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.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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.
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