Little Yackis: May 2014

Excuse the blurries... Although my children have a space online via this website, I actually don't want other people putting them out there on the interwebs, so I try to crop other people's kids out of pictures (when I remember) to get some good online karma.

Anyway - today was a momentous day! Cooper is now officially a graduate!

Doesn't he look distinguished?

A firm handshake and he is off with his diploma (ok... perhaps am tearing up a bit thinking about how I just blinked since he was born and - bam - there went five years, and while I am half joking about the "off with his diploma" bit, I am also like a mere 2.5 blinks away from... just that.

I BARELY made it in time, despite (1) telling my boss that I would not be willing to fly out this morning, and would have to go tomorrow, because I had a pre-K graduation to attend, (2) working until late last night to get as much done so I could be ahead today and get out early, (3) getting everything done quickly today, (4) telling a client that I would not be available after 4:30 because I had an "off site meeting", and (5) hauling my ass out of work at 4:30 and bypassing the restroom on the way out despite that venti iced tea AND latte I had drank after lunch because I wanted to beat traffic and would pee when I arrived. So, naturally, there were 3 wrecks on the major highway I take home. Backing traffic up to downtown. One of which had been blocking 3 lanes and a major exit ramp since 2:30 in the afternoon as the accident turned into a police investigation... So, one hour and 45 minutes after leaving work, after literally screaming in my car, cursing at drivers and making faces and gestures that made me ohsoglad I have tinted windows, I slammed my car into park in a parking space and ran straight into the building 15 minute late, to find a spot in the back (tauntingly close to a bathroom) just 3 kids before Cooper's name got called.

I was totally that mom who let out a little whoop! and clapped so hard everyone had to pose extra long because it took me a while to remember I was in charge of the still picture because Steve was manning the flip camera. And then, after hugging my graduate on his way back to his seat, I ran straight to the potty.

And then the whole class got up and sang us a song. It was "You got a friend in me" - a la Toy Story. It was adorable and so sweet and the way that Cooper looked and pointed right at me when singing made me think, yep, I do. He is my best little buddy and I am so proud of him. The moment was only more adorable (for me, perhaps not for other parents) when Daphne squealed out "They are singing 'Friend in me!!!!'" (she LOVES Tory Story).

And we came home to McDonald's, Great American Cookie Company and Transformers.

A perfect night.

Congratulations, Cooper.

We are so proud of you and happy for you.

Our graduate!

It hasn't quite been a month yet. But for some reason, my head is back in this place today more than it has been in a while. As I come to work and go through the day, I am reminded that on the outside I am starting to look normal again. The belly is just chubby looking now. I have seen everyone at least once, so there is no more awkward moment when someone wants to give me a hug anymore. And yet... I haven't forgotten. I am functioning better now. I am coping in my own way... which basically means alternating between reminating over a "what now" (because I had planned my whole year (or life?) as of a month ago, and now everything is up in the air again) and feeling sad. Sometimes I will go through an hour or two and not think about it or feel ok, but then when I go to the restroom and am reminded that my regular pants are still just a little too tight, or some other thing will happen, it will hit me over the head. I wrote this a while ago, when it was all so... when I was all so... I don't really know what to say here, because I can't really read through it clearly... and it is still all so... and I am still all so...

I am hitting publish on it because I cannot bring myself to delete it, but I cannot stand to have it sitting there as an unpublished post either.

Everything about this third baby made sense.

In a way the first one didn't. We were already married, for one. I wasn't in grad school, and wouldn't be studying for the bar with a newborn still breast feeding. We are making more money than we are spending.

In a way that the second one didn't as well. I didn't just start a job. Steve isn't going back to school (once again bringing us precariously close to spending more than we make, when you factor in his tuition and my student loans that were/are requiring monthly repayment). We are no longer living in a 1.5 bedroom in downtown Chicago.

We are both settled in careers where we are happy. We have a house with an extra bedroom. We actually have wonderful, reliable child care. We have done this twice already and if the proof is in the children, we are actually pretty damn good at this. So, of course when the question of whether or not we should have another one came up, and Daphne's first year was finally distant enough in Steve's memory, it almost felt uncomfortably like a no-brainer. In fact, we wavered at one point. Agreeing to do it, and then waiting two months before actually trying. It felt too... right, I think.

So of course, my first thought was that of course we wouldn't be able to get pregnant. And of course, we got pregnant practically right away. I knew the moment I was pregnant. I am all too keenly aware of every moment I spend pregnant. It is a blessing and a curse. I knew, so I woke up Friday morning and took a pregnancy test. It was negative. But we had plans to go out to eat with friends that night, to a fancy place featuring good food and wine. But even though I had been told 12 hours prior I was NOT pregnant, I couldn't live with myself if I had a drink while I felt pregnant... cause what if. So I decided to take another (somewhat pricey, in all honesty) pregnancy test when I got home from work. Negative. BUT... if I squinted, did I see the faint shadow whisper of a line???? No, but I REALLY felt pregnant. So I sent Steve out to get one of those REALLY expensive no-nonsense digital pregnancy tests (pushing time here, as the babysitter is due any minute.. and almost out of pee, if I am honest) and PREGNANT. I think we were both shocked. Happy. Stunned, but so so happy.

I always feel pregnant practically right away. Things like coffee and wine stop sounding good (my body looking out for the little one subconsciously?), but I REALLY feel pregnant at 6 weeks. Like clockwork. I hit 6 weeks and I feel like death. I literally require medication every 8 hours to get to a very low-level of functioning. It is comically unfunny. And like clockwork, at 6 weeks, so it goes. I actually started feeling more pregnant earlier this time around. Terrified of what that could mean for the next 9 months (and beyond?). At 9 weeks I went in for an ultrasound to date the pregnancy and beg for mercy. On my way back to the ultrasound I started crying. I felt sooo miserable. The ultrasound technician (who I would imagine sees miserable morning sick women all the time) was so moved by my level of misery that she found a box of special crackers that were supposed to help nausea and poured the whole box in my purse... ripped the label off and stuck it in there too, in case it helped, so I could order more. During the ultrasound she asked if I was sure of my dates, because I was measuring around 8 weeks. I told her I was sure. I cried more in the waiting room.

Then I saw the doctor. My level of misery was actually great news, and he was VERY unworried about the discrepancy in size/dates. He gave me 2 extra prescriptions, and told me not to worry, that he wasn't worried. It was only at my insistence that he agreed to schedule another ultrasound in a few weeks to make sure things were still good. I believed him.

The second prescription helped. It added another layer over my nausea... it was still there. Still vicious, but better. As time passed, I focused on the nausea as a good sign. No bleeding, and other than one evening of cramping, all seemed great. My belly, with this third baby, was growing very rapidly (thank you two prior c-sections) and after seeing a very healthy heartbeat on the ultrasound and basically having no other choice, I went ahead and told work. I told everyone. I am horrible at keeping my own secrets. Especially about babies.

Everyone says a sick mom is a sign of a healthy pregnancy.

Which is what made what happened so unfair.

I scheduled my follow up ultrasound for first thing on a monday morning, at the location between our house and work, so I could go in early, then get on with my week. I told Steve to go to work. Everything is/was fine. I was EXHAUSTED. I was NAUSEOUS. This baby is FINE. He believed me. I told my friend - the one who had a miscarriage and who understood what it meant to go to a follow up ultrasound and offered to go with me - that I was fine. I think I used the word "optimistic" actually. I refused to fall victim to irrational fears. I had seen a heartbeat. The doctor wasn't worried. I was sick as hell. A sick mom means a healthy pregnancy. I sent an email to my team at work and said "I will be a little late today, as I have a doctor's appointment, but I hope to be in by 10:30."

I went back to the room. The ultrasound tech was nice. We chatted and so it began. She checked all the boring stuff first. Then she asked me "and you haven't had any bleeding or cramping" and I said "not other than a week ago, but no bleeding"... "It's not good, it is? Just tell me."

"No, I don't think so. I'm sorry. The doctor will talk to you about it, but I don't think it is good. I am so sorry."

...sobbing...

"Thank you for being honest with me. I knew. I needed to know. I know I am crying, but thank you for being honest."

I called Steve from the ultrasound room. He had kids in his classroom and didn't answer. I texted him to "please call me." He did within seconds. All I could say is "It isn't good." I'm not sure what else happened. He had to make arrangements. I had to breath and get through the next minute.

And then I had to sit. Not in the waiting room. No one wants to send a women who just found out her baby died back into a room full of pregnant women. I got to wait right outside the rooms, and was quickly ushered into one. The nurse hugged me. I am not really a hugger of strangers. When she pulled away I stood up and just told her I was going to hug her for a minute and she let me.

Then the doctor came in. He was amazing. He said all the right things. He offered all the right options.

But there really is no option. Or there wasn't for me. I could just wait for my body to do something... you know, while I miss work/go to work? I could take a medicine that would cause me to expel the baby at home (and might still require a surgery) or I could schedule a D&C. I couldn't imagine that the only natural "birth" I would have would be to deliver a dead 10+ week old baby. I opted to schedule surgery. He managed to get me in the next day.

I texted my friend. I emailed my friend at work a cryptic "I won't be in today. Tell [my boss] and [my admin]." She texted back "What?" so I called and left her an incoherent message sobbing an explanation. I drove my 2 day old car, which I wasn't sure Steve had been able to get on our insurance yet and nearly got in about 10 accidents as I made my way to his school. He was leaving in 45 minutes anyway, but I couldn't be anywhere else. I had to get to him. I managed (by the grace of God) to end up in the parking lot about 10 minutes before he could leave. I waited. I saw him. I got out and he held me in the parking lot while I cried.

We went somewhere for lunch. I couldn't eat after 3:00 that day in anticipation of being put under general anesthesia. We spent over $100 on a lunch I don't even remember, because I am an emotional eater and didn't give a flying fuc! how much we spent, because all I could think of was, we didn't have anything to save for anymore.

I made myself be a big girl and call my boss and tell him I would be out all week. He is a good person, and a father and grandfather and husband and doesn't forget that when he is my boss, and told me to take the week, not to worry and let him know if there was anything he could do, and that he was so sorry. I could barely hear him through the crying. I did this in the parking lot of a church by our house while Steve went and relieved the nanny and loaded the kids in the car. I couldn't face anyone. I wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. He understood that and gave me that. I got up sometime after the kids ate dinner, but before bedtime and snuggled them some. Then drank some chicken broth and tried to go to bed... only to be up at midnight with a blaring migraine having not been able to fall asleep because my dead baby kept popping into my head. Steve got up and called my doctor. He agreed I should EAT now, and just needed to stop eating 8 hours prior to surgery. He also said I could have meds, so I took those. See, my body still thought it was pregnant. I was STARVING. I can't just NOT eat when I am pregnant. If I don't eat, I am miserable. I have never made it to migraine level hunger when pregnant before. I guess I didn't that night either, because I was no longer really pregnant.

Once my headache subsided, I watched TV on the couch until about 3am and then fell asleep, only to wake at 5:40 desperately needing to pee (my enlarged but no longer pregnant uterus still pressing unfairly on my bladder) and crawled into bed until 9:40 when Steve checked on me and woke me up to another blaring migraine. After medicating and bathing, we headed to the hospital (leaving the nanny, who I still couldn't face, the nanny who had shared my excitement for this baby so much, upstairs with the kids). We stop at Target to get reading material and gum. We got great parking right by the hospital. We get checked in right away. I make it halfway through my book and get called back. I think of how ... not ironic, but something... it is that the nurse that is putting in my IV is clearly in the midst of a healthy pregnancy. It doesn't upset me, but I notice it. I don't begrudge her a healthy pregnancy. I am just more keenly aware of how I will not look like her in a few months. Then another nurse comes in and shows me the paperwork. It says I am in for a "failed abortion" and the doctor will perform a D&C. I don't say anything because I assume a "failed abortion" is what they call it when the body doesn't expel a dead fetus, but it sticks with me, because I didn't abort this baby. I WANT THIS BABY. This baby is just dead now. They bring Steve back to the room. I just read my book. The doctor comes to see us. This is the first time Steve meets him. He is wonderful. I ask him a few questions. Then I ask if they will do an ultrasound before, just to be sure. See, the thing is, the baby was measuring only about a week behind what it should be. Which is what it was measuring in my last appointment. I had told myself that, even if the baby measured small, so long as it was growing the right amount, I wouldn't stress about it. So, overnight I had just kept thinking, irrationally "but it grew, so it has to be okay." This is when I started to cry. The doctor said he would absolutely do another ultrasound and immediately ordered the machine be brought to where I was. While we waited I told Steve what the paperwork said. He took Steve and I to the room across the way and I laid down and he went through and showed us what he saw and what he didn't see and what he should have seen. His level of patience and kindness was the greatest comfort despite the fact that tears leaked from my eyes uncontrollably the whole time. I told him I hadn't expected a different outcome, but I just needed to know, to understand, and to see how they knew that my baby was dead before I could let them take it out of me. I told him I was ready and Steve gave me a kiss, told me he loved me and took our belonging to the waiting room. I went to the bathroom (awkwardly, with my IV and in my robe) and then was taken to the OR. And that is when I lost it. And that is what will be forever burned in my mind. The set up was almost exactly as I remembered it from my c-sections. The crucifix like set up of the bed. All the lights and wires and beeping. I started shaking a bit. I couldn't control my breathing. I couldn't control my sobbing. The nurses and doctor did the most generous thing they could and pretended like I wasn't completely losing my shit and kept going about their business until they blessedly put the mask over my face and knocked me out.

I can't explain the type of hard this is. I basically want to shut the whole world out. I don't want to talk about it. I can't talk about it without crying. I can't to a lot of things without crying. Like, apparently, eating fajitas. I only want to talk to Steve, and that is because it has to come out and he is the only one I trust enough to be so miserable with. Probably because he is miserable too.

The thing is, this is totally unfair. It is complete bullshit.

And here I am with a man, a man who I feel (and yes, I acknowledge it is completely irrational) that I have just completely let down, and he just keeps telling me how I have made him so happy and how I have given him everything. And I will be honest, there is a part of me that would think I, in my miserable, cynical, horribly depressed at the moment and desperately sad state of mind would find this annoying. But I don't. I think it is the only thing that has kept me from going over the edge totally and completely. Because he isn't saying it in a way that at all forgets or diminishes how much I just lost. How much he just lost. How much we just lost. He is just reminding me of all that we have. And we have a lot. But so help me, I need him to remind me, because right now I still feel like I just lost everything.