Permission Granted

A sweet friend told me last night that she thinks bedrest is sending me into a deep 'down' place and that I should talk to my OB about possible depression.  It means a lot to me that she was willing to speak up and tell me that what I'm feeling and saying doesn't altogether seem like normal pregnancy, hormonal emotions.  I admit that I've been feeling increasingly unlike the healthy self that I was so proud of several months ago.

K told me last night that it was okay to be sad because we did just have an unexpected, burdensome upheaval.  He asked if I noticed myself feeling this way before the bedrest news. It's hard to say...my memory is so foggy.  Even still, I'm historically bad at coping with hardships (re: my life crisis over being infertile) and I know I'm not handling this well.  I'm mad at my body. I feel guilty that K got stuck with dumb ol' me without knowing how hard it would be to have a family with me.  It's nice to hear that it's okay to be sad, though. I get frustrated with myself for crying, which usually just makes it worse.

I cleaned our box fan today.  I started to get proud of myself for accomplishing that task and immediately gave myself a stern admonishment.  "All I did was clean a stupid fan", I told myself, "big deal. I've done nothing else lately". And I almost accepted that; except a spark of 'hold the fuck up' washed over me and I realized that just as much as it's okay to be sad, it's okay to be happy. I'm allowed to be proud of myself that I cleaned this fan.  It needed it and I did it.  I have a clean fan now because I took the time to unscrew some things and wipe them down.  It might be minute but it's something.

Maybe I can pull myself out of this funk. Maybe not.  Maybe I'm a normal amount of sad and anxious and frustrated. Maybe not. All I know is that I'm thankful for the three gifts of realizations that I got over the last 12 hours: it's okay to be happy, it's okay to be sad, it's okay to ask for help.  I already feel a little less overwhelmed.

Repose

I completed my first week of bedrest with so much grace and class that I should teach a workshop on it.  Psych.    I'm almost ashamed at how poorly I handled being confined to home-couch-bed.   I whined, I cried, I got angry and irritable.  At one point, K had to load me up and drive me down the highway to keep me from losing it (and probably to shut me up. I've been more than a little annoying, I have a feeling).

If an enemy ever wants to effectively torture me for information, they can skip right over the more gruesome ways and go straight to locking me in a room with nothing to do.  I'll tell you anything...just please let me out of here.

Honestly, I was a little convinced that all it would take was one week and my cervix would miraculously get with the program so much that I would be allowed to get off bedrest and return to work.  No such luck.  I'm down for the count.  The bright side is that my cervix is unchanged - nothing is worse...and not worse is good.  Also, isn't it sort of beautiful that sometimes 'not worse' is worth celebrating? Just me? Eh, I'm sentimental and more than a little emotional.

I've been a nurse for 5 years. I like to work hard and fast, draining myself in all possible ways in service of someone that needs my help.  I'm very good at what I do. I find fulfillment in it. I couldn't really imagine doing anything else. It's odd to find myself without it, especially so suddenly and without any choice.

Now there will be those of you that say, "oh enjoy it. I would love to spend hours watching a show/playing a game/reading a book/being required to accomplish nothing". To you I say, please shush.  Perhaps, maybe, there is a possibility that I would enjoy this except that we just lost 75% of our household income and it's literally all my fault.  I have just shouldered K with so much undeserved stress. I have put our family in financial jeopardy.  I feel very guilty about it and I have nothing but unlimited time to dwell on it.

K appears to be unperturbed (thank God - because I'm perturbing it up more than enough for the both of us).  He's taken on the extra responsibility of the household without so much as a single complaint. He's patiently tried to talk me down from my self-loathing shouldering of the blame.  He tells me that we just take it one day at a time, we'll figure it out, and that in the end it'll all be okay.  He reminds me that there is no fault here, that my body is good, that nothing is going wrong.  I've repaid his kindness and steadfast patience by crying a lot. Lucky guy.

Body of mine

A common problem you'll discover among the infertile crowd (and I'm most specifically talking about the infertile individual of the couple) is this feeling as though their body has failed.  It's a theme I've noticed over and over whilst reading about the emotional effects of infertility and in talking to a great many infertile women and men.  An infert will express disappointment in their body, going so far as to feel their body is less than, useless, and/or betraying them.

I never felt this so acutely as I saw others did.  I was aware that my body ovulated improperly.  I realized that my body was incapable of getting pregnant on it's own accord. I was frustrated that I couldn't find a quick, easy fix. I just never out and out blamed my body. I felt spared in that, lucky nearly, that I could remain somewhat rational about it - afterall, we take our small victories were we can get them when it comes to the losing game of being infertile and one of mine was that I didn't hate my body.

Still, when I discovered yoga I began to respect my body again.  Yoga starts with this lovely mindset that you don't focus on what you cannot do. Instead, the focus is purely in what you're capable of.  You can hold a pose for 2 seconds? WONDERFUL! LOOK AT WHAT YOUR STRONG AND LOVELY BODY IS DOING!!  And slowly, in celebrating each little thing I was capable of, I started being capable of more and more in the land of yoga.  Before long I was not only accepting of my body but very proud of it.  I felt powerful and incredibly feminine again - two things that infertility had definitely taken away from me.

I stopped being able to do yoga like I was used to by late March.  Infertility treatments really take a toll on my body by adding weight, increasing fatigue, and decreasing stamina.  Hyperemesis knocked me out of the game completely and by the time I found a way to cope with it, I had lost a lot of energy and muscle. Pregnancy led me to feeling overly fatigued and incredibly activity intolerant.  Still, I managed a few yoga sessions here and there.  Getting back into the mindset was nice - the refocus on beauty and capability.  I was reminded of how wonderful my body is.

And, I was very proud of the fact that, though my body couldn't get pregnant easily, it seemed to be doing a bang up job of staying pregnant this time around. I gave accolades to this little body of mine for that, incredibly thankful especially knowing that there are too many infertile women that cannot say the same. I felt I owed it to my body on the behalf of so many people and things to specifically celebrate it for that victory.

Yesterday it was discovered that my cervix is much too short and already funneling, an indicator of pre-term birth.  A decent measurement for a cervix at my stage of the game (27 weeks) would be at least 3 cm, 2.5 cm on the low end, with good being 4cm.  Mine is an unfortunate 1.97 cm. I was ushered into a room to discuss this with the OB, swabbed for a test called fFN (it's a test based on it's negative predictive value.  Mine was negative meaning it is 99% likely that I will NOT go into labor during the next 7-14 days), and then sent to the perinatologist for further evaluation.  He confirmed the findings and after a short stay in L&D, I was shot up with steroids and sent home on strict bedrest.

I had a hard time last night with being down on myself in a way I hadn't been in a while and mad at my body in a way I'd never been before.  It's a bit difficult for me knowing my body isn't doing the bang up job I had been celebrating. It's very difficult for me to be undeniably reminded of the fact that I cannot do well what comes easily and naturally to the majority of women.  I admit it's a loss of some identity, a loss of that feminine quality I had come to embrace.  I'm not normal and there's just no way around that.

Today I'm going to try to focus on my victories:
   -we discovered my short cervix in time to do something about it
   -as far as anyone knows, this babe is staying put for at least a couple of weeks
   -she's growing strong and well

and I'm going to try to convince myself that this set back and reminder needn't rob me of my beauty, my womanhood, or my femininity.  I am still powerful and lovely. We'll see how I do with that.
 

Bad days

     I don't know what it is. I've never been able to describe it properly.  At it's worst, I drowned in it - choking on it, feeling it thick in my lungs.  I used to keep it a secret because I barely understood it myself but I've learned that it happens more often and lasts longer if I keep quiet.  Now I call it 'my bad day' and reach out to whomever is willing to help keep me from going under.

     I've started to recognize when it comes sneaking around. At first, I can't exactly pinpoint what is wrong but I know something isn't right.  I feel too rough...like my edges are sandpaper catching on cotton.  It feels tangly and messy.  The roughness turns into a raw, overexposed feeling.  The noises are too noisy, the silence is too silent, everything is just too much of whatever it is. The world is in hyperdrive and I can't find a good spot to jump in and join.  Then comes the sneakiest part of all, the overcompensation of the rawness - I am muted.  I can laugh, smile, and participate as well as ever but it's forced from beneath what feels like layers of glue.  The muted feeling quickly becomes my bad day.

     I guess if I'm going to be completely honest and transparent here (because if not here then where) my bad days are characterized by an overwhelming sense of sadness.  I will sob rolling, hot tears and mourn for things I can't articulate.  It's no use reminding myself that nothing is actually wrong; I'll just cry all the more thinking I must be really messed up to feel so sad when everything is okay.

     Luckily, mercifully, thankfully I manage to put away my pride and reach out to those I trust the most.  Some of them show up in person, physically guiding me out of the sadness until it sheds completely and I can walk without feeling it's heavy weight.  Some of them send texts of encouragement, assuring me that I'm not alone or broken.  Each of them remind me that if I hang on just a little longer the bad day will pass, as it always does.

I'm a writer

I'm not a talker.

I could sit with you for hours, listening to you speak, offering small words here and there if you need them.   I'll joke with you, laughing readily and heartily because I enjoy you and the way it feels when we laugh together.  I'll offer advice when you're confused and need a fresh perspective.  And forever I will encourage you because I think you're great and worthy of all the things you desire.   

There are a hundred thousand things in my life that are cause for celebration.  I have a loyal husband. One of those types that always forgives and always loves, even if I make it a bit more difficult than either of us expected.  There's a tried and true best friend that has taught me it's safe to be vulnerable and honest, even if it's a little messy.  Beyond that, there are a handful of people I call my favorite in all the world.  My group, my net, the upholding hands of love and trust and faith that I've been blessed to call friends. Some live so far away we haven't seen each other in years. Some live so close I see them almost every day.  A few I've never had the pleasure of meeting face to face...pen pals, but blessings nonetheless.   Finally, and a thing I realize is quite rare, our families. Both his and mine.  They are wonderfully diverse and always accepting, a safe place no matter what. 

I am happy.  We have a beautiful home, in a handpicked neighborhood, literally right across the street from some of my worlds favorites. We travel, hand in hand, learning more about each other as we discover the world together. We discuss adoption like it's a sure thing, a desire of our hearts since we were young...a child that is both ours and someone else's, made and grown with a love big enough to fill multiple hearts and families. 

But I'm not a talker.  Sometimes what I'll want to say is that everything is beautiful and I'm excited about all the prospects of what this world and our Lord has to offer. Sometimes what I'll need to say is that I'm hurt, bruised by the realities of a life not gone according to plan.  That's the point of this blog: a place to write down all of the things I don't know how to say. 

The day I learned about loss

In honor of pregnancy and infant loss awareness month I am sharing the story of why this month holds a special place in my heart. I haven't ever told this entire story to anyone and only wrote it because K said it was probably a good idea.  The story was written after months of constant grief...a cycle of hope and crushing disappointment when it became clear that I wasn't going to get pregnant again any time soon. I contemplated changing some aspects of the story around but decided against it because I need to honor the sadness of the woman that wrote these words.

Without further adieu...

On my 26^th birthday I got the best present I could have ever asked for – a positive pregnancy test.  We’d only been trying since July but I had been aching for a baby of my own since we said “I do” almost four years earlier.   I was so excited that I took multiple pictures of that beautiful, positive test and texted those to K in a rush of heart pounding excitement.  No elaborate reveals from this eager lady!

Then, days later, time slowed down as I sat in the bathroom at work while my mind processed that the blood I was seeing and the pain I was feeling probably led to nothing good. 

The proper nurse that I am, I calmly took an assessment.  “T”, I addressed myself, “are you going to be okay or are you going to freak out?" But before I had a chance to answer, time sped back up and the decision was made for me.  I dropped to my knees, crying, and spent just half a second begging the Lord – not my baby, please, please, Lord…not MY baby.  But I’m a smart women and I knew it was too late. 

The begging gave way to some semblance of rational thought as I realized my next dilemma.  You see, I'd chosen a bathroom that opened directly to a patient hall and near the main nurses’ station.  Obstacles of human interaction with patients and coworkers stood in my way between this terrible place that the bathroom had become and my goal of solace that was my managers office.  I thought through all of this and wondered if I could make it without drawing attention to myself.  I dried my eyes, slapped my cheeks, and decided to just keep my head down, making a beeline for my target.  And, folks, I did it.  I walked out of the bathroom, acted normal, and made it to her office door – my heart breaking all the while.  And then that motherfucking door was locked.  No one was there.  My plan had failed and I didn't have another one.  Stay calm, my mind chanted, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. 

My feet carried me to the nurse’s station just a few steps away.  I was speechless, my body was numb, and my baby was bleeding out of me.  I don’t know if I spoke or even if I made a noise – everything was disconnected from everything else; all systems felt like they were working separately and it was enough just to exist, but something got the attention of our nursing secretary and so came that dreaded question.  “What’s wrong,” she asked.  “I think I just had a miscarriage,” I managed to reply and then everything failed, I covered my face, the sadness burned into me, and I cried again.