.
But what did he do? He got down on his knees on the floor in front of me so he could look me in the eyes, and he told me that he wasn't going anywhere. We were in this thing together. He loved me no matter what.
It's a tender and sweet and pathetic memory of mine. But today as I replayed it all in my mind, I did not play my role. I played Jeremy's role. And suddenly I panicked. Oh my God, what must he have been thinking? I'm going to lose her? She can't handle this and I'm going to lose her? She's going to give up? He was desperate to keep me going. It breaks my heart to think about that. He was desperate, and I don't know that he really let anyone know what was going on for him. Everything was about me. We both shared the fear that something more was going to go wrong physically for me (because it did time and time again), but it didn't strike me until today how much fear Jeremy also carried with him about my spirit breaking. And not just fear, but vigilance. He was vigilant about my mood and state of mind. Geez, I was really on the edge.
These things, they affect one's psyche pretty deeply. Oh, I just want to purge it all so I can be done and move on already. But there are still traces, faint, taunting traces I run into here and there.
I've been following the blog of a new friend who just had her colectomy (step one in her three step process of life with a j-pouch) done a few weeks ago, and I'll tell you what, every time I read her blog I am transported to the darkest time of my life. All I can do is read what she's going through and encourage her. I'm helpless.
Today I read in her blog one line in particular that stuck out to me about her husband helping her get to the bathroom. All day I've been playing out scenes in my head of Jeremy there with me, helping me, encouraging me, holding on to me, and I almost panic thinking about it. God, what did he go through? How did he survive it? There I was wrapped up in my own little world, and rightfully so, I was trying to survive, but there beside me was this man whose experience I will never fully understand.
One scene in particular has been on repeat in my head. There I am sitting on the couch, hunched over, a pile of flesh and bones with a bag of feces attached to me. I feel so completely defeated, I can't even raise my head to look at Jeremy. I know that the woman that he fell in love with is nowhere to be found. I know that it was my confidence that he found sexy. And now, there is no confidence. There is a huddled up child who is afraid of the world because everything hurts so very much. Does he see me birthing our dead baby when he looks at me? I don't even want him looking at me, so I cover my face with my hands and sob. "How can you love me? How will you ever find me attractive again? I don't know if I can even go on any longer. You should just leave me now. Just go. I won't blame you. I will understand completely." They weren't words spoken to manipulate: Tell me how much you love me, how devoted to me you are, how you'll never leave me. No. I was a burden to him and I wanted him to know I understood that and that if it was just too much for him, he could leave. I would understand that too.
But what did he do? He got down on his knees on the floor in front of me so he could look me in the eyes, and he told me that he wasn't going anywhere. We were in this thing together. He loved me no matter what.
It's a tender and sweet and pathetic memory of mine. But today as I replayed it all in my mind, I did not play my role. I played Jeremy's role. And suddenly I panicked. Oh my God, what must he have been thinking? I'm going to lose her? She can't handle this and I'm going to lose her? She's going to give up? He was desperate to keep me going. It breaks my heart to think about that. He was desperate, and I don't know that he really let anyone know what was going on for him. Everything was about me. We both shared the fear that something more was going to go wrong physically for me (because it did time and time again), but it didn't strike me until today how much fear Jeremy also carried with him about my spirit breaking. And not just fear, but vigilance. He was vigilant about my mood and state of mind. Geez, I was really on the edge.
These things, they affect one's psyche pretty deeply. Oh, I just want to purge it all so I can be done and move on already. But there are still traces, faint, taunting traces I run into here and there.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The whimsy of the universe
October 20, 2009
I love the peace of mornings. I've got my coffee by my side, Django is laying on the floor and I can hear the rhythm of his breathing. The back door is open (as we often leave it in the morning so Django can come and go as he pleases) and I can hear the fountain in our backyard and the wind chime dancing around. I still feel heavy with sleep and a bit disturbed by my dream last night. Every single night I have incredibly vivid dreams. So vivid that I have a hard time knowing if I actually had certain conversations with people or not. Hopefully when my coffee kicks in I can shake all that off.
I have a GI appointment with Dr. G coming up in a couple of weeks here. Already I'm compiling my list of questions. I tend to get pretty anxious before those appointments, though I think as time has gone by that reaction has lessened. At my last appointment with him we talked about the Cipro I take. He said that if it was helping me then taking it long term was okay by him. He said that ideally taking 250 mg of it a day would be a good therapeutic level to shoot for instead of the 1000 I take. I've tried to go off it a number of times with dreams of being able to be pregnant but that just didn't work. I got too sick. But the last few days I've tried to decrease my amount to 500 mg and I'm noticing an increase in my bowel movements already and that they are more diarrhea-like than when I'm taking the 1000 mg. I hope that's okay.
I just now remembered part of my dream from last night. There were a number of women around me who told me they were pregnant and I broke down weeping when they told me. Everyone looked at me like I was some heartless person, but I couldn't help it.
I don't know what to do with what I'm feeling right now. I don't know how to cope. I so desperately want to be mothering a child. I don't know how long I'm going to have to wait, and I don't know how to reconcile that in my mind. I don't want to deny the desire and pretend that it isn't there. I keep saying, "I'm just going to have to learn patience," but those are just words to me. I don't really know what that means. It could be years. We could be waiting years for a little one. What am I going to do with myself?
I was telling one of my friends that it would be so much easier for me if I were to be told, "You have to go to this class one day a week until you get your baby." I would go to that class religiously for years and it would help me. I would feel like I was doing something. But there is nothing I can do right now. Nothing (that I can think of anyway). I feel so helpless. So incredibly helpless. I have no control. And damn it all, I'm tired of not having control (or at least the illusion of control!).
But this is my lesson, is it not? To be content when I am helpless? To be at peace when I feel desire so deeply? Yeah. And for now I feel like I'm at the whimsy of the universe. I guess I'll keep trying to learn these lessons though. At least it's something to do!!
I love the peace of mornings. I've got my coffee by my side, Django is laying on the floor and I can hear the rhythm of his breathing. The back door is open (as we often leave it in the morning so Django can come and go as he pleases) and I can hear the fountain in our backyard and the wind chime dancing around. I still feel heavy with sleep and a bit disturbed by my dream last night. Every single night I have incredibly vivid dreams. So vivid that I have a hard time knowing if I actually had certain conversations with people or not. Hopefully when my coffee kicks in I can shake all that off.
I have a GI appointment with Dr. G coming up in a couple of weeks here. Already I'm compiling my list of questions. I tend to get pretty anxious before those appointments, though I think as time has gone by that reaction has lessened. At my last appointment with him we talked about the Cipro I take. He said that if it was helping me then taking it long term was okay by him. He said that ideally taking 250 mg of it a day would be a good therapeutic level to shoot for instead of the 1000 I take. I've tried to go off it a number of times with dreams of being able to be pregnant but that just didn't work. I got too sick. But the last few days I've tried to decrease my amount to 500 mg and I'm noticing an increase in my bowel movements already and that they are more diarrhea-like than when I'm taking the 1000 mg. I hope that's okay.
I just now remembered part of my dream from last night. There were a number of women around me who told me they were pregnant and I broke down weeping when they told me. Everyone looked at me like I was some heartless person, but I couldn't help it.
I don't know what to do with what I'm feeling right now. I don't know how to cope. I so desperately want to be mothering a child. I don't know how long I'm going to have to wait, and I don't know how to reconcile that in my mind. I don't want to deny the desire and pretend that it isn't there. I keep saying, "I'm just going to have to learn patience," but those are just words to me. I don't really know what that means. It could be years. We could be waiting years for a little one. What am I going to do with myself?
I was telling one of my friends that it would be so much easier for me if I were to be told, "You have to go to this class one day a week until you get your baby." I would go to that class religiously for years and it would help me. I would feel like I was doing something. But there is nothing I can do right now. Nothing (that I can think of anyway). I feel so helpless. So incredibly helpless. I have no control. And damn it all, I'm tired of not having control (or at least the illusion of control!).
But this is my lesson, is it not? To be content when I am helpless? To be at peace when I feel desire so deeply? Yeah. And for now I feel like I'm at the whimsy of the universe. I guess I'll keep trying to learn these lessons though. At least it's something to do!!
Friday, October 16, 2009
I understand
October 16, 2009
I stepped out of the shower this morning and looked at the scars covering my body and began to cry. They were not so much tears about the losses I've experienced as they were about all that my body has been through and survived. They were about the strength that I had that I didn't know was there.
These emotions are particularly present right now as I'm approaching another health-related anniversary. October 17th is the anniversary of the creation of my j-pouch (see jpouch.org for more info). One year ago today I was off work preparing for surgery and recovery. It was the one and only time I've actually known that the surgery was coming and been able to prepare for it.
The j-pouch surgery and subsequent hospitalization rank right up there for me as far as having to endure pretty intense physical pain goes. It started with the night before surgery. The "sparkling laxative beverage" (the name still cracks me up) I had to ingest made me sick and I nearly passed out in the middle of the night from the dry heaves and hunger.
I was remembering my mental state going into the j-pouch surgery. Part of me was incredibly excited to have this surgery. It was the first step in what I hoped would eventually be an ostomy-free life. While those hopes ran high, so did the anxiety that my hopes would be dashed. I didn't know if I would come to from the surgery and be told that it was unsuccessful and I would have to live with a permanent ostomy or not. The surgery was a pretty complicated one from what they told me. And at that time, I was still in the midst of my grief over Harper and over the loss of my colon. I remember going into the surgery asking God if couldn't he please just take me? It would have been so easy that way. I would have gone to sleep and never woken up, and that would have been fine with me. That way I wouldn't have to be the one to end things. The grief was so unbearable to me. Thoughts of ending my own life hovered around me constantly. I wrote in my journal time and time again, "Couldn't my family just give me permission to end it all?" "Wouldn't they understand that I just couldn't do this anymore?" "Don't they know how I'm suffering?" Somehow, I held on. I really don't know I did it either. It was a moment by moment decision for me. I turned to people for encouragement and support ALL the time. That was the only way I managed.
I looked in the mirror at the scarred body standing before me and I saw all those emotions looking back at me. How is it that I'm in this place now? How is it that I'm still here?
The hospitalization was a horrible one. Not only did I have a new part of my intestine sticking out of my stomach after the surgery, I also had a PIC line that would stay with me for over two months so that I could do nightly IV fluids at home. I also had a small tube sticking out of the bottom of my incision on my stomach. It was there to suck out any fluid or infection that collected near my incision. And then there was the obstruction I got which required them to stick the tube down my nose and throat so they could pump my stomach for a few days. And did I mention that I was conscious when they did that? Did I mention that I had to swallow that damn tube? Horrible, horrible experience. And when they removed the tube from my incision they told me it wouldn't hurt. I'll be honest with you here, I let an F-bomb fly and yelled at them to pull it out quickly. Then when I was discharged, I started vomiting on my way home, which meant we turned back around and went right back to the hospital (same room even). I was terrified that they were going to stick the tube down my throat again. "I can't do it Jeremy. If they have to tube me again I won't be able to do it. They'll have to knock me out!" Did I already say I was terrified? Because I was. What was supposed to be a 7-10 day hospitalization turned into 13 or 14 days. I hated it. I hated it. I just wanted to be at home.
How did I survive it? Seriously. It was like I turned everything on auto-pilot. That was all I could do. I did what I was told. Don't make me think about anything else. I just barely existed in those days. That was all I could do.
I'm not alone in that either, I know that. I know there are other people who have been or ARE in that place where all they have the energy to do is to survive. I understand. I understand.
I stepped out of the shower this morning and looked at the scars covering my body and began to cry. They were not so much tears about the losses I've experienced as they were about all that my body has been through and survived. They were about the strength that I had that I didn't know was there.
These emotions are particularly present right now as I'm approaching another health-related anniversary. October 17th is the anniversary of the creation of my j-pouch (see jpouch.org for more info). One year ago today I was off work preparing for surgery and recovery. It was the one and only time I've actually known that the surgery was coming and been able to prepare for it.
The j-pouch surgery and subsequent hospitalization rank right up there for me as far as having to endure pretty intense physical pain goes. It started with the night before surgery. The "sparkling laxative beverage" (the name still cracks me up) I had to ingest made me sick and I nearly passed out in the middle of the night from the dry heaves and hunger.
I was remembering my mental state going into the j-pouch surgery. Part of me was incredibly excited to have this surgery. It was the first step in what I hoped would eventually be an ostomy-free life. While those hopes ran high, so did the anxiety that my hopes would be dashed. I didn't know if I would come to from the surgery and be told that it was unsuccessful and I would have to live with a permanent ostomy or not. The surgery was a pretty complicated one from what they told me. And at that time, I was still in the midst of my grief over Harper and over the loss of my colon. I remember going into the surgery asking God if couldn't he please just take me? It would have been so easy that way. I would have gone to sleep and never woken up, and that would have been fine with me. That way I wouldn't have to be the one to end things. The grief was so unbearable to me. Thoughts of ending my own life hovered around me constantly. I wrote in my journal time and time again, "Couldn't my family just give me permission to end it all?" "Wouldn't they understand that I just couldn't do this anymore?" "Don't they know how I'm suffering?" Somehow, I held on. I really don't know I did it either. It was a moment by moment decision for me. I turned to people for encouragement and support ALL the time. That was the only way I managed.
I looked in the mirror at the scarred body standing before me and I saw all those emotions looking back at me. How is it that I'm in this place now? How is it that I'm still here?
The hospitalization was a horrible one. Not only did I have a new part of my intestine sticking out of my stomach after the surgery, I also had a PIC line that would stay with me for over two months so that I could do nightly IV fluids at home. I also had a small tube sticking out of the bottom of my incision on my stomach. It was there to suck out any fluid or infection that collected near my incision. And then there was the obstruction I got which required them to stick the tube down my nose and throat so they could pump my stomach for a few days. And did I mention that I was conscious when they did that? Did I mention that I had to swallow that damn tube? Horrible, horrible experience. And when they removed the tube from my incision they told me it wouldn't hurt. I'll be honest with you here, I let an F-bomb fly and yelled at them to pull it out quickly. Then when I was discharged, I started vomiting on my way home, which meant we turned back around and went right back to the hospital (same room even). I was terrified that they were going to stick the tube down my throat again. "I can't do it Jeremy. If they have to tube me again I won't be able to do it. They'll have to knock me out!" Did I already say I was terrified? Because I was. What was supposed to be a 7-10 day hospitalization turned into 13 or 14 days. I hated it. I hated it. I just wanted to be at home.
How did I survive it? Seriously. It was like I turned everything on auto-pilot. That was all I could do. I did what I was told. Don't make me think about anything else. I just barely existed in those days. That was all I could do.
I'm not alone in that either, I know that. I know there are other people who have been or ARE in that place where all they have the energy to do is to survive. I understand. I understand.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I feel better now
October 15, 2009
I woke up around 4:00 a.m. this morning. After a brief stint of can I get back to sleep or should I get up and enjoy the morning? I decided to get up. So here I sit, waiting for my coffee to cool to a drinkable degree and pondering what I want to write about. I could chit-chat about the goings on of my week or about the upcoming anniversary of the creation of my j-pouch, but what's really going on in my head today is doubt.
I know that every parent has doubts, even while they are actually in the act of parenting (especially while they are in the act of parenting), but yesterday I was plagued by doubts of Jeremy and my ability to parent. I guess that's not an accurate statement. It's not that I doubt our ability to parent, it's that I fear what parenting will do to our marriage. That sounds so grim and like I doubt our marriage, which I don't. I guess it's that my marriage is the most important thing in the world to me and I worry about throwing the balance that we've found off. What if we lose what we've got by adding this new, huge, profound element?
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: But parenting together could also make your marriage better, deeper, stronger. I know. (Self dialogue: Stop being so negative Abby. Why can't you just relax already?) And usually that's what I focus on, all the wonderful things parenting together will add to us. But yesterday the fears crept in.
But this process I'm going through is completely normal - right? Our marriage has ups and downs right now and it will continue to do so when we have another member of our family. We know how to do this marriage thing. So there will be new factors, new challenges we have to work out together. We know how to do that. We aren't afraid of working on things. Quite the contrary. We both know the work is what makes it so good. So really, we just need to keep on doing what we're doing now. Things will be okay. Or even better than okay, Abby.
Alright. I feel better now. Thanks.
I woke up around 4:00 a.m. this morning. After a brief stint of can I get back to sleep or should I get up and enjoy the morning? I decided to get up. So here I sit, waiting for my coffee to cool to a drinkable degree and pondering what I want to write about. I could chit-chat about the goings on of my week or about the upcoming anniversary of the creation of my j-pouch, but what's really going on in my head today is doubt.
I know that every parent has doubts, even while they are actually in the act of parenting (especially while they are in the act of parenting), but yesterday I was plagued by doubts of Jeremy and my ability to parent. I guess that's not an accurate statement. It's not that I doubt our ability to parent, it's that I fear what parenting will do to our marriage. That sounds so grim and like I doubt our marriage, which I don't. I guess it's that my marriage is the most important thing in the world to me and I worry about throwing the balance that we've found off. What if we lose what we've got by adding this new, huge, profound element?
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: But parenting together could also make your marriage better, deeper, stronger. I know. (Self dialogue: Stop being so negative Abby. Why can't you just relax already?) And usually that's what I focus on, all the wonderful things parenting together will add to us. But yesterday the fears crept in.
But this process I'm going through is completely normal - right? Our marriage has ups and downs right now and it will continue to do so when we have another member of our family. We know how to do this marriage thing. So there will be new factors, new challenges we have to work out together. We know how to do that. We aren't afraid of working on things. Quite the contrary. We both know the work is what makes it so good. So really, we just need to keep on doing what we're doing now. Things will be okay. Or even better than okay, Abby.
Alright. I feel better now. Thanks.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
My request
October 13, 2009
Okay folks. This is it. This is the blog entry where I am going to pull all the stops in advocating for you to take action to help with something very important. I might even play on your emotions a little. So you've been warned, okay? (smile)
I was hospitalized in 2008 (for those of you who haven't read my blog from the beginning) because my colon was diseased with Ulcerative Colitis. My colon was entirely covered with ulcers (I know, I saw pictures of it after it was removed) which bled every time I had a bowel movement. At the time, I was having anywhere between 17 and 24 bowel movements a day. Needless to say, I lost a lot of blood. During my lengthy hospitalization I had five blood transfusions and two plasma transfusions. I would not be here today if others had not donated blood and plasma. (Are you getting where I'm going with this?)
So here's the unabashed play on your emotions: If you are a family member or friend of mine who followed what was happening with me when I was sick and you felt helpless to do anything, it's not too late! You can still do something to help others like me. You can GIVE BLOOD! If you are someone who has just stumbled upon this blog, don't worry, you too can give blood!
Are you getting all nervous just thinking about it? Yes, it will be a little uncomfortable, but I can promise you that you won't die in the process!! When they poke you with the needle, just think, "Abby had things like this and worse happen to her numerous times every day. I can do it this once!" Take your whole family and make an event of it! Teach your children how they can save lives when they get older! Coordinate a group of friends going together to donate and go out for desserts afterward! However you choose to do it - donate blood!!
Another promise - I will give you a big THANK YOU on my blog when you donate! So please, let me know when you've donated! For more information visit www.givelife.org.
(Thanks for putting up with me.)
Okay folks. This is it. This is the blog entry where I am going to pull all the stops in advocating for you to take action to help with something very important. I might even play on your emotions a little. So you've been warned, okay? (smile)
I was hospitalized in 2008 (for those of you who haven't read my blog from the beginning) because my colon was diseased with Ulcerative Colitis. My colon was entirely covered with ulcers (I know, I saw pictures of it after it was removed) which bled every time I had a bowel movement. At the time, I was having anywhere between 17 and 24 bowel movements a day. Needless to say, I lost a lot of blood. During my lengthy hospitalization I had five blood transfusions and two plasma transfusions. I would not be here today if others had not donated blood and plasma. (Are you getting where I'm going with this?)
So here's the unabashed play on your emotions: If you are a family member or friend of mine who followed what was happening with me when I was sick and you felt helpless to do anything, it's not too late! You can still do something to help others like me. You can GIVE BLOOD! If you are someone who has just stumbled upon this blog, don't worry, you too can give blood!
Are you getting all nervous just thinking about it? Yes, it will be a little uncomfortable, but I can promise you that you won't die in the process!! When they poke you with the needle, just think, "Abby had things like this and worse happen to her numerous times every day. I can do it this once!" Take your whole family and make an event of it! Teach your children how they can save lives when they get older! Coordinate a group of friends going together to donate and go out for desserts afterward! However you choose to do it - donate blood!!
Another promise - I will give you a big THANK YOU on my blog when you donate! So please, let me know when you've donated! For more information visit www.givelife.org.
(Thanks for putting up with me.)
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I hope she knows
October 11, 2009
There are moments where the sadness at not being able to mother a child washes over me. I had a few of those moments one morning this past week. I cried on my way in to work. I thought I could pull it together as I logged in to my computer, but no dice. The tears kept coming. I didn't weep. I was just quietly sad. I sent Jeremy an e-mail. "How long will I have to wait?" I told him how I know I'm going to be a great mother. He e-mailed me back. He said he knew it too, and that our time would come. He told me that when the time comes, we won't even remember this time. He said that now is the time for me to enjoy the things that I won't get to enjoy as frequently after we have a child. He told me to take long naps, go shopping, eat leisurely meals, etc. I felt understood and I was glad I turned to him for comfort.
There's been a balance Jeremy and I have had to find in grieving. We both would have become overwhelmed had we been the only support and comfort for each other through all this stuff. On the other hand, we also needed to let each other in on our processes. We had to feel understood by each other. It's a balance. Any couple that has dealt with stuff like this knows what I'm talking about. It's another dynamic that we've had to figure out that really, in all honesty, it could have been our ruin. And it's because we've had such great support from family and friends that we haven't ended in ruin too.
Today is a perfect example of why I love Tucson so much. It's been a perfect, glorious day. Jeremy and I woke up and went for a walk together. When we got to the park he ran a little and I kept walking. We got home and I felt so good. Jeremy had plans to meet a friend to play some tennis, so I decided to do something I haven't done in a very long time. I went to church. But I didn't go to what most people think of as church. I went to a Society of Friends Meeting (Quakers).
We sat in silence, meditating, praying, contemplating for nearly an hour before anyone said anything. The game my grandma used to paly with us when we were kids kept going through my head: "Quakers' meeting has begun. No more laughing, no more fun, no more chewing bubble gum. Crack a smile, walk a mile. Quakers' meeting has begun - now!" Did you ever play that "game?" It's a tricky little game (or contest to be silent) that adults use to keep kids quiet. It works up to a certain age, so long as the kids aren't trying to make each other laugh. But even then it's fun. Anyway . . . I digress.
The pamphlet I was given when I entered had an article in it about appreciating children and respecting and honoring the gifts they give us. It was a sweet article and made me smile. At the end of the meeting the kids joined the adults in the meeting room. All the kids except one were quiet. The one was probably about two years old and was crying. He cried all the way to his mother's lap where she held him and cuddled him and he stopped crying. I smiled and my eyes welled up with tears. That's what I want. That right there is why I want to mother a child. I want to the be the comfort for the sadness of a little soul. How long will I wait? I hope she knows what a gift she has sitting in her lap. I hope she's not embarrassed by the noise he made. I hope she knows . . .
There are moments where the sadness at not being able to mother a child washes over me. I had a few of those moments one morning this past week. I cried on my way in to work. I thought I could pull it together as I logged in to my computer, but no dice. The tears kept coming. I didn't weep. I was just quietly sad. I sent Jeremy an e-mail. "How long will I have to wait?" I told him how I know I'm going to be a great mother. He e-mailed me back. He said he knew it too, and that our time would come. He told me that when the time comes, we won't even remember this time. He said that now is the time for me to enjoy the things that I won't get to enjoy as frequently after we have a child. He told me to take long naps, go shopping, eat leisurely meals, etc. I felt understood and I was glad I turned to him for comfort.
There's been a balance Jeremy and I have had to find in grieving. We both would have become overwhelmed had we been the only support and comfort for each other through all this stuff. On the other hand, we also needed to let each other in on our processes. We had to feel understood by each other. It's a balance. Any couple that has dealt with stuff like this knows what I'm talking about. It's another dynamic that we've had to figure out that really, in all honesty, it could have been our ruin. And it's because we've had such great support from family and friends that we haven't ended in ruin too.
Today is a perfect example of why I love Tucson so much. It's been a perfect, glorious day. Jeremy and I woke up and went for a walk together. When we got to the park he ran a little and I kept walking. We got home and I felt so good. Jeremy had plans to meet a friend to play some tennis, so I decided to do something I haven't done in a very long time. I went to church. But I didn't go to what most people think of as church. I went to a Society of Friends Meeting (Quakers).
We sat in silence, meditating, praying, contemplating for nearly an hour before anyone said anything. The game my grandma used to paly with us when we were kids kept going through my head: "Quakers' meeting has begun. No more laughing, no more fun, no more chewing bubble gum. Crack a smile, walk a mile. Quakers' meeting has begun - now!" Did you ever play that "game?" It's a tricky little game (or contest to be silent) that adults use to keep kids quiet. It works up to a certain age, so long as the kids aren't trying to make each other laugh. But even then it's fun. Anyway . . . I digress.
The pamphlet I was given when I entered had an article in it about appreciating children and respecting and honoring the gifts they give us. It was a sweet article and made me smile. At the end of the meeting the kids joined the adults in the meeting room. All the kids except one were quiet. The one was probably about two years old and was crying. He cried all the way to his mother's lap where she held him and cuddled him and he stopped crying. I smiled and my eyes welled up with tears. That's what I want. That right there is why I want to mother a child. I want to the be the comfort for the sadness of a little soul. How long will I wait? I hope she knows what a gift she has sitting in her lap. I hope she's not embarrassed by the noise he made. I hope she knows . . .
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!
October 7, 2009
Out of nowhere, for whatever reason, yesterday was a day of reflection and gratitude for me. All day long I thought about things I used to have a hard time doing: eating certain foods, sleeping in a comfortable position, wearing certain clothes, showering, going to the bathroom (!), etc., etc. I thought about all the doctors and nurses that played a part in me even being here today and I felt overwhelmed. I want to run up and down the halls of the hospitals I spent so much time in and yell, "THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!" Do they even know? I doubt that they do.
I wrote letters to my main doctors to thank them. I've sent e-mails to my surgeons letting them know how well I'm doing. What more can I do? I've thought about baking yummy treats and taking them to each of the floors I stayed on in the hospital, but I don't know that the nurses and techs would even remember me. Well just so you know, I'm open to suggestions or ideas!
Out of nowhere, for whatever reason, yesterday was a day of reflection and gratitude for me. All day long I thought about things I used to have a hard time doing: eating certain foods, sleeping in a comfortable position, wearing certain clothes, showering, going to the bathroom (!), etc., etc. I thought about all the doctors and nurses that played a part in me even being here today and I felt overwhelmed. I want to run up and down the halls of the hospitals I spent so much time in and yell, "THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!" Do they even know? I doubt that they do.
I wrote letters to my main doctors to thank them. I've sent e-mails to my surgeons letting them know how well I'm doing. What more can I do? I've thought about baking yummy treats and taking them to each of the floors I stayed on in the hospital, but I don't know that the nurses and techs would even remember me. Well just so you know, I'm open to suggestions or ideas!
Monday, October 5, 2009
I still weep in my dreams
October 5, 2009
It's a strange thing to weep in your dreams. Have you ever done that? I don't know that I ever had before I lost Harper. But since then, it's something that happens to me from time to time.
Friday evening I got home from work and was so tired. "I just need to take a short nap, and then I'll get up and pack for our camping trip," I told Jeremy as I snuggled into the blankets on the couch. The news was on the TV. And as I began to drift, a story caught my attention. It was the story of the miracle baby. Did you see that? A little girl was born and weighed just under one pound. She survived and was finally going home. They showed pictures of her when she was born. And there before me on the TV was Harper. She too was just under one pound when she was born. She too had the same little skinny legs and arms. She too was fully developed. But Harper, she lacked the life blood that this little miracle baby had flowing through her. And then I drifted . . .
It wasn't till the next day that I remembered my dream. In it I was sobbing, telling people that Harper was just like the miracle baby, only Harper didn't live. "Why couldn't my baby live?" I sobbed. There were others in my dream that I was talking to, but I couldn't hear anything but my own sobs.
It's been a while since I really wept over Harper in my waking life. Tears escape here and there in conversations with loved ones. I might get misty eyed thinking about her, but I still weep in my dreams. I still weep in my dreams.
It's a strange thing to weep in your dreams. Have you ever done that? I don't know that I ever had before I lost Harper. But since then, it's something that happens to me from time to time.
Friday evening I got home from work and was so tired. "I just need to take a short nap, and then I'll get up and pack for our camping trip," I told Jeremy as I snuggled into the blankets on the couch. The news was on the TV. And as I began to drift, a story caught my attention. It was the story of the miracle baby. Did you see that? A little girl was born and weighed just under one pound. She survived and was finally going home. They showed pictures of her when she was born. And there before me on the TV was Harper. She too was just under one pound when she was born. She too had the same little skinny legs and arms. She too was fully developed. But Harper, she lacked the life blood that this little miracle baby had flowing through her. And then I drifted . . .
It wasn't till the next day that I remembered my dream. In it I was sobbing, telling people that Harper was just like the miracle baby, only Harper didn't live. "Why couldn't my baby live?" I sobbed. There were others in my dream that I was talking to, but I couldn't hear anything but my own sobs.
It's been a while since I really wept over Harper in my waking life. Tears escape here and there in conversations with loved ones. I might get misty eyed thinking about her, but I still weep in my dreams. I still weep in my dreams.
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