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.