Tuesday in my head

I gleefully added our phone number to Canada's brand-spanking-new "DO NOT CALL" registry this morning.

And then immediately set to work editing a telemarketing script a client sent me.

Because, it seems, I am a conscienceless whore.

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I Kissed a Girl has now replaced Jeremiah was a Bullfrog on my mind's inner play list.

Over and over and over it cycles through my brain. I kissed a girl and I liked iiiiiit!

What's worse is that I don't know most of the words (something about cherry Chapstick - or maybe it's cherry cola), but I sing it loud and proud just the same.

It seems like a perfectly reasonable anthem for a 38-year old married woman who lives in the suburbs and makes turkey chili while she edits telemarketing scripts.

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This is the first telemarketing script I've ever edited, by the way. I swear.

Please don't send hate mail...

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I bumped into a girl I knew in high school the other day coming out of the post office. I haven't seen her in probably more than 22 years.

We fell into an easy conversation almost immediately, and when I commented on her gorgeous four-month old baby she said softly, "It took us five years to get her."

I understood the love and pride in her eyes as she gazed at the evidence of her hard fought victory.

And I was happy.

Later I caused those eyes to fill with tears when I told her my own battle story, but she was kind and understanding. And not afraid.

Not afraid.

When we parted she said she was going to say a special prayer for me, and while I'm still hesitant to believe that prayers of this nature do anything at all, it gave me a lot of comfort.

Part of me almost believed her prayer might be answered.

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We had a painter in last week to do our living/dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling and we figured it was best to leave that job to a professional, what with my fear of heights and My Beloved's fear of painting.

He wasn't in the house 15 minutes when I caught myself singing "In the Ghetto" up here in the office while doing some invoices.

Clearly I'm alone entirely too much. And have a lot of issues with that stupid inner play list...

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I have already answered two telemarketing calls since I started writing this blog.

Divine retribution, I suppose.

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My Dad's colonoscopy has still yet to be scheduled. My parents seem to be taking comfort in this - as though the delay means that they should somehow be less worried.

Me? I just worry that the delay is going to cost us in the end, and that the reason for the holdup is that they just don't hustle a 78-year old cardiac patient into a costly test procedure when someone younger and healthier might benefit from having it sooner. I think he just keeps getting bumped in favour of people they think deserve it more. From a this-is-an-old-guy-who's-living-on-borrow-time-anyway standpoint, I mean.

But the good news is that he has gone through the first three treatments for his macular degeneration and the doctor who gave him the first of three needles in his affected eye (eeew) said he's hopeful that they'll be able to reverse some of the damage.

No guarantees, of course, but hope is always welcome. Sometimes somewhat warily, but welcome just the same.

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My toothless feline has pretty much fully recovered from the trauma of her recent dental work. She is as delightfully insane as always and is currently curled up on the pajamas I neglected to hang up this morning after I took them off.

Nothin' like kitty love. And furry jammies.

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My Beloved is finally able to take some time off. After more than 9 straight months during which he's had just one day off (not counting weekends - although he's worked through a lot of those too, including almost every single long weekend of the summer) he's got a week off starting Friday!

I'm giddy.

We have no concrete plans, but sometimes a planless week off ends up being the very best kind of vacation.

I predict lots of lazy mornings, drives to see the changing leaves, day trips and just general guiltless slothfulness.

Ahhhhh.

Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog

Don't you hate it when you get a song stuck in your head? Especially one you don't even like?

And it just won't. Go. Away.

It's dark in here

I was wandering through blogland last night catching up on blogs I haven't read in a long time (shame on me), and reading the news that I've missed while I've been quietly keeping to myself.

And, of course, there is pregnancy news - in a few blogs. Which somehow still always surprises me, as though I think since I'm still broken everyone else must be too.

But clearly this is not the case. In fact, in some cases these are second generation pregnancies - babies that have come after babies that came after a loss.

I'm so far behind. If I ran at the speed of light it feels like I'd still forever be so far behind, shackled to my infertility and dragging my busted uterus behind me.

Anyway, I stumbled across a blogger who is newly pregnant via a surrogate, and something interesting happened in my tiny little brain.

"That's okay then", I reasoned, "she's still broken too." It's fine for someone to be expecting a baby, apparently, as long as they aren't actually the one carrying it. Because that would make them whole and capable and fertile - all the things I'm not.

I'm not totally sure what this line of thinking says about me, but I'm pretty sure it's nothing good.

It all makes me wonder what it is about losing a child and dealing with infertility that makes it so hard to be happy for others who make it past the agonizing limbo of childlessness, or infertility after a loss.

I hate that I feel this way. I hate that time hasn't eased the feelings of sorrow and jealousy when someone else - even someone who has struggled - finds themselves pregnant.

It's so ugly. It's so unbearably ugly to think that I should feel anything other than complete joy and happiness for someone whose dream has come true when I know how bright and beautiful that dream is - and what devastation and havoc losing it wreaks.

And yet last night I found myself comforted that someone had to resort to surrogacy.

It's so unfathomably ugly that I'm even ashamed to write it (and, frankly, have no idea why I'm admitting it). But there it is. It seems that I have let go of none of the bitterness.

Maybe it's not surprising given the decrepit state of my own fertility, my advancing age, my reluctance to have "just one more" surgery to fix what allegedly ails me.

The trail of death and destruction in my wake.

Maybe it's normal to still feel this way. It probably is. But it doesn't change the fact that it makes me feel small and ugly and horrible.

Lest one be forced to surmise that there isn't one single ounce of goodness left in my battered soul, I should clarify that I do manage to feel joy for others. I do. But the bitterness is always following right on its heels. Not towards those who are pregnant, exactly, but more at the universe, at God, at fate - at whatever seems to be preventing me from finding my happy ending.

I just want my happy ending too.

And seeing others get it reminds me of how much I want it. And how far I am from having it. And how close I once was. Four times.

I read about how healing it is to have a baby after a loss, and I rage against the universe for denying me that chance to heal. I read about how apparently you can't know the true depths of your sorrow until you hold another child of your own, and I rage against the universe for denying me the chance to complete my grieving process (although I also bristle at the suggestion that if I never have another child my sorrow is somehow less than someone who has gone on to have another baby - because I'm pretty sure that just ain't the case).

Today at Mass I watched an old lady gazing at someone's child the way old ladies do, with that serene, loving half-smile. And as I watched her, I realized that I will never be that old lady. I will never, ever be able to look at children with the simplicity of thought that many people do, a blissful smile playing on my lips. Other people's children will always remind me of my loss and my agony - of my own missing children. Even if one day I have another child.

But especially if I don't.

And I'm not at all happy that this bitterness seems to be planning to dog me for the rest of my life.

oxox

I was cleaning out my overflowing in tray this morning and found an old love note My Beloved wrote to me a week after our first date, a little more than 9 years ago. It's all raggedy and battered from the number of times I've read it and carried it around and held it to my chest and smiled.

His words have the lightness of feathers. He was so young and so completely unfettered by sorrow and tragedy. I can hear his joy. His hope. His love.

And what he wrote about me? The girl he saw through rose-coloured glasses? I sound like a completely different person too.

He once told me, long ago, that I was like a perfect doll that had somehow gotten thrown into a box of broken toys, ending up overlooked and unloved.

And I think about how battered and bruised and jaded I am and wonder if I'm now one of the broken toys too. I must be.

I am no longer the person he fell in love with. I'm not the girl he describes on that page.

I know that's how it goes. You fall in love with someone and together you grow old, facing everything life throws at you along the way; huddling close during storms and turning your faces to the sun when the skies clear. Things change you, both good and bad, and the bond deepens and strengthens - if you're lucky. And we are. We are.

But when I read the note I found myself missing those two people who were on the brink of a great romance, dizzy with the flush of new-found love. I miss their innocence and their optimism and the promise that they believed life held for them.

Luckily, with time and experience comes the ability to see the bigger picture.

Because even in the midst of our loss, we have somehow gained. Our love - older and wiser - is not less than it was simply because we're no longer those young, undamaged people we once were. It's actually very much the opposite. It's bigger and deeper than it has ever been because in many ways we have become one, united against our grief and in our mutual determination to find happiness. Together.

We are warriors now. Fighting for survival, sanity and peace.

I miss the man he was. But I love the man he is.

And when I need to, I have a silly love letter to remember once upon a time while I'm walking towards happily every after.

I miss you too

I loved shopping for Thomas when I was pregnant. The tiny, pessimistic voice in my head screamed, "But what IF" every time I handed over my credit card, but as the weeks and months wore on, I found myself more and more able to stifle it and revel in the sweet little outfits, blankies, toys and nursery accoutrement I brought home.

It was bliss. I still have bulging boxes of baby things packed away in the basement that prove just how much bliss I experienced during those precious 9 months.

At some point I ordered something from a website called Dreamtime Baby. I think it might have been his "man in the moon lamp", which I absolutely ADORED.

It's so cute I wish there was a way I could incorporate it into our decor now. But with no child in the house, it would no doubt elicit some odd, pitying looks from friends and family. So in the basement it sits.

Anyway, Dreamtime Baby, it seems, has a looooooong memory. More than 3.5 years after Thomas' birth and death I'm STILL getting regular sale reminders. I could take myself off their list - and that would obviously be the sensible thing to do - but after all this time the notices are more of an annoyance than a stab in the heart. For the most part. I just keep forgetting to click "unsubscribe" before I hit delete.

But today I won't forget.

Today they sent me a plaintive "We want you back" e-mail, and dangled a $15 coupon in my face.

Dreamtime Baby, I want you back too. But if I've learned one thing over the last five, desperate years, it's that we can't always get what we want.

So, dear Dreamtime Baby, it is with sadness and regret that I have to finally tell you that as much as we both might want it, you can't have me back.

Now please go away and leave me alone. I'm busy. I have moon lamps and bulging boxes to ignore.

In a fog

Bear with me. I'm a little lost in a sea of anxiety at the moment.

I really need to do the "Mind Over Mood" homework that Therapist Lady gave me. I really, really, really need to figure out how to roll with life's constant flurry of punches.

I'm just worried about my Dad. Scared that the test (as yet frustratingly not scheduled) will reveal something that I haven't prepared myself for.

Although one would think I'd be used to random shitstorms by now.

He has a very serious heart condition. He has had for years. So I always imagined the end would come in the form of "the call". Sudden, but not necessarily unexpected. I never, ever thought that his last years might be characterized by a slow, painful decline.

Complicated by blindness.

Yeah. Blindness. Only partial and in just one eye, but fuck - where did THAT come from?

It's not about me. It's about him. But I feel all this in my chest. In my head. In my heart. It feels like all I do is struggle and lose. And watch people suffer. And stand helplessly by while life pulls the energy from my body and hope from my soul.

It is a marathon, this life. A long, steady march through the unthinkable.

There is light. There is happiness and love and joy. But there is just so much struggle.

Too much.

Please, no more

Suddenly and without warning I found out that we're waiting to find out if my Dad has cancer. The bomb dropped on Tuesday. He might not. He probably doesn't. It could be a medication he's on that caused the false positive. It could be a couple of other things, according to the good doctor.

But it could be cancer. It could.

And today I took Lucy to the vet to have some dental work done. In the end, they took out four teeth. Four more teeth from my impossibly sweet and now nearly-toothless companion.

The receptionist laughed when she answered the phone at 1:04pm. She said she knew as soon as it rang that it would be me - calling as soon after 1:00pm as I could - asking how the surgery went.

She was kind. She clearly deals with animal-loving lunatics all day long. But make no mistake, I presented myself as a complete nutcase today. Without question.

The thing is, I'm worried that my Dad has cancer and I had to surrender the only tiny little thing I have in my care to the cruelty of dental surgery and the uncertainty of anaesthetic.

I am a nutcase at the moment.

I would cry "Uncle", but I just don't have the energy.

One Day I Will Lie Down Beside You

From today's Toronto Star...

This week, TouchWood Editions publishes Nobody's Father: Life Without Kids – a collection of essays by men. Today, part three of a five-day series of reprinted essays from the book.

Our only child, Josh, died from cancer and now we are alone, in our house, and in ourselves. And yet we do go ahead with work and friendships, we laugh and sometimes tap our feet to a tune or get involved with a film or with travelling, with teaching, with caring for someone else's children. We breathe in the hard peacefulness that is borne out of the 10 years that spanned our son's diagnosis, hope, relapse, terminal diagnosis, death and then our living after his death.

My heart is 100 years old. I can sit and let the light warm my face today, I can listen to the "Flower Duet" and catch the milliseconds of silence between the notes and know that peace exists. I can look at the farthest edges of the sky and know that something is beyond all that. I can sit comfortably in his room and absorb the calmness, feel it making my heart heavier, richer.

Reader, I want to tell this story: it is what I have left of him, a narrative as unwieldy and disjointed as life itself. You can learn from this.

I remember a business conference in Chicago in the fall of 1983. I got the call that the baby was early, so I hopped on a flight, arriving in Vancouver four hours late. When I saw Josh in an incubator, I cried. He was fine; just a bit jaundiced and premature. Sandy was already able to walk around; she had been so collected and natural that she took photos during the delivery, using the overhead mirror.

I remember bringing Josh home a few days later, getting out of the hospital, into the car and into the apartment, wrestling with the confusing physical tasks of first-time parents. As soon as we closed the apartment door, I felt a clear line of demarcation: he was now with us, and everything changed.

I remember Sandy making him an orange spaceman Halloween costume. When someone asked him who he was, he would say, "Orange spaceman Eliot Wilson happy 2-year-old son Joshua." The next year she made him into a blue corduroy stegosaurus with spikes, a hood and a tail.

"Don't you think it's neat to have a mum like me to make you a costume?" Sandy asked him.

"Don't you think it's neat to have a kid like me?" Josh answered.

I remember the "Summer of Josh," as he called 1997: a February trip to Disney World, a summer drama camp with a part in A Midsummer Night's Dream and a week of rafting, biking and camping in the mountains.

I remember the next winter, his physical education teacher telling us: "If I were to have another son, out of all the students I know, I would want him to be like Josh."

I remember that in March Josh started to have a sore knee. We thought it was growing pains. It began to hurt more often: after a ski trip, after delivering papers, after slipping on an icy sidewalk. Then at school another boy checked him hard during floor hockey and he went down in pain. Sandy took him to the clinic for X-rays. Then we crossed that invisible line.

It was a cold spring afternoon when Sandy called me. Before she said anything, I knew something was terribly wrong.

"Josh has cancer." The words hit me in the chest.

"The doctor says it's 99 per cent certain. It's above his right knee. We have to go to the Children's Hospital tomorrow."

"How is he?"

"He cried a bit. He's okay now. We'll be home soon."

I hung up the phone and tried to let the information settle. I had to sit down. There was a tightening across my chest, inside my breathing. I came to the realization of any frightened parent: I would do anything for my child. I would cut off my hands if that would help.

But nothing worked. I look back on the 22 months that followed as the hardest journey ever. Diagnosis, treatment, amputation, treatment, reprieve, relapse, terminal diagnosis, death. And since I had to support Josh, to find ways to be with him and distract him and have a few cramped bits of comfort and laughter amid the fear, I could not give way to my pain in his presence. Although he knew how hurtful it was for me, we faced the facts but tried to find ways to enjoy what little time we had.

When went to the hospital for the last time he soon began to drift away. By morning, he could only keep awake and respond for a few seconds; the rest of the time he was babbling as the tumours on his heart and lungs restricted the oxygen to his brain.

We made the phone calls and gathered around him on that last morning. We told him how much we loved him, how he was such a wonderful son. By 12:45 he could no longer respond to questions and I turned his head toward me.

His eyes were looking at me, but it was as if he were asleep. I looked at Sandy and said, "He can't respond any more."

A minister came and said a prayer: all I remember was that it was about God. A nurse from the cancer clinic came in and suggested we give him a bolus, an extra hit of pain medication. His breathing remained shallow and fast for the next 15 minutes.

Now there was only Sandy and me, Josh's friend Matt and Matt's father. Others waited in the hall. I felt calm, watching his chest rising and falling while I held his hand.

Soon there was more space between his breaths. And then I watched as he took a breath, paused, took a breath, paused, took a breath, paused longer, took a breath, paused longer, took a breath – and then not another. His chest was still. I looked to Sandy and we nodded. I turned to Matt and said, "He's gone."

We were silent. The nurse came in with a stethoscope, put it on his chest, nodded to us and went out. I shook a bit, had tears at the edges of my eyes but was calm.

Sandy went outside to tell those waiting. I remember looking at Josh as he lay peacefully with the grey window light on his face, the delicate frost on the trees outside. I thought, "Well kid, you made your mark, you really did this well."

Two and three at a time, his friends came into the room. A few shook with grief and all shed a lot of tears, but I was turned away from them, stroking my son's hair. I told them the briefest details of how he died: his heart wore out, it slowed down and stopped, it was peaceful.

Focus on these seven words for a moment: bereaved parents have an indifference to life.

Psychologists and psychiatrists who have no direct experience with such a loss would prescribe medication, analysis, counselling. They believe indifference indicates suicidal tendencies, but that is not the case. It is a sort of lifelong tiredness. As one bereaved father said to me, "I just want to lie down beside her." I know what he means and I know him well. He is energetic in most things, a good father for his surviving child and a responsible husband. He will not purposefully give up living, but if his life should end soon through no plan of his own, he wouldn't be overly concerned.

I returned to teaching after several months. Initially nervous about resenting healthy, obnoxious students who had every physical advantage but weren't living up to their potential, I hid the brief times of anger.

Over the years, I have found myself becoming a better teacher, reaching out to the students more than ever. I wrote a book to guide them, Standards of Excellence: for Students of Life.

Sandy has had some difficult times, as all bereaved parents have.

She loved being a mother and was so good at it and then it was taken away. There was nothing to do, the doctors did their best and only the fantastic luck of having an X-ray of my son's leg four months before diagnosis could have possibly saved him – the tumour was already six inches long when they first saw it. After many stops and starts, she has found providing daycare to little ones the most fulfilling. She volunteers and keeps socially active.

We are more respectful to each other than we were before the diagnosis. I know of the hurt I went through and everyone grieves differently, but I know her pain is equal to mine. Whatever she has to do to maintain equilibrium, to get through the day, is acceptable.

Although this half-life we have is quieter and emptier, in some ways we are now better at living together.

And so it comes back to you, dear son. Here I sit in the quiet of the study, surrounded by books, tapping away on the keyboard, looking around the room and counting the photos of you: more than a dozen from your short, brilliant 16 years. This mountain of hurt and loss is now part of my landscape. I think of you often, your jokes and smiles and friendship. I can imagine part of you is in the delicate light of sunset at the unseen edge of clouds, beyond even the clouds I can see.

I will keep going, teaching, writing and trying to help others. Just as you bravely lived 22 months with a deadly disease, I will try to turn this into a meaningful experience. And, one day, I will lie down beside you.

Allan Wilson is a teacher and writer living in Lethbridge, Alta. His play, Walking Upright Through Fire, has been performed in Lethbridge, Calgary, Toronto and Saskatchewan. His book, Standards of Excellence: for Students of Life, was published by Blue Grama Publications. He is working on a novel and a screenplay.

Definition

I had a great big cry for Thomas this morning, which is something I haven't done in a while. It always amazes me that my loud, angry, weeping grief is still so easy to access.

Admittedly, sometimes it shocks me a little too.

It makes me feel like the only thing between the composed, healing, functioning me and the open wound of my sorrow is a thin layer of gauze.

I don't feel like I'm walking the razor's edge. I don't feel especially weak. I don't feel fragile. But the truth is, that deep pool of sadness is still right under the surface just waiting for me to peel back the film and find it again. The rawest, most primal agony.

And then my heart screams for my son.

When it's finished, I lay the gauze back down, dry my tears and carry on.

I suppose that's the anatomy of a sorrow that can't possibly ever end; an infinite black pit with a gossamer cover.

The sound of silence

"Any babies to speak of?" was the last in a series of I-haven't-talked-to-you-in-seven-years questions a newly acquired Facebook friend recently asked. We knew each other when we worked for the same advertising agency a thousand years ago. She found me, friended me and asked me what was new.

In that explicit, gut-churning way that always give me pause while I debate exactly what to say and how to say it.

And think I did. Long and hard. I considered sending her a private message instead of replying to her query on her wall (which is where she posted the questions to me), but finally I decided that if I had living children I wouldn't respond in a way that made it appear as though I was somehow ashamed of them. Or wanted to hide them.

I took the risk. With courage and pride I told her exactly what I'd been up to. That no, there were no living babies. But there were dead ones.

But, of course, I said it differently. I used the language the non-bereaved find palatable. I was quick, succinct and to the point. Not morose. Not self-pitying. Just the facts.

And I haven't heard from her since.

Not a whisper.

She's been on Facebook. I've seen her online. She has, of course, read what I left on her wall. She has to have.

And either she doesn't know what to do with it, or I've somehow upset her by posting something sad and creepy on her wall.

But she asked. And this is my truth. And I won't apologize for it or hide it.

I. Will. Not.

The Boy Wonder

Thomas - the very idea of Thomas - is now almost an abstract thing. He was a child, yes, but in his death he has become somehow so much more. Bigger. Complicated. Intangible. Undefinable.

It's hard to explain and even harder to articulate, but I think this strange feeling of abstraction is unavoidable because he represents so many things. He's so much more than just the tiny bundle I held in the hospital wrapped up tight in his going home blankie.

He is the embodiment of our love and has been the bearer of exquisite gifts. But he's also the source of our grief and the reason we trudge so slowly some days.

He is our love, our sorrow, our lost hope, our joy. He is somehow everything.

As the years pass, I'm able to see more clearly what exactly it was that we lost when he died. What we will spend the rest of our lives losing every single day. Because make no mistake, when your child dies, you lose them every second of every day for as long as you live. Over and over and over again.

He's a contradiction in terms. A being whose very existence elicited so much exquisite bliss and so much dark despair.

He's not just my lost child. He's a million emotions. He's my son. My pride. My angel. My sorrow. Sometimes, my secret. He's the thing some people are afraid of. He's the name some people won't speak. He's the moment that my life changed. He's the saddest I've been and the happiest I've been. He's friends who have walked away and friends who steadfastly refuse to leave.

His 20 hours has given me new eyes. Changed my heart. Made me weak. Made me strong.

I live with the weight of his life and death each and every day. Happy. Sad. It colours everything. Everything I do, everything I see. How I speak. How I feel. How I think. How I breathe.

But sometimes, when I see a child his age, he becomes real again. He becomes a 3 1/2 year old boy. I see his smile. His eyes. I feel his hand in mine. I see My Beloved. I see me. I see what we were too many hospital delays away from having.

And then, in an instant, it's gone and he is once again that mysterious collection of contradictory emotions, fractured memories, and the dull, quiet ache in my heart. All tied up with the most unimaginable love I've ever felt.

Baby loss is a mystery. An unending, ever-changing, unsolvable mystery.

Family Tree of Grief

Novelist Elizabeth McCracken was living a fantasy life in France with her husband, eagerly anticipating the birth of their first child whom they'd nicknamed Pudding. When she learned her baby would be stillborn her world fell apart. Searching for a geographic cure for her sadness, the author writes in this excerpt from her new book, she found an unexpected community.

An excerpt from Elizabth's book, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir (which I am now going to have to immediately run out and purchase).

But first...

To all the mothers of dead babies who I have found in my travels online and in the world, and to whom I owe so much credit and thanks for where I am today, I just want to say that, like Elizabeth McCracken, I love you in a way that no one who has not walked in our shoes can ever begin to understand.

And I will always, always remember.

I remember...

On August 21st of last year, I lost the twins. My tiny Tigers who we desperately willed to live over and over again. Who we begged to be more than just empty sacs. Who gave us the kind of hope and joy we hadn't felt in more than two years.

I finally had a D&C at 12 weeks after a compassionate OB took pity on us and put us out of our collective misery.

The day passed without me remembering until late in the evening. A flash. The date. My sorrow.

I felt a flicker of guilt, but the thing is, we lost them countless time during the 6 weeks I knew I was pregnant. We rode the roller coaster of hope and despair so many times - being told they were fine, being told there was nothing there, being told there was "something" there, being told that there was, finally and conclusively, no hope at all.

We mourned and hoped so much during those torturous 6 weeks that the date I finally said goodbye doesn't seem particularly momentous at all.

Plus, it was complicated by hemorrhaging and a hospital stay.

'Cause that's how I roll.

But I do think of them, my little Tigers. I sometimes stop and marvel at my body's ability to get pregnant with twins without any help at all. And I revel in a brief flush of pride - until it is replaced by anger at this same body's inability to do what it should. What it was allegedly born to do.

And, of course, I think of what might have been.

I realized, a few weeks after the D&C, that I had unconsciously named them. I called them the "Tigers" while I was pregnant, but after they were gone, I started thinking of them as Molly and Joseph. A boy and a girl.

And the names stuck.

We don't actually know what they were, of course, but they are Molly and Joseph to me - for absolutely no good reason other than the fact that names seemed to want to belong to them.

And today, more than a year after they came and went, I wanted to say that I remember.

And I love you, little ones.

I didn't choose this

Sometimes, when I'm in the mood to delve, I sit and think - really think - about what my life might be like if there's never another child.

Will it be enough, I wonder. Will I find fulfillment in other things? In other ways? In other journeys?

Will I eventually one day feel complete, or will this nagging feeling that a piece is missing ever go away?

I stumbled across a "childless not by choice" chat board a few months ago, and lingered for a few minutes. Just long enough to browse through a "what will your legacy be" thread where members were exchanging ideas on how to ensure that you've changed the world without leaving it a child.

It was both inspiring, beautiful and desperately sad.

They certainly weren't looking for pity - mine or anyone's. They were people, it seemed, for whom the childless reality wasn't so fresh it was still oozing. They had passed over to a place of acceptance and were almost excited about planning for ways to leave their mark - and eager to share those plans.

But yet, it still seemed sad to me that people have to think so hard - work so hard - to fill that void. No matter how much they've accepted their fate and moved past the rawest part of the sorrow.

I know that having a child isn't the only way to "leave a legacy". Millions of people live and die without having children, and their stories live on. Their contributions to history, art, literature, science - to the world - they remain for generations.

You can touch a life without using a child to do it. You can touch thousands of lives. Millions.

But you have to look for it. Work for it.

Which, under the circumstances, doesn't seem fair at all.

The new me

I have so many thoughts rattling around in my head lately. And that's fine - better lots of thoughts than none at all - but every time I think I'll sit down and sort them out, a whole new pack push in and scatter the crowd.

But one thought that seems to keep pushing its way to the front of the pack - a thought that has been slooooooowly dawning on me these days - is that I don't have to pretend that everything is as it was. That things don't bother me now. That nothing is harder than it used to be. That I'm always okay in every single situation.

When I asked, hypothetically, what people think of me now - what they see when they look at me - a friend recently told me that they probably don't think anything at all. Because, she explained, after three years they likely just think "I'm over it."

She fought an epic battle with infertility. She knows you don't "get over" things like struggling in vain to make your family complete.

But I was startled to think that other people may simply assume that I'm fine - all back to normal - just because I can and do manage to function. And because the calendar has flipped 41 times since Thomas died.

On the one hand I'm happy to think that I look and act like a person who has her shit together. This is excellent news. But on the other hand, I was very taken aback by the notion that people might truly believe that trauma as terrible and aching as losing a child simply slips away like smoke up a chimney.

But I suppose I have myself to blame. I'm an enabler. I've been a "grin and bear it" baby loss survivor, subjecting myself to things I wasn't ready for in order to make other people more comfortable. And, admittedly, in order to deflect attention from my sorrow in a desperate attempt to shut down the great, big pity machine that makes me want to run screaming into the night.

I'm not a saint. I did what I did for me - because it made me feel better to make other people feel better. And because it made me feel like I must seem more "normal" in their eyes. More like the old me they used to know. And I wanted to be that girl. Badly.

But I think I'm slowly accepting the fact that she died with Thomas. In fact, part of her died with that very first miscarriage nearly five years ago. And pieces of her have died with each loss and with every moment I have struggled with infertility.

And that's okay.

I mean, it's not okay that all this happened. Of course not. But it's okay that I have changed. Because how on earth could I not? How do you lose your heart five times and remain unchanged?

Now my challenge is to let this new person be. To let her feel what she feels without guilt. To help her understand that she is brand new in a million different ways. To allow her to advocate for herself and stand up to ignorance.

To teach her to embrace herself with kindness, respect and love.

What's my first line?

I had a dream last night. An annoying, recurring dream. Different characters, same plot.

I'm in a play - last night it was The Sound of Music - and I'm woefully ill-prepared. I know none of my lines and the curtain is about to rise. My fellow actors think I'm joking or that it's just a spectacular case of stage fright, but they don't understand that I truly don't know a single word. In most of these dreams I'm pretty sure I haven't even seen the script, let alone read it.

They carry on completely unaware of the true nature of my panic, and I desperately ransack the backstage area looking for a script that I can somehow tuck into my costume and read from while I'm on stage. Allegedly acting.

I never actually get to the stage. I wake up searching for a script and worrying that I don't have single clue what I'm doing. That I'm going to ruin everything for everyone and look like a collosal fool in the process.

I would like to think that these dreams that see me ill-prepared for a scripted performance mean that I'm living my life day by day, not obsessing about the future, not trying to orchestrate things that are simply beyond my control.

But from my state of panic in these stress-ridden dreams, I know this is not the case.

I think instead they're reflecting my anxiety at feeling like I'm the only one who doesn't seem to know what the hell is going on. Kind of ever.

I'm watching other organized lives around me as they follow the plans they made and somehow managed to stick to, fate and happenstance aside. And there's no way I can keep up with them. There's no way I can be as prepared or as calm or as sure as they are.

I've lost my script.

Goddamn it, I've lost my script.

And who were they?

My Great-grandfather died in Toronto during the flu outbreak of 1918. He left his wife and 5 children behind, the youngest just a baby. Because his family never accepted my Great-grandmother after they discovered that she conceived their first child out of wedlock, they snatched him back and buried him in a cemetery filled with his ancestors - away from her.

When she died just five years later (of a broken heart, my Grandma always said), she was buried with her parents. In a different cemetery altogether. Eternally separated from the man she adored, much to the satisfaction of his remaining family, I'm sure. There was space to bury her with her husband, but she wasn't.

There's no one left to confirm why this happened, although it's pretty easy to speculate that the simple reason was because she wasn't welcome there.

Years ago my parents and I paid a visit to the cemetery where he was buried. It's tucked away in an old residential area of the city, sun dappled and quiet. We hunted for his stone, anxious to find the resting place of the man we knew so little about. A man who had become somewhat mythic over the years, mostly because he was willing to forsake the support and affection of his family to marry the woman he loved.

We found the little pocket of ancestors all bearing my Grandmother's maiden name. Dozens of them scattered along the sloping hills of the cemetery where they'd been laid to rest generations earlier.

But we couldn't find him.

A visit to the cemetery office confirmed that he was indeed buried there, and they gave us the reference points so we could return to the specified row to check again.

When we did, all we found was an empty space. No marker. No stone. Nothing to indicate that he was buried there at all.

For whatever reason, his family saw fit to reclaim him but not to mark his resting spot. Presumably his window, left to care for their five young children, didn't have money to spend on a stone for her beloved. His grave was indistinguishable from the lawn around it. Unless you were looking for him, like we were, you'd never have known he was there at all.

I happened to pass by the cemetery after a meeting last week, and the story of the missing marker popped back into my head.

I was talking to my parents about it yesterday. It has probably been 15 years since we discovered the missing marker, and I couldn't remember if it had been taken care of or not.

As it turns out, his grave still remains unmarked. Life got in the way and no one got around to getting a marker.

"Oh", I said, feeling sad for the man who remains invisible in death.

"But you know what?", My Dad said, "It doesn't matter at all now, does it? It just doesn't matter at all."

I think he meant that in the grand scheme of things, an unmarked grave isn't a big deal, especially when it has been unmarked for 90 years. He's in heaven. He's been reunited with his beloved. We know where he is, body and soul, even if the world at large doesn't.

All's well that ends well.

But of course, my mind wandered to where it was lingering last night.

It doesn't matter because it's possible that soon there will be no one left to care. After we die, the simple fact is that there's just no one left to care. No one to remember him, or the love story that was so sweetly passed down through the years.

And this is what eats at me.

It's not that I think the story of my family is more interesting than anyone else's, and I realize that that it doesn't hold great historical importance to anyone but me. But it's just heartbreaking to think that it's conceivable that those stories may one day simply disappear. That all those people who lived and loved and died will truly vanish when I close my eyes for the last time.

I never imagined that this would be something I'd find myself absorbed in, this fear of being one of a forgotten people. When I was actively researching my family tree back in my early twenties, the farthest thing from my mind was the notion that there might be no one for whom my hours of research would one day be a cherished gift.

My Dad's right. It really doesn't matter. There are greater worries in life. Far, far greater tragedies. I know this to be true.

But it's another sorrow to add to the list. A small one, true. But yet another sorrow just the same.

And it's not fair. It's just. Not. Fair.

What was her name?

We were out for a walk tonight, My Beloved and I, when we passed by a house from which the most delicious smells were emanating. Dinner. Dinner done right, as far as I'm concerned. Smells that have people passing by on the sidewalk trying to figure out a way to wrangle an invite means clearly you're doing something right as far as meal prep goes.

My Beloved thought it smelled like some sort of a casserole - a conglomeration of delicious scents indistinguishable from one another lead to his conclusion. And that's exactly what it smelled like to me too.

And so, naturally, my mind drifted back to the 1970s. The time of innocence, safety and casseroles.

You know that scent memory thing that happens when you smell something that takes you back? It's more than just a "hey, I remember that smell" experience. Your body floods with images, feelings, memories and emotions all triggered by that one brief hit of familiar scent.

So I'm walking through the casserole scented air and feeling my childhood.

Feeling it.

I stayed outside skating in the backyard for so long that night would fall and my fingers and toes would be numb. I'd come in through the back door and find myself bathed in the warmth of the kitchen's glow while I sat on the stairs to unlace my skates. I'd smell dinner on the stove. I'd watch my Mom busy herself with the last rushed tasks before serving while I took off my coat and mittens. I was warm. Safe. Spent. Happy.


It all rushed through me in an instant. And while I tried to hang onto its sweetness, a sadness crept into my heart.

I don't have a child who will remember coming into the warmth of my kitchen when it's cold outside.

This thought - this reality - makes me unbearably sad. For me, for Thomas, for all the babies who almost were.

I have it to give, and no one to give it to. The simple, tiny pleasures I'm not sure some people are even aware of - they are lost to me. My kitchen still hums with activity, but there's no one to remember any of it. There is no one for whom my cookies hot from the oven will one day be a comforting memory they cling to for a moment's respite from the cruel world.

And...if there is never a child, one day I'll be forgotten too.

Was that YOU?

My Beloved and I went to the Canadian National Exhibition on Wednesday evening. If you're unfamiliar with it, it's a fair. A big, big, big fair right in the heart of Toronto. Carnival rides, midway games, amazing deals on really shitty merchandise, weird exhibits like "The History of the Toilet", people hawking Ginsu knives, unhealthy food on sticks - it's all there, God love it.

While wandering through the midway, I spotted a game booth strung with Rudolph and Abominable Snowman stuffed toys - prizes for the lucky winners able to catch bright orange balls in tiny nets as they drifted over a fast running waterfall. The balls, not the players.

Kind of weird, but whatever. Rudolph was the prize and I neeeeeeeded to win him.

It was all a little confusing, and even now I'm not sure I fully understand the rules (or why we paid one price and both got to play, or how we ended up with a medium size prize when all we caught were balls marked with an "s" for small), but it doesn't matter. I won a Rudolph.

He was a little wet - a casualty of the leaky waterfall, I suppose - and his neck was sewn too tightly on one side giving him a permanently cocked head, but he was mine.

Rudolph is the physical embodiment of my happy place. He and Snoopy never fail to calm my inner beast when it's raging against the cruel world or merciless fate.

And yes, I know full well that this makes me a simpleton, and I don't particularly care. You take your happy place triggers where you can find them. Just because mine are cartoon characters doesn't make them any less valid, as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway, in addition to the ill-sewn neck, my new Rudolph's mouth - an inverted V meant to sit just below his big red nose - was stitched sideways. A sideways stitched V, in case you've never seen one, looks a lot like a smirk.

So there he was, a slightly wet, smirking reindeer with a cocked head and ears flattened back against his head from being squished in a box with 9 billion other Rudolphs.

He is, of course, the Rudolph I would win. Misshapen, weird looking and wet. He looked like he'd just been told something really offensive, or possibly just smelled a very, very bad fart.

Smells a Fart Rudolph. Yup, totally the one I'd win.

Nuthin' much...

...and you?

Sweating with the oldies

Men just don't understand why sometimes it's okay to hate.

With a renewed sense of determination to battle the bulge (for the 4 billionth time in my life) I went for a walk this morning. It's supposed to be sticky hot today with storms in the afternoon, so I thought an early morning jaunt would be prudent.

I choose a pair of knee-length yoga pants and a baseball style top I haven't worn in a few years that's easily two sizes too big now. Which sounds good and all, but I myself am still way more than too sizes too big. And bigger than I was just a few months ago when I gave up on Weight Watchers and began the summer of comfort food. And inactivity.

But I digress...

I covered my bedhead with one of my Beloved's Baseball hats, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out.

I should comment on the hat. I have a giant head. Sometimes My Beloved jokes that I could capture my own moon. He's sooooooo funny like that.

Hats rarely fit me. Baseball hats are the worst. They perch awkwardly on my head unless I squeeze them down into place. This leaves me lightheaded. And, worse than that, it's totally obvious that I've squeezed my humongous melon inside with absolutely no room to spare. Flapping ears, and all that.

Today I didn't care. My new haircut made the hat look slightly less ridiculous on me and, if the Superman comics are to be believed, the glasses completely disguised me.

I confidently strode down to the pond near our house, feeling empowered and motivated. There's a path around the pond that's about a half a kilometer in length, and I figured that early in the morning I'd likely have it all to myself.

I decided to do three laps before heading home.

Almost halfway through my last lap I spotted her. A runner. She burst onto the track across the pond in a little racing bra and short shorts.

I had wanted the solitude, but was admittedly a little grateful to see another person on the track. There are some isolated bits that make me a little nervous. There's a lot of paranoia in my gigantic head.

I continued to walk, undaunted by the runner.

Until she passed me.

She looked different close up. Better. Tiny. Perfect.

She was roughly the size of my left leg and every inch of her was evenly tanned (I could tell because there was just so very much skin to see). The word "FLIRT" was printed across her firm, peach-shaped butt and her long, silky ponytail swished with every step she took.

The "phhhst phhst phhhst phhst" of those steps was in stark contrast to the lumbering "thwunk thwunk thwunk thwunk" of my own (which, until she passed, had been music to my ears).

I took stock of the figure I cut plodding along the track. Too big shirt. Ruthlessly unforgiving yoga pants. Giant head mashed into a baseball cap. Tomato red face dripping with sweat. Hair frizzed up and poking out from under the cap like a 1970s baseball player.

And yeah, I hated her a bit.

I realize this is unfair. It would make much more sense to hate myself instead (although there's certainly some of that at play here. Clearly), but I chose to loathe her instead. Her and her flirty butt and itty bitty little waist flitting around the track like a wispy, perfect little butterfly.

My Beloved laughed when I told him my sweaty tale of woe, and asked why I would think to hate the perfect little jogger.

Men.

And now for something completely different...

A little change of pace, if you will.

I just found out today that old friend's husband composed an entry for CBC's new Hockey Night in Canada anthem search, and I honestly think it's fabulous. Really, it kind of gave me chills.

And I swear it's not just because he's married to my friend. Nor am I touting its brilliance because she paid me to post this endorsement. In fact, I'm not even sure she knows this blog exists.

Anyway, the contest. It's a voting thing. You register, choose the song you like and vote for it.

So, you know, if you're so inclined, have a listen to Tim Foley's entry (oh look, there it is now!!).

And maybe vote for him here . You know, if you feel like it 'n stuff.

The end.

It shouldn't be THIS hard to get a decent haircut...

You know what happens when you don't get your hair cut for 5 months? Your salon closes up shop. And no one tells you.

For the love of crap.

I spent two years trying to find a salon I liked - one where I wasn't asked a billion questions by a prying stylist, who would then forget my story and make me tell it all over again the next time I was in. I tried three different salons and at least as many stylists before finding a place and a stylist I felt comfortable with.

Yeah, she was a bit of a wing nut, my stylist, but she was nice. We only had to have the Thomas/infertility conversation once, she did a good job with my hair, and if I got her talking about herself (particularly her husband's ex) I could sit back and barely have to say a word.

She was so good, in fact, my last cut lasted five months.

But she's gone.

For the love of crap.

The prospect of finding a new salon (even though they're a dime a dozen around these parts for some reason) and breaking in a new stylist (having the "soooooo, do you have any kids? chat for the umpteenth time) just left me cold. Been there, done that. Four times.

My solution? I'm going back to the salon from whence I came. My old stylist, pre-marriage. More than a half hour away in my old neighbourhood, but worth the effort. Well worth not having to decide if I'm going to be the dead baby mama or the thirty-something woman with, curiously, no children.

Rosa already knows my story because my sister still goes to her. Granted I haven't seen her since my wedding day so it's possible there may be a deer-in-headlights waiting for me when I walk into the salon, but at least she already knows.

For once I don't have to explain.

Prayers. And, of course, guilt.

My Dad has a solid 24 years of experience with heart disease. Prior to 1984 he was merely being treated for elevated cholesterol. When he had a heart attack in February of that year, things got much more serious.

In 1998, a year before I met My Beloved, my Dad went into cardiac arrest while I was on the phone with my Mom discussing car insurance. A month later he came home from the hospital with an implanted defibrillator.

And I've walked on eggshells around him ever since. That's a whole post unto itself, my inability to enjoy the time I have with him because of the ever-present fear that it'll be the last time I ever see him.

A whole series of posts, that topic could fill, as a matter of fact.

But this post is about something else.

Yesterday when I dropped off some yarn I'd ordered online for my Mom, my Dad came bouncing through the kitchen with the announcement that his heart had reverted back to normal sinus rhythm.

The cardiac arrest happened because it was abnormal - had been for a year. The defibrillator wasn't a cure for his irregular rhythm, merely a protection against another serious case of arrhythmia and, or course, cardiac arrest. Except for a brief period of about 6 months sometime during the middle of my pregnancy with Thomas, my Dad's heart has been beating abnormally for more than 10 years.

So, for the first time since late 2004, his heart is beating perfectly normally. He climbed the stairs without gasping for breath. He sounded wonderful. Gleeful.

I stood there, my mouth gaping, and asked how, HOW this could have magically happened. How, after so long, had his heart just decided to correct itself and beat properly?

There is no answer. It just happens. It likely won't last, but the reprieve is a huge blessing because it spares his heart the additional wear and tear of an irregular rhythm.

We sat down in the living room, and again I asked, mostly rhetorically, "HOW?"

With the innocence of a child, he said, "I don't know. But of course I pray a lot", and looked at me earnestly as if to say, "So clearly that's why. God has made it so."

And I wanted to cry. Because it's such wonderful news. Because his happiness and relief were palpable. Because it'll lengthen his life. Because he believes in miracles. Because he believes that if you pray hard enough and long enough God will answer those prayers.

And because I don't know if I do, even when someone's beautiful heart is miraculously fixed with no other logical explanation other than, "it happens".

The road less traveled

Does everyone need permission to feel the way they feel, or is it just me?

That familiar, slightly dull, knicker-binding sense of doom and gloom was bugging me last week. I couldn't shake it. It sat on my shoulders with its hands over my mouth trying to smother me for days.

I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it came from and how it snuck up on me so quickly and quietly.

On Friday, Therapist Lady pointed out that there is anxiety in reaching decisions. Silly me. All this time I thought indecision was my issue. But apparently I have the ability to stay freaked out even when decisions are actually made.

FANtastic.

She said that our decision not to have the surgery, even though it's still classified as a tentative one, means that we have decided to move in another direction. Which isn't a bad thing, but when you're not sure what that direction is - or what lies along the road you'll eventually end up choosing - it can be anxiety producing.

And I can attest to that.

The interesting thing is that as soon as she made this proclamation, the doom and gloom started to lift. Being given permission to feel anxious made a huge chunk of the anxiety simply vanish.

Because it's okay to feel unsure. It's okay to feel scared. It's okay to be confused. It's okay to need to think about the possibility that it's time to start mourning the loss of future biological children who may never come. Who will probably never come.

It looks like a lot of work ahead. Good God. When I see it laid out before me in print, it looks like a fucking shit-load of work.

But I'll get there. Eventually. With constant reminders that it really is okay to be overwhelmed by a life I never in a million years expected would be mine.

Shadow Mother

I always aim for the 9:00am Mass (shhh - don't tell God that it's partly to get it over with. I'm pretty certain he doesn't think that's a particularly good reason to choose a Mass time). But I don't necessarily always make it up and out that early on a Sunday morning, particularly if I've fallen asleep on the couch watching an old movie the night before.

As a result I'm a bit of a wanderer, and so I see "regulars" from all three Sunday Masses, depending upon which one I manage to make it to.

This past Sunday I saw a women who, last time I saw her, was pregnant. Yesterday she had a baby carrier in her hands. Her third little girl was nestled in the carrier.

The odd thing is that my first thought was, "Oh - oh, so the baby came home". Or something along those lines.

My FIRST reaction. Good God.

My second was to marvel at how fast time flies when you're spinning away on your little hamster wheel going absolutely nowhere. But with great determination and fortitude. Blah ha.

As I was marveling at the speed with which time seems to be passing, I noticed another family that I used to see regularly when I was pregnant with Thomas. I sat in the same section they did back then - a section I hardly ever go to now. It's where people with children tend to congregate. There's something about the space that seems to lend itself to carriers and strollers and toddlers. But not to me, now.

Anyway, this family have two girls and a boy. Their last child, a girl, was born around the same time as Thomas. Maybe a little after. I can't remember anymore.

When I saw them yesterday, I was stunned. I don't see them very often, but I know I've seen them during the past three years. I'm sure of it. But there they were - not the same family at all. The oldest is now a proper young lady, the toddler is a great big boy and the baby? A real little girl.

This beautiful family, sprouting up before my eyes. And mine hasn't changed a bit. Not one single bit, at least not that anyone looking at me would ever know.

It was odd, the feeling I had seeing that family; like time has forgotten me. Forgotten both My Beloved and me.

It's a strange, strange thing to be surrounded by friends and family - and strangers - with growing children. It's painful in some ways, of course, but it's also oddly frightening. Like I want to run along beside them screaming, "Don't forget me!" or juggle pythons and broken glass so they'll notice me.

I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes now I forget that I was a mother. That I am a mother.

I never forget my children. Ever. But I have trouble remembering that I'm a mother. I see them with their growing families and baby carriers and big round tummies.

And that's just not who I am.

I'm a shadow.

Questionable viewing habits

Watching the last (and goriest) half of War of the Worlds the evening after you had a vividly violent dream about being a WWI soldier makes total sense, right?

Can someone pass me a night light? And check for zombies, aliens and the enemy under my bed? Please?

*whimper*

Eeew.

It's interesting what you can find in the produce department. Today it was a nose-picking yahoo in a Leaf jersey on a cell phone. He was wandering around like he owned the place, digging for gold with both his thumb and index finger.

I heard him before I saw him, and as I turned towards the noise, I happened to lock eyes with him while he was knuckle deep in a nasal hole.

Gross. So very, very gross. All I could think was that he was going to wander about willy nilly, touching fruit and vegetables with his snotty little fingers.

He stopped his tunneling when he saw that he had an audience and with the bravado that only this kind of jackass can muster, he wiped his hand all over the Maple Leafs and strutted about like a peacock, telling whoever he was talking to about "the fucking hottest chick" he'd ever seen.

It was almost worse than the nose picking.

I plan my route at the grocery store. Fruit and veg, meat then bread. Sometimes bread then meat, depending on the flow of traffic. This guy, so enchanted with himself and the memory of the fucking hot chick, wove in and out of the entire area like a silverback gorilla with ADHD.

And, somehow, despite my methodical route-taking and his random strutting, it appeared as though I was trailing him. Everywhere I went, there he was.

The horror.

The very last thing I wanted was for him to think that any part of me was even remotely enchanted with any part of him.

If they ever wanted to make a remake of Saturday Night Fever with a main character who wore hockey jerseys and picked his nose in public, this guy would be a shoe-in for the lead.

The last thing I heard him say as he wandered by the meat counter grabbing packages of chicken and beef, was that he was heading to the gym.

Poor gym. But lucky, lucky grocery store.

Sometimes people, just by being, annoy the crap out of me.

Harrumph.

It was groovy

Are...are those AGE spots on my hands???

The gray hair wasn't enough of a giveaway, I suppose.

____

Yesterday I spent a few hours in the neglected back garden and got a sunburn on my back.

Despite the age spot issue (and the annoying kink in my lower back), today I feel like I'm 7. Back in the day I'd run around all summer in my bathing suit at the cottage and go back to school looking like a gingerbread cookie. Minus the icing.

It was the 70s. No such thing as sunblock. I got burned, then tanned deeply and spent the rest of the summer with a golden hue that people these days would pay good money for at a tanning salon.

I miss the 70s. Not because of the carefree tans, but because of the carefree ME. It would be years before my Dad would have his first heart attack and grind my childhood to a screceching halt. It would be decades before I would start losing babies.

It was golden.

______

Friday night we went to the neighbours' for beer and snacks. I had a lot of both and stumbled my way home giggling with my similarly soused spouse.

But apparently a good beer buzz (the best I've had since long before Thomas was born) isn't what it used to be. Or perhaps I'm not.

My Beloved fell asleep instantly. While I lay in bed curled up beside him, my mind drifted quickly and unexpectedly to Thomas and I found myself quietly whispering endless apologies to My Beloved while he slept.

I really thought I'd moved past that raw, bleeding guilt. I swear did.

But beer, it seems, brings it out in me.

Good to know.

_____

See? SEE why I miss the 70s?

MOVE

I've kept myself very busy today. I'm not sure why, exactly, but for some reason I can't stop moving.

Sorting, cleaning, organizing, painting. Move. Move. Move. Every time I stop I see something else that needs to be done, and before I'm even aware that I've started, I'm halfway through that task too.

I have no specific reason for this flurry of activity - I'm not aware that I'm running from anything or worried about anything beyond the regular anxieties that crowd my brain these days - but just the same, I can't stop.

I've had weird stress dreams the last few nights too. The kind where you can't find your locker and when you do you can't remember the combination, but it doesn't really matter anyway because you have no idea what classes you're in or what books you need for the classes you can't remember. And then you miss your bus.

That kind.

So I'm lost at school at night, and busy creating order during the day.

I think what's most frustrating is that the more I clean, sort, organize and paint, the more I see that there is to clean, sort, organize and paint.

Maybe that's why I keep moving. There's just so much to do I can't stop.

Delightful.

I so need a cookie.

When things are bad and getting worse...

...keep a cookie in your purse.

Honey Oatmeal Cookies
(low-ish fat!)

1/4 stick margarine or butter, softened
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 cup honey
2 large egg whites
2 cups oats
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 350.

In a large bowl, beat margarine, brown sugar and white sugar until well blended. It will have the consistency of wet sand. Add honey and egg white and beat until well blended and smooth.

In a medium bowl, combine oats, flour, baking soda and salt. Add to the honey mixture along with any additions (such as dried fruit, nuts or chocolate chips) and stir by hand just until combined.

Drop large spoonfuls of dough 2" apart on a cookie sheet that has been sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake for 12 - 14 minutes, until golden around the edges but still soft in the middle. Transfer to wire rack and cool.

Makes 2 dozen.


Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm an emotional eater. Whatever. Sometimes you just need a cookie. And, even more than that, you need to not feel guilty about it while you're eating it.

So go on then, have a cookie.

In fact, let's just turn this into a meme, shall we? If you're reading this and you're so inclined, go back to your own blog and post one of your favourite cookie recipes there. Let's spread the love (and, just for tonight, ignore the spread of our asses).

Annnnnd go!

P.S. Make sure to come back and leave me a comment so I can follow you back to your cookies, okay? This is a CRITICAL step. I have a big purse. And a million crises. I need all the help I can get...

Making good use of it

Today I spent several hours in a small bathroom singing to cats. Okay, part of the time I was on the phone, and sometimes I was just reading aloud from the adoption literature I'd brought along with me to pass the time, but still - I am the official cat whisperer.

And this is how I know I love my sibling. She moved, and I was the cat wrangler for her two spastic and fantastically unsociable felines.

The thing is, I was able to soothe them. Enough that one crept out from under the bathroom vanity to use the litterbox in the shower (delightful - nothing like close quarters cat stank), and the other repeatedly emerged from the murky depths to slink over and head butt my leg in an attempt to garner pets and affection.

And it made me feel good in that, "look what I can do with my unused mothering instincts", kind way. When I can use them - even if it happens to be on two frightened little cats - it makes me feel incredible. And really, finally useful. Like THAT is what I'm here for.

Not to sit on bathroom floors singing to cats, specifically, but to soothe and comfort and nurture and love. Something. Someone.

It was a strangely good day.

Despite the stink of litter.

Wonder of wonders

A good day.

My blood pressure was normal. The doctor was kind. I left happy.

I visited the cemetery on a whim (without feeling that I was dragging the weight of a million tons sorrow behind me), and actually had a very peaceful, sweet visit with my boy.

My lovely sibling gave me a present she's had wrapped up for three years and four months. It was for Thomas - a basket full of beautiful gifts she was going to bring to the hospital when he was born. She's moving (and purging) and was planning to donate it, but asked if I wanted it - or at least wanted to see it - before it departed the premises. I ended up bringing it all home with me. For what, I don't exactly know, but I needed it. It somehow made me hopeful, and when you find hope you hang onto it with all your might. Even if it comes in a little wicker basket.

I had an egg salad sandwich for dinner. On the couch. In front of the TV.

The laundry is done. Mostly.

It's Friday.

My Beloved is finally home after a horrible, long, busy week of late nights and ridiculous stress. He's all mine for two straight days. And we will have fun if he can stay awake.

I have flank steak for the BBQ. Or hot dogs if we're not feeling fancy. Cozy summer weekend food.

We made a decision. No surgery. At least for now. My Beloved suggested we just stop the torment and choose what we were both leaning towards anyway. His plan, and I love it, is to reassess how we're feeling about it in a couple of months - see if it's still sitting okay in our head and hearts. I am 38 and have a million strikes against me, but we needn't allow time to bully us. And today, I feel some peace.

A good day all 'round.

What would YOU do?

I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know.

I just don't know.

Memories

Except for the fact that he wasn't there when we needed him to be because he was in surgery delivering someone else's child, I don't remember very much about the OB who delivered Thomas.

He wasn't around all that much. I think he came in just once before the decision to move to a C-section was made after 19 hours of labor and three hours of OB-less pushing.

But I do remember the brief visit he paid to us in my hospital room the day Thomas died.

It was evening, and dim in my room. He hovered near the door, reluctant to move further in, and he leaned almost casually against the wall.

He had the unfortunate nervous habit of punctuating everything he said with a smile. And now, as I look back, it's horrifying to think that he should have stood there grinning just hours after my child died while telling me that "next time" they'd do a C-section at 37 weeks and all would be fine.

Next time. Fine. Sure.

In my haze of shock and grief I found this comforting. I grabbed his words and held them tightly to me. Next time. Good, we'll just sweep this present catastrophe away and look to next time when everything will work out just perfectly.

I suppose it's what he had to do to sweep away whatever feelings of culpability he may have had. Promise the stricken parents that you've figured out a foolproof way for this not to happen again. There. Done. Ahhhhh, much better.

It was the last time we saw him. I was there for a full 6 days, and he came in just once. His ridiculous grinning and blathering was finally interrupted by the coroner and he bid a hasty and grateful retreat.

Funny what comes back to you for no good reason.

I wonder if he ever thinks of us. I wonder if he remembers us at all. I often imagine people leaving me to run gratefully home to their own lives, and if anyone had cause and opportunity to do just that, it was certainly him.

20 more reasons to be happy...

1. The cat managed to contain her vomit to the mat in the bathroom instead of choosing the hardwood floors or a carpet that can't be picked up and thrown into the washing machine.

2. It was just a dream. I don't actually have to use an open toilet situated in the middle of an occupied boardroom.

3. As long as I use the right product and don't move my head around too much during the process, my hair looks passably fine when it's air dried.

4. The fact that my hair takes hours to completely air dry must mean that I have a lot of it and will likely never go bald.

5. The CNE has a "Food Products" day. I smell free samples.

6. 2 for 1 roasting chickens. Technically this was something that made me happy yesterday when I went out to score my free chicken, but it counts since I'm still basking in the afterglow of an excellent deal today.

7. All of a sudden there are four huge lemon cucumbers in our garden. After weeks of fussing and worrying, there they are.

8. No one can tell you're procrastinating when you freelance from home. Unless they read your blog.

9. We don't have a pool and can't take a vacation this summer, so I don't need to subject myself to the horror of purchasing a new bathing suit.

10. I've only had to drag the sprinkler out twice this summer. Mother Nature has seen fit to provide all the rest of my lawn watering needs.

11. I have mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer.

12. I'm tall enough to reach the freezer.

13. I ate two raspberries straight off our tiny raspberry bush and they were as good as I remembered from my childhood days of picking wild raspberries at the cottage.

14. I did not have to share my raspberries with worms or insects of any kind. At least not that I noticed.

15. My therapist said she will help me manage my anxiety if I decide to have the exploratory surgery my OB recommended last week.

16. My therapist said there is peace in deciding to stop. There is peace in making a decision, period.

17. The hospital where Thomas was born and died responded favourably to my offer to help them add a prayer shawl element to their infant loss bereavement program.

18. I know people who I can ask for help before meeting with the hospital since I have no clue how to set up a prayer shawl program.

19. I'm not afraid to act when inspiration hits, even when I'm mostly clueless about what I've been inspired to do.

20. The fact that I still somehow manage to get inspired every now and then means that life hasn't completely beaten me down.

Capturing a Short Life

From the Facebook group...

Capturing A Short Life is a beautifully photographed documentary film, that combines verité and interview footage with still photography, to detail the stories of four families who are dealing, in an immediate sense, with the loss of a newborn baby.

In a sensitive, intimate manner, this film explores the emotional, medical and ethical choices that parents are often faced with when they are told that their baby is incompatible with life.

Although this subject matter is impossibly sad, the lives and relationships that evolve, even in this context, are not.

This is not a film about death, it is, rather, a story about how critical it is to remember and celebrate the lives of these beautiful babies who are only with us for a moment, and how impossible it is to forget them.


The documentary is being screened at the Rhode Island International Film Festival on Wednesday August 6th at 5:00pm at the Columbus Theatre Arts Centre.

I imagine that the majority of people who will go to see this film will be people whose lives have been touched by this kind of loss, but it's still so great to see the "uncomfortable" subject of infant loss being taken out of the deep, dark shadows and explored openly and honestly.

If there's one thing I'd like to see in my lifetime, it's pregnancy and infant loss not being treated like an icky little secret that no one wants to acknowledge. It's too hard for grieving parents to carry the entire burden of remembrance.

Because it's easier

Sometimes it's just easier to sit and look at a flower than it is to try and figure out what to do next.

So, in the absence of logic and direction and clarity, I humbly say "uncle".

Tonight I'm just going to sit and look at a flower.

This date in history

A year ago today I found out that I was pregnant with the twins. Those two lines (on a test I was only taking because I was convinced I had cancer or some terrible disease causing what I thought was mid-cycle spotting) marked the start of a six-week nightmare. Joy. Fleeting hope. Despair. Resignation. Fear. Sorrow.

Four years ago today I found out that I was pregnant with Thomas. Those two lines (on a test I took because I knew I was pregnant) marked the start of the sweetest 8 months of my life. Until that too ended in unthinkable sorrow.

Today passed quietly and uneventfully. I didn't pee on any sticks because this July 11th there was no need to.

The triggers are everywhere and the ghosts of both happier times and desperate times loom large. The smell of summer skin, garden blossoms, the hot pavement after it rains - they all remind me of being pregnant and not being pregnant.

Summer isn't always all it's cracked up to be.

Letter #2

Dear God,

The following headline, in a prominent spot on my online news page, would seem to indicate that you didn't find my last letter all that amusing:

Motherhood "so much fun," says Jamie Lynn Spears


Fine. I'll stop ragging on breedingly-abled celebrities if you'll cool it with the Spears big baby fun headlines. And maybe ease up on the Brangelina twin watch stuff too, while you're at? Pretty Please?

I do have to thank you for cushioning the blow with the Woman finds baby bat in bra, thought it was cellphone headline immediately below the Spears one though. Classy move.

Regards,
Kristin

A letter

Dear God,

I just read that Nicole Kidman named her new baby "Sunday Rose". There are a lot of successful celebrity pregnancies resulting in healthy babies who end up with pretty odd names. You know, stuff like Apple, Peaches, Pixie, Banjo, Speck Wildhorse, Bluebell Madonna, Fifi Trixibelle, Moon Unit, Ocean, Poppy Honey, Daisy Boo, Tallulah, Suri, Kal-el, Pilot Inspektor, and Denim, to name but a few.

I've been thinking about this phenomenon, and it occurs to me that that maybe you really like weird names. Maybe it pleases you, which is why so many questionable celebrity parents end up with happy (or at least healthy) spawn.

Spawn. Hmmm, I wonder if that one's been taken?

Anyway, If I promise name a baby after a piece of fruit, a relative of Superman, a pair of pants, or maybe even a funny sound My Beloved makes, will you consider sending us a healthy baby too?

Just wondering.

Regards,
Kristin

Perspective

A family across the street is having a garage sale this morning. They have two little boys, one born a few months after Thomas, the other about a year old.

Little boy outfits are strung in the trees and bushes on their front lawn, and little boy toys, a bouncy seat, a bathtub and a play mat are lined up along the asphalt waiting to be sold.

I lingered by the window, watching a woman pick through a box of baby clothes, thinking about the boxes of baby things I have in my basement. The idea of selling off Thomas' things is unthinkable. I just couldn't do it. We've donated some items and given others away to friends with babies, but selling his things on the driveway? I couldn't do it.

It's interesting what value your child's things have when he never got a chance to use any of them.

Picture Friday

Bible sky.





Hmm, so apparently it's NOT a pot of gold. It's that guy's house. Good to know.





The sky is looking at me with its one big weird eye. But it's okay. I looked back with my two suspicious ones. We're totally even now.





"Lady X" After a rainstorm. She looks MUCH nicer than I do after I'm caught in a downpour. Lucky bitch.




Dirty Scrabulous. *giggle giggle*

20 reasons to be happy...

...even though I'm grumbly and whiny:


1. The suspicious dark mole I found in the shower turned out to be lint.

2. I have a stash of Baker's chocolate. And I know how to use it.

3. Whatever glued itself to my eyeball (which I only noticed when I had it squished tight as I rinsed my hair) dislodged itself with no apparent injury or lasting ill effects.

4. The questionable hot dogs I ate for lunch yesterday obviously weren't bad. My tummy feels fine.

5. You CAN leave opened hot dogs in the fridge for more than three days, contrary to everything my Mother has always taught me.

6. Beer and wings with friends tomorrow night.

7. Leftovers for lunch.

8. Yarn, yarn and more yarn.

9. A good hair day, even if there's no one here to see it.

10. My ankle cancer seems to have gone away.

11. Hypochondria is far less frightening than cancer.

12. It's cool enough to have all the windows open.

13. The message I just picked up saying someone had accessed our bank account and withdrawn $4000 was a crank call.

14. I noticed the piece of black bean skin stuck between my teeth before anyone else did.

15. I finally managed to identify the funky smell in the refrigerator (coming from a tub of Ricotta cheese that was, allegedly, still good for another week).

16. The sun has replaced the rain and gloom of the morning.

17. Laundry blowing on the drying rack outside.

18. The promise of a proper retractable laundry umbrella (in lieu of a clothesline which we have no room for).

19. 5 cups of cleaned, chopped, fresh rhubarb recently stashed in the freezer.

20. Broad beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, onions and peppers all flourishing in our vegetable garden and pots.


Ahhhh, that's MUCH better.

Oh, if only it was this easy...

Sigh...

Yarn therapy

I know it's vain, but I was just so proud of this blankie I had to share. It was sent to a very special friend and her new baby girl.

I'm currently working on a slightly more masculine afghan for My Beloved's birthday. Also good therapy.

Apparently any kind of yarn play works for me.

And that's the hooker report for Friday June 27th.

For clarity..

For everyone who has left comments in the last few days, thank you so much for the wonderful, supportive thoughts, as well the advice, suggestions and offers to listen and help. I appreciate it so much. As those in the trenches know, it can be a lonely, frightening, confusing battle, and having so many people on your side who are willing to truly listen and be there no matter what means everything.

I just want to reassure everyone that I'm very comfortable with my OB (who is not the one who did the sonohysterogram last week - he could have done it blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back and I wouldn't have felt a thing. He's good. He's very good). I trust his advice and his methods and I appreciate his compassion and the genuine care and concern he has shown for us during this journey.

Being at a fertility clinic staffed by a stable of OBs, I'm at the mercy of whoever is on duty the day I head in for monitoring or for a test. I only see my OB when I make an appointment to go over results or to touch base. I just happened to end up with a dud last week, which, in my experience, hasn't happened very often.

Any lags in treatment have been my doing, for the most part. I have no control over the time it takes to get appointments or schedule surgery, but in every other respect My Beloved and I are driving the bus. After the miscarriage last summer I needed a break from the clinic. We felt that since I conceived the twins naturally, we could walk away with confidence. Well, as much confidence as you can have under circumstances like ours. I had follow-up blood work done to rule out clotting disorders and then we walked away.

The miscarriage shattered me in a way I hadn't expected. The winter was dark and hard, and I needed the peace of normalcy. I needed to be away from dildocams and doctors and the torment of monthly poking, prodding and endless exploration. I felt broken, body and soul, and needed time to heal.

I went back to the clinic in May because it felt like the right time to return, and I had some questions I needed answered. The clinic-less gap between last August and May was my doing.

If I was younger and had more mental stamina I might consider hunting down a second or third opinion, but aside from the fact that I really do trust my OB, I just don't have it in me to start from scratch. I can't do all of this all over again. I've had an HSG, three or four IUI's, endless cycles of monitoring, a laproscopy, Clomid, bloodwork and a traumatic miscarriage in the middle of all of it. I can't start again.

At some point you have to know when to say "enough" and let it be. I want a child. But I want my sanity too. And I don't want to lose out on what I have now because all I'm doing is focusing on what I don't have instead. That's no way to live.

We have an appointment to see my OB on the 14th of July to go over the sonohysterogram test results, and at that point we'll figure out where we're headed.

And we'll do it together, My Beloved and I. Just like we always have. His proclamation that we were "done" was simply his way of making sure that I knew that it was okay with him if I needed to stop - that he didn't expect more of me than I could handle.

I knew that. And I love him for it.

So I'm okay. We're okay. And eventually, probably sooner rather than later, we'll make a decision about what the future holds.

Thank you again for your concern. I appreciate it more than you know.

Love the one you're with

P.S. Thanks so much for all the comments - and the concern and advice. I have so much in my head right now, a picture is all I have the energy for.

How?

I have a high threshold of pain. I do. Really, I do. But three attempts at a saline sonohysterogram? (Which, in case you've never had one, involves a clamp and a catheter - and that should be all I need to say for you to understand why, upon attempt three, I thought I was going to die).

But I could have endured that quite handily. Even the emergency run they made to get a tech who they thought might be able to get a better picture of my uterus. Even the repeated injections of saline. Even the failed attempts being blamed on my tipped uterus (and not the OB's incompetence). I could have dealt with it all had they been able to give us good news. Or at least conclusive news.

One OB, two techs, 49 million gallons of saline and that fucking clamp on and off three times.

And at the end? Something. What, they don't know. But something. Probably scar tissue. Maybe scar tissue?

They don't know.

I sat there in a puddle of saline, gel and blood while they told me they just weren't sure what it was they saw, but that there appears to be a blockage of some sort in my uterus.

The OB who did the test (and God help both of us if I ever lay eyes on her again) recommended surgery to determine what exactly it was that they couldn't see. That's what she put in her notes to my OB.

My OB, who I can't see for another three weeks. And only that soon because I lost my shit on the phone with the clinic when they tried to tell me it would be August before I could get in front of him to discuss the fact that there's something lurking in my uterus that's likely the cause of last 12 months of failure.

A spot magically opened up on July 14th when I went into meltdown mode.

So, all in all, it's been a shitty week.

No one has told us we need to stop - or should stop. But this broke me in a way nothing has before. I barely made it out to the car before I burst into tears, scaring the shit out of My Beloved who had no idea what exactly I was crying about.

It was just too much.

I'm not a pussy - I sailed through my HSG, the IUIs and my C-section recovery, even after hemorrhaging and getting a blood infection. I'm strong and stubborn. But this? Somehow it was just too much. It hurt like hell (I'm not sure, but I think she was digging for gold), I'm still spotting five days later, and we have no clear answers. Only the specter of another surgery lurking in the darkness before us.

But I don't know if I can do it. I don't know if I have anything left. Like I said, I thought I would walk to the ends of the earth to have another child. But maybe this is what the end looks like. Me, completely out of courage and mental stamina. And hope.

"That's it. We're done. No more." Was My Beloved's conclusion upon finally calming me down enough to allow me to tell him what had gone on in the little exam room.

My Mother agrees. So does his. So do I. Mostly...

But part of me is down on my knees begging someone to tell me how you stop when you have nothing to show for your five years of effort except for an ever increasing stack of therapy receipts, a basement full of unused baby things, and a tiny grave marker.

How? How?