What now?

What happens when you've both reached your collective breaking point? When the road ahead is just too steep to climb? When the answer is "let's stop" instead of "let's do everything in our power" - because suddenly, and without warning, you've reached the point where you think you have done everything in your power?

I thought I would go to the ends of the earth to have another child of our own.

I didn't know the gods would actually make me walk all the way to that precipice and just leave me standing there in agony.

Monday's song, with thanks to Simon and Garfunkel

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man
We work our jobs
Collect our pay
Believe were gliding down the highway
When in fact were slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away.

Father's Day

Last weekend we babysat our nephew for several hours on Saturday. In the afternoon, after Nutella sandwiches, fresh strawberries and kite-flying at the park, My Beloved sat down on the floor and began to teach J how to play chess.

He's five.

Three years ago My Beloved had just 20 hours to be a Father to Thomas, and in that agonizingly short time I saw the sweetest glimpse of what could have been.

As the years pass and I watch him doing things like teaching five-year olds how to play chess, and playing peek-a-boo over the fence with our two-year old Goddaughter, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt what kind of Father he would have been to our son.

And what kind of Father he is in his heart.

I love you, Sandy.

What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday morning

Ultrasound technician: Oh! Oh, you were pregnant last summer? Did you get a baby?

Me: No.

Ultrasound technician: (Long pause) Did you have a miscarriage?

Me: (Wondering what else she thinks I did with the babies) Yes. Yes, I did.

Ultrasound technician: Oh.

Me: (Laying very still and quiet on the tiny table hoping there won't be any more questions)

Ultrasound technician: Oh. You've had a C-section?

Me: (Shit) Yes. We had a baby in 2005 but he died too. I had a C-section then.

Ultrasound technician: (Quietly) Oh.

The rest of the exam proceeded in silence until we said polite goodbyes and I retreated back into the protective cocoon of the change room to nurse my wounds.

After this the nurse stuck me in both arms trying to find a decent vein.

All in all, pretty much just as shitty a time as I'd remembered and expected.

I came *this* close to fleeing in a hail of tears just before I was called in for my ultrasound, but I talked myself down off the ledge. I decided it's better to just suck it up, submit to the prodding and deal with the aftermath of whatever results they find sooner rather than later.

The clock won't stop. Time waits for no broken uterus. I can't suck out now.

Good times, my friends. Good times.

My aching (empty) head

I had a post all written - published, even - and then discovered that the reason it seemed so familiar to me (not to mention easy to write) was because I'd already written it. I thought I'd only noodled it around in my head. I'd completely forgotten that I finished and served the noodles days ago.

Clearly I'm losing what's left of my mind.

Case in point:

I stood in a store this afternoon explaining to a puzzled looking clerk that I couldn't decide between two dresses and needed to buy both so I could let my husband choose which one I should keep.

I was truly incapable of picking one over the other. So, of course, instead I opted to make it appear as though I live in 1940 and need my husband's stamp of approval on everything I'm wearing before being allowed to leave the house.

Seriously, she was looking at me with such open scorn and disgust. And then she proceeded to wrinkle up her nose and tell me that the brown dress was a terrible choice for my colouring. Even though I hadn't asked for her opinion. And wanted to shove something directly up that wrinkled little nose.

I was too tired to bother being swayed. I liked the brown dress. It was flattering (a rare thing for me). I didn't feel like trying on the wild blue and white Hawaiian print number she thought would be a better choice. And, frankly, even I had mustered up the energy, it was hideous. Not even close to the style of the brown dress she thought was so heinous.

In the end I came home with my two dresses, drank a big glass of water, sat down for a while and eventually managed to find enough energy to do some mindless tasks around the house.

I'm tired. I'm dreading the return to the fertility clinic tomorrow. I'm utterly dumbfounded that this marks the start cycle #51.

But My Beloved loved the dresses - especially the brown one - and he said I should keep them both.

Sometimes having too much in your head and being incapable of making decisions pays off. I'll be the best dressed broken uterus at the clinic. Lucky me.

Of Mice and Men. And Cats.

Note to self:

If you go shopping after taking the cat to the vet, change your shirt. The 15 pounds of fur shed upon spotting the carrier - which is then instantly deposited all over the front of you - is very, very noticeable under the lights of the dairy aisle.

Tiny, airless veterinary exam rooms will make you very hot. The remaining fur on the cat will stick to all the humid, exposed skin you have. You will look like a sweaty Yeti approximately 2.7 seconds after entering the room. Just accept it. Pretend you didn't notice the vet noticing your furry, glistening skin and being amused by it.

A 12-year old cat who has already lost three fangs to gum disease will likely require further dental work and extractions. Be prepared for the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread associated with subjecting a small thing you love to medical intervention. It's not your fault. Your history is fucking with your brain.

It's okay to decide to return the flea treatment the vet recommended because it's toxic and means you can't properly cuddle your 12-year old, mostly toothless cat who you are terrified you're going to lose when you send her back off to have her dental work done. If she doesn't have fleas now, she's probably not going to, particularly given how infrequently she's actually out in the backyard. And if she does get them, you can deal with it then instead. Proper cuddles are way more important at the moment.

It's okay to be this attached to a cat. You loved her before you even knew your Beloved. You have a long history. She has been a security blanket and a comfort and an amusing little friend through times more difficult than you ever dreamed you'd face. You are as close as two beings from two different species can be. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Oh, for the love of crap!

It seems unnecessarily cruel to have to spend part of Father's Day weekend at the fertility clinic.

Not a big part (just long enough to have an ultrasound and wait God knows how long to been seen by a doctor afterwards) but still, cruel just the same. Particularly since this visit signals the failure of another cycle and the start of more poking, prodding and general torment.

But then again, there's nothing particularly kind about infertility, so I shouldn't be the least bit surprised by this.

Nothing much surprises me these days.

Good times, my friends. Good times.

And I've just remembered that I forgot to go get a lottery ticket. Someone else is going to win my $14 million.

Double crap.

Clearly I'm going to need some chocolate tonight.

Take my hand

My Beloved and I had a long discussion about what to do when someone, post trauma, has disappointed you in some way. Or if it's even fair to be disappointed in someone who quietly faded away while you were in the midst of your darkest grief.

Is it fair to expect more of someone than they were able to give?

For three years I've been defiant, arms folded across my chest, chin in the air, my answer a resounding "YES".

Yes, I believed, it IS fair to expect someone to rise to an incredibly difficult challenge when you desperately need them to. Figuring out how to deal with you as a bereaved person instead of the person they once knew. Figuring out how to approach you that first time after. Figuring out how to be there for you when they haven't got a clue what you're going through or what you need.

Yes. I've always thought it was fair to expect those close to you to find a way to do all that.

So many people did, you see. In varying degrees and in different ways, they were there.

But a small few weren't. Not after Thomas. Not after I lost the twins. And now, with no end to the silence in sight, I'm wondering if maybe I really have been expecting too much.

Or if perhaps I'm not, but need to let it go just the same.

My Beloved asked what I'll gain from still being hurt and disappointed in these few.

I had no answer. I will gain nothing from continually allowing myself to feel the sting of their continued absence.

In fact, I will lose. If I let the chasm continue to grow, I will simply be adding further loss to a life that has already seen too much.

My point has always been that it seems wrong for the person who has suffered to have to reach out and pull in those who have stood quietly by and done nothing. It seems unfair for someone who is grieving to have to take care of others; hold them by the hand and tell them what to do to help.

But if we don't, are we any further ahead? If we stand just as quietly on our side of the fence mourning our losses and the loss of much needed support on top of that, are we any better off?

If I could let it go, the answer would be yes. And I have been able to do that in at least one case. But another, I just can't.

"Reach out." He said.

So maybe I will.

Sunday afternoon

Public Service - Summer Reading

One of my current freelance jobs involves reading books and then writing questions for the authors to answer. The Q&As finds their way to an online book club.

This, for the record, is my dream job and I'm astonished that it found its way to me (you know, what with my history of staggeringly bad luck and catastrophe and all). It's beyond cool that I can ask absolutely anything I want, especially when a question about the story or a character - or even the author - is really nagging at me, making me desperate for an answer.

I'm nosy and I love books. This is the perfect job for a nosy book lover.

Anyway, I just finished a couple of books that I thought were fantastic. Both are very different, but each completely captivating in its own way.

If you're putting together your summer reading list, may I humbly recommend:

Burning Bright

The Ten Year Nap

A shady spot, a warm summer breeze, a cold glass of iced tea, a week off, and a stack of books. Perfection.

Enjoy!

Random garden pictures...

...because we're oh, so proud.


This is my brand new Butterfly Gaura, a native North American wildflower. It's a little odd looking - kind of weedy and grassy - but these gorgeous little butterfly shaped flowers perched along the tall stems are a sweetly redeeming feature.



Look, look, LOOK at my pretty little Buttercup! These grew wild along the roadside at my Grandparent's Muskoka cottage and I was beyond thrilled to find them at Sweetgrass Gardens. I clutched my little pot of Buttercups for dear life, even after the owner tried to persuade me to get something bigger and showier for the wet patch at the back of our yard. They bring back sweet memories and make me smile. There's nothing I'd rather have in my garden.



My Mom and Dad had to take down a nearly 40-year old maple tree in their yard. It was splitting and in danger of falling on the house behind them. They're not altogether that fond of the people behind them, but they were still reluctant to allow a dangerous tree to lean precariously into their yard.

So, because I'm nostalgic and My Beloved is becoming a "found yard treasures" pack rat, three sections of the tree have found their way into our backyard. The stump in the foreground is a little stool in the middle of our vegetable patch, a smaller piece is toppled over against the back fence in a spot that is going to eventually be filled, in part, with native plants (aiding in our attempt to make it look wild and unplanned), and the third, if you look closely, is now a table tucked in between our two Muskoka chairs.

It was My Beloved's idea. Because he's clever like that.



And finally, this is a Flower-of-Jove that I planted last year. It was called "Peggy", so I had to buy it in memory of a dear family friend (of the same name) who passed away last year. As a new perennial it didn't bloom at all - it barely even grew - but this year it has grown to twice its size and is now covered in this pretty little trumpet-shaped pink blooms. I think Peggy would be pleased.



And that's how my garden grows. At least for now.

When in Rome

Last Saturday My Beloved and I went to the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario to visit a tiny little nursery that specializes in native plants.

Because, I suppose, Christmas is so far away and we need another outlet for obsession (pornaments being unavailable at this time of year), we've become fully engrossed in the idea of creating a native garden in our backyard.

Aside from being cool and a very interesting challenge, it kind of makes ecological sense. European plants aren't meant for Canadian soil. Oh, they do okay (and Lord knows I have a LOT of favourites planted in and around our house), but they didn't develop here and they require a lot of poking and prodding and special attention to keep them thriving.

Native plants, so the theory goes, don't. And there are some really interesting ones out there.

They're a little simpler than showy European flowers (and by simpler I mean weedy looking in some cases) but there's something very satisfying about taking on the challenge of reintroducing native plants to a landscape that has been virtually stripped of them in favour of more exotic fare.

I came home with a Bristly Buttercup, a clump of Sweetgrass, a wild Geranium and a Bergamot.

It was largely a fact-finding mission, but after seeing rows of lovingly tended native plants I couldn't leave without a few favourites. I bought as many as I had cash to purchase (they don't take credit or debit).

The owner was so kind and helpful, and spent a lot of time answering our questions and offering advice.

The setting was idyllic, and the distant rumble of the thunderstorm that engulfed us on our way home somehow made it a mystical and soul-soothing experience. There's nothing quite like the smell of a storm on its way - or the heady scent of hundreds of small plants nestled in pots of native soil.

I loved every second of it. And we're going back as soon as we have a better plan for our native garden.

If you live in the area - or within day tripping distance - it's absolutely worth taking the pretty drive along the 403 into Brantford to check out Sweetgrass Gardens

Different

A thousand years ago in a previous life that I barely remember and can't believe I ever owned, I worked with a girl who was virtually perfect in every way.

She was girl-next-door pretty. Straight white teeth. Deeply tanned skin gained from hours in the family pool. A halo of golden hair around the flawless skin of her face (which didn't require one lick of make-up).

And she was nice. Really, seriously nice. She was as close to perfect as you'll find. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her and nothing to dislike about her. Nothing at all.

She married a blond banker; tall, tanned, handsome and every bit as nice as she was.

They moved into an upper middle class neighbourhood and had two beautiful children, last I heard.

I used to look at her with awe. I was a lumpy, brown-haired girl with blotchy skin, hair that frizzed in the humidity, and overactive sweat glands. We couldn't have been more different, she and I.

I found myself thinking about her this afternoon - thinking about the charmed life she seemed to lead, and how there are people like that out there; those that seem to float through life on a cloud of good fortune and flawless skin.

I feel no malice towards her - none at all. But I do wonder why is is that there's such disparity in the human experience. I wonder how two people of roughly the same age from roughly the same place can come together to do roughly the same job and yet be so different - and have differences continue to widen the gulf between them as the years pass.

Okay, My Beloved is tall too. And handsome. And, of course, really nice. We have that in common, she and I.

But the lumpy girl and the tanned goddess couldn't be more different if they tried. And neither could their lives.

The last time I saw her I was about 5 months pregnant with Thomas. We were shopping for a new carpet for the family room and bumped into her in one of the aisles.

We made the awkward small talk of people who hadn't seen each other in years, and then parted amicably, the requisite "congratulations!" doled out and well received.

And here I am and there she is.

Still so different.

Good news!

Sherry's beautiful little Megan made a safe and healthy entrance into the world at 7:50am this morning.

Mommy and baby are doing just fine. Just fine.

The gods seem fairer and the world seems kinder today.

Sigh

Oh Lord. It just never seems to end, this three year battle with broken innards.

I haven't been back to my OB or to the clinic since I had the post-miscarriage blood work last fall. I was endlessly paranoid about a clotting disorder, given the bloody drama that was my D&C, so I insisted upon some additional blood work to ease my rapidly disintegrating mind.

It all came back normal. Yeah, can you believe it? Some part of me is actually normal.

Anyway, since it's been 7 months since we last discussed the state of my lady bits, I decided I needed to do a bit of a "where are we at now and where should we go from here?" check-in with my OB. We met yesterday.

He was so kind. He always is, but yesterday he really seemed to have time to listen to me in a way he sometimes can't because he has waiting room full of 42,000 other busted uteruses waiting to bend his ear.

It was both a comforting and a disconcerting visit. Comforting because he listened and because I know he genuinely cares about what happens to me, disconcerting because for the first time he gently suggested we may be coming to the end of the road.

There's another test he wants to run (a delightful sounding syringe up the duff/ ultrasound combo dealie) to rule out inter-uterine scarring, and he suggested a couple of cycles of monitoring just to make sure I'm still ovulating and still as thoroughly hormonal as I need to be.

So it sounds like it'll be another summer of great big infertile fun.

Fantastic.

I want a baby. But I want all this to end too. So much. So, so, so much.

I'm strong. I am. But come on now, everyone has a limit.

Apparently someone thinks I haven't quite reached mine yet and is having a good old laugh while watching to see just how far I'll actually go.

You don't know what's inside until you take a closer look

Therapy is interesting.

Granted, there are things I'd rather be doing than sitting in a little office with a stranger discussing how my life has shattered into 47 billion tiny pieces; and God knows I wish I had no reason to be in therapy in the first place, but it does serve a purpose.

Last week I found myself weighing out the pros and cons of Thomas having been born brain dead.

I know, How can there possibly be pros?!, you're asking.

The thing is, it has always been so utterly devastating to me that Thomas never "knew" us - that he never felt us hold him or kiss him or touch him. He was stillborn and revived, but never truly fully alive.

And this has tormented me endlessly.

I was discussing this with my therapist, telling her how much I sometimes wish that he had been able to see me, respond to the sound of my voice, feel me there, loving him.

She just listened, kind of wide-eyed.

As I talked (and talked, and talked, and talked), I came to the conclusion that if he had to die, it happened the best way it could have. For us to have known him in the way I have so often wished we could have, he would have had to have suffered so much more than he already did.

To wish for that knowing what it would have meant for him is unfathomable.

It's better, I have concluded, that we were the ones to have suffered instead.

But the thing is, I know he felt our love while he was safe inside me. And I know he feels it now. And in the end, that's all that matters.

See? Therapy is interesting. Depressing, yes, but interesting. You never know what little bit of pain all knotted up in there is going to finally work its way out.

Because I can do more than just rant...

...I can grow stuff too.


Thomas' tree, standing strong and tall in the back corner by our favourite chairs.



I love phlox. And phlox love me. They do - look at all the little heart petals! They totally love me.



A broad bean seedling. And my fingers. Don't we look nice together?



Violas that reseeded themselves from last year, clever things.

Because I'm just crazy enough to do it

Okay, Baskin-Robbins Canada (who aren't even participating in the "Bump Day" promotion) are going to think I'm a complete raving lunatic, but I needed to complain to someone.

I said I wanted a free pint. I said all the people left out of their cruel and exclusionary free-cone celebration of fertility want a free PINT of ice cream.

I'm sure it'll fall on deaf ears (because really, what are we supposed to do - bring in copies of our failed charts? OB/RE notes? IUI and IVF receipts? Empty Clomid wrappers?), but at least I feel a little better now.

More or less.

Harrumph.

I know it's nice and everything...

I just found this little announcement on Facebook:

Baskin-Robbins is introducing Soft Serve!

To help welcome this new addition and to pay tribute to all mommies-to-be, Baskin-Robbins is turning Wednesday, May 21 from “hump day” into “Bump Day,” by offering a FREE cone of Soft Serve to all expectant mothers across the nation!

Baskin-Robbins Bump Day will take place on Wednesday, May 21 from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. at participating store locations in California; Chicago; New York; El Paso, Texas; and Nashville, Tenn.

During Bump Day, expectant mothers will be treated to one free 3 oz. cup or cone of soft Serve. For more information about Bump Day or to find a participating store, please visit http://www.baskinrobbins.com/bumpday.

Isn't that sweet?

I mean, it really is and all, but I think I may need to write to Baskin-Robbins and suggest that maybe the fertility-challenged could benefit from free ice cream too. I'll tell them it's therapeutic; necessary in a way it simply isn't for those with already expanding waistlines. Because God knows it's nice to have options when it comes to the monthly routine of drowning your accumulating sorrows.

Quite aside from that, I for one would love to catch a fucking break one of these days.

Free ice cream would be a start, she said as she stormed off in a self-pitying huff.

Out of the mouths of babes...

Four-year old neighbour peering over the fence from his mom's arms: "Can I ask you a question?"

Me: "Sure!"

Four-year old neighbour: "When is your baby coming?"

Long awkward pause (insert crickets) while I formulate an answer as the four-year old's parents desperately try to ignore the stampeding herd of pink elephants running through my backyard...

Me: "You know what? That's a really good question. I just don't know. But I tell you what, if you find out, you let me know, okay?"

Four year old neighbour: "Okay!"

It sounds worse than it was. Well, for me, anyway. I could barely get back into the house before bursting out into a fit of hysterical giggles as I told My Beloved what had just transpired over the rosebush.

The boy's parents parents? Well, this happened on Saturday and my guess is that they're probably still red with embarrassment.

The poor little guy mixed me up with my pregnant neighbour who he saw at the park last week. She isn't showing yet, so I'm going to pretend that his question had nothing to do with the current state of my stomach area.

He just did what little ones do - he asked an innocent question. Unfortunately he posed it to the worst possible person.

Ah well, he's none the wiser and I still think it was pretty funny.

Mostly.

Yeah, it's been a banner week for interactions with children. Oy.

Tomatos and a slip of the tongue

My neighbour, drowning in the end-of-day-rubble of a major home renovation project, asked if I could watch my 2-year old Goddaughter for 15 minutes late this afternoon while she cleaned up some of the debris the contractors left behind.

The first word out of her little mouth after I reassured her that Mommy would indeed be right back was, "Cookie?"

Alas, because I have no personal self-control, the house is sadly bereft of cookies.

Luckily she was clutching a breadstick and I was able to distract her from the cookie quest long enough to remember that she adores tomatoes, which I happened to be cutting up for a salad.

Her eyes lit up and she literally quivered with excitement when I asked if she wanted some tomato.

I stood in the kitchen doling out impossibly small bits of tomato (because I'm beyond paranoid about children choking - even ones who have been eating solid food for more than a year and have what appears to be a complete set of teeth) reminding her to "CHEW! CHEW! CHEW!"

She must have thought I was some weird tomato-bearing fairy god train. Clearly the child knows how to eat. But God help me, I couldn't have her choking on my watch.

After the first piece or two I realized that I should be enforcing her Mommy's rule about please and thank you, so as she held out her tiny hand for another miniscule piece and I placed the bit of tomato in her palm, I prompted her with a "Please?"

Her reply both broke and filled my heart all at the same time.

"Thank you, Mommy" she said by accident.

Mommy. So that's what it sounds like.

Mother's Day

To the Mother who taught me how to love, thank you.
To the tiny boy who made me a mother, thank you.
To the man who took such gentle care of my heart this weekend, thank you.

Happy Mother's Day and quiet peace to everyone for whom today is more about sorrow than joy.

Your breakfast order

Whether you have little ones or not - in fact especially if you don't and are going to spend Mother's day coping with loss and disappointment and the myriad emotions and torments associated with being childless on Mother's Day - this is what you should request for breakfast tomorrow morning.

BANANA PANCAKES

1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tbsp granulated sugar
pinch of salt
1 cup buttermilk or plain yogurt
2 tbsp melter butter or canola oil + more for the pan
1 large egg
2 mashed bananas (about 3/4 cup)
Extra sliced bananas
pecans and syrup

In a large bowl, combine flours, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, sugar and salt. In separate bowl, whisk together buttermilk or yogurt, butter or oil, egg and the bananas.

Make well in centre of dry ingredients and add banana mixture. Stir with fork until barely moistened.

Heat nonstick skillet over medium-high heat and brush with oil or melted butter. Reduce heat to medium and spoon in 3 tablespoons batter for each 4-inch pancake. When bubbles rise and break surface, turn over.

Cook about 2 minutes more until nicely browned. Transfer to plate. Keep pancakes warm in preheated 200F oven.

Serve topped with banana slices, pecans and as much syrup as it's legal to use in one sitting.

I believe that all women are mothers. We respond to pain as though it was our own, we heal wounds of the soul, we nurture and cherish relationships, we give of ourselves over and over again.

We are all mothers. Even those of us with no children to tend. Even those who have never had the chance to be pregnant at all.

I believe there is a mother in all of us.

And we all deserve mounds of pancakes glistening with butter and dripping with syrup at least once a year. So buy what you need today, give this recipe to your beloved, and wait for the sweet smell of hotcakes on the griddle to waft up to your side of the bed in the morning.

The unexpected

I used to tend my Grandmother's grave all the time. Before I was married, I lived very close to the cemetery and regularly visited her little corner of the world to say hello, plant pretty new flowers in the spring, and water and weed throughout the summer.

It never bothered me. It was peaceful. It was a way to feel close to her - to feel like I was doing something for her. And it was my way of showing the world (well, the cemetery dwelling world, anyway) that she was loved and not forgotten.

In 2004, when I was three months pregnant with Thomas, my Grandfather joined her. By that time I'd pretty much stopped being much of caretaker to the garden because I lived just far enough away (an hour round trip) for it not to be all that convenient anymore. My sister and my Mom, who'd shared the garden duties with me over the years, took over regular tending.

And then Thomas died. And he was buried there too.

And suddenly that quiet, peaceful place I'd always found comfort in was a terrible place where all I did was stand and cry, ripped wide open and bleeding from the pain of my sorrow and guilt.

I barely went. I didn't see the flowers at all last summer. Or the summer before. It was all I could do to place his Christmas wreath in November and take it off at the end of March. And sometimes I didn't even do that, letting my Mom or sister take care of the retrieval process for me.

I'd usually bring something on the rare occasions that I did drag myself there for a visit - a little teddy bear garden stake or a small bouquet - but I couldn't bring myself to actually look after the garden. Not the slightest bit. Not even to pull a weed or give it a shot of water. Nothing.

I might as well have been asked to climb Mount Everest as tend the garden.

Just making the trip took every last ounce of energy I had. And once I was there, weeping at the grave, leaving as fast as I could was my goal.

But for some reason yesterday everything changed. I went to the cemetery. Happily. Well, not happily, but with as much peace and contentment as it's possible to have when you're going to visit your son's grave site.

I took violas, snapdragons and alyssum, a bag of dirt, and all the gardening tools I'd need. I trimmed the two cedar bushes my Grandpa brought back from his cottage and lovingly planted there, I cleaned out the garden and topped it up with fresh earth, I planted my flowers, and I edged Thomas' plaque so that all the words could once again be seen.

I was there for more than an hour, happily weeding and tending and primping, as though the past three springs of my neglect had never even happened.

I don't know what seismic shift in my thinking - or perhaps in my healing - enabled me to do what I did yesterday. I absolutely haven't got a clue what made it easy - even pleasurable - to tend to the grave site garden after all this time.

But I know I'm glad it was.

And what all this proves to me is that healing comes when it comes. There's no time line you should follow - no time line you can follow. There's no schedule for the cessation of the aftershocks of grief. It just happens when it happens.

Slowly, slowly, slowly you return.

Mothers For All

If you're still hunting for the perfect Mother's Day gift, a donation to this charity - an organization created to help women who have stepped into the role of Mother under the most heartbreaking circumstances imaginable - might be just the thing...

Mothers for All is a non-profit organization that supports the women in Botswana who are caring for children orphaned or made vulnerable by HIV and AIDS. The trust's primary focus is teaching income-generating skills to the orphans' caregivers - mainly women, often with little means, often caring for more than one child - thereby providing a sustainable means of support for them and their charges.

Mothers for All also aims to provide a social network through which the orphan caregivers can share their experiences, challenges and knowledge. Ultimately, the women will be taught permaculture and food gardening, and will be given environmental awareness training.

Click here to find out more.

Sunday afternoon

Drawn by the chatter of voices big and small, I went to my bedroom window yesterday afternoon and peered out onto the houses behind us to see what was going on (because no matter how hard I try, I simply can't avoid being nosy. I've decided it's a trait that's been genetically encoded and, hence, totally not my fault).

The chatter was simply neighbours with company out in their backyard.

I watch for a few seconds as two moms tended to their little ones. When the woman who lives in the house stood up, I saw a belly in a bright red sweater sticking out from her black jacket like a shiny, ripe apple.

I blinked. A belly? A noticeable belly when her daughter just turned one a few weeks ago?

But there it was.

As if the gods new I needed confirmation, I then watched her place her hands on either side of her tummy, gently rubbing it in small, tender circles, cradling the life inside.

"Yes," she replied to the question I didn't hear but instantly knew from the response she gave, "I guess it starts earlier and earlier."

Because this is baby number three. Their first, a little boy, shares the same birthday our first child was supposed to have. Had it lived, it would have also shared my Father's birthday.

May 17th.

Their second child, a little girl, was born last April.

And now number three is already on the way.

I stared and stared. I'm awed by people for whom breeding is like breathing. The whole row of houses behind us is filled with people for whom, it appears to me anyway, having babies is just routine.

Complication-less life after new life.

I can't even imagine what that would be like anymore. Pregnancy resulting in death is my only personal experience with the process. It's practically unfathomable to me that a live child is ever the result of a ripe apple-like belly.

And yet they are. By the millions. Every day.

And I'm still left in awe with my nose pressed to the glass taking it all in.

Because I can only do it once a year...

May the fourth be with you.

Trust me, you'll get it...

Anyone who has spent more than a few months in the process of trying to get pregnant is bound to find this as hilarious as My Beloved and I did...

Trust me.

Geography

As I was wheeling my grocery cart out to the car yesterday, in a bit of a foul mood because I'd trailed a woman with a baby boy all the way through the store, it dawned on me that maybe part of the reason I'm sometimes consumed with sorrow and envy is because I've put myself directly in the line of fire. Working from home, and homemaking when I'm not working, means I'm in a suburban world all the time. I never leave it, and the only people who reside here with me during the day are old people, stay at home moms, and moms on maternity leave.

I'm in their territory 24/7. We shop at the same time, avoiding stores filled with weekend shoppers who have no choice but to cram their carts down crowded aisles with the rest of the commuters who can't get to the store any other time. We cross paths constantly during the week, me and the moms with living children.

This realization made me feel infinitely better. I'm sometimes in awe of My Beloved who doesn't seem bogged down with the weight of grief and envy in the same way that I am. I know he misses Thomas every bit as much as I do. I see the sorrow in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. But he's not functioning on a day-to-day basis in a world where Thomas' absence is palpable. There's a Thomas-sized hole in my back seat, grocery cart, and hand.

We should be together while Daddy's at work.

Instead Daddy's at work and I'm here without Thomas. Working, yes, but still in the same place we would have shared had he lived.

I certainly don't mean that My Beloved has it easier than I do. He works like a dog while he's away from this mom-filled suburban world, and I absolutely know for a fact that there are Thomas-sized holes in his life too; ones that I'll never fully understand because I can't even begin to fathom what it must be like for a man to lose his only son.

I just think that maybe some of my healing is being hampered by geography, that's all.

This is an interesting thought that took three years to come to me. The challenge now is to figure out where to go from here.

Ain't that always the way?

Dreamer

Last night I had a dream that I was about to have a C-section. My Beloved and I were standing side-by-side, carefully laying out the new baby's coming home outfit on my hospital bed. As I straightened out the little sleeper and matching booties My Beloved had just handed to me, I made the assertion that this one indeed WOULD be coming home, even though I'm pretty sure I didn't believe it.

We were somber but pretending not to be, because that's not the right pre-delivery mood at all. Unless, of course, you've gone home to an empty nursery. My Mom sat in the corner of the room looking terrified while I tried to fake everyone out with my false optimism.

The dream slipped away into a different one before I found out what happened.

I would consider entertaining the notion that it might be a prophetic dream were it not for the fact that last night I also dreamed that I was rooting on my best friend Jennifer Aniston in a cooked chicken throwing contest.

Oy.

Monday

We had a garage sale on Saturday and I'm pleased to report that the declutterification efforts of the past few weeks resulted in a tidy $154 profit. And a LOT more space in the basement.

I do have to say though, that it's very interesting that people will haggle on a $2.00 item that's worth way more than that.

I mean really? REALLY? You won't pay a measly $2.00? Really?

Whatever. I'm glad the extra set of jumper cables went, even if it was a bargain at the haggled-down price of a buck.
_______________________________

After revealing to Therpist Lady that I have a blocked tube and a malformed uterus (things I guess I neglected to mention when I was regaling her with my litany of gynecological/breeding horror stories at our first meeting), her jaw dropped.

"I know," I said, about to launch into the standard, "Can you BELIEVE there are so many things wrong with me?" tirade. But she cut me off, then told me how in awe she was of my body.

My response was to sit there blinking in confusion until she explained.

"You have a blocked tube, scar tissue issues, a bicornuate uterus and you were STILL able to get pregnant FOUR times? Wow. What a strong, healthy body you must have!"

We were flush with pride, my body and I - for about 10 seconds. I mean it still doesn't mean much when none of those pregnancies resulted in a take-home baby.

But it was nice to hear praise for a body for which I feel nothing but contempt most of the time.

________________________________

Sometimes I wonder if knowing why you feel/think a certain way is useful if you still think/feel the things that bother you.

I wonder this as I hand over my $120 cheque after each session.

________________________________

Therapist Lady also said that she was reading some infertility/loss related materials and pointed out that my negative reactions to the Spring stroller parades and new pregnancy announcements may be more a result of my belief that it's never going to happen for us again than it is mourning what we've already lost.

I suspect it's a combination of both.

It hadn't occurred to me that I might be already mourning a loss we haven't even had yet, but it's possible. It's very, very possible my reactions are now more to do with what what we still don't have rather than what we've lost.

But again, I don't know if knowing this makes any difference at all.

I still hate the way I feel when I see the strollers go by. Does it matter why?

________________________________

I hate to think I'm disillusioned with therapy after just four months, but this last session left me feeling a little cold.

Generally I find it helpful to talk about what's rattling around in my brain, but I guess I'm at the point where I'm feeling better, but wanting more from the experience. Feeling better is good.

But feeling better than better is what I'm really looking for.

I guess it takes longer than four months to sort out five years of pain.

I guess.

________________________________

It's a cold, rainy Monday. Can you tell?

Touche

This perfectly timed e-mail forward landed in my in-box this morning. Thanks, Kathy. oxox


The Daffodil Principle

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, 'Mother, you must come to see the daffodils before they are over.'

I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead 'I will come next Tuesday', I promised a little reluctantly on her third call.
Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and reluctantly I drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house I was welcomed by the joyful sounds of happy children. I delightedly hugged and greeted my grandchildren.

'Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in these clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see badly enough to drive another inch!'

My daughter smiled calmly and said, 'We drive in this all the time, Mother..'

'Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears, and then I'm heading for home!' I assured her.

'But first we're going to see the daffodils. It's just a few blocks,' Carolyn said. 'I'll drive. I'm used to this.'

'Carolyn,' I said sternly, 'Please turn around.'

'It's all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience.'

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church. On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign with an arrow that read, ' Daffodil Garden .' We got out of the car, each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, as we turned a corner, I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight.

It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it over the mountain and its surrounding slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, creamy white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, and saffron and butter yellow. Each different colored variety was planted in large groups so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. There were five acres of flowers.

'Who did this?' I asked Carolyn. 'Just one woman,' Carolyn answered. 'She lives on the property. That's her home.' Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house, small and modestly sitting in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house.

On the patio, we saw a poster. 'Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking', was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. '50,000 bulbs,' it read. The second answer was, 'One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and one brain.' The third answer was, 'Began in 1958.'

For me, that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun, one bulb at a time, to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountaintop. Planting one bulb at a time, year after year, this unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. One day at a time, she had created something of extraordinary magnificence, beauty, and inspiration. The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration.

That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time--often just one baby-step at time--and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time. When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

'It makes me sad in a way,' I admitted to Carolyn. 'What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years? Just think what I might have been able to achieve!'

My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. 'Start tomorrow,' she said.

She was right. It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, 'How can I put this to use today?'

Use the Daffodil Principle. Stop waiting...

Until your car or home is paid off
Until you get a new car or home
Until your kids leave the house
Until you go back to school
Until you finish school
Until you clean the house
Until you organize the garage
Until you clean off your desk
Until you lose 10 lbs.
Until you gain 10 lbs..
Until you get married
Until you get a divorce
Until you have kids
Until the kids go to school
Until you retire
Until summer
Until spring
Until winter
Until fall
Until you die...

There is no better time than right now to be happy.

It's my party and I'll suck out if I want to

PMS and a great big, fat, ugly 38th birthday looming.

Not fair. Not fair at all.

Full disclosure

What to do, what to do.

My therapist was puzzled when I told her that we (well, I really) had decided to shut off the free-flowing tap of information regarding what was going on in my uterus after the miscarriage this past summer.

Everything was so overwhelming. Our world rocked, shook and crumbled. Again. Times two.

I saw the joy that floods My Beloved's body and soul every time I find out that I'm pregnant turn to anger, sorrow, confusion and disbelief. I saw it in the faces of our family and friends. I saw it in the mirror.

Anguish. Pity. Sorrow. Fear. Fury.

It was at that point that I decided it was better to shut the hell up. For their sakes, but for mine too. I was drowning and I needed to reclaim some of my lost privacy, as well as, I hoped, some peace, space and quiet.

And it did help. For a while.

But now I wonder if my silent movie act has pushed people away. I did what I did because it was the right thing to do at the time, but it's left me feeling cut off from some of the people I love and trust most in the world, and feeling like I have no one to turn to but My Beloved.

And it has made me edit myself here, which is sometimes utterly agonizing. I've always used this space to sort out the jumble of thoughts rattling around in my brain, and to not be able to do that as fully and freely as I've wanted to is getting increasingly harder to bear.

For months I have kept my mouth shut (well, fingers really), and I think I need to stop doing that. Once again, for my sake.

Knowing how much you want to say and how much you need not to say is such a delicate balancing act when it comes to issues of infertility and loss. I need people to respect my privacy while still letting me talk about extremely personal, private things.

It barely makes any sense at all. Except that it does.

So, in the interest of getting things off my chest after 7 months of silence, the long and the short of it is that we're still trying and still failing.

And that's all she wrote.

We now join a conversation in progress...

"So, if someone like, say, one of your sisters or someone we knew said they'd just give us a baby that they didn't want for some reason, could we say we had a home birth and register it as our own without actually going through all the adoption rigamarole? Would anyone find out? I mean, are people required to have midwives or someone official present at a home birth to verify who it actually had it?"

"I don't know - maybe you need to have blood tests or something to prove its yours."

"Oh. Yeah, maybe."

"But I was thinking the other day, what about if a spaceship crash landed..."

"And we found a baby like Superman in the wreckage and took it and raised it as our own?"

"Yeah. I mean, maybe then we could just keep it and register it as our...hang on, are we seriously trying to figure out the logistics of keeping an alien baby without going through proper adoption channels?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, we are."

"Well that's what you call complete desperation, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it is."

Taking a page from Julia's book

Julia over at I Won't Fear Love wrote an amazing post celebrating her blogaversary in which she describes her attempts to participate in what she calls "The Reverse Pain Olympics".

The Pain Olympics is, allegedly, some sort of an odd game (and not a particularly fun one, from the sounds of things) in which participants compete to determine who has the most miserable, sorrow-riddled, horrible story. There appears to be some sort of point accumulation system, and the person with the largest number, and hence the most unimaginable amount of pain, wins.

Wins what, exactly, I don't know. Bragging rights, I suppose. Although one has to wonder what kind of person would want to win a competition in which the prize is the ability to brag about how pitiful and pitiable you are.

Not my cup of tea.

And not Julia's either. She has suffered. Oh how she has suffered, giving birth to a stillborn son whom she never saw breathe, blink or smile. But she is steadfastly refusing to fall victim to the pity game, and she always has. Instead, she opts to recognize that what happened was unfathomably horrific, and then make a concerted effort to see that, impossibly it would seem, things could have been worse.

She's not denying her pain or downplaying her grief and sorrow - or the loss of her son. She's just trying to cope with it by seeing the good too.

And I like this idea very, very much. I'm guilty of participating in my own quiet Pain Olympics. Not with other people and not for points, but I have caught myself wallowing in the death and destruction around me with just a little too much reckless abandon. Feeling desperately sorry for myself. Gnashing my teeth and crying "woe is me!"

Sometimes I really do think that's necessary and unavoidable. You have to allow yourself to feel your pain in order to process it properly and make it something you control instead of the other way around.

But there are days when I know I'm enjoying my pity party just a little too much. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. It's easy to become complacent and give in to the temptation to feel dreadfully sorry for yourself, especially when it feels like the world seems to take great delight in kicking you when you're down. But the thing is, I worry that it's not a far leap to becoming the kind of person who expects everyone else to do the same. All the time.

And I can't have that. I can't.

So, following Julia's lead, I'm going to try to focus on the good.

Like the fact that I was able to get pregnant at all, and that I had the joy of carrying my beautiful boy to term. That I felt him move and poke and wiggle inside me. That he was a healthy and perfectly cheeky little monkey. That I felt him live.

And there's the fact that I didn't die. That I survived the hemorrhaging during the C-section and the septicemia after that.

That I was able to announce four pregnancies to our family and friends and bring joy and hope to their lives, even though it was brief.

That for a little while I carried twins that I conceived while we were on a "break" from the clinic - twins we made without any help at all.

That I didn't die during the D&C when I hemorrhaged again. And that although I came very close, I didn't faint or throw up the delicious blueberry bagel My Beloved was finally able to bring to me 9 hours after the surgery when they determined I wouldn't need a repeat D&C.

Not fainting and not throwing up rock.

I am not yet completely insane.

I am not yet completely bereft of hope.

I am surrounded by love.

I am surrounded by support.

I am still here to finish whatever it was I came here to do.

And I am a mother.

And once again, free to good home...

It's not that I don't think this book has value - it's a fantastic resource, it really is - it's just that it's taunting me mercilessly from my bookshelf with its promises of successful reproductive bliss.

And quite apart from the taunts, at this point in the game I'm pretty sure I probably know more about trying to conceive (specifically the multitude of catastrophic disasters that can befall those engaged in said activity) than the author.

I could sell it at our upcoming garage sale, but there's something icky about putting a book about female fertility and gynecological health out for all your neighbours to see.

Too much information.

So anyway, if you're willing to Paypal me a couple of bucks for shipping and you don't mind the book's inherent cruelty, it's yours!

The first to respond in the comments gets it!

S'not fair!

I passed by the big park at the top of our street on my way out to run some errands this morning and I was stunned by the number of moms there with their little ones. It's been such a cold, miserable winter and except for the little toboggan hill, the park has been deserted.

Spring has brought it back to life.

As I passed by it occurred to me that I'm a complete outsider when it comes to this little part of my community - this little group of people. I keep my yard neat and pretty, I pay my taxes, I clear the sidewalks of snow, I throw salt down when it's icy - but I don't belong at the park. I have no child to push on the swings.

Yes, I know I have every right to be there, but I don't belong there. Having the right to stand in the sand and watch the kids play doesn't make it something that anyone, me especially, would feel comfortable with. Just because I can go, doesn't mean I should. Or that I belong there.

I've touched on this with therapist lady. At my last session I was bemoaning the fact that unless you have a child or a dog, no one talks to you when you're out and about walking or gardening if they don't already know you. People nod and say a polite hello perhaps, but there's no stopping to chat.

And when I'm with someone who happens to have a child, I'm the forgotten blob beside the stroller with nothing to say. Which works out fine because no one is particularly interested in talking to a childless, dogless blob anyway.

This is sounding incredibly sucky. I know that. But it's really bothersome to have a whole little exclusive subculture right in your own backyard that you can't have any part of because you don't meet its membership requirements. Having a leash or a stroller gets you in.

I have neither.

I have a cat, but she views the outdoors as a great big scary room that she wants no part of. She's absolutely useless for membership purposes.

I'm extremely lucky that I have some very good neighbour friends (both moms) who don't give a rat's ass that I'm woefully under equipped. They're friendly with me regardless of my childless/dogless status. They're just friends. No rules or requirements involved.

But the community at large is my issue. The way it's broken up into clusters of haves and have nots, leaving the nots with our noses pressed against the park gates wishing we could come in.

I know that moms have every right to have impromptu gatherings in the park, and I know that mom & tot programs at the libraries and community centres are invaluable resources to new moms as well as stay-at-home moms. Okay, ANY moms.

But it doesn't make it any less isolating to see the groups and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I don't belong.

The only groups available for the kind of mother I am are bereavement groups. And that's just no fun at all.

Harrumph.

Just the seven of us

My Beloved and I just came back from a chilly evening walk. I liked the nip in the air. It was warm today, and the first really warm day of spring always shocks me a little. I revel in it, but then find strange comfort in the returning coolness of the evening.

We walked through a new area abutting our subdivision where they're throwing up more houses, and as we padded along the middle of the street, dirt piles and construction materials all around us, I noticed our shadows stretching out in front of us like giants.

And, as I always do when I see our two lonely shadows walking side by side, I imagined the little ones following along, just out of sight. As the wind pushed against me I pictured five little wisps swirling and twirling in the eddy behind us while we walked along the quiet street.

And they were there. That sudden comforting presence. They were there.

I tend to think of my babies as children I've lost. And while this is obviously true, it's incredibly comforting, and necessary I think, to remember that they're still with me in many ways - that they do follow My Beloved and I through life, because they belong to us. Because we're a family. Because they came from us and we will always be connected by the love that created them.

It was one of those moments that somehow should have been melancholy, but wasn't in the least. They were there, close enough for me to feel them, but still so very far away. And yet all I felt was the joy of knowing that their spirits live and that they love us enough to stay so near.

There was no sadness.

Imagine that.

WOW. It's like looking in a weird little mirror...

Serenity now

I've spent the last few weeks cleaning and purging in preparation for a joint garage sale we're having with my sister at the end of the month. She's moving and needs to purge in order to make her gorgeous new home (a beautiful old bungalow in our old neighbourhood where our parents still live) as neat and organized as possible when she moves in.

I need to purge to clear my brain. We're not moving, nor do we have any plans to, but the clutter in the house (even the clutter hidden in boxes neatly lined up on shelves in the basement) has been bothering me a lot lately. I can only assume that the need to take charge of the overflowing nooks and crannies in the house is a direct result of my inability to control anything else in my life. Biologically speaking, of course.

But it's a hard pattern to break.

I hold onto everything. Sometimes because I think I'll need that scrap of ribbon, empty box or piece of cardboard for something one day. But usually because I'm deathly afraid of getting rid of anything even remotely connected to the people I know I'm going to lose one day. It's like I need to be the memory keeper, even though I don't know if I'll ever have anyone to whom I can pass along the memories contained in all those little bits and odds and ends that represent my life and the lives of the people that came before me.

It's why I still have gift tags written by my Grandma who died nearly 18 years ago, enough used greeting cards to open a Hallmark museum, and countless boxes containing scraps of paper, trinkety momentos and stuff most people would simply assume was trash.

It all means so much to me. Because I'm a sentimental fool.

But I'm trying hard to ignore the inner packrat who's shrieking in horror at the pile of stuff on our ping pong table destined for the garage sale, and instead listen to the inner Zen master who is practically orgasmic at the leaps and bounds I've made.

She has been wanting to get rid of those 9 years of Reader's Digest back issues for a long, long time...

It feels good to simplify. I want that kind of life - that kind of mind.

I think it's totally okay that I'm faking it.

A public service announcement

Please, for the love of God, if you live in the Greater Toronto Area visit Cravings Ice Creamery at Dundas and Third Line in Oakville. They're open 7 days a week, noon to 9:00pm, and they serve what may possibly be the world's greatest ice cream.

I kid you not. And I never exaggerate. Ever. Not once in my entire life.

It's a family owned business (and no, not a branch of my family, although if they were they'd be my favourite relatives), and I'm terrified that it's going to go under and leave me ice-creamless, simply because family owned businesses sadly so often just don't seem to make it.

I'm what the kids call an ice cream connoisseur. Trust me, I know my ice cream (you need only look at my ass for proof) and I'm telling you, The Ice Creamery people know what they're doing.

They push samples on you like crazy, waving little plastic spoons in your face from the moment you step in the door (which is how I know that the apple crumble tastes just like a piece of apple pie and that I suspect rum & raisin might leave you a little tipsy if you eat enough of it). Seasonal flavours like egg nog, gingerbread and pumpkin pie for the holidays are reason enough to venture in, but it's the warmth and charm of the owners that will keep you coming back.

Okay, I'm lying. It's totally the ice cream that will keep you coming back.

And if you go, you're likely to see my ass in there too.

Guilt

My Beloved and I were having a conversation about my lingering guilt the other day on our way home from our annual Thomas birthday mission (which was delayed a few weeks by a couple of circumstances beyond our control).

He doesn't understand, but I don't really expect him too. He thinks I blame myself, but I don't.

For 9 months I did everything I could to make a healthy baby and I trusted professionals who I had faith in. I did everything I possibly could.

I didn't know the pain I was feeling during labor might have been the start of the abruption. How could I? How could I possibly know the difference between two degrees of agony? I didn't know that taking Thomas off the monitors while they took me into OR for the C-section would be when the abruption would complete itself. If all the nurses and the OB missed the signs of the abruption, how could I have caught them?

I did all I could. I don't blame myself. I'm not at fault.

My body is.

And that's the guilt I can't let go of. That's the guilt I don't have any idea how to expunge from my heart and mind. From my soul.

It wasn't my fault, but it was still my fault. Me as an entity, as a thing physically designed to fulfill a biological role in procreation.

There was much grimacing, hair pulling and sighing as I tried to explain this to My Beloved.

He said he doesn't feel any guilt and just couldn't understand why I do.

I finally told him that, as much as I hate it when people say this kind of shit, if you haven't carried a child inside your body and then been unable to keep it safe and sound when it mattered most, you can't possibly understand the guilt of living in that body in the aftermath of the death and destruction it caused - the catastrophic failure.

You just can't.

To be quite frank, I'm a little frightened of this particular guilt because I don't know how to control it and I can't see it ever, every going away. I've talked myself out of the other guilt I used to feel. I comforted it all away long ago.

But this miserable specter of physical responsibility remains.

I can't make peace with my body for the way it failed us and as long as I can't make peace with it I will feel this agonizing guilt.

I want to walk away from it so badly it hurts. I can imagine what it must be like and how much farther along the path of healing I would be if I wasn't dragging this anvil of burden behind me every step of the way.

I envy My Beloved the peace he has knowing with such verifiable certainty that no part of him is to blame. Or ever was.

Bumper crop

Does every celebrity have to be pregnant with twins??

I'm just sayin'.

24 hours in the life of cucumber seedlings

March 26th, 11:30am...



A little more than 24 hours later...



I love that I can still grow things, even if they are non-human and outside my uterus.

Earth Hour, and a little poke

On March 29, 2008, people across Canada and around the world will turn off their lights and non-essential electrical appliances for one "Earth Hour" (8PM local time) to promote electricity conservation, lower carbon emissions, and demonstrate that together the people of the world can make a difference in the fight against climate change.

Earth Hour has grown from a single event in Sydney, Australia in 2007 to a global phenomenon that will occur across six continents and in as many as 20 cities in 2008. As of 24 March, over 11,900 businesses and 188,000 individuals had indicated their intention to participate at earthhour.org.

I'm generally not one to get all political, but can everyone do this? Please? It's just one hour. One quiet, beautiful, dark, peaceful, healthy hour.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFORMATION

Another holiday

Oh, Easter.

It was good. There was ham and scalloped potatoes, brussel sprouts fried in butter and sprinkled with grated Parmesan cheese, roasted sweet potatoes, pretty spring peas and two kinds of pie. And, of course, a chocolate Easter bunny I have already devoured (I ate his ass for a mid-morning snack today).

I had a pot of my Grandma's African violets in the centre of the table and I set each place with packets of seeds for every person (all of whom I love very much). I had my Dad's favourite music playing the whole time (Palestrina, an Italian Renaissance composer he adores for the sacred polyphony he wrote) and I had two white candles burning brightly.

As daylight turned to dusk we sat and laughed and ate. And I was happy.

And then I wasn't.

They left, and the emptiness of another holiday settled in.

My poor Beloved, who deals with the aftermath of holidays (and the beforemath as well), chastised me for taking something good and turning it sour, but it's hard not to. And I don't do it on purpose despite evidence to the contrary.

It's just that holidays are meant to be joyous family times, and it's sometimes hard to maintain that joy for the entire length and breadth of a holiday when our little family has been hacked to pieces and lies in tatters around our weary feet. Figuratively, of course.

It's hard to sit by myself at Mass with throngs of families packing in all around me. It's hard to be visually reminded of what we've had and lost, and almost had and lost. It's hard to be shown what I'm missing.

The sad fact is that sometimes it's difficult to be happy, no matter how hard I try.

And I do. I really do. Why else would I put so much effort into Easter dinner, or any of the other things I do to make our little world happier and more alive?

I think I do well most of the time. I have sad moments, but I push on in search of comfort and joy. But holidays undo a lot of the work I put into soothing my soul. I enjoy most parts of them very much, but what I'm not enjoying is killing me. Those are the holiday extremes.

It's just the way it is for now.

And, I suspect, the way it always will be, although tempered and softened with time. As everything always is.

Spring?

30F (15F with the wind chill), snow piles still stubbornly mounded up more than waist high and, according to a meteorologist (who I assume has gone into hiding since making the prediction), six more weeks of wintry weather.

Happy Spring!

Harrumph.

More musings

I wish we didn't need to know SO much about the reproductive lives of the rich and famous. Seriously, if I see one more "celebrity baby bump" story my head may explode. Or I'll stick forks in my eyes and ice picks in my ears to end the torment once and for all.

One or the other.
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I love therapy. I don't always want to go (spending 50 minutes dredging up painful thoughts, worries and memories isn't necessarily something I look forward to, surprising enough), but I always end up being glad that I did.

I do kind of worry that there's never going to be an end to this though. Really, for only being 37 years old I seem to have a LOT to talk about.

Therapist lady suggested maybe it might be useful to "screen out" the things in my head, not unlike the process gold miners used to employ when they panned for gold in murky river beds. She said it might be useful to sift out the various worries and concerns in order to "see what's left behind" - and to see what my biggest issues really are.

I couldn't help it. I laughed, right out loud on her little blue couch. I'm relatively sure if you sift away at me ALL you'll find is worries at this point.

But it's worth a try, right?

Hell, anything is worth a try at this point.
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I need to get rid of an organ. And I'm not having all that much luck.

It's an old two manual Lowrey organ that used to belong to my Grandparents. It has to be pushing fifty. Or possibly pulling it.

I took it out of spite when my Aunt was clearing out my Grandparents' house (back when doing stupid things out of spite held a greater place of importance in my life than it does now, post Thomas) and it's been sitting in our basement collecting dust ever since.

Spite and sentimentality are the reason for its four-year basement exile.

The thing is, I'm pretty much over the spite part, and practicality is currently trumping sentimentality. I know my Grandma wanted either my sister or I to have it, but I don't have the space, nor do I play the organ. I think it's just time for it to go.

Sadly, 50-year old Lowrey organs aren't that easy to get rid of. Even when you tell people they're free.

FREE.

So, you know, let me know if you're in the market for a dusty organ that almost certainly needs servicing.

Just be prepared for me to cry when you take it away from me.
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According to my Facebook friends (courtesy of the "social profile" application), not only am I the bravest, but I'm also the best travel companion with the best sense of humour.

Sadly, according to these same friends I'm neither organized nor fashionable.

I have no choice but to agree with the fashion critique, but dammit, I'm incredibly organized!

Mostly.

More or less.

Oh just shut up, I'm very brave.

Just a couple of things...

A classic case of mistaken identity.

Today was my neighbourly lunch date. Once every month my two neighbours and I hook up for a chatty few hours to gossip, eat and catch up. A "hen party" as My Beloved likes to call it.

I was coming out of my neighbour's house with her 22-month old daughter, helping her navigate the big porch steps while her mommy packed up the sippy cup and other baby paraphernalia inside, when I noticed a youngish looking guy all dressed in a suit coming towards me.

He was a financial planner trolling the neighbourhood for new clients. He asked if he could talk to me and I said I was on my way out. As if she knew I needed an excuse to run away, little J took off down the sidewalk. I took off after her, hoping financial planner dude would see I was clearly too busy to chat. But he didn't. He waited for me to catch her, then started in on his sales pitch.

"Blah blah blah...blah...blah blah blah" was what I heard (we have a financial planner and don't need two so I felt no obligation to listen), until he pointed to J, who I was now holding, and said "I also take care of RESPs, which is perfect for you, having a little one and all".

I just smiled politely.

And thought about how horribly, painfully, impossibly wrong he was.
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Last week I taught a children's mask-making workshop. I had a small group of girls aged 9 - 16.

I haven't taught children's art classes since I was in my early 20s and doing it when I'm now old enough to be even the oldest student's mother does put a bit of a different spin on it for me, but it was still a lot of fun.

Everyone should hang out with a group of kids for a week every once in a while. It's good to be reminded that once upon a time anything was possible and that all you had to do to make dreams come true was to dream them.

On the last day as I was saying goodbye to one of the other instructors, she told me she "liked my vibe."

Now I realize this sounds a little silly and kind of hippy-dippy, but it was possibly the best thing anyone could have said to me last week. Or any week, for that matter.

I don't know what she does or doesn't know about Thomas (I got the job through a mutual friend who may or may not have told her my situation), but the fact that I still possess a vibe that's even remotely likable after everything I've dealt with over the last 5 years is astonishing to me.

And very, very cool. And uplifting. And exciting.

It was a good week. It was the perfect time for a good week.

I wish I could say it with chocolate

Thank you seems so inadequate. A dozen chocolate cupcakes with thick buttercream icing for every single person who sent loving thoughts, said prayers and did good deeds this week seems like a much more appropriate way to show my appreciation. But since that's impossible (and dangerous, given how many times I'd "need" to "test" the cupcakes for quality assurance purposes) a simple but very, very heartfelt thank you will have to suffice.

And I really, really mean it. Thank you.

Knowing that the world was a kinder place this week because Thomas once lived (and because people still care and remember) means the world to us, and we're stunned by your generosity and determination to find ways to honour his memory.

There was the friend who bought a grocery gift card and asked the clerk to give it to the next person in line, there was the blogger who picked up a mother and two kids waiting at a bus stop and drove them home, there were a number of people who helped neighbours and strangers dig out of from under the ungodly amount of snow we got this weekend, there were generous donations to incredibly worthy charities, and there were countless promises of secret random acts of kindness to come that we'll never know about.

Ripples into eternity indeed.

Thank you.

Kisses to heaven

I remember the sun crashing its way through the delivery suite windows the morning of the day you were born. I remember it bathing everything in a beautiful golden glow and feeling such joy and anticipation in knowing that you were almost here.

Today looks like that day three years ago. The sun, blissfully bright following yesterday's 36-hour snow storm, reminds me of you and the light and love you brought into our lives.

And the light and love that still remains.

Sending a million and one kisses to heaven on your 3rd birthday, my sweet one.

oxoxox

Ripples into eternity

Today was the twins due date. Sunday is Thomas' 3rd birthday. I'm so changed by the tiny lives that have crept silently into and out of my life. It's amazing how lives so small and impossibly brief can have such tremendous and eternal resonance.

It's a Wonderful Life is one of my favourite movies, and aside from the fact that I adore Jimmy Stewart, I think the reason I like it so much is because of the dramatic way it shows how one person's life can impact the lives of so many others. It demonstrates how every decision, every action and every reaction sends ripples into eternity.

Which is why I'm asking you, if you're so inclined, to do something kind on Sunday in Thomas' memory. Any sort of good deed, be it big or small, will mean he is still changing lives; still present here in a very tangible way.

This has always been so important to us, almost right from the moment he died. It's what we asked of people in his obituary, as a matter of fact.

It's the only way we can still know his presence here - it's the only way we can still feel it and see it and truly know it.

So please, if you can, consider doing a random act of kindness for Thomas. And unless you prefer to keep yourself and your deed anonymous, please come back and tell us how our boy's life is sending ripples into eternity.

Leah and Sherry, thank you so much for the donations you made in Thomas' memory. We are so grateful for your kindness and generosity.

My brain

""

Wow, look at all the anger and negativity. I like that the back of my brain seems surprised by all this while the front stays busy waging a battle between love and hate.

Sounds about right.

Monday musings

So as it turns out the ticker is fine. Stress is the reason for the sudden (and, in my mind, alarming) increase in the frequency of my heart palpitations.

It took a while to get the results back (evidently cardiologists and family doctors see nothing wrong with buzzing off all footloose and fancy free on vacation while I sit at home worrying about my impending cardiac arrest.) but all's well that ends well. My heart is just fine.

Which of course means that my head is the problem.

Faaaaaantastic.

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On Saturday My Beloved and I went to a local maple syrup festival with my sister-in-law and my five-year old nephew (who, incidentally, is the cutest and smartest five-year old on the planet).

It was bone-chillingly cold, but the bonfires, candy shanty, scavenger hunt and maple syrup drenched pancakes and sausage more than made up for the biting wind.

I was having a really good time.

But on the wagon ride back from the pancake house the "if" word crept into my head. Because, of course, if Thomas was alive, we'd have taken him too. He would have been sitting beside me and his cousin in the wagon, bumping along, giggling and enjoying the beautiful winter day with his family. With me.

If instantly crushed my heart.

But I battled back.

"Yes," I told If, "We would have brought Thomas along. But this is still a good day. The sun is shining, my tummy is full of pancakes, and I'm spending time with another little boy that I love. It's still a good day. It is."

And If shut up.

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I bought a shadowbox, finally. I've been wanting to take some of Thomas' things and display them in a small shadow box for a long time. His crib card, the hat the nurses bought him, his wrist band, maybe even the little lock of hair they saved for us. They're all still tucked up in the lacy white fabric bag they hospital quietly gave us after he died.

I brought the shadowbox home, got out the bag, took everything out, and almost instantly felt sick to my stomach.

I couldn't do it. I smelled the little hat, which has been sealed in a plastic baggy, and the hospital still clings to it. I could smell the day he died. I could smell the days after it, the days I refused to leave my room and kept the door shut against the sound of live babies crying all around me.

And I felt sick.

And then achingly guilty for feeling sick.

So I put it all away. Packed it back into the little white bag and put the empty shadowbow in the spare room along with my yarn and Thomas' change table that now doubles as craft supply storage.

It'll be there for me one day when I'm able. If I'm able.

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Today at dinner, after asking me what I was thinking about and listening to my answer, my Beloved paused and said, "There's a lot of thinking going on in that head."

Yeah. And that's the problem.

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I've been having some really, really odd dreams lately. The strangest involved Cher and a sadomasochistic dwarf.

Clearly my sleeping mind is doing its very best to keep me preoccupied lest I think of something very real and very sad.

Excellent job, mind. Excellent job.

But, uh, you can stop now.

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A very good friend of mine just got herself a brand new nephew. A beautiful, chubby legged little boy joined their family a few days ago, so new he squeaks.

I was snooping through photos of the baby posted on her sister's Facebook profile, when I suddenly realized I was dizzy.

I was loving the pictures and then, in an instant, had to get them off my screen.

This is all new, these physical reactions to grief. Feeling sick, feeling faint. All new. And annoying and disturbing.

I tested myself today by watching a few minutes of A Baby Story.

Just so you know, I'm not ready for that either.

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March came so quickly.

I might not be ready for A Baby Story, but even though it snuck up on me, I'm ready for March.

We have Thomas' special birthday plans made, I have work to do this week and a children's art class to teach next week during March break, and I'm ready for all of it. I am.

I miss the boy. I miss the boy dreadfully during March. But I'm looking forward to celebrating his birthday in the cozy way we've settled into remembering it.

And I know he'd approve. And that's all that matters.