Tiny sprouts, as promised

So here's the basil:



And here's the lavender:



I have no idea what kind of lavender it is - French or English. It just said "lavender" on the McKenzie seed packet, so I bought it because I adore it and can't wait to see it blooming in my Angel garden.

I'm actually kind of in awe of the little seedlings since two of you out there suggested that lavender is tricky and hard to coax to grow.

Which, of course, makes me wonder why I can do it so easily with seeds and not my own stupid uterus, but that's a rant for another time.

Here's the full tray of seeds. Three rows are basil and two rows are lavender. I don't need this much of either but I couldn't resist planting the entire tray because I'm greedy like that.

And yes, that's our Christmas tree in the background. It fell over and froze to the deck a few days before it was to be picked up for recycling. The screen door froze shut too, making extrication and disposal of the tree utterly impossible. So there it lies. We've had numerous discussions about what to do with said tree (the last one included mention of power tools - a prospect that alarms me) but until some of the snow melts it's just staying where it is. A poor, pathetic reminder of a miraculously happy holiday.

Anyway, back to the seeds...

And babies and ice cream are two of my favourite things!

A friend of mine sent me an article about a link between eating low fat dairy products and infertility. The gist of it was that at least one serving of high or full-fat dairy a day (they specifically mentioned ice cream) is thought to aid in a specific form of infertility that involves ovulatory problems.

Wouldn't you know I ovulate just fine and always have?

Geez, would it kill the gods to let me catch just one little break and send me the kind of infertility that a big bowl of chocolate ice cream would cure?

Harrumph.

Random thoughts

I've been spending so much energy trying to have a baby these past three and a half years, I've hardly given any thought to actually having a baby. Two pink lines, pregnancy and delivery I know. It's the taking home and raising I can't seem to wrap my head around. It might behoove me to give that some thought.

But I think I'll wait until I see two pink lines again. It's just too cruel to do it any earlier.

***********

While were busy painting the kitchen on Saturday I pointed out that if Thomas were here, he'd most certainly be spending the day at Grandma and Grandpa's. The idea of a two-year old and all that paint made me chuckle and shudder at the same time.

My Beloved, without missing a beat, said "Yeah, we sure dodged that bullet, eh?"

Oh how we laughed.

***********

I still haven't heard back from my RE's office about the date of my lap. And now I'm caught in that horrible should I call or shouldn't I? web. I've called twice. The second time I was kindly reassured that I hadn't been lost in the shuffle and that as soon as the secretary had my doctor's May schedule she'd fit me in and give me a call.

That was three weeks ago.

It seems strange to be begging someone to perform surgery on me. And kind of stupid too.

***********

Thomas' birthday is 10 days away. I still can't believe how much you can miss someone you barely knew at all.

***********

Yesterday morning my sneaky cat Lucy crept into the linen closet (where she knows she's not supposed to be) and curled up in the towels. I was in bed and I heard her get in, but ignored it. My cozy bed was far more important than the idea of having to re-wash a few towels.

What did get me up was hearing the sliding doors suddenly slam shut a few minutes later. Lucy can pick the doors open (slowly and painstakingly) but I've never known her to shut the door from the inside.

When I got up I slowly opened the doors and found her happily snoozing away.

I guess she could have shut the door herself - and the sane, logical part of me thinks that's precisely what happened.

But the part of me that believes in things I can't see wonders if it wasn't an impish little spirit playing a trick on the kitty - and saying hello to me in the process.

Now would be a nice time for just such a greeting.

************

It's been snowing for three days straight. To whom should I lodge my complaint?

************

A friend of mine who bears the same name as me (because of course Kristins of a feather flock together), has changed jobs. I can no longer reach her at her old e-mail address.

Dude, if you're reading this, drop me a line. I need to congratulate you and hear all the details.

************

Kate and Bronwyn, I'm working on seed and paint pictures. Stay tuned.

************

Seriously, it needs to stop snowing.

PM

My basil and lavender seeds have sprouted (long before they should have, according to the seed packets) and we painted the kitchen today, at long last.

All's right withe the world this chilly Saturday night.

Perspective

It's interesting how something so horrific can sometimes seem so normal. It's weird when it becomes so much a part of your life that you almost can't recognize it as something that should be unthinkable.

It's impossible to fathom what life after losing a child is like until you're immersed in this very strange world where things that should shatter you are somehow routine.

This morning I found myself needing to sort out Thomas' drawer, the only one in his change table that still remains his. The change table is the one piece of furniture from his nursery that we left up, and all the other drawers are filled with craft stuff and stickers and such. But the top drawer holds all his mementos. Baby shower cards and photos, his untouched baby book, sympathy cards, the video of my 18 week ultrasound, a scrapbook a friend made for me on his first birthday, the package of this things from the hospital, donation notices and a few other odds and ends I couldn't bear to put away in the basement.

I printed off a couple of e-mails from his first birthday that I wanted to put with his things this morning, and it turned into a complete reorganization of the drawer. As I was moving this and that, it suddenly became very important for the box from the funeral parlor to find its way into the drawer too. Up until today it had been kept somewhere else. Partly, I think, because I didn't like the idea of a box from a funeral parlor in the same drawer with all my precious baby's things. But now, two years on, I see that they belong there too. The cards, the cross from his coffin, the death certificate - they are all part of Thomas' story.

And today they all ended up in the same drawer, at last.

I poked through the funeral parlor box before putting it away. I didn't read all the cards, but I leafed through a few, looked at the donation notices and flipped through the baby book the funeral parlor gave us to fill out (a special one for parents in our situation).

It made me desperately sad, of course. All of it. And a few times I felt myself on the verge of those all-too-familiar tears. But at the same time I was keenly aware of how normal it felt. How normal all this feels.

And how strange it is to have a drawer of mementos for a dead boy be so normal.

But what choice do you have but to find a way for it to be ordinary? New ordinary. Your ordinary.

A few weeks ago I was reading the blog of a fellow mother in mourning. She was writing about the ceremony they had for their son on the day they scattered his ashes at a serene lake near their home. The ceremony was achingly beautiful and I was so touched by the tenderness with which she wrote about her painful goodbye.

At the end of the passage I found myself sitting in front of my computer stunned and devastated as I thought about the utter horror of what they had to do that day - to let go of their son and return to their lives without him.

And then I realized I'd done it too. And suddenly I was on the outside looking in, and just as horrified for My Beloved and I as I'd been seconds ago for the other parents who'd lost their darling boy.

I don't look at it that way very often (which is probably a good thing). I don't see our life the way others probably do. Our feelings, our fragility, our anger, our tears, our hopes, our sorrows, our completely different outlook on life, our morbid little inside jokes - it's all so strangely normal.

We look at the world with very different eyes now, both of us. There's no denying that.

And I'm as stunned as the next person that the actual horror of our situation has become something I barely notice anymore. We just keep moving forward - adjusting our thinking, settling in, sorting out, working through - and moving on again.

Because that's what you do. It's just what you do.

And no, I still don't really know how.

Me and my big mouth

Bright and early this morning...



So much for Spring.

So close I can taste it

Today felt like spring. It was a warmth seeping into your soul, bluebird on your shoulder, awakening from a deep winter slumber kind of day. And it was goooood.

I didn't do anything different (laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking and a little crocheting) but Ifelt different. There was the promise of warmer days, blooming gardens, fresh cut grass and the first BBQ of the season hanging thickly in the almost-spring air, soothing me from the inside out.

I even threw open the front window to let some of the warmer, fresh air into the house which (save for our bedroom window which I insist has to be open at least a crack lest I perish from lack of oxygen) has been sealed up like a tomb since the fall.

The faint smell of spring revived me. I live for days like these. Even a hundred years ago when I had no idea what real sorrow was, I lived for days like these.

However, as much as I love it, Spring is now a bit of a double edged sword. That first delicious break in the unbearable cold also means that Thomas' birthday is just around the corner. As are the impossibly difficult memories that resurface unbidden, the renewal of my deepest sorrows, and the endless what ifs that rattle around in my brain. And yes, the celebration of a tiny life that has touched mine in ways I will never, ever be able to articulate.

I'm extremely lucky that spring, by its very nature, also brings the promise of new life. A fresh start. New gardens to plan. Brighter evenings. Longer days.

And, if the doctor's office ever calls me back, laparoscopic surgery.

The fun never stops.

I have no idea what the future holds anymore and I can't even begin to speculate, but at least I know that every once in a while I'll get a day like today - and that days like today still have the power to revive my spirits.

I can live on that for weeks.

A cautionary note...

I just got word through the grapevine that someone who reads my blog thinks I need help. Of the professional variety.

While this person obviously cares and has my best interests at heart, I need to caution her and anyone else who is using this blog as a gauge of my mental health that I am much more than the words I write down here each day.

This is a dumping ground for my sorrow and confusion over losing Thomas, as well as my frustration at being unable to conceive again since. It is, in a sense, my therapy. I don't wander around talking about my grief 24 hours a day, but I do need to put it somewhere. And I choose to put it here.

I also put it in the ears of My Beloved (in addition to some very patient, caring and loving friends and family members).

Trust me, simply following this blog for a few months isn't a good way to determine if I'm okay or not. It just isn't. I'm more than these angry, sorrowful, frustrated posts.

I am okay. I get up every morning. I function. I love. I laugh. I talk. I go out. I see people. I make plans for the future. I revel in the present. And yes, at the same time I miss my boy like crazy and I anguish over the fact that I can't get pregnant again and have the family we've been dreaming of and trying to have for nearly four years.

I'm sure it would be easier for everyone if I wasn't in mourning. I'm sure it would be easier if I was the old me. But I'm not. I've changed. When I buried my son I was reborn as a woman struggling to make sense of a life without her child. And I'm doing the best I can - and to be brutally honest, I think I'm doing more than okay under the circumstances.

I held my dying child in my arms and I'm here to tell the tale. My God, I'm here to tell the tale.

This isn't something that's going to be fixed. It's a lifelong process of learning to live a life that is always going to be influenced by the immense sorrow I carry with me. And sometimes that process isn't pretty. Sometimes it's angry and messy and horrible. But I'm not going to stop writing about it and I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel, even if sometimes it sounds crazy.

If you haven't been through what I have, you have absolutely no idea what the healing process is like, how long it takes - or even what it looks like. There's no way you can fathom what it's like to be me, or how healthy I should or shouldn't be. Especially right now, my baby boy's second birthday just weeks away.

This is what my life is, and it might seem frightening to you - but what you're reading here is only part of it. Just please, please remember that.

Not-So-Fat Tuesday

Tomorrow is pancake Tuesday. So, in an effort to ensure that all the world has their fill of pancakes - even those struggling on those torturous nutritional intake plans better known as diets - I decided to post a delightful light pancake recipe that I tried on Sunday morning.

I can't not have pancakes (which might explain why the scale was so rude to me this morning, but whatever) so I found these. And they're good. Not quite as fluffy as you might hope, and ever-so-slightly fork resistant, but still wonderfully good.

And really, when you slather them in butter and drench them in syrup, who the hell cares what they taste like, right?

But seriously, they're good.

And now I'll shut up and tell you how to make them.

Buttermilk Pancakes

1 cup flour
2 tsp sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup buttermilk (I used plain 1% milk)
2 egg whites
1 tablespoon cooking oil
1/2 tsp vanilla
nonstick cooking spray

1. In a medium bowl combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Make a well in the centre of the flour mixture and set aside. In a small bowl combine milk, egg whites, oil and vanilla; add all at once to flour mixture. Stir just until moistened (batter should be slightly lumpy).

2. Lightly coat an unheated griddle or heavy skillet with nonstick cooking spray. Preheat over medium heat. For each pancake, pour a scant 1/3 of a cup of the batter onto the hot griddle or skillet. Cook over medium heat about 2 minutes on each side or until pancakes are golden.

Serves 4 (8 pancakes)

177 calories, 4g total fat (1g saturated fat), 1 g fiber.

And good morning to you too

So today's charming newspaper factoid was that babies conceived as a result of fertility treatments (although true to journalistic form they didn't specify which kind of fertility treatments) face a 58% greater risk of birth defects. Although again, no indication of the kind or severity of such defects.

So, not only am I 58% more likely to conceive a child with defects, I'm more likely to die when I deliver it via C-section. Fantastic.

The newspaper is full of all kinds of treasures for me this week.

If it wasn't for the fact that this same paper miraculously saw fit to report that Hallmark just released a new line of cards for "real life challenges we face today" that includes cards for those who have suffered miscarriages and are dealing with infertility, I would take Kate's suggestion and just stop reading altogether.

When you shake 'em up, that's what happens

This afternoon my neighbour came over for tea and brought her 9-month old daughter along, who I adore. Seriously, this kid is all kinds of cute.

We were chatting, baby J and I, catching up, bouncing around and generally making merry.

And everything was going well.

Until, of course, she projectile vomited all over the couch. By some miracle she missed me and most of herself, and I don't know how since my left arm appeared to be directly in the line of fire. Her shirt caught a few streamers and she had a charming vomit ring around her mouth, but the bulk of it went on the couch cushion. Tiny curdled milky puddles of it.

I totally know it was my fault because I'd just finished lifting her up and down over my head in what, in retrospect, was probably a very nauseating Conklin-midway-ride-esque kind of way. And I got what I deserved. Babies are essentially walking carbonated milkshakes. You shake 'em up and they're going to blow.

Lesson learned.

Now here's the thing, I'm kind of grossed out by things that come out of people's mouths. Saliva, vomit, moistened crumbs - even my own toothpaste foam. Can't deal with it. Congealed spit on a sidewalk? Forget about it. And don't even get me started on the amount of perfectly good water hockey players gargle and regurgitate during the course of one period.

So the vomit on the couch, well, it squicked me out. I mopped it up with a couple of pretty smelling baby wipes and shot it with Lysol after my guests departed.

But the whole thing left me feeling ill. And, to my surprise, it wasn't really because of the vomit as much as it was the way it initially made me feel. I felt guilty for being grossed out. Really, really, really guilty. And what's worse, I started to question the quality of my maternal instincts.

Everyone says that when it's your own child, nothing bothers you. Not the biggest puke or the nastiest poop. And since I've always assumed this to be true, I also assumed that someone who was a mother (theoretically if not literally) would have at least some of the innate ability to look at a puddle of baby vomit as nothing more than a little smidge to be quickly swiped up with a tissue.

So when I found myself inwardly cringing at the site of the spit-up soaking into my couch, I panicked.

Seriously. So much so that I had to poll someone online mommy types to find out if I was really as horrible as I suspected I was. I knew these women would tell me the God's honest truth. And if they didn't, I'd be able to hear it in their words and know if they were lying to save my feelings (something I'm kind of paranoid about in general - but that's a whole other blog).

As it turns out my fears were unfounded. The mommies concurred that baby vomit, pee and poop is NOT cute, even when it spews forth from your own progeny. You deal with it because you love the child, but it's still icky. And, what's even better, someone else's child's bodily fluids are gross. Even to mommies with living children who deal with pee, poop and puke on a daily basis.

I was even given permission by one friend to scream YUUUUUCK!!! if any of her children ever vomited on me.

So whew. Crisis averted. I'm not horrible.

And the puke on the couch? Well, it doesn't really bother me all that much now. You know, now that it's okay if it did.

Oh sure, 'cause THAT'S fair

I don't know how far the story traveled, but I'm pretty sure that most people around these parts (my parts, I mean) know the horrendous story of Paul Bernardo and his wife Karla Homolka. He was a serial rapist before turning into a serial killer with a fondness for teenage girls. With the help of his loving bride, he first killed her little sister, then abducted, sexually assaulted, tortured and killed two area school girls - making sure to catch it all on film.

Karla was fully complicit. She was there. She participated in the torture. She helped kill her own sister, for God's sake. She later claimed spousal abuse and tried in vain to make it appear as though she too was a victim of this horrible man, but the public didn't buy it.

The "Deal with the Devil", as it has come to be known, meant that she would only serve 12 years for her part in the murders. She was finally released back into the free world last summer, much to the horror of the victims' families and society at large.

Her husband is still serving time and will likely never be released, thank God.

Karla, on the other hand, seems to have moved on. Yesterday she had a baby boy.

Yes, a convicted murderess who helped a man kill her own sister and then two teenage girls just had a child of her own.

Yeah, 'cause THAT'S fair.

What a nice way to start the day

I read a disturbing article about the dangers of c-sections in the local paper this morning.

There's no way I'll risk another labour, not after three hours of unproductive pushing followed by a massive abruption that killed my son. No thank you. Thomas died when he was off the monitors during the sprint from my birthing suite to the OR. In 25 minutes he went from being safe and healthy to being born brain dead. And they had no idea until they pulled him out.

I won't risk any of that ever again. But apparently I'll be risking a lot by having another section. According to the article, anyway.

I just loathe that newspapers latch onto these kinds of stories and run with them. If you're going to post the results of a study, post ALL the results. Don't pick and choose the scariest bits and leave out all the rest.

Not only is it irresponsible journalism, it's just plain cruel.

I sat there on the couch in my purple moon and stars pajamas, a white knuckled grip on the paper, my eyes bugging out of my head and my heart racing. Along with what's left of my mind.

And the thing is, I don't have a choice. I can't risk a VBAC. And even if they told me I could, I wouldn't. In all seriousness, that probably would drive me right over the edge. I've been strong enough to endure a lot over the last two years, but I know I'm not strong enough for that. I'm just not.

I'm going to assume that if I survived it once - with a couple of serious complications thrown in for good measure - I can do it again.

You know, if I ever get pregnant.

Well this feels familiar

The weeks leading up to Thomas' first birthday were horrible. Absolutely horrendous. I felt more unglued than I had in months and I worried that the weight of a year's worth of dealing with the sorrow of losing him was finally about to do me in.

In short, I was a basket case.

As his second birthday approaches, I find myself feeling that old familiar fragility that threatened to knock me off my axis last year. It's not as bad as it was 12 months ago, thank God, but it's there just the same.

I should have expected it, but stupidly I didn't. His first birthday put an official end to all the things we'd have to do, see, experience and feel for the first time. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief when the sun set on the anniversary of the day he died. In many ways, I actually started to breathe again; to live in a way I hadn't for a full year; to remember him for the sweet blessing he was and not just for the sorrow that engulfed us when we lost him.

And I never thought it would get that bad again.

And when I say "bad", I mean the aching, relentless torment of wanting, loving, having and losing playing out in your mind like an endless horror movie.

"Bad" is the ungodly pain of holding a child you know you're going to bury, and remembering that instead of the feeling of him rolling and kicking and living inside you.

"Bad" is hospital flashbacks triggered by something you can't identify that assault you out of the blue and drag you back to a desperate moment when you felt that hell had swallowed you whole.

"Bad" is standing in front of the bathroom mirror watching yourself cry and being shocked by a face twisted in agony that you barely recognize as your own.

I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that, by some miracle, so far it isn't as overwhelming as it was last year. And I can also take comfort in knowing that I survived so much worse, both when Thomas died and the whole year after.

If I did it then, I can do it now. And I can keep doing it year after year after year.

But oh God, I wish I didn't have to.

Just to clarify...

It's not that My Beloved or I think think that Thomas wasn't the right baby for us and that he was returned to the gods because of it. He was the right child - he most definitely was, and we know there was a reason (or maybe a million reasons) for him coming to us and staying for 20 hours. And we're blessed and grateful for every second we had with him.

The "right" child My Beloved was referring to yesterday was the next right child. The second one.

Just had to clear that up. Because I'm neurotic and anal that way.

The end.

Roadblocks

So I finally muster up the courage to call about scheduling the lap (even though we haven't officially decided for sure if that is indeed our next step) and I find out they're currently scheduling into May.

Into. May.

I knew it wouldn't be next week or anything, but I'd kind of hoped to hear it wouldn't be more than a month or so away. Sometime after Thomas' 2nd birthday, but certainly long before my 37th.

No such luck. 'What a surprise', she said oozing sarcasm.

So in the interim we'll just continue plodding along blindly, not knowing if the past two years (because it'll be one month shy of two years by then) have been in vain.

Good Lord.

After I hung up with the nurse from the good Doctor's office I stood, seething, in the living room wondering how many more roadblocks the universe is planning to toss in front of us during the course of this journey. I mean, we've crawled our way over an ungodly number of barriers already, but my God, how much more can be thrown at us? And how much more are we supposed to take?

All. We. Want. Is. A. Baby.

People have them every day. Sometimes in multiples. I've seen the bellies. I know.

My Beloved, bless his heart and his calming effect on me, suggested that the baby we'll get (because he's still so sure one is coming out way) will be the right one - the one that we're meant to get. And not despite the delays, but because of them. The roadblocks that make me so crazed with rage will ultimately be the reason we'll get the child we will. The right child.

It's a nice theory. In fact I can almost believe it.

Almost.

Epiphany

So I was thinking about the whole God thing in church the other day (instead of planning the week's dinners or mentally writing to-do lists, which is often what ends up happening when I'm trying to pay attention at Mass) and I think I might have had a bit of a breakthrough.

Since Thomas died I've been waiting for God to show himself to me - to speak to me in a way that made some kind of sense. To speak to me at all. I've been begging him to somehow be present in my life and to show me that he cares. Essentially I've been asking him to prove to me that he still loves me.

Because after what he did to me, it was hard to know.

And yeah, I guess I kind of wanted him to explain himself. Not because he owed it to me, but because if he's such a nice God he'd want to.

But despite my relentless pleading, all I ever heard was silence.

Or so I thought...

As I was sitting waiting for Mass to start on Sunday, a little realization wormed its way into my head. God isn't going to walk through my door with a magic wand, fix what ails me and explain away Thomas' death. It's never going to happen. It doesn't work that way.

But countless friends have walked through my door, and with them they brought comfort, friendship and support. Family have offered hugs, endless love and a safe place to hide when things were dark and I needed the comfort of familiar places and rituals. Strangers have sent me e-mails, cards and gifts. I have made strong, life-saving connections with with some wonderful women in blogland who have also lost children. Countless donations have been made in Thomas' name to charities around the world. People everywhere have prayed for him and for us - and maybe even for that moment of realization I had in church on Sunday.

I didn't actually expect the big Guy to ring the bell and invite himself in for coffee. I'm not completely delusional just yet. But I think I was expecting some sort of clearly recognizable grand gesture that would suddenly make everything make sense.

I didn't realize it would be hundreds of small gestures made by people who care about us.

And in them, I see God.

At last.

What's in a name?

So I've been giving the whole what shall we call ourselves? thing some thought. And here's what I've come up with:

Perinatal infant loss and/or miscarriage survivor - PILAMS

Miscarriage and/or infant loss survivor - MAILS

Parent of little lost angel(s) - POLLA

Parent in mourning - PIM

What a depressing exercise. And fruitless too, since people will always want to know more than you're comfortable telling, and will still always look at you with shock and horror no matter what pretty little name you use to tell them that your child has died.

Fantastic.

But stiil, pim kind of rolls off the tongue nicely, no? And it would be ever so amusing to answer, "No, I'm a pim" the next time someone asks if I have any kids.

Heh heh heh.

In the night

It's kind of weird what you do when it's late, you're tired and you're approaching the end of a week that ran over you like a freight train.

My Beloved dozed off long before I did last night. He was soundly sleeping for an hour or more before I finally turned off the light.

But before I did, I looked at him. I watched him sleeping and thought of Thomas, who looked so much like his Daddy it's unreal. Sometimes I see him in My Beloved - the purse of his lips or the shape of his chin - and I wanted to see it last night. It comforts me to see them in each other, to see the parts of Thomas that came from the man I love so much.

I know it sounds like it's an agonizing thing to do, to look for reminders of your dead child in the face of your living husband, but it's not. And it's not morbid either (not to me, anyway - but then again I do a lot of things that I now don't consider morbid that actually probably are).

As time passes, Thomas sometimes feels like a beautiful dream I once had. So when I can find a way to make him real again, even for a few moments, I do.

As I looked into My Beloved's peaceful face and searched for reminders of our little boy, I quietly whispered things that are sometimes too hard to say out loud, then kissed him softly three times and went to sleep.

It makes me want to cry that this is our life, but I'm also so grateful that we've figured out ways to make it okay just the same.

Ah, winter

It must be the winter. The darkness, the cold, the inability to make plans with any certainty for fear the roads will be sheets of ice, the general feeling of being trapped like a caged animal.

It must be the winter that's making everything so much harder to endure.

It's also possible it's the shitstorm of loss, grief and infertility. It could be that too, I suppose.

But whatever. I find it takes me so much longer to recover from upsets these days. And I'm tired. Worn right out physically and mentally.

The classic signs of depression. Yeah, yeah, I know. But under the circumstances I'm inclined to cut myself some slack. The past two years have been an absolute living hell in more ways than I can count or name, and if the winter blahs have me in a death grip because of my inability to cope with frigid, dark weather on top of sorrow, loss and a funky uterus, well so fucking be it.

So it looks like a lap is our next stop on the fertility train. More surgery. Because the last one (a c-section that left me infection-riddled after they were finally able to control the hemorrhaging) wasn't enough fun.

The good doctor seems to think that our last, best hope to figure out why the hell I can't conceive after almost two years of trying is to take a looky-loo inside and see if I have adhesions or scar tissue. All signs point to yes, I suppose, given that I conceived three times before with relative ease.

The idea of having surgery - of going back into a hospital, donning a gown and laying in an operating room with the sounds, smells and sights I remember so well assaulting me at every turn - quite frankly makes me ill. I'm very excited about the possibility of it being the answer to our prayers (or, more accurately, the answer to our wails of "WHAT THE FUCK????" directed at the universe in general), but it's the getting through it that worries me. Getting to it, and getting past it.

How will I cope with that? Particularly when a snowy day makes me tense.

Eeeeek.

I know several people who have had this procedure done. They all survived. None of them had complications. Many of them went on to conceive - some right away.

But none of them lay on an operating table listening in shock, horror and confusion while a team of doctors bagged their dying son either.

Clearly I'm approaching this a little differently than the average lady.

But I know I have to suck it up. My only choice is not to have it done and spend the rest of my life regretting it and wondering if we'd have had another child if I'd only been able to summon up the courage to have a simple 40 minute surgery.

I'm no picnic to live with now, but My Beloved would surely grow weary of the guilt seeping from me like sweat, the begging for forgiveness, and the relentless "what if" style speculation that I know I would be incapable of quelling.

So I don't really have a choice. But I don't have all that much courage either.

I wonder if they'd be willing to start administering the drugs from home...