We may be getting a dog.
Thoughts of canine companionship first surfaced for me around the beginning of December—about a month after we lost Zach. I was hesitant to pay attention to those thoughts because I was afraid I was viewing a dog as a “replacement” for the baby we lost. M was afraid of that, too.
Then, of course, there’s also the fact that I felt like a hypocrite.
I have several friends and acquaintances who ended up with dogs because they couldn’t or weren’t ready to have children. In some of those cases, once the couple did finally have a child, the poor dog was relegated to second-class status while his owners doted on their new arrival. I scoffed at these friends, telling M it was silly to adopt a dog before having children because you never knew how the dog would be around children. My family has always subscribed to the notion that you don’t “try out” a dog and then give it back if it doesn’t work out; once the dog is yours, he’s yours until he dies.
And now I want a dog.
Why? Well, I’d always planned on getting a dog eventually. I just figured I would wait until after my first child before getting one. Now, once again, our grand plans have been delayed, and everything we thought would be happening in 2008 has gone in the crapper. I’ve accepted that I can’t control much of what happens in my life—but I can, however, control whether or not we get a dog.
And then there’s M. He never grew up with a dog and has only somewhat warmed to my parents’ dog. I think he had accepted that we would eventually be a doggy family, but not now. He finally admitted a couple of weeks ago that he had been so looking forward to spending the winter preparing for a baby, and to get a dog instead would be a constant reminder to him of what we had lost. I can’t argue with that.
So we brought the subject up with our grief counselor, and she made a wonderful suggestion: We should try dog-sitting for a few days. Conveniently, our doggy friends were planning a long weekend out of town last week, so we volunteered to take care of the pooch. M fell in love with their dog, and by the end of the weekend, he told me he’d be OK with us getting a dog. I don’t think he’s completely sold on the idea just yet, but I bet he would be if we found the right dog.
Of course, now I’m having second thoughts. What if the dog is more hassle than he’s worth? What if it costs us an arm and a leg? What if M’s family hates the dog? What if we actually have a baby and the dog doesn’t react well? Oy.
Then there are the adoption groups (we plan to rescue a dog; I feel very strongly about that). The one I want to work with doesn’t adopt out to families with children under 6. Well, that’s fine, because we don’t have any children, but what about the future? It’s not exactly a confidence-booster for M to hear that adoption groups don’t think families with young children should have dogs.
So I’m throwing this out to all of you pet lovers: What kinds of dogs do you think would be good with children—or at least not terrible with them? I love cocker spaniels, and I’d be looking for a similar size—10-35 pounds and furry, not wiry or smooth-haired. I’ve heard terriers are a bad fit with children—is that true?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Schaudenfreude
Ever heard of the word? It's German for "happiness at the misfortune of others." It's not very PC, but it's an entirely appropriate word for how I felt when M told me the story of his phone conversation with Prenatal Care Nurse at Hospital X the other day. I took perverse pleasure in knowing that the phone call probably ruined her day. For your enjoyment, I'm pasting the letter I wrote as a follow-up to that call. Of course, the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. (And lest you forget, I do public relations for Hospital X. Ironic, isn't it?)
Dec. 27, 2007
To whom it may concern:
On Wednesday, Dec. 26, my husband answered a call to our home from Prenatal Care Nurse in Hospital X's Birthing Center. She wanted to make arrangements for my stay in the Birthing Center at the end of March 2008—when my baby was supposed to be due.
The problem was, I was no longer pregnant. My baby, Zachary Andrew, had been stillborn at 20 weeks gestation on Nov. 7, 2007 at Hospital Y (Hospital X's sister hospital). He had been diagnosed with bilateral renal agenesis—a lethal condition—and my husband and I made the decision to induce labor and terminate the pregnancy.
Naturally, the call was very upsetting for both my husband and me. We have been trying very hard to heal over the past seven weeks, and it was difficult to have yet another reminder of where we should have been—the beginning of my third trimester. Prenatal Care Nurse apologized profusely, but the damage had already been done.
Isn’t there a procedure in place for communicating pregnancy loss between OB's Outside Clinic and Hospital X? If there isn’t, shouldn’t there be? The terrible part is, this was not the first time throughout this process that my case was mishandled. On Monday, Nov. 5, after confirming my diagnosis, Perinatologist A at Academic Medical Center Associated With Hospital Y called my OB to find out if I could be induced at Hospital X—my first choice. I understand there was confusion over whether Hospital X's policy allows cases such as mine. I know Rockin' Perinatal Nurse Who Has Become My Advocate and Friend at Hospital X is following up on this issue, so I won’t go into detail. But the fact is, there were people at Hospital X who knew one of my OB's patients had lost her baby. Shouldn’t it have occurred to someone to find out who the patient was and take my name off the database of “moms-to-be” to call?
The labor and delivery nurses at Hospital Y were wonderful, especially given my situation. Perinatologist B, who delivered my baby, was also very compassionate. I would recommend Hospital Y's Birthing Center to anyone. I wish I could feel this way about my own hospital—especially since I hope to someday carry a pregnancy to term.
I do not want any personal follow-up; my husband and I have been through enough. What I do want is for the right people to sit down together and make sure this never happens to another woman. Please, please refine your policies and procedures. It is imperative that the OBs at Outside Clinic have very clear communication with the hospital, and that they fully understand what the nurses on the Birthing Center will and will not do. Thank you.
Dec. 27, 2007
To whom it may concern:
On Wednesday, Dec. 26, my husband answered a call to our home from Prenatal Care Nurse in Hospital X's Birthing Center. She wanted to make arrangements for my stay in the Birthing Center at the end of March 2008—when my baby was supposed to be due.
The problem was, I was no longer pregnant. My baby, Zachary Andrew, had been stillborn at 20 weeks gestation on Nov. 7, 2007 at Hospital Y (Hospital X's sister hospital). He had been diagnosed with bilateral renal agenesis—a lethal condition—and my husband and I made the decision to induce labor and terminate the pregnancy.
Naturally, the call was very upsetting for both my husband and me. We have been trying very hard to heal over the past seven weeks, and it was difficult to have yet another reminder of where we should have been—the beginning of my third trimester. Prenatal Care Nurse apologized profusely, but the damage had already been done.
Isn’t there a procedure in place for communicating pregnancy loss between OB's Outside Clinic and Hospital X? If there isn’t, shouldn’t there be? The terrible part is, this was not the first time throughout this process that my case was mishandled. On Monday, Nov. 5, after confirming my diagnosis, Perinatologist A at Academic Medical Center Associated With Hospital Y called my OB to find out if I could be induced at Hospital X—my first choice. I understand there was confusion over whether Hospital X's policy allows cases such as mine. I know Rockin' Perinatal Nurse Who Has Become My Advocate and Friend at Hospital X is following up on this issue, so I won’t go into detail. But the fact is, there were people at Hospital X who knew one of my OB's patients had lost her baby. Shouldn’t it have occurred to someone to find out who the patient was and take my name off the database of “moms-to-be” to call?
The labor and delivery nurses at Hospital Y were wonderful, especially given my situation. Perinatologist B, who delivered my baby, was also very compassionate. I would recommend Hospital Y's Birthing Center to anyone. I wish I could feel this way about my own hospital—especially since I hope to someday carry a pregnancy to term.
I do not want any personal follow-up; my husband and I have been through enough. What I do want is for the right people to sit down together and make sure this never happens to another woman. Please, please refine your policies and procedures. It is imperative that the OBs at Outside Clinic have very clear communication with the hospital, and that they fully understand what the nurses on the Birthing Center will and will not do. Thank you.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A tale of two Christmases
If I were watching myself on a TV show, I would be absolutely amazed at my mood changes. I can go from being completely devastated one day to (could it be?) being almost, somewhat happy the next.
Witness Christmas. We spent a few days at my parents’ house for the holiday, including Christmas Eve. The gathering was relatively small—just M, me, my parents, my brother and SIL and their 18-month-old. While my mother was having her traditional holiday meltdown in the kitchen (basically, she becomes very stressed out and bitchy in a short amount of time), I was slowly becoming unglued. By the time we were ready to open presents, I was an emotional wreck. I think it was watching my parent’s joy at being with their granddaughter and remembering how big I was supposed to be. See, Christmas was significant because it marked the beginning of my third trimester.
I made it through the gift opening mostly in one piece. At the end, however, I realized I wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the evening and excused myself early. So there I was, on Christmas Eve, sobbing in my parents’ guest room while everyone else conversed merrily downstairs. That’s a picture I won’t soon forget.
The following morning we made the two-hour drive back home to spend Christmas Day alone together. We could have gone to M’s extended family celebration, but I told him I couldn’t handle a large group just yet. Hell, I couldn’t even handle my own family! I was exhausted (I hadn’t slept well) and as soon as we got home I tucked in for a two-hour nap. And that’s when the bad times ended.
M and I proceeded with our day as planned: We made a lovely Christmas dinner for two (chicken cordon bleu—yummy!), opened a bottle of wine and watched two movies—“Casino Royale” and “The Sound of Music” (guess which one I chose?). We opened gifts, discovered that each of us had gotten the absolute perfect gifts for the other one and were overcome with how much we loved each other (it sounds corny, but it's true). And the most perfect Christmas gift of all? I walked out of the bathroom gleefully informing M that I wouldn’t be able to thank him properly with sex because…AF arrived! A long nine days after my last Provera pill, but it was still here. Which meant I could finally proceed with the pre-TTC process (Dr. Hot won’t start treatment until the next cycle, but this cycle had to start before I could even begin looking forward to the next one).
Suddenly, life was full of hope and possibility again. And although I went to sleep, as I usually do, still wishing that things had gone differently and Zach had had the right organs in his body, I wasn’t quite as sad as I was the night before.
And really, that’s all I can ask for right now.
Witness Christmas. We spent a few days at my parents’ house for the holiday, including Christmas Eve. The gathering was relatively small—just M, me, my parents, my brother and SIL and their 18-month-old. While my mother was having her traditional holiday meltdown in the kitchen (basically, she becomes very stressed out and bitchy in a short amount of time), I was slowly becoming unglued. By the time we were ready to open presents, I was an emotional wreck. I think it was watching my parent’s joy at being with their granddaughter and remembering how big I was supposed to be. See, Christmas was significant because it marked the beginning of my third trimester.
I made it through the gift opening mostly in one piece. At the end, however, I realized I wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the evening and excused myself early. So there I was, on Christmas Eve, sobbing in my parents’ guest room while everyone else conversed merrily downstairs. That’s a picture I won’t soon forget.
The following morning we made the two-hour drive back home to spend Christmas Day alone together. We could have gone to M’s extended family celebration, but I told him I couldn’t handle a large group just yet. Hell, I couldn’t even handle my own family! I was exhausted (I hadn’t slept well) and as soon as we got home I tucked in for a two-hour nap. And that’s when the bad times ended.
M and I proceeded with our day as planned: We made a lovely Christmas dinner for two (chicken cordon bleu—yummy!), opened a bottle of wine and watched two movies—“Casino Royale” and “The Sound of Music” (guess which one I chose?). We opened gifts, discovered that each of us had gotten the absolute perfect gifts for the other one and were overcome with how much we loved each other (it sounds corny, but it's true). And the most perfect Christmas gift of all? I walked out of the bathroom gleefully informing M that I wouldn’t be able to thank him properly with sex because…AF arrived! A long nine days after my last Provera pill, but it was still here. Which meant I could finally proceed with the pre-TTC process (Dr. Hot won’t start treatment until the next cycle, but this cycle had to start before I could even begin looking forward to the next one).
Suddenly, life was full of hope and possibility again. And although I went to sleep, as I usually do, still wishing that things had gone differently and Zach had had the right organs in his body, I wasn’t quite as sad as I was the night before.
And really, that’s all I can ask for right now.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
When in doubt, send a card
I’ve recently learned there are two types of people in this world—those who send sympathy cards, and those who don’t.
Our dining room table is covered with cards we received after Zach’s death. There are probably more than 60 all told, a few of which are doubles from people who forgot they had already sent a card. It is heartening to know that so many people care so much about us.
But when I look at those cards, I tend to think more about the ones that aren’t there.
For example, there is no card from K, a friendly acquaintance from work. She and I occasionally worked on projects together, and once she found out I was pregnant (she was due at the beginning of November), she was thrilled and got me a little onesie as a gift. She and I went out to lunch for some “baby talk,” and I had been hoping we would become better friends once we were both part of the “mommy club.” She even knew about the low amniotic fluid, but was confident there was nothing wrong and even followed up that fateful Friday afternoon with an e-mail asking how things went.
The problem was, I never came back to work that day. And that was her last day working before maternity leave.
From what I’ve pieced together since returning to work, she called our office assistant several times that week to find out how I was doing. I know she had been told the baby couldn’t live outside the womb and we were inducing labor.
But over the past six weeks, I have heard nothing from her. No sympathy card, no e-mail, and certainly no call. Actually, scratch that—my e-mail address was included in all the pictures she sent us of her newborn. Fortunately, my co-workers deleted them before I came back. One of my co-workers suggested that maybe she felt weird approaching me because she has a healthy newborn. Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t send a short e-mail stating simply, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s almost like now that I’m not pregnant anymore, she has no more use for me. Point taken.
The same goes for J, another friend through my Bible study. For the past two months, she has lived in the same house as A (the pregnant friend from my previous post, who, incidentally, organized our Bible study group to provide meals for us in the first few weeks after Zach’s death), so I knew she was aware of everything that was going on. Yet the first time we had any communication was when we went to her goodbye open house last week. She told me she had “wanted to call, but didn’t know if she should.” So why not just send an e-mail? Or a card? That’s certainly not intrusive! Instead, she did nothing.
I realize this may seem a bit harsh to some of you. I truly understand that this kind of situation is awkward and people don’t know what to say. But my goodness—don’t say nothing! From my perspective, it seems like you don’t care—especially if I had considered you a friend beforehand (casual acquaintances I can forgive). I certainly sent my share of sympathy cards before we lost Zach, but I didn’t realize just how much they mean—even the ones that say nothing more than “I’m sorry.” They’re a very, very easy way of acknowledging someone’s grief without having to actual face them in person.
I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, so I do want to acknowledge the many, many people who did come through for us. There was the (formerly infertile) sister of a friend who sent a touching e-mail even though she barely knows me; the (formerly infertile) friend of a friend who sent a meal to us even though she barely knows me (notice a trend here? Gotta love the IF sisterhood!); my friend A who organized some of the meals; my friend AW who called me the morning before we left for our induction just to check in on me; my officemates who sent us beautiful flowers; my friend K who drove two hours on her day off to visit us two days after we received the diagnosis; and of course our families, who have been with us through this whole ordeal.
I just wish we had a couple more sympathy cards on our stack.
Our dining room table is covered with cards we received after Zach’s death. There are probably more than 60 all told, a few of which are doubles from people who forgot they had already sent a card. It is heartening to know that so many people care so much about us.
But when I look at those cards, I tend to think more about the ones that aren’t there.
For example, there is no card from K, a friendly acquaintance from work. She and I occasionally worked on projects together, and once she found out I was pregnant (she was due at the beginning of November), she was thrilled and got me a little onesie as a gift. She and I went out to lunch for some “baby talk,” and I had been hoping we would become better friends once we were both part of the “mommy club.” She even knew about the low amniotic fluid, but was confident there was nothing wrong and even followed up that fateful Friday afternoon with an e-mail asking how things went.
The problem was, I never came back to work that day. And that was her last day working before maternity leave.
From what I’ve pieced together since returning to work, she called our office assistant several times that week to find out how I was doing. I know she had been told the baby couldn’t live outside the womb and we were inducing labor.
But over the past six weeks, I have heard nothing from her. No sympathy card, no e-mail, and certainly no call. Actually, scratch that—my e-mail address was included in all the pictures she sent us of her newborn. Fortunately, my co-workers deleted them before I came back. One of my co-workers suggested that maybe she felt weird approaching me because she has a healthy newborn. Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t send a short e-mail stating simply, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It’s almost like now that I’m not pregnant anymore, she has no more use for me. Point taken.
The same goes for J, another friend through my Bible study. For the past two months, she has lived in the same house as A (the pregnant friend from my previous post, who, incidentally, organized our Bible study group to provide meals for us in the first few weeks after Zach’s death), so I knew she was aware of everything that was going on. Yet the first time we had any communication was when we went to her goodbye open house last week. She told me she had “wanted to call, but didn’t know if she should.” So why not just send an e-mail? Or a card? That’s certainly not intrusive! Instead, she did nothing.
I realize this may seem a bit harsh to some of you. I truly understand that this kind of situation is awkward and people don’t know what to say. But my goodness—don’t say nothing! From my perspective, it seems like you don’t care—especially if I had considered you a friend beforehand (casual acquaintances I can forgive). I certainly sent my share of sympathy cards before we lost Zach, but I didn’t realize just how much they mean—even the ones that say nothing more than “I’m sorry.” They’re a very, very easy way of acknowledging someone’s grief without having to actual face them in person.
I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, so I do want to acknowledge the many, many people who did come through for us. There was the (formerly infertile) sister of a friend who sent a touching e-mail even though she barely knows me; the (formerly infertile) friend of a friend who sent a meal to us even though she barely knows me (notice a trend here? Gotta love the IF sisterhood!); my friend A who organized some of the meals; my friend AW who called me the morning before we left for our induction just to check in on me; my officemates who sent us beautiful flowers; my friend K who drove two hours on her day off to visit us two days after we received the diagnosis; and of course our families, who have been with us through this whole ordeal.
I just wish we had a couple more sympathy cards on our stack.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Grieve all you want...but not in my backyard
I’m at a loss for how I should be handling my loss in public.
More specifically, I have no idea how much “shielding myself” is too much. People like to tell grieving folk such as me that we should take as much time as we need, that everyone grieves at a different pace, and “only we know what’s right for us right now.”
Well, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s really only a bunch of lip service. As far as I know, I am the only person who thinks about Zach and my current childless state pretty much around the clock. (M does think about him, but, being a guy, the grief comes in waves for him and isn’t as constant.) So while others offer me a hug and a “How are you doing?” when we see each other, they can quickly move on to other things, while one part of my mind is always stuck on Nov. 7.
Case in point: We stopped by my friend A’s house for a small open house/goodbye party for another friend on Saturday. I was apprehensive, because A is 13 weeks pregnant and I hadn’t seen her since we lost Zach. Most of the afternoon went surprisingly well, except when A was handing out her holiday letter to all of us. M read it first and tried his best to hide it inside his jacket, but she cornered him and insisted that I read it. Most of the letter was one long gush about how excited A and her husband are to be having a baby in June. I felt sick to my stomach and quickly put the letter down. At first, I couldn’t believe she would insist I read such a letter in public, but then I realized she simply hadn’t been thinking about how it would affect me. Well, of course not—because unlike me, not everything in her life is colored by the events of Nov. 7.
Is this the way life is going to be from now on? People tell me I should take my time with my grief, but in the next breath they instruct me not to isolate myself. OK, so I’m supposed to be out and about. But are these same people going to take personal responsibility for making sure the conversation doesn’t turn to something that makes me want to shoot myself? More likely, if I ever show any sign of being bothered by talk of babies and pregnancy, they will be thinking, My goodness, doesn’t she know the world still goes on despite her loss?
M and I are in a weekly Bible study with A and a few other people. We’ve said we will come back in January, but am I really ready to be seeing her on a weekly basis? When I was pregnant, my gestation was a prayer request (from other people in the group) pretty much every week. (To tell the truth, it got kind of old.) Will they do the same thing with her? Do I send all of them an e-mail asking them to pray for her privately, rather in front of me? Or would that look too much like I feel the sun rises and sets on my emotions?
Or, put more simply, do I:
a) withdraw completely
b) come back, but make sure they all know what topics are off-limits with me, or
c) just suck it up and hope that someday it won’t hurt so badly
For the audience who is reading this post, the answer would never, ever be “c.” However, I’m afraid that the rest of the world doesn’t see the situation quite the same way as we Infertiles and Pregnancy Loss People (IPLP) do.
More specifically, I have no idea how much “shielding myself” is too much. People like to tell grieving folk such as me that we should take as much time as we need, that everyone grieves at a different pace, and “only we know what’s right for us right now.”
Well, yes, that’s all well and good, but it’s really only a bunch of lip service. As far as I know, I am the only person who thinks about Zach and my current childless state pretty much around the clock. (M does think about him, but, being a guy, the grief comes in waves for him and isn’t as constant.) So while others offer me a hug and a “How are you doing?” when we see each other, they can quickly move on to other things, while one part of my mind is always stuck on Nov. 7.
Case in point: We stopped by my friend A’s house for a small open house/goodbye party for another friend on Saturday. I was apprehensive, because A is 13 weeks pregnant and I hadn’t seen her since we lost Zach. Most of the afternoon went surprisingly well, except when A was handing out her holiday letter to all of us. M read it first and tried his best to hide it inside his jacket, but she cornered him and insisted that I read it. Most of the letter was one long gush about how excited A and her husband are to be having a baby in June. I felt sick to my stomach and quickly put the letter down. At first, I couldn’t believe she would insist I read such a letter in public, but then I realized she simply hadn’t been thinking about how it would affect me. Well, of course not—because unlike me, not everything in her life is colored by the events of Nov. 7.
Is this the way life is going to be from now on? People tell me I should take my time with my grief, but in the next breath they instruct me not to isolate myself. OK, so I’m supposed to be out and about. But are these same people going to take personal responsibility for making sure the conversation doesn’t turn to something that makes me want to shoot myself? More likely, if I ever show any sign of being bothered by talk of babies and pregnancy, they will be thinking, My goodness, doesn’t she know the world still goes on despite her loss?
M and I are in a weekly Bible study with A and a few other people. We’ve said we will come back in January, but am I really ready to be seeing her on a weekly basis? When I was pregnant, my gestation was a prayer request (from other people in the group) pretty much every week. (To tell the truth, it got kind of old.) Will they do the same thing with her? Do I send all of them an e-mail asking them to pray for her privately, rather in front of me? Or would that look too much like I feel the sun rises and sets on my emotions?
Or, put more simply, do I:
a) withdraw completely
b) come back, but make sure they all know what topics are off-limits with me, or
c) just suck it up and hope that someday it won’t hurt so badly
For the audience who is reading this post, the answer would never, ever be “c.” However, I’m afraid that the rest of the world doesn’t see the situation quite the same way as we Infertiles and Pregnancy Loss People (IPLP) do.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Insurance companies can kiss my @#$
At long last, I’m going to give you a TTC treatment update. Sort of. I’m currently in the middle of five days of Provera, with the intention of bringing on a period as soon as possible. Dr. Hot wants me to go through this cycle, and then, when I get my next period, I can start on the Letrozole. Assuming I don’t get my period naturally and have to wait to take Provera, I figure my next treatment cycle will be in February. Of course, that all depends on how long it takes my uterus to figure out it should be bleeding. M is trying to plan some business trips in February, which is difficult, because I have absolutely no idea when I need him to be at home. And I really don’t want to miss our chance this first cycle! Depending on the day, I’m either really positive about my chances of getting pregnant in 1-3 cycles, or I’m absolutely convinced there’s no way we can be as lucky with Letrozole the second time as we were the first time, and I won’t even be able to ovulate.
We had a bit of a scare the other day. After I came home from work, I opened an envelope from the insurance company and discovered they weren’t paying for my delivery, D&C, hospital stay—basically everything that happened from Nov. 6-8—because I had a “disability not covered under my plan.” I was rather concerned. No, scratch that—I was hysterical. Forget saving money for a future IVF, I told M—instead, we were going to have to spend all our savings on delivering a dead baby. Between my sobs, M reminded me that my induction had been delayed because the peri’s office was checking on my insurance (after all, it’s as much in their interest as it is in mine that my insurance company pays for the delivery), but I was sure the bloodsucking insurance company had figured out a way not to pay my bill.
The next morning, M called the insurance company. Within one call, the issue was resolved: There had been a computer error, and we will receive a corrected statement within two weeks. How can they do that to people? If I had been 80, I may have had a heart attack and died! We were both incredibly relieved, and M reveled in the opportunity to say “I told you so.” My mother, whom I had called in the middle of all the mess, thinks I’m emotionally unstable and fatally pessimistic. Hmmm—you think?????
One thing I did take note of was the difference in my mood between my arrival home and my discovery of the insurance error. It was huge. I went from rather good to terrible in milliseconds. I didn’t really notice my rather good mood until it wasn’t there anymore. In other words…I’m doing OK. A bit of progress, no?
There are still many, many things that make me very sad (like seeing pictures of people’s cute kids in Christmas cards or trying on clothes that make me remember my bump), and going to bed at night is still a rather teary event, but in general, I’m able to go through life these days in a reasonably good mood. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I sang along to “My Favorite Things” on the radio at the top of my lungs on my drive home yesterday.
So the cliché appears to be true—it does get a little bit easier every day.
I’d like to reiterate that I’m very, very sorry I can’t be active on the blogs of those who were due around the same time I was (you know who you are). It’s just too painful to hear you talking about your active little fetuses and the process of picking out nursery decorations. That doesn’t mean, of course, that you shouldn’t talk about those things; I just need to shield myself, as much as possible, from thinking about the “what ifs” and the way things “should have been.”
We had a bit of a scare the other day. After I came home from work, I opened an envelope from the insurance company and discovered they weren’t paying for my delivery, D&C, hospital stay—basically everything that happened from Nov. 6-8—because I had a “disability not covered under my plan.” I was rather concerned. No, scratch that—I was hysterical. Forget saving money for a future IVF, I told M—instead, we were going to have to spend all our savings on delivering a dead baby. Between my sobs, M reminded me that my induction had been delayed because the peri’s office was checking on my insurance (after all, it’s as much in their interest as it is in mine that my insurance company pays for the delivery), but I was sure the bloodsucking insurance company had figured out a way not to pay my bill.
The next morning, M called the insurance company. Within one call, the issue was resolved: There had been a computer error, and we will receive a corrected statement within two weeks. How can they do that to people? If I had been 80, I may have had a heart attack and died! We were both incredibly relieved, and M reveled in the opportunity to say “I told you so.” My mother, whom I had called in the middle of all the mess, thinks I’m emotionally unstable and fatally pessimistic. Hmmm—you think?????
One thing I did take note of was the difference in my mood between my arrival home and my discovery of the insurance error. It was huge. I went from rather good to terrible in milliseconds. I didn’t really notice my rather good mood until it wasn’t there anymore. In other words…I’m doing OK. A bit of progress, no?
There are still many, many things that make me very sad (like seeing pictures of people’s cute kids in Christmas cards or trying on clothes that make me remember my bump), and going to bed at night is still a rather teary event, but in general, I’m able to go through life these days in a reasonably good mood. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I sang along to “My Favorite Things” on the radio at the top of my lungs on my drive home yesterday.
So the cliché appears to be true—it does get a little bit easier every day.
I’d like to reiterate that I’m very, very sorry I can’t be active on the blogs of those who were due around the same time I was (you know who you are). It’s just too painful to hear you talking about your active little fetuses and the process of picking out nursery decorations. That doesn’t mean, of course, that you shouldn’t talk about those things; I just need to shield myself, as much as possible, from thinking about the “what ifs” and the way things “should have been.”
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
They like me! They really, really like me!
As anyone who reads this blog regularly already knows, I’m a planner—not only with long-term goals (like baby-making) and work, but also with my social life. Here’s an example of what my weekly life was like pre-Zach:
Sunday pm: Community handbell choir rehearsal, 2.5 hrs
Tuesday pm: Small group Bible study, 2 hrs
Wednesday pm: Direct children’s handbell choir, 1 hr
Thursday pm: Church handbell and vocal choirs, 2.5 hrs
In addition, I was very active in trying to plan social engagements for M and me to fill up each weekend. If we didn’t have plans with anyone else for the weekend, I was a bit disconcerted. Although friends did call us, we were more likely to have called them first (and more often) to arrange dinner plans a few weeks in advance. Yes, I am that anal-retentive. Because of my social anxiety issues, I was also always concerned that other people were much more socially active than we were.
Then we lost Zach, and our lives became completely different.
For the first few days after we returned from the hospital (the first time), I was a hermit. I didn’t even want to talk to family members and close friends on the phone. Then, gradually, we started seeing more people over the next few weeks—always in small groups. I discovered at Thanksgiving that large (social) groups now make me skittish, as does planning too much for one weekend. I am most comfortable being around M; for anyone else, I have to be “on,” and I just don’t have the energy for that. I can enjoy being around friends, but only a few at a time, and for a short amount of time. (Boy, this makes me sound like I have some sort of disease, doesn’t it??!!) I did go back to work last week, but that’s completely different. At my office job, I don’t have to pretend I’m happy about life; I just have to get the work done.
Now, suddenly, the tables are turning. We aren’t calling people; they’re calling us. Sometimes it’s to check up on us, sometimes it’s to invite us to do something or issue an open invitation. It’s not because they feel sorry for us; it’s because they genuinely like spending time with us and, apparently, as we retreat, they pick up the slack. I actually told M last night that I’m concerned about how busy the weekend is shaping up to be. Yes, we have time for everything, but I really don’t want to overdo it. I need to have some quality time in front of the TV, dammit! Yet I find it difficult to reject all these people coming at us when it’s what I’ve always wanted.
I’m not complaining about this turn of events at all. I’m incredibly grateful—just a bit bewildered. Since I was a teenager, I’ve always had this theory that there are four aspects of life—Family, Love, Work and Friends (although Family and Love have pretty much merged since I got married, so I should probably create subcategories under Family to separate my marriage from our efforts to have a child—guess which of those two is at rock bottom right now?). You can never be completely happy with all four of those aspects at the same time. To quote from the musical “Avenue Q:” “Everyone’s a little bit unsatisfied/Everyone goes ‘round a little empty inside.” (Though it sounds depressing, it’s actually a very funny musical and very, very true.) Apparently, as my efforts to build a family have gone to crap, my happiness with my potential social life has skyrocketed. The only problem is that I’m not quite ready to be the social butterfly that I once was. I simply don’t enjoy spending time with friends as much as I used to—yet. I have to find that delicate balance between gratefully accepting the efforts of friends and family and taking enough time for myself.
And yes, I’ve dropped all the mid-week activities for the time being. I may resume a few of them again, but very, very slowly.
Sunday pm: Community handbell choir rehearsal, 2.5 hrs
Tuesday pm: Small group Bible study, 2 hrs
Wednesday pm: Direct children’s handbell choir, 1 hr
Thursday pm: Church handbell and vocal choirs, 2.5 hrs
In addition, I was very active in trying to plan social engagements for M and me to fill up each weekend. If we didn’t have plans with anyone else for the weekend, I was a bit disconcerted. Although friends did call us, we were more likely to have called them first (and more often) to arrange dinner plans a few weeks in advance. Yes, I am that anal-retentive. Because of my social anxiety issues, I was also always concerned that other people were much more socially active than we were.
Then we lost Zach, and our lives became completely different.
For the first few days after we returned from the hospital (the first time), I was a hermit. I didn’t even want to talk to family members and close friends on the phone. Then, gradually, we started seeing more people over the next few weeks—always in small groups. I discovered at Thanksgiving that large (social) groups now make me skittish, as does planning too much for one weekend. I am most comfortable being around M; for anyone else, I have to be “on,” and I just don’t have the energy for that. I can enjoy being around friends, but only a few at a time, and for a short amount of time. (Boy, this makes me sound like I have some sort of disease, doesn’t it??!!) I did go back to work last week, but that’s completely different. At my office job, I don’t have to pretend I’m happy about life; I just have to get the work done.
Now, suddenly, the tables are turning. We aren’t calling people; they’re calling us. Sometimes it’s to check up on us, sometimes it’s to invite us to do something or issue an open invitation. It’s not because they feel sorry for us; it’s because they genuinely like spending time with us and, apparently, as we retreat, they pick up the slack. I actually told M last night that I’m concerned about how busy the weekend is shaping up to be. Yes, we have time for everything, but I really don’t want to overdo it. I need to have some quality time in front of the TV, dammit! Yet I find it difficult to reject all these people coming at us when it’s what I’ve always wanted.
I’m not complaining about this turn of events at all. I’m incredibly grateful—just a bit bewildered. Since I was a teenager, I’ve always had this theory that there are four aspects of life—Family, Love, Work and Friends (although Family and Love have pretty much merged since I got married, so I should probably create subcategories under Family to separate my marriage from our efforts to have a child—guess which of those two is at rock bottom right now?). You can never be completely happy with all four of those aspects at the same time. To quote from the musical “Avenue Q:” “Everyone’s a little bit unsatisfied/Everyone goes ‘round a little empty inside.” (Though it sounds depressing, it’s actually a very funny musical and very, very true.) Apparently, as my efforts to build a family have gone to crap, my happiness with my potential social life has skyrocketed. The only problem is that I’m not quite ready to be the social butterfly that I once was. I simply don’t enjoy spending time with friends as much as I used to—yet. I have to find that delicate balance between gratefully accepting the efforts of friends and family and taking enough time for myself.
And yes, I’ve dropped all the mid-week activities for the time being. I may resume a few of them again, but very, very slowly.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Back to the beginning
When M and I were trying to conceive, I am ashamed to admit I was a bit jealous of bloggers who had miscarried. It wasn’t specifically because they had miscarried, of course; it was more because I was jealous they had been able to become pregnant in the first place. In my warped mind, they were closer to having a live baby than I was—even if they weren’t currently pregnant—simply because they had already been partly there.
How foolish I was.
What I didn’t understand was that when you lose a baby during pregnancy (I say “lose a baby” because, of course, I still don’t know what it’s like to miscarry), you not only don’t have a child in your arms; you have experienced a glimmer of hope, only to be pushed back down. It’s like you’re in prison, digging a tunnel to freedom. You’re near the end, you can see the light—and suddenly there’s a cave-in, and you’re right back where you started.
Or, to use another analogy, it’s like the children’s game Chutes and Ladders. (M, unfortunately, never played that game as a kid, so I’m counting on you guys to get what I’m talking about.) In that game, you slowly make your way along a board with 100 spaces. Sometimes, you land on a ladder, which allows you to jump ahead a few spaces. Sometimes, you land on a chute, which sets you back. At the top of the board—just a few steps away from the end—there’s a gigantic chute which, if landed upon, will send you sliding all the way back to the beginning. For a competitive child such as myself, it was heartbreaking to land on that space.
I’m not so arrogant as to think that with my pregnancy, I had reached the gigantic chute. That’s reserved for women who carry their babies to term, only to find out at the end that something has gone wrong and their baby has died. But I had ascended rather far—at least for me. I could see the end; I was choreographing my victory dance. I was contemplating nursery decorations and crib styles. And whoooosh! suddenly I’m back at the beginning. In fact, now, I feel almost silly for actually believing I would have a child in my arms next spring. I feel like a poser.
It has now been a month since Zach’s death. I mourn the loss of my son, but I also mourn the loss of what was “supposed to be.” I was supposed to deliver in March, three months ahead of my friend A, who is now nearing the end of her first trimester. I was supposed to experience pregnancy and then motherhood first. Instead, she will be leading the way, gazing back at me with sympathetic eyes as she caresses her growing belly and signs up for labor and delivery classes.
I am immensely grateful for the joy Zach gave me for a few months. But I am heartbreakingly sad that that joy had to turn into sorrow, landing me squarely back at the bottom of the board—again.
How foolish I was.
What I didn’t understand was that when you lose a baby during pregnancy (I say “lose a baby” because, of course, I still don’t know what it’s like to miscarry), you not only don’t have a child in your arms; you have experienced a glimmer of hope, only to be pushed back down. It’s like you’re in prison, digging a tunnel to freedom. You’re near the end, you can see the light—and suddenly there’s a cave-in, and you’re right back where you started.
Or, to use another analogy, it’s like the children’s game Chutes and Ladders. (M, unfortunately, never played that game as a kid, so I’m counting on you guys to get what I’m talking about.) In that game, you slowly make your way along a board with 100 spaces. Sometimes, you land on a ladder, which allows you to jump ahead a few spaces. Sometimes, you land on a chute, which sets you back. At the top of the board—just a few steps away from the end—there’s a gigantic chute which, if landed upon, will send you sliding all the way back to the beginning. For a competitive child such as myself, it was heartbreaking to land on that space.
I’m not so arrogant as to think that with my pregnancy, I had reached the gigantic chute. That’s reserved for women who carry their babies to term, only to find out at the end that something has gone wrong and their baby has died. But I had ascended rather far—at least for me. I could see the end; I was choreographing my victory dance. I was contemplating nursery decorations and crib styles. And whoooosh! suddenly I’m back at the beginning. In fact, now, I feel almost silly for actually believing I would have a child in my arms next spring. I feel like a poser.
It has now been a month since Zach’s death. I mourn the loss of my son, but I also mourn the loss of what was “supposed to be.” I was supposed to deliver in March, three months ahead of my friend A, who is now nearing the end of her first trimester. I was supposed to experience pregnancy and then motherhood first. Instead, she will be leading the way, gazing back at me with sympathetic eyes as she caresses her growing belly and signs up for labor and delivery classes.
I am immensely grateful for the joy Zach gave me for a few months. But I am heartbreakingly sad that that joy had to turn into sorrow, landing me squarely back at the bottom of the board—again.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Public service announcement
At Becky’s request, I have compiled a list of the “wrong” things people have said to us following the stillbirth of our son, and what they should have said. Keep in mind that all of these people meant well; mostly, they just said these things because they were uncomfortable. I have even included a comment I made a year and a half ago to a friend who had just miscarried. Yes, I screwed up too. Also, keep in mind that most of these comments were said to us as part of a rather short conversation. As in: “It’s been a hard month for us because we found out our fetus had a deadly birth defect.” “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s for the best.” Now, if a similar comment had been part of a longer conversation on, say, spirituality and how we as Christians have to believe that God somehow works everything for good, then it would have been more appropriate. It’s all about context, baby.
With that said, I proudly bring you…
The Pocket Primer on What to Say Following a Stillbirth, Miscarriage or Other Infant Loss
What they said: Absolutely nothing (my 91-year-old grandfather)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “Well, at least you’re still young.” (M’s uncle)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “We have had so many miscarriages in the family. I firmly believe that is due to environmental factors.” (M’s second cousin, who apparently has no idea of the difference between a miscarriage and a stillbirth/medical termination)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “All I can say is, everyone I’ve known who has had a miscarriage has gone on to deliver to term shortly afterwards.” (This was my comment, said to a friend who had miscarried at 8 weeks.)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “You know, naming a fetus can actually make the grief process harder. It might not be the best idea.” (M’s therapist apparently didn’t realize I had actually given birth to a baby, and not had a miscarriage. Do the math, asshole! Once he realized his mistake, he apologized profusely, but we’re both still pretty pissed off.)
What they should have said: “Hmmm, I see. Go on.”
With that said, I proudly bring you…
The Pocket Primer on What to Say Following a Stillbirth, Miscarriage or Other Infant Loss
What they said: Absolutely nothing (my 91-year-old grandfather)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “Well, at least you’re still young.” (M’s uncle)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “We have had so many miscarriages in the family. I firmly believe that is due to environmental factors.” (M’s second cousin, who apparently has no idea of the difference between a miscarriage and a stillbirth/medical termination)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “All I can say is, everyone I’ve known who has had a miscarriage has gone on to deliver to term shortly afterwards.” (This was my comment, said to a friend who had miscarried at 8 weeks.)
What they should have said: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
What they said: “You know, naming a fetus can actually make the grief process harder. It might not be the best idea.” (M’s therapist apparently didn’t realize I had actually given birth to a baby, and not had a miscarriage. Do the math, asshole! Once he realized his mistake, he apologized profusely, but we’re both still pretty pissed off.)
What they should have said: “Hmmm, I see. Go on.”
Monday, December 3, 2007
Oh, the horror!
Because I practically sequestered myself for the first couple of weeks after Zach died, I was shielded from almost all insensitive comments. Foolishly, I thought I wasn’t going to have to worry about other people inadvertently hurting me.
Oh, how naïve I was.
I have learned that I have become a horror story. As in, I’m the scary monster who walks down the village street, leering at the frightened villagers who run for cover in their homes. As they run, they pull their loved ones close to them, desperate to shield them from the Dead Baby Disease.
Case in point: I saw my hairstylist last week for a cut and highlights. Even before I arrived, I knew she would say something inappropriate because she’s just that kind of person. I had told her about Zach when I scheduled the appointment. Midway through my appointment, she told me that after she hung up with me, she called her pregnant daughter (who was a few weeks ahead of me) “just because I wanted to make sure Junior was doing OK.” Then, she started telling her daughter my story. Her daughter was in tears and stopped her in the middle.
Let me ask you this: If someone had just told you her husband had died, would you tell her that after you heard the news, you ran home to your own husband and told him how much you love him and how you hope nothing happens to him?
I, however, said nothing to the hairstylist. After all, I had to spend the next hour with this woman. Really, what was I going to say? “Please don’t tell me about how relieved you were that your daughter doesn’t have to go through what I have gone through.”
Even a close friend felt the need to tell me that she and her mother are purposely keeping my story from her pregnant sister-in-law because they don’t want to scare her.
I have asked my mother to stop telling me about the latest person she has shared my story with. Inevitably, those stories involve the person being shocked and in tears. At one point, I was happy to hear those stories. Now it just reminds me how unusual and tragic my situation is, which makes me feel even more sorry for myself. Even my RE’s office said they only hear about a second- or third-trimester loss maybe once every other month.
What’s worse—having your loss minimized by other people, or having the world constantly remind you that it really, really sucks to be you right now? I’m not sure I know.
Oh, how naïve I was.
I have learned that I have become a horror story. As in, I’m the scary monster who walks down the village street, leering at the frightened villagers who run for cover in their homes. As they run, they pull their loved ones close to them, desperate to shield them from the Dead Baby Disease.
Case in point: I saw my hairstylist last week for a cut and highlights. Even before I arrived, I knew she would say something inappropriate because she’s just that kind of person. I had told her about Zach when I scheduled the appointment. Midway through my appointment, she told me that after she hung up with me, she called her pregnant daughter (who was a few weeks ahead of me) “just because I wanted to make sure Junior was doing OK.” Then, she started telling her daughter my story. Her daughter was in tears and stopped her in the middle.
Let me ask you this: If someone had just told you her husband had died, would you tell her that after you heard the news, you ran home to your own husband and told him how much you love him and how you hope nothing happens to him?
I, however, said nothing to the hairstylist. After all, I had to spend the next hour with this woman. Really, what was I going to say? “Please don’t tell me about how relieved you were that your daughter doesn’t have to go through what I have gone through.”
Even a close friend felt the need to tell me that she and her mother are purposely keeping my story from her pregnant sister-in-law because they don’t want to scare her.
I have asked my mother to stop telling me about the latest person she has shared my story with. Inevitably, those stories involve the person being shocked and in tears. At one point, I was happy to hear those stories. Now it just reminds me how unusual and tragic my situation is, which makes me feel even more sorry for myself. Even my RE’s office said they only hear about a second- or third-trimester loss maybe once every other month.
What’s worse—having your loss minimized by other people, or having the world constantly remind you that it really, really sucks to be you right now? I’m not sure I know.
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