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.