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.