A great day to be alive

April 29, 2010

Today is a great day to be alive! Oh April 29th, I approach you with humor. Go back with me if you will, for just a moment to April 29, 2003. How funny is it that on that day, Jeremy and I were visiting Tucson, checking it out to see if we wanted to move here. Low and behold, I spent the early morning hours of April 29th on the hotel bathroom floor trying to sleep between bouts of puking. I even passed out there on the cold tile. Jeremy didn't realize I was sick till the morning. He heard me puking and then heard a thud. I passed out as I was puking, bounced off the toilet and fell back on the tile floor, knocking my head good and hard. And get this, where did we head? To the UMC emergency room. How do I remember this you ask? I came across an old receipt as I was organizing my paperwork a few months ago from the ER visit.

Jump forward to what was the second worst day of my life: April 29, 2008. Yep, you guessed it, I was back at the UMC emergency room, taken by ambulance because my colon was going toxic on me. The day I thought I was going to die. I won't go into detail about that day again right now. If you read my blog, you've already read about it and God knows I don't want to re-live it today.

Ah, but we're not done yet. I'm not kidding! Where was I on April 29, 2009, you ask? One guess. Yep - that's right - the UMC emergency room! No joke. I had the flu and was vomiting non-stop and was admitted overnight for dehydration.

So what is it about this date? That's just too strange, don't you think? Seriously, it makes me laugh. And so through my laughter today I have been also filled with gratitude, because I have survived April 29th! It's a great day to be alive!

Community

April 26, 2010

Saturday morning Jeremy and I were at the grocery store and I spotted a familiar face. "Jeremy, that's Jim, one of the nurses from the GI lab. Remember him?"

During the period of time that I was doing my weekly dilations at the GI lab, Jim was one of the folks who almost felt like family to me. He called me by name every time he saw me. He told me once, "We all think you're the cat's meow. You have such a positive attitude with all you're going through."

Jim must live in our neighborhood as I had seen him carrying dogfood outside of Petsmart once and Jeremy and I actually pulled up next to him at a stoplight once too. But still I was surprised that he recognized me at the grocery store Saturday morning. I was still wearing my Friday make-up smudged under my eyes a bit I'm sure, a ballcap, and my run-around clothes. As we approached each other with grocery carts leading the way, he smiled and initiated the conversation.

"It's been good not to see you for a long time! How're you doing?" he asked.

I told him I was doing really well. He commented on how healthy I looked. I told him I'd be back at the clinic in August for my annual scoping so I'd see him then. He talked to Jeremy liked I wasn't there, "She must be doing good. She looks good." He said to me, "You went through some tough times there, didn't you?" I agreed, but reassured him I was doing well.

On our way home I told Jeremy, "I think Jim thinks my weekly dilations were a trial for us. Isn't that funny? I mean, they weren't pleasant, but compared to everything else I've been through, that was nothing." Jeremy reminded me that there were a couple of times that the procedure was quite painful for me. And yes, I do remember yelling once, but that's the beauty of conscious sedation drugs - you don't remember afterwards! But I suppose Jim heard my yells first hand because he was often the nurse in the room with me when the procedure was being done. So yeah, it makes sense that he would consider the dilations a trial because he didn't have the drugs to make him forget.

Seeing Jim made me feel so good on a couple of levels. One, it was good to be able to show someone who saw me in a not so good state how well I am doing now. And two, it gave me this warm feeling of belonging to a community of people who care.

Harper's Birthday

April 23, 2010

The surgery that was supposed to happen on April 21, 2008, did not happen. The night of April 20th, my symptoms began to improve markedly. "If you can hold on for another 7-10 day treatment, you might not need the surgery. You might not have to put your baby at risk." So, sobbing at the thought of continuing in the pain the treatments were causing, I said I would try another round. But since they were ready to do a pre-op ultrasound in my room anyway, they went ahead and did one. And that was when we discovered that Harper's heart had stopped beating. She did not make it. Her death had provided my body some relief, which was why my symptoms had improved. What a sad twist.

I didn't want to wait to deliver her. The thought of having a dead baby inside me was more than I could handle. So on the afternoon of April 21st they began the slow process of inducing labor. Harper Lee Cashman was born around 11:20 p.m. on April 22, 2008.

On Wednesday, I found myself zoning out all day, images flashing behind my eyes. Conversations. Decisions. Exhaustion. I want to go back there. To do it again, only this time to be aware. I felt so foggy, so heavy and muddled. Everything happened so quickly. Too quickly to understand it all. My mind couldn't keep up with my emotions. Emotions that are still taking the lead, understanding that's still trying to catch up. Just stop!! Stop for one second!! Please! This is all happening too fast. I just want a second to breath.

Jeremy and I took the day off together yesterday. I didn't know what to except, but it was important to me to have one day where I commemorate my daughter. Last year we scattered her ashes on her birthday. In the morning I told Jeremy I was surprised at how well I was doing. By lunchtime I had to excuse myself from the restaurant we went to because the sobs were coming and holding them in was hurting my throat.

We talked about the details of Harper's delivery and about holding her, examining her, marveling at her. I hung on Jeremy's every word. He remembered things I had forgotten. At the time I was so sick and exhausted and emotionally on the edge, I told him I wished I could be there again and be more alert. He told me that he saw a look on my face when I held Harper that he had never seen before or since. He said that he remembered my face more than hers. He said he remembered seeing my dad hold Harper and sob violently. He started to cry. "I don't even need her to be alive Jeremy, I just wish I could hold her and look at her one more time." He said he understood.

My body remembered too. I closed my eyes and I could feel the one push it took to deliver her. I could feel her sliding out of me. I could remember all the strength it took to deliver her placenta. And I was almost startled by the thought that that was giving birth.

Since the beginning of the year I have been anticipating Harper's birthday. And every time I thought about it, I thought about a birthday cake for her. So I spent yesterday afternoon making a chocolate cake and icing from scratch for my little girl. I made the icing pink with purple polka-dots. I think she would have liked it (her daddy certainly did!).

And so I've survived another important date. There's something appropriate about the fact that she shares her birthday with Earth Day, a day for growth and thinking about the future. (She shares it with her Uncle John's birthday too!) Oh my sweet little girl . . .

A strange and beautiful thing

April 20, 2010

It's 3 o'clock in the morning, April 20th, and I'm wide awake. Two years ago on April 20th I was preparing for surgery that was scheduled to take place the next day. I had decided that I'd had enough of the treatments. I couldn't handle the pain any longer. I had asked my family members to be there with me and they were all there or en route. To say I was scared wouldn't be accurate. I wasn't scared for myself at the time. I was in a state of complete acceptance. Acceptance that I might not make it. We had been here before, with surgery being scheduled, but the doctors had postponed it saying it wasn't safe. I had no understanding, really, of the ramifications of having my colon removed. None. All I knew was that I couldn't go on in the state I was in any more. I just couldn't. And I was willing to risk everything, including Harper, to get better. But I didn't believe I would get better. Deep down, I believed I was going to die.

I said "I love you" to my mom, dad, brother, and sister that night. Jeremy. Oh Jeremy was the one I was afraid to leave, not for myself, but for him. I didn't want to leave him alone. (I like to think he's lost without me - smile.) I didn't even want to let him in on the fact that I thought I wouldn't make it. I was afraid that if he knew I thought I was going to die, it would stress him out even more than I was guessing he already was (though he held it together incredibly well at the time), but I had to talk to him. I couldn't die without telling him how much I loved him, that marrying him had been the best thing I'd ever done. That he made me happy. Boy can I still see that scene. I was sitting in my wheelchair, a blanket over me, tissue in hand. Jeremy bent over so he was looking me right in the eye. He wiped my tears away as I talked.

I had the most peaceful moment I've ever had that night when I was alone trying to go to sleep. I felt like I saw the afterlife. I wasn't afraid. It sounds strange, but I'm almost jealous for that moment now. These are the things that have changed me, changed the core of my being. Knowing peace in such a physical way, and feeling loved. Oh did I feel the love. So many generous, caring friends reached out to me at that time. It's a gift really, the understanding that I have now. It has affected me in so many different ways. I got to make peace with death and then keep on living. It's a very strange thing. A strange and beautiful thing.

You know, I'm glad that I'm awake at now 3:45 in the morning thinking about these things. I needed this - to sit in the darkness that surrounds me and refocus and remember, not just the sadness and the pain, but the beauty too.

A Single Moment

April 16, 2010

I don't talk about her every day. Most moms get to talk about their kids every day without hesitation. Wouldn't people think I was a little strange if I did? I don't know. Maybe. Do I think about her every day? Absolutely. Every single day I think about her, many times each day. They aren't thoughts that bring me to tears all the time. Sometimes I smile thinking about her. I see pictures of just about any of my Cashman nieces and think how much she looked like a Cashman. I look at Jeremy's eyebrows that go blond in the summer and I see her eyebrows. And the other day I thought, "I don't need to have her here with me now, but if only I could just go back and be pregnant with her for one more minute even, just to feel her inside me one more time." Really? I would give just about anything for a single moment.

Accommodation

April 13, 2010

I realized that it's been a while since I sat down with pen and paper and journaled instead of typing, so that's exactly what I did the other night. I only got a few sentences in before the tears began to flow.

One date that I don't really remember, though I'm sure it's written on the pictures, is the day we had our ultrasound and found out we were having a girl. The day was supposed to be different. I was admitted to the hospital on a Monday. Our ultrasound was scheduled for that Wednesday, but because I was in the hospital the appointment was cancelled. Sometime after they finally diagnosed what was going on, but before I was transferred to UMC where they could do the cyclosporine treatment, they said, "We may as well do your level two ultrasound while you're here just to make sure everything's okay." I was so excited. Excited, but the reality of my situation had set in for me then. I had begun to harness my excitement.

My memories are a little foggy. I do remembered being worried that I wouldn't be able to hold it long enough for them to do the ultrasound as I was going to the bathroom every twenty to forty minutes at that time. I remember the room was dark and Jeremy was there with me. It was a woman who did the ultrasound. She was explaining different things to us, but I wasn't really listening. All I wanted to know was whether it was a boy or a girl. And then she showed us and told us she was 70% sure she was a girl. And I named her right there: Harper Lee Cashman. I knew Jeremy wasn't going to argue with me about names, not now. We had just seen a performance of To Kill A Mockingbird a few weeks before. I was reading a biography on Nelle Harper Lee and loved what I read about her. So Harper Lee Cashman it was.

As I sat with my pen and journal I began to sob. Jeremy came and sat beside me. He grabbed some tissue and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I burried my face in his chest and sobbed. "I wanted her," I said.

"I know you did Abby."

More tears. "I tried. I tried," but I couldn't finish the sentence. No matter what happiness comes my way, for the rest of my life she will be missing and there will always be sadness that she is not with me. Always. I am helpless to change that. I will accommodate this sadness. It's a part of me now. It always will be.

The Mountain Top

April 10, 2010

I got off work at 10 a.m. on Friday, so Jeremy drove me in in the morning and then picked me up after I was done so we could head to the Tucson Mountains right away and go for a hike. I have been a little irritable lately (Jeremy might say more than a little), which of course makes Jeremy a little edgy. So when we started off on the trail, we were both a little out of sorts. Jeremy brusquely fidgeted with his camel pack that he thought was beginning to leak, frustrated that it was dripping on him. I couldn't find my hat that I left at the office, which frustrated both of us. But by the time we had climbed the first major incline, we were able to pound out those frustrations and ease into the beauty that surrounded us.

Something happens to us when we're out there. Nothing but nature, maybe a few kind folks along the way (hikers are usually so polite and happy). And it's just the two of us. For three and half hours, just the two of us and the warmth of the sun. It didn't take long before I could feel the endorphins flowing, "Man, I think I'm getting a little hiker's high," I told him. And the conversations have their own life too. At the beginning of the hike we're usually catching each other up on the little tidbits of the week that have escaped us till now. Always we talk about the marvels we encounter on the way, scenes so foreign to two Midwest kids. And those comments of course lead us to pondering how we ended up in Tucson and what our life has been like since we got here (7 years ago this September).

And then there are the random thoughts that we share and expound on because, well, we have the time and really, the mental space to do so too. Times like these we do a fair amount of processing our hospital experience. Things we need to remember, new takes on things that happened. I still find myself saying, "Really? I didn't know that," when he shares something, or "I don't remember that." We sort through our respective faiths, ponder the troublesome doctrines. We help each other navigate relationships with other people. And of course, we talk about the future.

As we approached the top of Wasson Peak, I realized the last time I remembered making it to the top was in March of 2007. "Really? It's been that long since you've been here?" he asked. It was the last time I could remember. We tried the hike this past fall, but I was in too much pain and couldn't shake the constant feeling of having to go to the bathroom. But not this time. Not since my January change in medications have I had that problem. "It must mean a lot to you when you accomplish something you haven't done since before the hospitalization," he said. And it does. It means a lot. It always surprises me too, because sometimes they are things that I had given up on being able to ever do again. So it was that I felt a sense of personal triumph at making it to the top of Wasson Peak (and in near record time I might add!).

Imprints on my heart

April 6, 2010

"Here are Harper's little hand and feet prints," I said as I handed over the little laminated card I carried in my billfold of my daughter's real-to-life sized prints. I didn't know for sure how my grandparents would react. I know that their generation is different than mine. I understand that. I know that women didn't talk about miscarriages or stillbirths openly. And grieving something like that? I'm assuming that grieving such a loss was a very private thing and not shared with many, if any at all. So I was surprised when I saw my grandmother's eyes well up with tears, "I'm sorry this happened to you," she whispered to me. And then I handed the card to Grandpa and saw him brush more than one tear away from his eyes.

I have to remind myself, she wasn't all mine. She felt like it. She felt like she was this tiny thing that only I experienced. But she was their family too. She was their third great-grandchild. They saw me when I was pregnant, when I was sick, the day before I went into the hospital. They heard the song Jeremy wrote with her mighty heartbeat in the background. They marveled at her before she was born.

She wasn't just mine. She was a part of my family, my very loving family.

A World Without Love

April 2, 2010

Before I had ever experienced the loss of a loved one, I thought it would be like it is in the movies. How silly is that? I thought that I would feel the person's presence with me everywhere I went. Much to my shagrin, it hasn't happened that way. At first I thought something was wrong with me. I really did. Wasn't something mystical supposed to happen? But there was nothing but emptiness and aching.

I started reading a new novel, Blue Water (A. Manette Ansay). Now, don't think I'm masochistic here of anything, but it's about a couple whose only son was killed in a car accident by a friend of theirs. Well, it's really more about their healing from the tragedy. Anyway, in the book the main character talks about the very thing I was just writing about. About how she expected magic to happen so she would know her son was still with her, but that the magic never happened. It was oddly comforting to me to know that this character in a novel was processesing some of the same things I had. It really took me aback to read that. It was like I was reading my own words.

The same day I read that section of the book, I decided I wanted to get out and go for a nice long walk. I strapped my camel pack on my back, grabbed my MP3 player, laced up my tennies, and headed out the door. I wanted to get to The San Xavier Mission. The sun was shining and the temperature was just perfect. It was a beautiful day for a walk. There were lots of other walkers out too, heading to the Mission on their own private pilgrimages. Two men were carrying four foot crosses as they made the trek.

There's a small hill next to the Mission with a shrine a little more than midway to the top. Apparently in 1852 there was a sighting of the Virgin Mary at that spot. That was where I was headed before I turned around to go back home. When I got to the spot, I looked out over the view of Tucson spread below me like a picnic blanket. And then I sat next to the shrine for a few minutes. For a brief time, I was the only one there. The shrine is embedded into the side of the hill with a fence protecting a statue of Mary. All along the fence were letters that people had tied to it, flowers, even pictures of people. One picture in particular caught my eye. A young man in a hospital bed.

Do I believe that spot is particularly magical? No. I don't. I don't think God responds to prayers (if I believe he responds to prayers at all) because of where they are prayed. That didn't keep me from praying for friends of mine who are going through hard times right now though. But what do I pray for for them? Can I really ask God to take away their hardships? Can I ask God for a perfect world? I didn't just pray for the illnesses and heartache to go away. I hope that doesn't sound bad. What I prayed for was the strength to face whatever comes their way, for their spirits to open to the goodness and love that is available to them, for comfort, and for peace.

I realized that I really don't want to live in a perfect world. I wouldn't know love if I did not know disease. I wouldn't. It's that simple. And for me, there's no point in living without love.