i never liked turkeys anyway

In lieu of diving right into my usual self-indulgent nonsensery, I want to share a few clips that make me giggle. J saw these at a dealership training seminar. Dad also seems to get a kick out of them, since every time we talk I hear a badger impression.









Okay, back to all things me-related. (That's what blogs are for, right?) This morning was not among my finer risings. I woke up and as usual, spent a minute figuring out what day it was, what the date was, and what I had to do today. Then tried with all my might to sink down into the mattress and disappear for 33 days or so when I realized this is the week November begins. November, the month that was supposed to bring with it our first baby. Instead, it is likely to bring a whole lot of sad emotions. Not only am I not having our Turkey baby, not only am I not finding out the sex of our April baby, but I'm still waiting for my body to decide to function normally. Two MONTHS since miscarriage #2 began, and I'm still not "normal". (I'll omit any detailed explanations in the rare chance that this is being read by my husband, my father, my brother, or any member of the male species.) This is getting o-l-d. Or, I should say, it got o-l-d about 3 weeks ago. Now, it's verging on ridiculousness, as I prepare to head back to the doctor's office tomorrow to investigate this newest reproductive system malfunction. Yep, back to the OBGYN. Perfect. I'm sure the sight of 100 or so bulging bellies in the waiting room will affect me positively. But back to the point, I wish that I could rip out the November page from my calander and crumple it up and have that be that. I'd like to go Rip Van Winkle awhile, wake up on December 1, past the dreaded date, past the turkeys, past the risk of a mental breakdown. Or, you know, just wake up with a uterus that aims to please rather than infuriate. I just want it to be '08 already. I know there are no guarantees, but I'd bet my lucky scrunchie that it will be better than '07. (No, I don't have a lucky scrunchie. If you didn't catch the Legally Blonde reference I'm embarassed for you.)

Here's what saves the day: tonight, The Bachelor is partaking in the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever". Well, probably not, but he is making the home date rounds. AKA, the best episode of the whole season. We're DVRing so I can half-watch the Packer game, and because it's much more enjoyable to watch a recorded commercial-free version.

That's all for now. Here's hoping for good news tomorrow.

there's been a mistake

Sitting here on the couch tonight, listening to J snore softly as I half watched TV and half perused the internet looking at things I'd buy if that backyard money tree would start sprouting (a Pottery Barn couch and leather side chair, a Coach bangle, a home on Lake Austin next to Sandra Bullock's) my father's voice was suddenly in my head. I know, creepy. I flashed back to something he said many moons ago. Specifically, the summer of 2005. It was July. He and my mom had gone to Minneapolis early that week to be with my Grandma Rita as the doctors performed surgery to remove her cancer. Needless to say, that didn't work out so well. The cancer had spread, the surgery would not save her, there was nothing more they could do for her. Seconds after getting the call from my dad, tears choking his every word, my brother and sister and I threw bags into the car and drove to Minneapolis. To do what, I don't know. To hold up our daddy, to hold our grandma's wonderfully strong hand, to see in person that this was real and really happening, I suppose. The specific moment I flashed to tonight took place very late in the evening of our arrival. Dad, mom, brother, sister, and I, along with my very favorite cousin M, left the hospital and wandered wearily along a busy Minneapolis street. We found a restaurant with tables scattered about on the outdoor patio, twinkly white lights strung in the treetops above. We ordered drinks- the stronger the better- Long Island Teas for all, keep 'em coming. My heart broke looking down that table at my usually strong and stoic dad. The lines by his eyes, the endearing ones that mirrored Grandma's more with each hearty laugh, were deeper that night. I'd only seen this sadness in my dad once before, the first time Grandma had cancer, when I was all of 8 or 9 and was mercifully spared the details of why her hair was gone. We were all so very sad that night in Minneapolis, Teas in hand, so out of place on this festive avenue, revelry all around, our six-some a dark cloud in the midst. And dad says to us that he doesn't believe for one minute that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. How he thought that people who said that were wrong, that it simply wasn't true because this, losing his mother, was clearly more than he could handle. And something about how every single day, people went through incomprehensible agony that was most definitely more than was handle-able. Back then, just two years ago, I didn't think too much about what he said. Just tucked that thought away to think about another day.

But you know, now, I get it, and I agree. I do feel that God got this wrong, and he's given us more than we can handle, there's been a mistake on heaven's part. I hear so often these days how strong I am for handling this mix up of God's. How strong we are. I don't understand this. I'm not strong! Do I appear to be because I'm among the living, because I'm not crying at that moment, because I pretend to laugh and smile when inside I'm sad and mad? Is that what makes people believe I'm strong? But what is my alternative, what would make me not strong? If I crawled into bed, between my cool cotton sheets, and hid? If I didn't fake that smile or pretend I'm enjoying myself from time to time? If I spoke my mind and responded to the gas station attendant's "how are you, ma'am" with "well, I was a whole hell of a lot better before we had two dead babies and a new soul and wallet depleting medical bill in our mailbox each morning, and now I feel like an empty ugly broken shell of my old self, with nothing but 10 extra pounds to show for all this physical and emotional assault, but thanks for asking, and I'll take $40 of regular unleaded on pump 12, thanks". ::exhale:: I wonder if people tell us we're 'strong' and that 'God wouldn't give us more than we can handle' because they don't know what else to say. Because "I'm sorry" gets old. Because they don't want to deal with the ugliness of grief and Hallmark doesn't sell a card that says "you lost a baby or two, it sucks, it's okay to be pissed at the world" that they can stick in the mail and feel they've successfully played and completed the role of supportive loved one. Because they want to believe that God is carefully dosing out the misery, deliberate in his attempt to not make anyone's load too heavy, protecting them from such sadness. I don't know. I don't even know that this all makes sense to anyone residing outside of my mind. I just know that suddenly tonight, it hit me that I understood why my dad thought that sentiment was bullshit. I get it. I'm 1500 miles away from that table and that moment with my nearest and dearest Auses....but for a moment, I was back there, nodding along with dad, now burdened by an all too heavy load of my own. Now if only the waiter would just appear with that wonderfully mind numbing Tea.....

I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice,

and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside,

show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything,

more than anything,

My wish,

for you,

is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big,

your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you,

and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

fast forward

I'm pretty sure by now, with all my talk of TV shows, it's clear that I enjoy a love affair with my DVR. Last night, while watching an old recorded episode of Sex and the City, ever-powerful DVR remote in hand....it hit me. What I need is DVR for my life. Yeah, yeah, I know our days here are numbered anyway and it's foolish to wish even a second away and blabitty bla bla bla and just watch that Click movie if you want proof that this is a tricky plan...but too bad, after the past 7 months- I want it. Or specifically, I want the fast forward button (and the mute would be good, too). As Miranda and Steve bickered about their baby, the perfect healthy one they became pregnant with and weren't sure they wanted so Miranda spent that entire pregnancy whining and bitching about being fat and uncomfortable....I was able to speed right through it! Right on to the fun bits! I NEED this. I could go to the mall and fast forward through any belly and/or stroller encounters! Hit pause on those days where the sun is shining, the dog-kids behaving, I don't think of the m-word, and my hair looks pretty. Then speed on through any moments inducing pain or frustration (which are aplenty). Hell, I could just fast forward right on through this entire life turbulance event and hit play again when I see myself weighing 25 extra pounds (in the right place- if it's in my butt, I'll just keep fast forwarding), smiling placidly like the lady on the cover of WTEWYE and painting a wall in pastel baby-friendly shades. Then *voila* rejoin my previously scheduled life!

And after that disgustingly cold Monday (which I did, indeed, survive) I guess fall is here. I'm so confused by seasons at this point. It was 90 and summery, then it was 40 and dark by 7. No gradual, pretty, flowing transition into the hell that is winter up north. Down here, you're on the boat workin' your tan one day, and frantically searching for your "cold weather clothes" box in the garage the next. But boy, am I loving this fall thing. I was able to walk Henry yesterday without even a trickle of back sweat! How special is that?

c-c-c-cold

Brrrrr. I've become one of "them". A big midwestern-grown sell out. One of the southern folks whose blood threatens to freeze at 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, the girl who grew up doing THIS for fun....... ....deemed this mornings' chilly, wet, windy 50-degree conditions "too cold to go outside" and urged dear J to take his big coat with him to work. Immediately disappointed in my feebleness, I tried to redeem myself by taking Henry out for a walk. Let's just say his "walk" consisted of three layers of clothing, a jaunt to the end of the block and back, and a smelly wet dog. A week back home in Wisconsin over Christmas should cure this insanity. Because, as all northeners know, you're not cold until at least one extremity is numb. Until then, I'll be the one in the Uggs searching fervently for that FUPA-inducing pink snowsuit of mine.

The weekend passed with a fairly low amount of our "new normal" chaos and drama. J's still frustrated with work, I'm still frustrated with my recovery, I had an emotional Saturday afternoon that I just prefer not to get into in an attempt to avoid an emotional Monday...but all in all, we managed a decent (if lazy) weekend. I did wreak havoc on the condiment aisle at the grocery store, so there's that. While reaching for a bottle of horseradish, I took down a few containers of ketchup with my elbow. Since they're plastic, one would assume they would bounce to the ground and land safely, right? HA! Not at the hands of Mandie! One smashed into the concrete floor with so much force that it exploded. An explosion aimed, naturally, at yours truly. My shorts-clad legs were splattered with enough ketchup for at least 5 burgers- enough to make me look as if I'd been shot right there in the grocery store aisle or was experiencing some sort of explosive period. And I wasn't the only target. The merchandise on the opposite side of the aisle received an even coating of ketchup, too. So there I stood on a busy Sunday afternoon, an obese old woman rolling up beside me in her motor-scooter gawking, a lady with (of course) a baby glaring at me as if I'd set out to attack her precious bambino. Move along people, nothing to see here. I flagged down a pimply teenage employee, made a lame attempt to help, and finally just took his paper towel offering and bolted.

I need to go find socks. My toes are numbing.

tv star dropouts

The TV career of J and Mandie was short lived and entirely disappointing. We signed up to be extras on the set of Friday Night Lights, one of our very favorite TV shows. I had been called to do this once before, but when I found out it was a pool scene in need of "young college types in bikinis" I decided against taking the job. I don't want to be seen in my bikini in my backyard, much less on national television. Yikes. But when my next invite came, to take part in the fully clothed taping of a football game scene, I was all over it. I convinced J we'd have fun doing this together. Well, fun wasn't had. Let's just say the show looks a whole lot more entertaining on TV. In person, it's a lot of "rolling" and "cut" and sitting around staring at our shoes in between. No glamour, no craft services, no paparazzi. And let's just say the knocked up high schooler sitting behind me with her 14 year old looking boyfriend forced me to consciously focus on not poking her in the eyeball with my pom pom. Then we overheard someone say the taping would probably last until 3am. What?! 3am?! When the next potty break was called, we gathered our stuff and ran for the hills. We'll see when the show airs (Laribee Lions v. Dylan Panthers) whether our adorable mugs made the cut or not. Here are a couple pictures from our time on set. They look as boring as it was, but if you watch the show regularly, and smush your face up real close to the screen and squint- you'll recognize Riggins, Sarreson, and Smash in the top photo.

changing topography

Group is over. I was so sad driving there tonight. Partly because my car smells inexplicably like vitamins (?) but mainly because the six weekly group meetings went by much, much too quickly. I know I've gained so much from the group. J and I have been able to talk openly about subjects we'd never touched on before, our grief has been validated as real and hurtful and our babies as worth our grief, and we've learned a lot about one another and ourselves and how we deal with sadness and loss. But creeping along in traffic towards our group meeting, I wondered whether I was "better" yet or not. I remember when we started I thought that by the end of the six weeks, I'd be fixed or on my way to fixed- I'd be somehow "better". Since I'm still often some combination of sad, mad, and confused....I wasn't sure that I had changed.

Then came our final discussion at group tonight. See, at the very first meeting, we were asked to describe our pain as an object or physical thing. My pain was easy to describe- it was a mountain. A big, rigid, scratchy, black mountain. (I may have talked about this in an earlier post, I don't remember, and I'm too tired to go back and investigate.) Anyway, back to me and my feelings (me, me, meeee). There was that mountain. I was on top of the mountan during my pregnancy. Excited, proud, happy. Nervous about it, but more comfortable every day. The miscarriage shoved me off the mountain, plunged me down to my worst fear. And there I was, 6 weeks ago, laying at the bottom of this intimidating, frightening mountain. It stood in the way of everything- I couldn't focus on anything but that damn mountain or see any light behind it. Afraid to look up at it, no choice but to climb back up it if I wanted to have a baby. But totally terrified of what it would take to get there and how much it would hurt to get back on it.

Tonight, our counselor (W) asked us what our pain was now, whether it had changed since the beginning. Without having to think about it, I immediately pictured my pain as a hill. Specifically, a hill beside the road leading to my grandpa's farm. It's a bigass hill. But it's rolling, it's soft, it's more green and grassy than black and rough. It's do-able. It's one I can picture us walking up steadily. Not so intimidating like that mountain, just a challenge I know we can overcome. Wow! Somehow, the mighty W had led us through our darkest weeks and brought us to this new place. A place where the next steps are ones I know we can take, instead of ones that appear so harrowing that I'd prefer to just lay on the ground and cry with helplessness (or eat cookie dough and go back to bed). I could just hug W for shaving down that mountain a bit for us. And I did.

At the end of our group, W played the song of a very talented Austin musician, Sarah Hickman (you've heard her voice- the "dollop of daisy" sour cream commercials?) Sarah was kind enough to sing for our remembrance ceremony a few weeks ago, and her song about angels will forever make me cry, but in that good and cleansing way. While listening to it tonight, I was comforted by the thought that Grover and Baby F are our little angels. And as Sarah says, we will meet when it is time.

Sometimes you'll stumble
Sometimes you'll just lie down
Sometimes you will get lonely
With all these people around
Ohh Oh
You might shiver when the wind blows
Yea, you might get blown away
Ohh Oh
You might lose a little colours
You... you might lose a little faith...
Ohh Oh
But we are each other's angels
Ohh Oh
And we meet when it is time
Ohh Oh
We keep each other going
And we show each other signs...
Well, I reached my destination
Yea, I finally made it home
God sent ten thousand angels
To make me one of his own...

Here's a link to Sarah Hickman's album if you want to hear a preview of this song:
http://www.sarahickman.com/music/spiritualappliances/#angels

things not to say to me

Or to anyone suffering the loss of their baby. It's amazing to me the things people say when they think they are being helpful. Since this is a continual topic on a message board I frequent and often comes up in chats with friends who have also miscarried, I figured it was worth putting this totally non-comprehensive list out there. My hope is that it will help you (whoever y'all are who are taking the time to read this) from inadvertently saying something hurtful to someone when they most need support. Off the top of my head:

1. You're young! Hmm. That's great to know, and I get the intent behind this one (you've got plenty of time). Unless you are my doctor (and I doubt you are because he's far to busy with his three gazillion patients to read my blog, but from him it meant a lot because he assured me we have approximately 12 years before he's even mildly concerned) I don't want to hear this. Our age is entirely unrelated to the grief we are feeling right now.

2. Relax! It will happen! So-and-so adopted and then she was so relaxed that they got pregnant! Relax! Right. YOU go through losing two beloved little babies, two surgeries, and countless sleepless nights of worry and wonder and then YOU freakin' relax. Relaxation does not = pregnancy. Ovulation predictor tests and timed boinking and voodoo chants while standing on one's head does. Duh.

3. At least you know you can get pregnant! Here's another "unless you are my doctor" rule. It's not super comforting to know you can get pregnant when your babies aren't making it for whatever reason. Plus, I doubt infertile women appreciate the insinuation that they are everyone's worst case scenario ("hey, at least you're not INFERTILE like THAT LADY!")

4. It's God's will. Okay, are you TRYING to make me angry at God? Or make God the bad guy here? Because I'd rather not sit here thinking that God is the bad guy in this situation (He isn't). I've never questioned my own faith more than I have through these miscarriages. When you become pregnant, everyone is quick to tell you how "blessed" you are. Then when you lose that pregnancy, you're left to wonder what you did to "unbless" yourself. After hearing the "God's will" line over and over again, I started to truly believe our first miscarriage had happened because I hadn't gone to church enough and my 20+ daily prayers for our babies health wasn't quite enough to get His attention. I doubt that's the truth, and it's not good for my spirit to have to wonder about that.

5. It's natures way or the biggest whopper I've heard- you wouldn't want a retarded baby. I don't know that a lot of explanation is necessary here. Just don't go here. It's offensive (to us and to anyone raising a handicapped child), it's beside the point, and it's most certainly not comforting.

6. You can have another one. Fantastic, really, that is fantastic (no sarcasm- I mean that). BUT- right now it's not another one we want. We want that one. The one we lost and miss. Another one won't fill the hole in our heart, that will always be there to some extent. This is tantamount to telling a woman who has just lost her husband that she can have another husband. See?

7. I know how you feel. Unless you've been through this, you don't. You're better off saying "I'm sad for you, and I'm here for you". Now, if you HAVE been through this, preach on, sister!

8. Time heals. One of the best lessons we've learned through our support group is that time alone has basically nada to do with healing. Since my first miscarriage, I've spoken to many women who have suffered similar losses. Whether it happened last week or 30 years ago, they still hurt, they still cry when they talk about it, they still remember what color shoes they had on the day they got the news or what the moments of their miscarriages entailed. Time doesn't heal. It makes hurts easier to accept, it brings distractions and happiness and peace that lessen the pain, but the loss of a baby is always there in a parent's heart.

9. Nothing at all. The most hurt J and I felt were from people we thought we were close to who chose to ignore our miscarriages entirely. Needless to say, these aren't people we are close to any more, nor are they people who will know about our future pregnancy(s) until little Habib is on his way to kindergarten. To ignore a loss like this is to say it doesn't matter, to us or to you. I get that it's an uncomfortable topic and some people are afraid of the raw emotion accompanying this kind of loss. I get that some people feel it will hurt me or us to talk about it. But ignoring the loss does not make it less of a reality for us.

10. I drank the last Diet Coke. Just ask J or RoomieG. This one's got nothing to do with miscarriage, but it has everything to do with whether I want to kick you in the shins or not.

Lest this newest posting come off as entirely negative, I don't mean it to be so! I just realized today how often this topic is discussed among those of us who have miscarried. I'd love to make another list of all the great things people have said to us or done for us since our losses, but that would take too long and get too all too mushy for my liking. And I've got dogs to feed and clothes to wash and a final support group meeting to attend. For now, I'll leave this at that.