Gaaaahhhhh!!!!

You know what I hate? I hate that I can't see the world through eyes other than my own. And I really hate that sometimes it turns me into a bitter, judgmental cow.

I hate that I can't listen to someone else's birth story and see it as anything but a walk in the park - no matter how long, painful or scary they may have found it - if they came home with a live baby at the end of it. A live baby cancels out all the rest of it to me. I know that's unfair. I know it.

I hate that sometimes hearing about someone's "really bad day" makes me suddenly seethe inside when they start to rhyme off a laundry list of things that I consider fruit fly-sized problems. Dead babies make for a really bad day, not missing your bus or spilling coffee on your crotch.

I hate that I understand that we all see life based solely on our own experiences. I hate that I get it - that I get that for some lucky son-of-a-gun a lap full of coffee is the baseline for bad luck.

If I didn't get it, it would be so much easier to just hate everyone and their petty annoyances. But because I do get it, I can't. I have to feel these ugly, judgmental feelings, then talk myself out of them by reminding myself that people only know what they know.

I just hate that I know so much.

Utterly precious

Baby Lucas wearing Thomas' teddy bear onesie, overalls and tiny blue shoes.

I could sit and look at this picture for hours.

Fishy goodness

I know I'm totally biased, but I think everything about this is brilliant.

All over the place

I've been thinking a lot about the twins today, as though I suddenly just remembered them.

Grief is weird. For some odd reason they finally seem like real little people to me, and they've been gone for more than two months.
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Last night I lay in bed with my hands on my tummy. I can't believe how many little people have been in there. How many babies have slipped in and out so quickly and quietly. And, in most cases, dramatically.

There's nothing quite as jarring as the doughy emptiness of a tummy after a miscarriage or three.
_____________________

I got a new pair of glasses that I think are very cool and that I think look very cool on me. But to be honest, I'm also secretly a little worried that I look like Mrs. Beesley in them.

Please tell me I'm wrong about the latter...


_____________________

I have an adorable picture of my friend's baby boy wearing one of Thomas' outfits, but I keep forgetting to ask her if I can post it here.

I hope she says yes. Poke. Poke. Poke.
_____________________

Still no word from the OB on my blood tests. I'm calling on Monday if I don't hear anything by the end of the week. I've been very patient, but I neeeeeeed to know.

Someone asked - they're looking for clotting disorders.

A clotting disorder will go nicely with my deformed uterus, I think. It's what all the best dressed infertiles are wearing this season.
_____________________

The other day on my way a meeting I was passing Toys 'R Us when a parade of employees marched directly in front of my path wielding all the big, key nursery necessities for a customer leading the pack. I slowed down to let the crib pass and shot an eye roll heaven-ward.

He thinks he's sooooooo funny.
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Last night I dreamed that Scary Spice and I were running through rivers of mud trying to catch up with my Dad, who I thought might have found my missing purse.

I don't have any idea what this means.

But just in case there's any truth in the dream and you happen to be in a similar situation, don't EVER accidentally fling mud in Scary Spice's hair. She really hates that.
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We lost the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness magnet somewhere in the depths of the car wash last night.

The car feels completely naked now. I didn't realize how much I needed the magnet until it blew off in the multi-coloured streams of soap and disappeared.

I'm. So. Needy.

I have ordered a new magnet and will try to ignore the nakedness for the time being.
________________________

Grief. Scary Spice. Car magnets.

I'm spent.

As we once were...

Thank you for always being there with your arm around my shoulder, even still. I love you.

Happy 40th birthday!

Who said failure isn't an option?

When you turn 40 you need to have a party. It's a rule. So My Beloved and I are throwing my sister a 40th birthday cocktail party on Saturday, complete with fancy hors d'oeuvres and a signature cocktail (which My Beloved has promised to invent...eventually).

In the interest of dealing with that bereavement fatigue I mentioned yesterday, I've been spacing out the party preparation tasks over the course of the last few days. Today's agenda included washing all the hardwood floors, dusting the living room/dining room and baking the cake (which I was going to freeze and ice on Saturday).

I am a good cook most of the time and a good baker most of the time. But if something is going to fail in a dramatic and spectacular way, it's going to be when I'm preparing it for a special occasion.

You know, like someone's 40th birthday.

So there is cake and it is edible, but it's not party-worthy cake. Not by a long shot.

When you have to cut an inch off each side to get rid of the strange crunchy ends, and in the process notice bubble holes so big you can stick you finger into them, the cake ceases to be a thing of beauty, no matter how good it smells (and no matter how good those crunchy ends taste - because yeah, of course I ate them).

So as I stood there in the kitchen looking at the cake, it slowly morphed into a tangible symbol of bigger failures. The life and death variety.

And I started getting a tiny bit panicky, because failure of any kind is very distressing right now. It sabotages my sense of control. It ruins my fragile peace. And, frankly, it pisses me off. No one likes to fail, but when you can't even bake a fucking cake properly...

In the end it wasn't a complete disaster. The cake is fine for tomorrow night's dessert with my family in place of the cake my Mom bought. Once iced with the requested raspberry icing I'm sure it will be just fine. And in the meantime I'll head out to the grocery story and order a cake for Saturday.

Failure is all about making do. Figuring out another way. Picking up the pieces and carrying on. And yeah, eating some crusty ends every once in a while.

I'm good at dealing with failure. I've learned how. I hate doing it, but it seems to fit me like a glove and I somehow make it work.

But still, I hope one day I'll be able to bake a perfect cake.

I have a lot to say for someone who feels THIS grumpy

It's just PMS, but it feels so much like Clomid it's scaring me. Why am I so hormonal two months post-miscarriage and D&C? Freaky. And annoying. I have too much to do this week to be THIS hormonal. And no, there's not a chance in hell that I'm pregnant. This is just PMS at it's ugliest.

Lucky me.
_____________________________

A very dear friend heard her baby's heartbeat for the very first time today. After suffering devastating losses followed by two years of soul-crushing infertility, she is nearly 8 weeks pregnant. At long last, pregnant. And everything is a-okay.

When I heard the good news I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding in and thanked God for giving them what he chose not to give to us this summer.

And then I worried that the bitterness in the end of my prayer would cancel out the genuine gratitude of the first part.

And then I worried that if I blogged about it people would misunderstand and not realize that the bitterness is directed at God, not at my dear friends.

And then I decided that I needed to throw caution to the wind, stop apologizing and explaining and just write.
_____________________________

The results of my blood tests should be back sometime this week.

I've mostly put them out of my mind, save for having a vague idea about when I should be hearing from my OB, and I realize the reason for this is that I'm scared shitless about what the tests will reveal.

It's possible I'll find out that I'm more to blame for Thomas' death than I realized. And I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with that information.

But I know there will need to be wine.
______________________________

My big sister is turning 40 this week.

She really, REALLY needs to stop getting older because she's dragging me with her and I'm not impressed by this at ALL.

______________________________

Yesterday on our way to my Mom & Dad's for dinner we drove up alongside a couple out for a late afternoon walk. As we approached them it dawned on me that they were alone - they didn't have the requisite stroller, wagon or baby sling that 99% of people wandering our streets seem to have. They were even dog-less.

And it was immensely comforting. We aren't the only ones, I thought.

I turned to look at them as we drove past, and caught sight of her bulging tummy.

And harrumphed for the rest of the ride.
_______________________________

I went out with my neighbour and my Goddaughter this afternoon. Warehouse shopping is good for the soul - and even better for PMS.

And so is having a giggling one-year-old run over to you with her arms in the air, in the hopes that you'll pick her up.

Should this opportunity ever present itself to you, do as the child wants. There is nothing like a tiny little girl looking at you with big wide eyes and shooting a great gap-toothed grin your way. Nothing.
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The other day it dawned on me that I feel tired all the time. I mean run-over-by-a-cement-truck-bone-achingly tired. And I'm fine. I'm not sick and when I'm not having nightmares I sleep very well. I eat healthy, well-balanced meals (most of the time) and I take my vitamins.

I've come to the conclusion that this is the fatigue of the bereaved. I drag a trunk full of additional baggage with me wherever I go. It's bound to wear a girl out.

What I wouldn't do for that once-upon-a-time sense of physical well-being I had before my body showed its true, murderous colours
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During the last few days people have found this blog by doing searches for the following:

Love snoring
Too many highlights in my hair
Kellogs Roller Coaster
Mall Santa Claus

To these poor, unsuspecting victims I extend my most sincere apologies.

Age is a funny thing. Hilarious.

Last night I was having a conversation in my head. Just me and some random stranger. Please indulge me and for the time being let's ignore the fact that it's a little crazy to have imaginary conversations with imaginary strangers and just focus on the subject of said discussion, okay?

Not surprisingly, it was Thomas-themed.

I was being asked by a stranger if I had children and, upon confirmation, how old they were. And suddenly the pretend conversation ground to a screeching halt.

How old is Thomas?

The bereaved have a tendency to age their children as the months and years pass. For the first year of what should have been Thomas' life I obsessively made note of the 9th of every month and mentally added that month on to his age. He was dead, but he was also 6 months old, 7 months old, 8 months old. And on and on.

I don't count months anymore and I usually don't notice the 9th of the month either, but I still know how old my boy is.

Is? Was? What is it?!

When I talk about my grandparents (who are all dead) I don't age them. They are the age they were when they died. In fact I have to stop and think about how old they'd all be now. Two of them would have crested 100 years ago, but how many years I'm not sure.

That's because old people die and cease to move forward. Why is it so different for babies? Why am I so obsessed with knowing how old Thomas is and moving him forward in time as though he was actually here growing older with the rest of us?

I wonder if when I'm 80 I'll find myself in the dusty, urine-scented sitting room of a nursing home imagining a conversation between me and another resident in which I tell her that my son is nearly 46.

Will it go on that long? I can't imagine not knowing how old Thomas would be at any given moment. I just know it, like I know how to breathe.

He's two years, 7 months old.

Or should be, depending upon which side of the bereavement fence you sit.

It's funny what you hear when you really listen

My favourite priest did the sermon this morning, so I listened attentively. I tend to wool-gather a whole lot less when he's preaching because I almost always find a message in his words. And messages from the great big guy in the sky have been very few and far between for me since Thomas died, sometimes no matter how hard I listen.

But Father Mark somehow always seems to hit a nerve, to cut to the very heart of the matter and demonstrate his understanding of a God I can actually live with.

Today he was talking about the importance of prayer. Blah, blah, blah, I initially thought, because prayer has proven mostly useless to me since the moment I found myself lying on an operating table begging God not to take my son two and a half years ago.

And when the answer to my small, frightened prayers this summer was miscarried twins and a D&C fraught with complications I began to believe even less in the "ask and it shall be answered" dogma I've been taught my whole little Catholic life.

But this morning Father Mark presented it in slightly different way.

Pray often and fervently, he encouraged, but be warned. Be warned? Be warned, because praying this way often results in getting what you've asked for.

The quiet pew-sitter raised a skeptical eyebrow here, and the inner cynic started howling with rage. I prayed my ass off the entire time I was pregnant with Thomas, and all I have to show for it is a dead child and a trail of broken hearts.

But he went on...

You're likely to get what you've asked for because in praying - in focusing your heart and energies on thinking about the thing that you so fervently desire - you make yourself open and more willing to take the steps necessary to get that thing - to achieve that desired end.

And this isn't even remotely "Secret-like". It's not about throwing energy out into the universe and waiting for it to pick up good vibes in the atmosphere and rain them back down on you, along with BMWs and winning lottery tickets. This is you focusing on what you want, internalizing it - and then getting up and doing something about it.

I realize this still doesn't explain how I have a dead son - how I have 5 dead babies - when I did pray hard and did do everything I could to try to bring those children safely into the world.

But regardless, the thing that I like about this vision of prayer is that it puts so much of the power in my hands. It's not all about that magical dude in the sky and his passing whims and fancies.

And I like that very much.

I've been trying to figure out what the hell the point in praying is if God is going to do whatever he wants no matter how much I beg, cajole and plead, but now I kind of see that prayer is as much as exercise for me as it is a dialogue with God. At least this kind of prayer, anyway.

It's not magic, at least not entirely, it's self-motivation.

I don't know what to do with the problem of unanswered prayers and their resulting dead babies, but I'm somewhat comforted by this new vision of prayer that Father Mark presented this morning just the same.

Of course, I could also be taking it all the wrong way and twisting his words to suit my own spiritual needs, but this is truly what I took away from the sermon today. And even though it still doesn't explain how or why so many important prayers seem to fall on deaf ears and go unanswered no matter how many steps we take to get them answered (because God knows I did every single thing in my power to bring Thomas safely into the word), at least there was a measure of comfort at Mass today.

And sometimes a measure of comfort is just enough to keep on keeping on.

The morning of the 15th

This was what I saw when I woke up and looked out the window on Monday morning.

I should have known it was going to be a good day. I totally should have known.



Blogger is being finicky and won't let me upload more pictures than this, so I'll save the rest for another day.

In a blink of an eye

Last night My Beloved and I went to the St. Michael's Choir School 70th Anniversary Gala at Roy Thomson Hall in Toronto with my sister and my Dad, who is one of the oldest living graduates of the school. I won't reveal exactly how old, but let's just say he's got Choir School buddies that he's known for close to 70 years and leave it at that...

It was a wonderful night. Truly extraordinary. My heart was still so full this morning just thinking about what a good time my Dad had and how happy he looked, the sound of his laughter still ringing in my ears.

But because we were there, I wasn't home to light my candle at 7:00pm. I started thinking about this, and about Thomas, midway through the first half of the show. A pianist was playing something I should probably know the name of but don't, and my eyes drifted from the stage where his hands were flying across the keys up towards the hall's great circular ceiling.

I sat looking up, hearing the music and thinking of Thomas, and in that moment it suddenly felt like the entire hall was filled with him - with his presence and his being. I felt it surge up from the middle of the hall, burst up to the ceiling, and wrap itself along the curved walls right to my seat.

And the moment I felt it - the second I acknowledged what the feeling was - it disappeared. He left as fast as he came. I tried to summon him back - to look up and feel him there again - but all that was left was music.

And in his wake, a tremendous sense of peace and love.

I fully realize how hokey this sounds, by the way. I know I sound like a bereaved (and slightly insane) mother who really wanted to feel something and conjured up a magical sensation out of thin air at an already emotional event. But I wasn't trying. I wasn't. Yes, I was thinking about Thomas, but I wasn't hoping for some cosmic spiritual reunion. I was just listening to the music and thinking about him like I always do.

It just happens that this time he chose to respond in a very large way.

The enormity of the presence got me thinking about how I actually do think of him. He's my baby. He's my tiny little boy and I think of him as the sweet and beautiful newborn he was in my arms. I call myself Mommy when I talk to him, and I speak to him like he's a child.

But the spirit I felt last night, so large and warm and loving, was bigger than me. Bigger than the building and everyone in it combined.

Big enough to fill a concert hall in the blink of an eye and leave it just as fast.

Skeptics may scoff (and that's their prerogative), but I know what I felt. I know exactly what that was last night, and I think I know why he came. The event meant so much to me, to my Dad and to our whole family, and I think he wanted me to know that he was there too. That he's a part of our lives in as big a way as can be, even when we don't realize it - and especially when we don't think it's even possible.

I used to dream that one day I'd send Thomas to the Choir School so he could continue the tradition his Grandfather started 69 years ago. He'll never be a student at the school or sing with the choir or forge 6-decade old friendships like my Dad, but last night he was able to let me know that he's a part of it all too, in a way that only he can be.

And last night it was every bit as good as if he was sitting there beside me, holding my hand and listening to the music rise gently to the ceiling.

October 15th

This morning I received an e-mail from a member of a local bereaved parents Ministry team indicating that she is very interested in speaking after our Mass of Remembrance in November.

What a fitting day to hear such good news.

And, if that wasn't enough, the angels sent an absolutely breathtaking sunrise this morning. It had to be them. Truly, it did.

Pornaments

As My Beloved pointed out this afternoon, the Christmas ornament habit we've been feeding of late isn't harming anyone. It's not like it's crack or booze or anything. it's just ornaments.

Well, yeah, there's wine every now and then. But mostly it's ornaments. We go to Christmas stores. We go to Hallmark. We go to Carlton Cards. We look at them online. We seek them out at toy shows (which is where we found the two we gasped at and took home this afternoon - Fisher Price classics turned into tree danglers. I mean come ON, how could anyone in their 30s resist these?).

Ornaments are our porn. Pornaments, if you will.

You do what you have to do, right? You do what works. And right now ornament porn it is.

I suspect by this point we are dangerously close to needing a third tree, but we'll worry about that another time, shall we?

Smallest Wingless

I'm jumping on Catherine's coattails here, but I absolutely had to post this song by Canadian singer/songwriter Craig Cardiff.

The fact that he has made something so beautiful out of something so terrible touches me very, very deeply and I'm so grateful that he has given life to this exquisite expression of love and pain.

SMALLEST WINGLESS

Dear One, we've been waiting for you.
We're thrilled, beside ourselves, that you've arrived.

White coats came in,
heads held low,
and talked for a bit, shuffled outside.

We closed the curtains and held each other,
and cried.
We said hello at the same time that we said goodbye.

The smallest and wingless,
leaving as soon as you arrived.
Sadness is just loved wasted,
with no little heart to place inside.

We closed the curtains and held each other,
and cried.
We said hello at the same time that we said goodbye.

The answer

Heather asked a good question in the comments yesterday: Will I always think of Thomas when I hold another newborn? Will time, and possibly another child of my own, ease that grief?

The answer is I just don't know. Time has already done incredible things for my soul. I'm so much more whole than I was for pretty much the entire first year after we lost Thomas, and despite the sorrow I write about here, my "real life" (the time I spent not blogging) is a pretty decent balance of hope and happiness, under the circumstances. Not just hope in terms of adding to our family, but hope in general. And I work very hard to wring as much happiness out of every day as I possibly can.

It may not appear as though I'm succeeding, but I really do try.

As far as holding new babies goes though, I think it will always remind me of holding Thomas, at least in some small way. I don't see how it can't. It's such a physical memory - the weight and warmth of a baby, the way your arms cradle it and protect it. The only way you can accurately conjure that up is to do it again - to hold another child. And since that doesn't happen all that often (even for the non-bereaved), the memory sneaks up on you. Your body forgets until it feels it all over again.

You can think you haven't forgotten the feeling of riding a bike, but it's only once you actually hop up onto the seat that you say, "Ah yes, now I remember."

I've heard a million older women with someone else's newborn in their arms say, "Oh, this takes me back! I can remember when my daughter/son was this size". It's no different for me. Why should it be?

What is different is that instead of the memory taking me back to a sweet, happy time, it takes me back to the tiny vacant office/storage room where we took turns holding Thomas as waited for him to die. That was the first time I held my child.

The first baby I held after Thomas was the hardest, and that memory hit me like a ton of bricks. But now when I see a baby (any size baby) I crave that contact. Yeah, it hurts like a mother fucker, but it's impossible not to want to hold a tiny little thing in your arms and rock it to sleep. It feels like my arms were built for that and, having been robbed of the chance, can't resist filling themselves up with sleepy babies at every opportunity.

I hope that if we someday have another baby I won't sit and think about Thomas every time I hold that child - every time I look at him or her - but I know it will be impossible not to sometimes. I will be seeing and experiencing everything I missed with Thomas. I will know then, in a very tangible way, what up until that point I'd only been able to imagine we lost when we lost him.

But if we didn't love Thomas so much - if we didn't know that kind of love existed - we wouldn't be trying to hard to find it again. We wouldn't be risking so much sorrow and putting our hearts on the line over and over again to bring new love into our home.

Thanksgiving weekend musings

You know you're completely domesticated when you have somehow memorized the expiration date of at least three perishables in your fridge.
__________

It seems very, very wrong to have the air conditioning running on Thanksgiving weekend. And yet we do. When it's 30C with the humidex I don't care WHAT day of the year it is, the a/c goes on.
__________

At least 5 friends, both real and "virtual" have given birth in the last month. The biggest baby booms always seem to hit when I'm struggling the most to keep my bereaved, barren head above water.
__________

I held a newborn baby this week. It was just the third time since Thomas died. She was small and sweet and felt so warm and soft as she fell asleep in my arms. It was love at first sight. I only wish it didn't bring back such vivid memories of holding Thomas, so still and quiet. But it did. I'm sure it always will. And that just has to be okay with all of us.
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This weekend I am thankful despite everything.
__________

It looks like the Mass of Remembrance at my church is a go! I'm nailing down a speaker for after Mass (from a local bereaved parents "ministry" organized by a church in a neighbouring city) and once I do everything else should fall neatly into place. My priest, who is both kind and unbelievably compassionate, agreed to virtually everything I proposed. Kind of makes me wonder why his boss doesn't seem to want to listen to me. Clearly my ideas aren't ALL bad...
__________

I can't wait for turkey. And then turkey again with the in-laws. And then turkey sandwiches. Me and my tummy are pretty easy to please.
__________

If I was shorter and had a good mask, it's entirely possible that I'd still go trick-or-treating.
__________

Every Halloween while I'm sitting in the darkened front room waiting for My Beloved to come home from work to join me in the door-answering extravaganza, I quietly tell Thomas what costume I'd have gotten for him, and how he'd have been the cutest little trick-or-treater on the street.
__________

The last few weeks has been difficult for me. The strange high I was on after the miscarriage has disappeared, as I suspected it would, and in its place is a bit of a delayed grief reaction. I was so happy to have survived the complications from the D&C (and so worried about my own health in the days following) that I think I blocked the whole horrible reality of the situation out of my head. And it has found its way back in. Fantastic.
__________

If I slept for a year it wouldn't seem like enough rest for my battered body and my ravaged mind. And that's grief in a nutshell.

I wasn't going to say a word

I went for my bloodwork this morning. I had to go to an independent lab outside the clinic for OHIP related reasons that still aren't particularly clear to me. I finally decided it wasn't worth trying to find a third person at the clinic to explain this to me in layman's (or crazy-bereaved-stressed-out-hormonal-fragile-tempermental-lady's) terms, so I found an independent lab and headed there this morning.

The drive was quick, there was plenty of parking, the wait was short, the phlebotomist was experienced and I barely felt a thing. Even though she sucked 9 vials out of me.

But then she opened her mouth.

I was happily looking at the crappy landscape photographs someone tore out of a real estate calendar and slapped up on the blood-letting room wall (yeah, that'll make me forget that you have a needle in my arm) when she started to pry.

"So, why are you having all these blood tests? Do they think you have lupus?"

Yeah, sure, go ahead and ask. It seems perfectly reasonable to try to worm information out of a quiet, sad-looking girl staring at the wall minding her own business.

You'd think after all this time I'd be good at dodging, but I'm tired these days. It's been a trying few weeks. My guard was down. So despite the fact that "____ REGIONAL FERTILITY CENTRE" was clearly marked on my lab requisition, I mumbled something about having some fertility issues.

And that, apparently, was her opening.

Listen up all you uterinely challenged ladies, all you mothers of dead babies - my phlebotomist has the answer you've been searching for:

You should go to Vegas.

Imagine that. After all this time, after all the perfectly timed sex, the dildocam monitoring, the Clomid, the HCG shots, the surgery, the miscarriages, the child buried a half hour from our house - after all that, turns out all we really needed to do was buy a ticket to Vegas.

It's what her daughter did. After 10 years of trying they gave up, went to Vegas last Christmas and had a baby boy on Friday. So clearly it works.

I quietly explained that our situation was a little more complicated. I mentioned Thomas and the Tigers and the complications during the D&C and watched as she avoided eye contact and stopped talking altogether.

And then I let her off the hook, asked about her new grandson and quietly left the office.

This is why I'm so tired. It just. Never. Ends.

Easy for him to say...

I blocked the whole idea of going back to the clinic to talk to my OB about what the hell happened and where to go from here out of my head, until I couldn't make the little voice inside my head stop screaming at me to just get it over with.

"Go in", it told me, "find out exactly how broken you are and how ridiculous it is to even consider thinking about trying again, let alone actually doing it."

So in we went.

But first, two weeks of stress dreams and nightmares that had my jaw in a permanent state of clench.

Thank God for an OB with compassion - or at least the good sense to fake it. He was very good to us, two weary travelers with worry lines etched into our tired faces and a lot more gray hair than we had when we started this process a thousand years ago.

One of the first thing he said was how horrendous these past few years must have been for us.

"You must have had some very dark days", he said softly.

"No kidding", I wanted to reply, but didn't.

Then we asked a million questions while he looked pained and admitted he didn't know - and couldn't know - the answer to most of them (you know, ones like "what are the odds of my dying if we try this again - and fail?").

He doesn't know why I bled. He doesn't believe he perforated my uterus during the D&C so his only explanation is that one or both of the placentas were very deeply embedded and the bleeding originated from the site where they came away from the uterine wall during the procedure.

He doesn't know if this could happen again, although he suspects it was a fluke (kind of like that pesky fluke-y abruption that killed Thomas and nearly me) and most likely won't happen again.

He doesn't think I have a luteal phase defect (and was reluctant to subject me to testing because the results tend to be somewhat inconclusive) but will treat me as though I do if I ever get pregnant again, just in case.

He doesn't think I have a clotting disorder, but ordered a ton of blood work just in case.

In place of concrete answers and assurances, there were a lot of "I don't knows" and "just in cases" - which is exactly what we were expecting.

People like to think that doctors have all the answers - that they can and should be able to stop babies from dying and miscarriages from happening. But the truth is they can't. Not all the time. And in my case, never.

We knew there would be a lot of shoulder shrugging and unanswered questions. We're used to that. Too used to that.

But still, it was good. It was good to talk to someone who cared, who understood our concerns, who sympathized with the fear and frustration we're feeling, who tried so hard to tell us everything we needed to hear, and who seems to want us to have a take-home baby almost as much as we do.

And in the end, even though we haven't made any decisions one way or another, it was good to hear that even though he's not sure why our little tigers didn't make it or why I bled like a stuck pig during the D&C, he doesn't think there's any reason for us not to consider trying again.

Easy for him to say.