i'm off

Grand Forks, watch yo'self! Despite Ralph's best attempts to keep me home, I leave for the airport for my trip to GF in a few minutes. After many hours of laundry and packing yesterday (packing, by the way, my most favorite new carry-on sized suitcase) Ralph relieved himself atop of my clothing and suitcase late last night. Not a happy time at our house right about then. So, I got to stay up until the wee hours laundering and scrubbing and trying to get my weekend wardrobe clean and free of the stench of cat pee. Thankfully, the bridesmaid dress was NOT packed yet. Yikes.

I'm probably more excited to go to Grand Forks than anyone has ever been to go to Grand Forks. Trees with colors! Alpha Phi! The Ralph (not Ralph the pee-er, Ralph the stadium)! Canadian accents! I'm sure the wedding will be fabulous, and I could just cry thinking of how happy it will make me to be in the company of my very best friends.

Boring entry, but there should be much more to say by next week.

cleanup, aisle 4

Oh, I'm just so thrilled that Knocked Up is now out on DVD. You know, because it's superfun to watch Katherine Heigl's dumbfounded shock at her accidental pregnancy on the commercials playing over and over and over. "Oops, got pregnant on accident with some schlubby pot smoking loser, and of course it's going to stick and be healthy and end in a baby! What the hell is a miscarriage anyway?" J and I went to see this about a month after miscarriage #1. I thought I was ready and I just really wanted some greasy, salty, tongue-numbing popcorn. I was wrong about the whole "being ready" thing. As the credits rolled (awesome- pictures of the cast members/crew as teeny tiny babies with their moms) I sat there sobbing and gasping and wheezing and J just sat there all helpless because he kind of knew all along that going to this movie was a baaaad idea but had quickly caught on that you don't fight with the hormones, you do as they say, so we went and it ended badly. So you can imagine my joy walking through WalMart today and spying the big huge rack of Knocked Up DVDs. Remember the movie Mean Girls, how Lindsay Lohan's character would have those crazy visions of herself doing inappropriate things? That was me in WalMart. I pictured myself grabbing ahold of the rack, knocking it over with gusto, and jumping up and down and all around stomping the crap out of those stupid DVDs. Then running over the whole awesome mess over and over and over again with my creaky wheeled cart. (How do I ALWAYS get the creaky wheeled cart?) Anyway, I literally had to shake off that daydream and remind myself to keep walking towards the grocery aisle.

I have the same Lindsay Lohan crazy visions thinking about Thansgiving (casserole tossing, wine chugging, platter breaking). Due date #1 was November 27, and I remember not so long ago thinking I would just absolutely positively die if I wasn't pregnant again by then. In my mind, that would be the worst possible thing that could happen. Pffft. Way to go, dummy. See how much worse it could be? I remember imagining our families coming in for the long weekend, watching football and shoving our faces, all the while on alert for possible contractions or sudden rushes to the hospital. I wish life had a rewind/redo button. I want that Thanksgiving back. This Thanksgiving capital-S-sucks.

So I posted on the nest (my beloved and very supportive message board specifically for those going through a pregnancy loss) about feeling a bit down and angry about things today. I've got one fantastic friend on there, a sweet and witty east coaster in the midst of all kinds of adoption craziness who suffered multiple losses of her own. She's upbeat and encouraging and very good at making me feel more normal. I confessed that I'd made the mistake of venturing over to the pregnancy board where I tortured myself by viewing a post from a girl due right smack dab in the middle of April (aka, EDD #2) celebrating the news of her latest and greatest ultrasound and as a result, I had a total damn meltdown (happy for her, devastated for me). In my emotional freak-out I mentioned that while for the most part I'm getting by okay, sometimes there are these wild moments where I feel like I'm thisclose to retreating into a cozy bathrobe and spending my days talking to my cats. This lovely friend offered the following advice, which I deemed so humorous and comforting that it had to be rebroadcasted here for me to read over when I need a giggle (Jill, I hope that's okay): Mandie, You are right. It is not fair. I hate that you are going through this. I have fooled around looking at other boards and usually come away sobbing and mumbling to my stuffed animal (Dudley) the duck who wants to throw himself off the roof to escape my ramblings, but deep down he knows he can't fly. So talking to your cats really is not that crazy. Now, if you lose the bathrobe, and run down the street talking to say, shrubbery, we'll revisit crazy. You are just rightfully upset, grieving, and madder than hell.

Note to self: keep on the robe, don't talk to shrubbery. I think I can handle that. Sometimes just knowing there's a kindred soul out there murmering to her duck makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

Thankful for: my recipe not flopping tonight, J's excitement over his new finance position, my wreath (yes- still), helping G with his e-harmony/future wife finder, time spent in the yard today with the fancy felines, 47 short hours until GFK touchdown

crafts+margs=monday

Why didn't anyone ever tell me there was a Pottery Barn alternative that would save me about a bajillion dollars AND make J believe that his lovely homemaking wife actually passed Home Ec? Check out my freakin' work of art:

A WREATH! And I MADE it! That masterpiece would have cost me $70+ at P'Barn. 15 minutes at Hobby Lobby, $7, and 10 minutes of assembly.... and presto! A fantastic fall wreath at 90% savings! Forget that it's 92 degrees outside and the neighbor kids are running through the sprinklers, at my house, it's FALL. Look at the calendar, folks. I'm a bit proud of myself, so much so that when I left the house after hanging The Wreath, I swung back around the block once more to check out that house with the bitchin' wreath, as I'm sure we'll soon be known as. I bet before long I've got neighbors lined up asking wherever did I get that beauty and where can they get their own. Just watch. (Or, back in the real world....someone steals it. Probably more likely over here a smidgit to the east of 35.) See, I'm on to the part of my grief where I channel all my misery into doing things. This afternoon, it came down to decorating or eating. As I'd really like to fit into this weekend's bridesmaid dress without investing in Spanx or going into anna mode, decorating seemed the better selection. And so cheap it's almost free decorating? Sheesh. I'm good. And totally not unaware of the fact that I'm attempting to forget that we should be finishing up an adorable primary colored airplane mural or some flowery pink border in what would have been the nursery by maniacally decking out the house for autumnal harvest. Blah. As much as I tried to stomp out that taunting little voice in the back of my head....it's there. And it's not chased away by any amount of shopping, decorating, eating, OR margarita drinking. Which leads me to......

Happier news: tonight, I had my very first friend-blind-date. L and I have been emailing back and forth for months about our respective crappola ripoff totally unfair miscarriages. Tonight, we met for margaritas (and a bit of food to soak up the margaritas). The boys were amused last night when I told them of my plans, smugly convinced my internet friend would either stand me up or be a bore, a loony, or a serial killer.....but little did they know, L is fabulous and lots of fun and very unlikely to kill me unless I try to take off with her fantastic (and verrry real) LV. Although the instigating factor of this new friendship pretty much sucks, I am happy to report she's right up there on the "coolest people I've met so far in Austin" list.

Thankful for: my wreath, if you've been paying any attention at all. A new friend. The Bachelor in all its' tasteless glory. The margarita in my belly. Mom's visit in two weeks. David Letterman.

el television

I'm embarassed on my own behalf. If a stranger were given the opportunity to examine my DVR settings, they'd conclude the user is about 14 years old, lacking anything resembling a social life, and tacky as hell. Exhibit A: The new Josh Schwartz (aka the genious who bettered the earth with my all time favorite.... The OC) show, Gossip Girl. One episode in, and I'm in lurve. There's the Seth Cohen-esque Dan, the Marissa-ish Serena, and her KiKi-clone mother, Serena's mom. It's like Josh realized how he'd broken my heart by allowing The OC to crash and burn in season 4 and bestowed this gift upon me. I feel at ease again, for one hour a week on CW, at least. Then there's The Hills. I can't get enough! Will Elodie tell off Heidi? Why are LC's brows so dark? What is UP with Audrina and that JustinBobby guy? And the lamest of the lame- Kid Nation. YES, the one with the kids. The 8-15 year old kids. Ugh, I'm so ashamed. But it's heartwarming! And my troubles don't stop there. Premier week has also rotted/will rot my brain with the following: The Bachelor (he's from Austin! it would be nearly illegal not to watch), Beauty and the Geek, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team (for some odd reason J is totally okay with this one), the Sunday night double punch of Desperate Housewives AND Brothers & Sisters, the obligatory Gray's obsession, the new spin off with Addison, Friday Night Lights (excused- supporting the local economy), and finally, I'm holding out hope that the Trumpster will be back with another type-A packed dramafest Apprentice competition. It's like the tougher my life gets, the lower-brow my TV selections become. Escapism, people!

J's back from the neighbors' and speaking Spanglish. Someone's had a bit too much fun with Carlos and/or a few too many drinks. Buenos noches.

stupid pictures, stupid wine

Who would have thought it possible that pictures of J as a little kid could break my heart? Left alone at the in laws' for the night, I spied an old photo album on the bookshelf. It's one I vaguely remember us paging through years ago as giddy collegiates in a new relationship, snuggled onto the couch late at night on one of my first visits to meet his family. He was merely looking at old photos, reliving his past.....I was dreaming and planning and envisioning our future family (middle names and all) a la Kate Hudson in "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days". I remember how those photos made me feel back then, 5 or so years ago, when marriage was a distinct possibility but far from a certainty. I knew I wanted to marry J and hoped he felt the same way- but at 21 or 22, we only danced around that topic, neither of us wanting to be the first to jump that gun and send the other running back to greek mixers and random makeouts. Where was I going with this? Oh, the photos. So back then, they made me feel hopeful, made my heart skip a little thinking of the two of us someday creating a little blonde headed monster that looked like the grinning little guy with the mischevious glint in his eyes. It nearly took my breath away to think we may someday be husband and wife and welcome to the world a little version of the two of us. Back then, when having children was a "we will"....not an unsettlingly vague hope or wish or dream. Tonight, the photos knocked me on my ass in a way I couldn't have imagined. Seeing this little guy of 3 or 4 horseplaying with his little sister, momentarily pausing the action to grin at his mom on a slide in Scotland, squirming beside his dad on some urban European street....made me hurt for the babies we've lost. Especially the first one, the one in my heart I know was a boy. Would he have had those same curious curls? The same energetic, glowing blue eyes? It even hurts to look at his young, gorgeous parents- so happy and fulfilled in a way I just always assumed we would be, too, the moment we were ready. I do know in my heart we'll be parents. I know that. But I wish that I could somehow have been prepared for the journey those aspirations would take us on. Wondering about these lost babies and staring down at those photos hurts me in a way I can only describe as a total emotional and physical pain, a proverbial elephant not just in the room but planted right on top of my chest, making it hard to breathe or move or do anything but choke back a sob and get another glass of wine. The pain of that dull lump in my throat, a longing for what should have been ours in two short months. Two months! A pain so insufficiently dulled by the large glass (fine, glasses) of Riesling I poured after slamming the dusty album closed and placing it carefully back up on the shelf, wishing I'd never taken it down. A pain that feels as if my body is hollow, all my hopes and dreams for our family scooped away and disposed of before the anesthesia wore off.

So sad.

hiatus in houston

Going to Houston was a good decision. I miss Ralph and George, but Uncle Geoff seems to have it all under control in the cat-sitting department. (And really, how hard is it? As long as you don't forget their morning Sheba, in which case you'll likely require stitches at some point later in the day.....they're pretty self sufficient.) The change of scenery is helpful, and it broke up my busy schedule of crying, sleeping, and crying more. J has been busy all week with training downtown, so I've had a chance to hang out with MIL and eat chocolate. You may not find balanced meals in this house, but she's ALWAYS got chocolate on hand! It's been a nice week. Still tough to deal with certain things at certain times, but the distraction is good for me.

Morning 1: MIL was up and out early to teach at the college, leaving me and the pups home alone. I woke up around 8 and didn't bother getting changed out of my pajamas before heading downstairs. I'm wearing tiny boxer shorts and a worn and torn old t-shirt (UND Homecoming 1984- this shirt shows its' 23 years of wear and tear). No shoes, no bra, no problem...I thought. Until I stepped onto the back patio to give the dogs their food. The door shuts behind me and because I'm so full of craptastic luck these days....it locks. I know it before I even try the handle. I just know. Oh, *&^%$#@'n fabulous. At that point normal, non-hormonally imbalanced people would have checked the windows or logically figured out an alternative entrance. Not this nutjob! I sat down and sobbed. And sobbed. I'm outside, I'm half dressed, I have no idea when MIL gets home, I'm in the company of three dogs who think we're playing some super fun game, and obviously I have no phone. Even if I had a phone, I have no idea what MIL's cell number is (who memorizes numbers these days?) After about a half hour I decide I've got two options: a) hang out in the yard all day, pee in a bucket in the garage, go into Survivor mode and tough this out as the mercury climbs to 95...or b) suck it up and start knocking on doors until I find someone home with a phone. I went with Option B, found a friend and neighbor of the IL's, and an hour and 20 phone calls to J's phone to get his mother's number later, had the code to the hide-a-key box and, phew, back inside with AC and toilets. And chocolate. I took it as a karmic sign to appreciate the little things- you know, like the fact that I don't live outside or pee in a garage.

I'm in a decent mood today because in exactly 1 week and 7 hours, I get to see:

MY FRIENDS! Sara gets married next weekend and we'll all be back in Grand Forks to partake in the festivities. I can't wait. Since my family has moved around so much, going back to GF gives me that feeling of going home. Although it smells like rotten beets when the weather's warm and ranks right up there with Antarctica when the weather's cold (aka: October through May), that city saw a whole lot of fun times for me in the early 2000s. Briefly- it's where I met my husband, where I learned the true meaning of friendship from girls who were there no matter the time or place, and where I had the fantastic and enviable opportunity to bend over in a miniscule green skirt in front of 10,000 green clad hockey fans as a part of the Chuck a Puck competition. In a trying time when I sometimes struggle to recall who I was or what I enjoyed even six months ago, going back to GF will probably remind me of how much fun I was/how much fun I had before being bitten by the rotten baby bug. I may come home with a hangover, but when that clears, I think I'll be a bit happier too.

raw eggs & aspartame

I'm looking at the bright side and eating for one and indulging my taste buds whenever and however possible. Anything forbidden during pregnancy is now a go-to food. Hot dogs, one of the first items banished from the moment of the test, were all I ate the first week after this miscarriage was diagnosed. Not that I have much of an appetite (and this eating once a day thing, my waistline and I don't mind) but when I do chow, I make sure I eat something entirely artificial and/or off limits to women "in the family way". See today's breakfast/lunch/dinner:

Yum. Washed down with a aspartame-full Diet Coke, natch. Nothing like some cookie dough to start Saturday off with a bang.

I had a D&C yesterday. Yes, the very procedure I fought for 12 long, wearisome days to avoid. I called in early yesterday morning to leave a message for the nurses inquiring about Thursday's hormone levels. Cell phone close at hand, I headed to the store and loaded my cart with all the necessities we've been lacking since my self-imposed house arrest began. My phone rings. It's Nurse K, and she sounds utterly unimpressed with the results of my lab work. My HCG isn't dropping, I'm still pregnant, they want me not to be. "Have you eaten or drank this morning" she asks. Nope. And she tells me they want me in immediately for a D&C. She tells me Dr. S isn't a fan of having his patients sit for too long waiting for a miscarriage to happen, and that after 12 days, they think I've been through enough torture. They want this over with before the weekend. I can't even explain what a relief it is to have a doctor just TAKE CONTROL. I leave the full cart in the greeting card aisle and book it out of there. An hour later, I'm dressed for surgery and J and I finally meet the wonderful Dr. S. And I'm pleased to report, he appears to be just as fantastic as the masses have indicated. Within 5 seconds, I felt a sense of ease I've been longing to feel for weeks. He was sympathetic but at the same time confident in our ability to have children. He assured us he has never seen a couple have 2 losses and NOT go on to have as many babies as they want to have. He has a game plan and we'll figure this out. I'm impressed and inspired.

I'm also brunette. As I awoke from anesthesia, the first thing I ask J is the time. He tells me it's 1:00 and I realize the 4:30 hair appointment I cancelled en route to the surgery could still easily be made. Still groggy, I request (he might say demand) he go call the salon and get my appointment back. He looks dubious but wastes no time leaving the room to make the call. The nurse looked either amused or confused, I don't quite care which, I wanted pretty hair. And I got it. I feel somehow wiser and more mature all of the sudden. Here's hoping brown-hair-Mandie has more fortune than blonde-hair-Mandie.

retail therapy

Here I sit, waiting for the nurse to call, hoping to God she tells me my numbers have nosedived further since Tuesday and surgery won't be necessary. It seems like nurse calls are made somewhere between 5:00pm and 7:00pm, so I'm thinking it may be later before I get word of my status. But of course, I'm glued to the house, refusing to leave for one moment and miss the call. Not that I have anywhere to be, but this is torturous. The good news- I did make it in and out of Dr. S's this morning without seeing even ONE pregnant woman, so I do deserve a pat on the back for those efforts, which included leaving the house at 6:55am to be the first at the lab (which opens at 7:30). Crisis averted.

Retail therapy: shopping with the primary purpose of improving the buyer's mood or disposition. Often seen in people during periods of depression or transition, it is normally a short-lived habit. Items purchased during periods of retail therapy are sometimes referred to as "comfort buys."

I don't need a doctor to diagnose me with THAT disorder. As soon as yesterday morning's overnight Vicodin buzz wore off, all I could thinka bout was BUYING THINGS. The outlet mall made perfect sense- huge, nearly desolate on weekdays (read: fewer strollers and waddling women), and relatively cheap! Which, obviously, equals the ability to buy even MORE things. Let me introduce you to my personal vision of where happiness happens:

See it? It's the Pottery Barn OUTLET! It's got EVERYTHING! (I'm yelling here because it really truly is THAT exciting!) Bedding for $30! Candles for $5! Big fluffy towels for $12 PLUS an additional 40% discount! How crazy is that? Really, it has everything and anything youcould quite possibly need to adorn any room of the house with simplicity and affordability. I loaded my car with bags and drove home feeling full and satisfied, momentarily blissful. And J, bless his heart, kindly overlooked the madness and complimented the new bedding. Good boy.

And finally, I must say.....those Geico people have gone too far. Look what I found in my house yesterday. The fact that I'd come home to baby dinos hanging atop my door was a tidbit J left out in his persuasive "why we should move to Texas" lists. Seriously! Yuck, yuck, yuck.

crying in public

Bursting into public tears appears to be my new hobby. I finally connected with the nurse at Dr. S's office. Dr. S is the prodigious Austin baby doctor (so says my hairdresser, my Nest friends, and any woman in Austin who has been, is currently, or will someday be pregnant) who I contacted after my second loss was confirmed and I clearly needed an expert in my corner. My current/former doctor, Dr. V, is a sweet and compassionate lady. Had I been so fortunate to have a happy, normal pregnancy (either time) she would have perfectly fit the bill. But with any luck, Dr. S will be the one to pull me through a pregnancy that ends in an actual baby. Anyway, the nurse wanted me to come in for bloodwork to monitor my hormone levels. YES! I dressed in a hurry and rushed out of the house, never stopping to consider the OB office scene that might prove unsettling. I brought my medical records as requested.

Finding the place wasn't easy. It's located in a highly trafficked medical neighborhood totally unfamiliar to me. I finally took the right turn into the right parking lot and hiked into the building. I walk into the ginormous waiting room and holy shit, I swear the hyperventilation started before my second foot landed. Pregnant women, babies, blissful couples who probably peed on a stick yesterday and are already planning the nursery. F*cking fantastic. I take a deep breath and hold in the tears. Get to the check in desk. Introduce myself as a new patient of Dr. S, "here are my medical records so you can make a copy". Nooope. They don't do that (make copies). Too busy. Er, okay. I suppose I should have asked before going, right? Normal people would now sigh and ask where the nearest Kinkos is, no biggie. Not I, said the crazy one. I burst into tears. I'm imagining the receptionist pushing the secret security button under her desk to have me hauled off to the psych ward next door. So I sit down to wait for my turn in the lab and one moment later, get a new neighbor to my left. She's large, she's glorious, she's having a baby. I'm sad, I'm empty, I'm not. The tears just keep coming. I really feel crazy. People are looking, I swear they are.

Give my blood and back in the Sequoia. More tears, more heavy breathing. I drive around for a few flustered minutes before spying a Randall's. Grocery stores do copies! I wait my turn at customer service and hand over my 90 page stack of records. There's a baby faced kid working who reminds me a lot of Michael, but his name badge reads "RYAN C". He regrets to inform me that their copier is self serve, and directs me around the corner to their machine. This thing should have been beaten by Peter Gibbons & Co. in Office Space. Think 1982. No top feeder, it's the old kind where each individual sheet needs to be placed on the glass one at a freakin time. Oh, did I mention it's quarter-fed? Awesome. As RYAN C shows me how to work it I feel another wave coming on. I START CRYING AT THE COPIER. IN RANDALL'S GROCERY STORE. Poor RYAN C looks flummoxed. "I'm sorry, it's just that we're an old Randall's and our equipment isn't so great, I'm sorry ma'am." He thinks I'm crying because I don't like his copier. Nope, just crying because I apparently overestimated my ability to function in public. I try to mumble something to him to explain that I'm not crying about his copier, I'm just having a hard day, but it comes out all jumbled and crazy sounding and RYAN C slowly backs away (most likely concerned for his physical safety by now) and hightails it back to customer service.

One more bout of tears after dropping off the records at the office (this time I made it back to my car first). Enough adventure for one day. Here's hoping Dr. S's office is quick about processing lab results and calling to follow up. It would be great to know that my levels are dropping, which would tell me that my body is doing something right and heading in the right direction.

It's not lost on me that today is a day whose history is more tragic than my current situation. Impossible to believe it has been SIX years. I had just moved into Alpha Phi and UND was in full fall glory with the back to school buzz and rush activities. When I woke up that morning and went into the bathroom, the normally light-hearted morning program on the radio sounded very serious. They were talking about a possible fire breaking out at the World Trade Center, or maybe some sort of plane crash. I wondered to myself if that was in Chicago. Then I wondered where dad was, his job required nearly constant air travel at that time. I cleaned up and headed down to the living room and immediately knew something very bad had happened. No fewer than 40 of my sorority sisters were crowded around the television crying, and just a moment later, we watched as another plane crashed into the tower. All I remember from the rest of that day was stunned silence and a sense of the world changing right before our eyes. It's still hard to believe.

***update***

The high praises bestowed upon Dr. S and staff are already looking to be right-on. At 5:30, 5 short hours after I left the lab, I received a call from the nurse. The nurse, who was actually compassionate and kind and DIDN'T treat me like some strange specimen (as I've experienced over and over again this week from the former practice). My progesterone, she says, is "terrible". You know you've sunk to new lows when a word like "terrible" brings hope- we should be so lucky to be diagnosed with a JUST a progesterone problem. It's treatable! It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me or us- just a hormone deficiency that we can work with and most likely conquer! ((please please please let that be the problem and/or all that's wrong)) Unfortunately, this nurse hadn't received my records from the front desk (not shocked considering the 800 or so patients they were processing when I brought the records back in). So she didn't know I was already aware of my diagnosis and called expecting to break the "your levels suck and you're miscarrying" news to an unsuspecting patient. Instead she got me saying "right, okay ,and now what do we do". Took a second to clear up with her that I'm not a heartless shrew, just that I've known this for 9 days and am past (or numb to) the shock portion of grief. I go back early Thursday morning for another blood draw, which will give us more information to decide whether to proceed with this wait and see craziness, or to do the surgery. For now, I'm thankful to feel that I have a competent medical staff handling my case and I'm no longer fully responsible for overseeing my own diagnosis and medical care. So relieved about this......

happy birthday g'ma rita

There's no other way to start this day than to pay tribute to a woman who taught me acceptance of others no matter where they come from or what they did, strength where others would fall apart with fear, and faith when most would become faithless. My Grandma Rita was such an inspiration for the many, many people she touched with her boundless love and heartfelt laugh. Days like today, when I'm sad, how I'd love a monster cookie and a good chat with my Grandma- she knew what to say, how to say it, and how to inspire me to stand up tall and face my fears. She also knew just how to teach me (at the young dumb age of 17) why writing a check for more than my account balance was maybe, possibly, not the best of ideas. I didn't fully realize at the time how fortunate I was to spend those years living under her roof, or how much it would come to mean to me that she was at my wedding, the only grandchild she would be able to see stand at the altar. That breaks my heart, because if there's anything she would have enjoyed, it's the upcoming weddings of Michelle and Brittany and all of those to follow. I love you, Grandma. Deep in my heart I know you're up there watching over the angels I miss so very much, your great grandchildren there with you and your parents and the circle of friends I know without a doubt you've gathered around you.

This is the only picture of Grandma I can find, taken at my wedding in June 2004

You are loved, Grandma:

I thought I'd share something that touches me right now. A song that I once listened to unaware of how it would someday speak to my heart.

(Coldplay, Fix You)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRUkGDGbJpk

When you try your best, but you don't succeed

When you get what you want, but not what you need

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse

When the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone, but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

High up above or down below

When you're too in love to let it go

If you never try you'll never know

Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Tears stream down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down your face

And I...

Tears stream down on your face

I promise you I will learn from the mistakes

Tears stream down your face

And I...

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

austin-versary

This will not be one of my happier writings. I feel like I'm in jail. Waiting for this awful process to complete itself and allow the actual healing to begin, waiting for my mind and body to start working in ways that allow me to...oh, run the vacuum or drive to the store. I'm on Day 7 of life in my bed. Where I feel safe, where I feel comfortable, where the physical pain can sometimes be managed by a heating pad or a pill. Problem is, that's getting old. My books are old, my magazines are old, and being the weekend, my TV schedule is unjustly interrupted (no noon OC drama, no 3:00 Dr. Phil, no 4:00 Oprah). I'm tired (but not sleepy), I'm sick of this, I'm hurting, and I want it over with. I. Want. My. Life. Back.

Megan left this morning. I wanted so badly to cancel her ticket or refuse her a ride to the airport, keep her as a hostage to entertain and distract me. She's one of those people in my life who sees through the outer BS and into who I am and why I feel the way I feel. And even cooler- doesn't judge what she sees there. Just sat here with me, in my bed, united in our sweats and unwashed hair watching YouTube clips of people singing about their cat. Thanks, kiddo. Now that her visit is over, what do I do? I would sure appreciate it if for once my body would cooperate and fix this mess, which would allow me to function like a human and not like a broken down mess.

Our 1 year anniversary as Austinites is today. I think of the oblivious nearly-newlyweds that rolled into town 365 days ago, boat and UHaul and high hopes in tow. The first 6 months here were so very great. Oh sure, we had ups and downs. I missed my family and friends back in the northern plains. I didn't get that job I wanted. I tried another and it was a bad fit. But overall, no complaints, life was good. J fit right in at the dealership. We enjoyed our time as SoCo-ers, walking up to Home Slice or over to Doc's whenever the mood hit. Our little apartment in the middle of everything Austin saw fun times and late nights and celebrity sightings. New friends, new experiences, and a general feeling of satisfaction that we followed a dream and accomplished it. 6 months in, we bought this house, this perfect place for us, near everything we needed, excited to make it our own.....and that's precisely when the craziness broke loose. Sitting here today, looking at the builder beige walls (lots of time to stare at walls when leaving one's bed is a challenge) I started feeling sorry for this poor House. We came in so excited and full of ideas and young and vibrant. If House had feelings, surely he was ecstatic about these young, eager, imaginative new people. But by day 2, with the appearance of that second pink line, we'd done an about face. The focus was off of the House. It shifted (irreversably? I'm hoping not) to pee sticks and baby books and health food and baby talk and baby nerves and long days of nauseau on the couch. Then to sadness and desperation and lots of mopiness on my part. Then the cycle repeated itself. And in the midst, House has been thrown to the wayside, a toy whose child found something better to do. No walls are painted, no serious or thoughtful decorating done, no indications that the people living here have much taste or personality. There are framed photos and decor stacked against walls, a garage full of boxes and entertaining ware gone ignored, and just a whole lot of potential to be a better place and a happier place too. I'm determined now, (thanks again here to my sister) once my health is restored, to focus on the House. Get this place looking like the Rhinelander house did- warm, inviting, "Mandie-and-Jonathan-ish". I miss that house sometimes, jailbird neighbor and 6 month snow cover aside. I wouldn't trade our life here for anything, but the thought of that house fills me with nostalgia. Deep down, I think it's more that I miss who we were before the changes, before this newest set of challenges. Before we knew that something we basically took as a given would be such a trial.

Losing. My. Patience.

day four

Poor Henry. He's not taking this well. I adore all of the pets, but Henry has a unique way of just knowing when I'm sad or mad or upset. He refuses to go outside, wants to be no more than 2 feet from me at any given time, and just seems to be feeling this right along with me. The others- not so much. Ralph seems most interested in eating the gorgeous yellow roses sent by MIL, George has decided to make a game of hiding my glasses, my pills, my chap stick- anything small enough for him to haul off in his little kitten mouth and tuck away in the dark corners of our house. Griffin. What to say about Snappy? He's hungry, he's barky, he's incontinent. This is an old picture of H-Man, taken around his first birthday. I remember that day, just settled into our new house in Rhinelander, and fall was in full glory. I miss the fall in the midwest. Crisp air, crunchy leaves, football season, new sweaters....I digress: Megan is coming. Thank God, my sister is coming. I need someone from the outside world to come here and make me feel less insane. I'm hoping I'll be feeling okay and we can get lunch at Whole Foods, see the bats, experience Austin. If not, it's just good to have her here. I'm sure we could watch Breakfast at Tiffany's and eat ice cream and have that be just as good.

Thankful for right this moment: George curled up for his moring nap atop my medical records on my bed making adorable little twitching motions in his sleep, the aforementioned yellow roses on my dresser, Megan being on her way, my mom calling this morning and making it possible for me to breathe, Smart Water, Jodi and family just down the road if I need her, my doctor's appointments and the hope they are providing, the chat I just had with Jenny that made me remember how fortunate I am to have my friends and actually had me laughing for a minute (remembering the aftermath of a certain bachelorette party and the unfortunate resulting hangover), my plane ticket to Grand Forks in 21 days.

goodbye, grover

The baby is gone. We've lost Grover. We're doing this again. It's taken days to bring myself to return here, to my online journal that I had planned to share with family and friends soon, when news of this pregnancy was public knowlege and official reason for celebration, a journal that would serve as a joyous record of all the happiness I thought was ahead. Instead, we've lost our second baby. Instead, I open this page and wince at the grainy black and white photo looming over my last entry. Who was that? We're saying goodbye, again, and I'm just not okay with this. Not okay at all.

Sunday night, 8pm, it became very clear something was wrong. Such a normal night! We grilled pork chops and corn on the cob, had a great time chatting and eating, pulled on our sweats, and were settling in to watch a pay per view movie ("The Number 23"...Jim Carrey is now forever to be associated with hell breaking loose). As the opening credits roll, Jonathan hears me screaming like a lunatic in the powder room, and (bless the man) immediately sprung to action. In what looked to me like one swooping action he grabbed the phone, the doctor's business card with the emergency number, herded the dogs out into the yard, and got his shoes on. I just knew. I knew there was no hope, I knew what was coming, I knew that once again we'd been bitch-slapped by life. I pulled on a sports bra and warmer top, thinking only of my comfort on what I knew would be a runner up for "worst moment of my life". Another tense drive to Brackenridge, another dirty, hysterical wait in the cesspool they call a waiting room, and another round of pricks, pee, repetative questions, and general absurdity all around us. Dr. V met us there and performed the ultrasound and told us with the saddest eyes what I already knew. Grover was gone. She'd grown since Tuesday but sometime in between that glorious day and this terrible night- she left us. I can only liken this feeling to being shoved off a mountain. A mountain I was on top of in April and May- enjoying the view of the year to come- pregnancy, birth, the joy of our first baby at home by the holidays, snuggled into our arms as we decorated the tree. And then shoved off of that mountain (round 1) on May 7. I climbed and clawed and did everything I could to heal myself and my body and get back onto that mountain. Worked out, ate right, took those vitamins, saw the counselor, read the books, took the ovulation tests, timed vacations to be sure not to miss any opportunity...and we did it. We made it back to the top of that mountain, we rejoiced, we let our guards down after seeing another heartbeat. We tentatively imagined a spring baby, going home for Christmas in maternity sweaters, celebrating my birthday in our last few weeks before the birth....although looking back, I don't know that I ever truly believed that was in the cards. And then....BOOM....back to the bottom we were shoved as the monitor remained still, the heartbeat gone. The drive home replays in my brain like it's some bad movie I watched, not an experience I actually lived 72 hours ago. Screaming, anger, anguish, hate, just red hot desperate emotion. Foggy interstate. Bright streaking lights flying by and blending into one against the gray background of a late summer Texas night. The Ben White loop-de-loops, the tacky red Furr's sign, the motor mile, Chili's sign glowing so ironically festive (for who I wondered? insomniac baby back rib lovers?), the familiar exits taking me further and further from the scene of the crime. The neighborhood so still, the neighbors inside clueless to the desperate cries contained inside the lone vehicle making its' way home. The whole night flashes back at random now. My husband's sad eyes in that tiny ER "private" room. The disturbingly still image on the monitor (did I even look? Or is this just my imagination?) The pain- unable to draw a line between what was physical and what was purely emotional. The sterile, scratchy, warmed blanket a futile attempt at comfort (how did they do that? Where's the dryer? I remember pondering this. I didn't hear a dryer?) The puking sounds from the other side of the curtain. The awkward glances in at us, the young couple back again, the wife once again in tears- weren't they just here? Nobody making eye contact who didn't have to. The young male nurse asking what the waterworks were about. The clock striking 1:00am and my exhausted desire to just go home, begging and pleading to J to just get me out of here. Away from the pokes, the tests, the looks, the science, and the new set of sad statistics facing us from here. And the dark dark hole swallowing me up when I walked in the door, finally home, now wanting to be anywhere else. I remember only screaming at/to J to find me my Vicodin. And tearing apart a cupboard or two in search of the pills, desperate for anything to numb this, unable to grasp that "pain killer" conquers only the physical pains, no relief in sight for the emotional pains that hurt so much worse. I've got no memory of anything after dumping the contents of one cupboard and falling to the tile in exhaustion. I suspect this dear sweet man I married picked up the pieces and guided me upstairs.

3 days have passed. (how?) I bounce between pure dogged determination to get to the root of this and fix whatever problem may be plaguing us....and back to self pity and "why me" and sweat pants and blankets. I laughed out loud for the first time at 2am this morning (watching Airline and a drunken couple missing their flight) and literally froze and looked around to see where that sound had come from. The cats are enjoying my nocturnal-ness, pleased to see their human pet coming around to their way of life. I just hurt. I miss our babies that were to be. Their losses seem so unfair. I cycle through the textbook grief laundry list- anger (and the counterparts- jealousy, frustration, helplessness, resentment, even hate), shock, denial, despair. There's guilt. I have moments of confusion. Then I get mad and determined to do anything I can to make our dreams of parenthood come true. I'll see a specialist in 11 days, one who is exhaulted in Austin as the miracle worker. It's not that I think we need a miracle, but I think we need to go straight to the top, to whoever will be as determined as we are to make this happen and make it stick.

But for now, we'll focus on us. I'm making lists of things I want to do. Simple things to get me moving- get a highlight and cut, paint a room or two, organize the closet, travel to Houston with J in a few weeks, figure out where that funky smell in the loft is originating from. Bigger things- travel to Boston to see friends, travel to DC to see a cousin, fly home to WI and go to Lambeau Field and drink a big man-beer like only a midwestern girl can, find a part time job to entertain me and pay for dinners out and trips to the Pottery Barn outlet. My dad urges me to remember the good in my life. I list things I am grateful for on scrap paper beside my bed. Jonathan. My amazing parents. My amazing siblings. My amazing in laws. The selected few other relations I let in who lift me up with their emails and calls and advice (J, M, A, J&G- you know who you are). My girlfriends quick with hugs and tears. My sweet baby pets, always steady, always loyal. My bed, a place to hide and heal. And again....the man laying beside me snoring, the man who came home from work an hour after arrival Tuesday morning when I called in hysterics, who blended me a fruit smoothie and looked at me with those eyes that for a moment make me okay, who sat beside me through all this darkness.

Good night, Grover.
Good night, Turkey Baby.
Mommy loves you.