It’s been close to 10 years. I can’t calculate it down to hours and minutes and months and exact days between that date and now. But I do know the date. January 19th, 2010. I’ve once written a blog about this experience but I didn’t get down into the raw emotion of it because still, even five years after that, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even now, I’m not sure that I can and now it’s been over 9 years.
Over the Christmas break of 2009, we revealed to a few family members we were expecting our second. After a lot of complications with our first, due to my health complications that could have been prevented (longer story), I was hesitating in mentioning it before we cleared our first trimester but we were so close and I had felt so good. Check ups scheduled, taking vitamins; I was doing it all right this time.
I woke up the morning of the 18th feeling some back pain and mild headache, but being a migraine sufferer, this didn’t alarm me. I worked at home as a childcare giver for infants and so sent my oldest and husband off and worked as usual. By mid morning, with two infants in my care, the back pain had increased. I went to the bathroom and had a few blood spots but after internet research realized this could be normal. After all, the back pain subsided with a pain pill and I was starting to feel back to my energetic self. I went with a friend of mine to get a pregnancy test at the store after work just to make sure I was overreacting. Didn’t take long for the positive sign to show back up and I just thought it was fine. That night progressed as normal as I played with my 4 year old and made dinner; you know just the usual.
I woke up the morning of the 19th feeling great! Did the usual: sent husband and son off to school/work and opened the door to the two babies I was in charge of. By mid morning though, I started feeling really bad back cramps. I took another pain killer and it mostly went away.
The next part sticks out so vividly in my mind and something I probably will never be able to forgive myself for. Ever. The cramps had increased so much and I thought maybe I needed to just use the restroom. I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what a miscarriage would look like and am almost certain no one miscarriage is the same. Mine was nothing more than what I had dealt with with monthly cramps. Slightly inconvenient. But when I went to flush I knew something was wrong. Now, if you are squeamish, turn away now.
I saw the baby. Little. Deformed. Didn’t even look like a baby. But in the toilet nonetheless. Formed enough I knew. I pulled on a glove and, as my heart cringes to say, “fished” the baby out of the toilet. (Harder words I’ve rarely had to say). I stood there in shock. Gloved hands and alone. Confused. I couldn’t call my clients: they would have to leave work early and that would be inconvenient for them. I couldn’t call my husband for the same reason. I stood there, tears clouding my vision before I gently placed my baby, my baby, back into the toilet and flushed. I don’t know how long I stood there; just until one of my little clients woke up from nap and I had to, had to, snap back into business mode. I worked half day thankfully, knowing my husband would be home at lunch and I needed to go to urgent care.
I didn’t know what I was dealing with. I was lost and confused, angry and mad at myself. Sad beyond belief. I’ve got to tell you; some hospital staff needs another lesson in bedside manner. I stood there, legs shaking, filling out the form for why I was at urgent care. I’ll edit the words I feel and just say the woman at the front desk didn’t need to say loudly enough to the tiny waiting room that they didn’t have the equipment to deal with a miscarriage and that I would have to go to the emergency room. I was near a breakdown and the stares, whether be they from sympathy or not, where not what I needed at that moment. I wanted to be invisible; I wanted to be able to deal with it by myself.
I couldn’t. As we drove up to the emergency room- I realized it was that day, exactly, that we had come there five years ago and almost lost our first. What had I done wrong? Why was this happening again on the same exact day? I almost collapsed outside of the door, whether from stress or fatigue or blood loss, I won’t ever know. The image of me and the glove have never left my mind. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for not giving that sweet soul more than what I did.
I remember laying there, so many probing me saying they couldn’t find “it”. That word stood out to me. I knew they weren’t going to find my baby, I knew what had happened but between choking sobs, I couldn’t tell them what I had done. I couldn’t ask if I should’ve done something differently. But the word “it” and “inviable” screamed in my head. This baby wasn’t an “it” to me. That was my baby. My baby that I had flushed. The despair was real.
I remember the internal ultrasound. I was alone because my husband had to go back to work. I stared through the tiny pinhole that happens when blinds are closed. I could see some green leaves outside. I could hear all of their conversations though I pretended not to. It took all of my self control not to scream at them to stop saying “it”. “It doesn’t seem to be there.” “We are sorry, it seems like you lost ‘it’” This baby was not an “it” to me. Somehow I had convinced myself she was a little girl. A little girl whose mommy had failed her. Illogical I know.
The weeks that followed were a blur. I lived in a coma but continued to work. I had to. I sobbed at night in quiet but smiled in the morning. That was my grief. I think it mounted to a head on the day that I had finally stopped with all of the miscarriage symptoms. The pregnancy test was still sitting on the counter and up until that day had read as positive. That very day- the same day I got all of the calls I already knew were coming- it was reading negative. I felt numb as I dropped it in the trash can; as if that one thing laid final note to what I already felt. I had to keep moving forward and felt for so long I had to keep my secret I was safe. I was lucky enough, a short month later, to be blessed with my rainbow baby. I know my journey was shorter than most. I am thankful, but still, after all these years am still healing.
Sometimes I’m sure people wonder why I am still healing: after all, I have two children. Grief mends in very different ways. Sometimes I’m surprised I still feel grief but I accept it. Both my children know what we have been through. I guess part of this message is that if you have a friend, or if you are that friend, express it. A true friend will listen no matter how many times you tell the same story and cry the tears; they will hug you even when they might not even understand. The biggest part for me, and one I am still working on, is understanding that I didn’t fail. Because there are still many days I feel as if my body failed to do the most basic thing a woman’s body should do. And mine failed. Somedays I still feel that way. But I’m learning, just even a little, by putting this out there that this should not be a stigma, and both men and women should try to understand, accept, and comfort those who are going through this nearly invisible concept of miscarriage, especially when it is an early term miscarriage. To all those mommies out there with angel babies, hold strong and take faith in that there is a support system out there for you!
A letter I’m likely never to receive
Thank you Mom for all those months you gave up your body to care for me
Thank you Mom for all those days you fed me and didn’t think twice
Thank you Mom for all those nights you laid awake when I was sick
When I couldn’t sleep, when I just needed Mommy
Thank you Mom
And then Son, you, got older and the thank you’s faded
No more thank you for dinner
No more thank you for cleaning up
Hugs were only to see if you were taller
No more thank you’s.
And I smiled, through the sadness of seeing you grow
Through the sadness of watching you move away
But when you move away, I’ve done what I can
You will become the man we hope to see
and as hard as it is to see,
We will let you go and let you be the man
The man we can only pray you’ll be
And only hope someday the thank you’s
Will be silently understood.
Because thank you Son, for giving us
the life we never knew we could have.
It was 36 years and 356 and ¼ days in the making. That phrase kept echoing in my head. Yes, it had been that long. For close to 37 years, I had questions. Questions that were either met with vague answers or no answers at all. Questions that were met with avoidance or contempt.
Then there was Facebook; both the bane of my existence and the savior. Bane because I spend too much time looking for meaning amongst meaningless posts. Savior because it led me down a path I had been wondering about for years.
There he sat. A suggested “friend” because we shared one thing in common. We shared a hometown. A face I knew only from one picture. A face so much like my own. I could see the same smile, the same nose, the same eyes. I hesitantly typed a private message. And waited. And waited.
Turns out, there are a lot of people who still don’t get the messenger aspect of Facebook and that’s ok. I understand that. When I’m struggling with my phone, I have to ask my teenager to fix it for me. And to be honest, I’m okay with that. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that I was trying to explain to an older family member how google works. Yes, that was a fun hour.
I digress a little. But when I saw the response, my fingers froze on the keyboard. I really wasn’t expecting an answer and so was ill prepared for a response. But, like so many things in my life, I felt it was the right time. So I responded and gave him my cell phone number.
That hour that I spent talking to him I felt like a missing piece of my puzzle had been found. As much as I like to tell stories, I’m terrible at speaking on the phone. I asked if I could meet him and he said yes. Being the planner I am, I jumped in with both feet and asked if it could be in two weeks. After all, what were two weeks compared to almost 37 years? Nothing, it was nothing.
Except it was. It was everything, It was my life time of questions and musings and wonderings. My lifetime.
So there I stood. I didn’t really sleep the night before. I wondered what we would talk about. Would he like me? I have a tattoo and crazy colored hair. Would that effect the way he thought of me? What if I talked too fast or told too many random stories? What was I doing just dropping myself into this mans life after all these years? Was he as scared and nervous as I was?
My hand was shaking so badly I could barely ring the doorbell. Deep breath, Alice, and down the rabbit hole we go.
His wife broke the ice. An amazing woman who is great with children. A sigh of relief as my two boys can be sweet but also be turds. (and yes, they know I call them that) She hugged me and could feel me shaking so suggested I sit down and relax, as if relaxing is really in my vocabulary. I tried and nervously picked at the snack platters they had so generously laid out. What was I doing? Why?
But those 36 years and 356 and ¼ days were well worth it. We shared stories and laughs. Questions were finally answered and I felt as if the final part of me had been answered. It went so much better than I would’ve allowed myself to believe, simply because I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
And in my true story telling fashion, I will close out with one. During one of our many text conversations, he asked me if I had ever had a glow worm toy. If you aren’t a child of the 80’s, you might not know what this is. It was a very popular toy; a stuffed worm with a face that lit up when you hugged it. I did have one and I remembered loving it until it got lost. When I came over, he gave me a small present and called it silly. Inside was a Christmas tree ornament that was a glow worm like the stuffed one I had had as a child. A toy I never had known was from him until he talked about it. It wasn’t silly to me at all; in fact it was probably the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received.
So sometimes, life can just throw a surprise at you. Don’t be afraid to try it out; it might just lead to some lovely adventures you never knew you needed.
In search of a new topic to blog about, I recently asked my neighbors daughter, who has been helping me with my little ones, if she could ask me a question dealing with parenting that she would want a real answer to, what would it be? She’s quite a smart girl, and more mature than most, and she knows that my sense of parenting is often riddled with sarcasm yet honesty.
Her question was a loaded one and I told her so. It was “Do you like it?” Meaning, of course, do you like parenting?
The fact I paused and laughed a little did make me feel like the terrible parent I can be at times. But then again, I am honest. Do I like it?
Yes. Most of the time.
Do I regret having my children.
No…… okay it’s not that I regret them. I love them and would do anything for them. But there are days, when I’m having yet another massive struggle with my ultra opinionated 4 year old or repeating the same sentence 5 times to my 10 year old that I often wonder what on earth I was thinking. So perhaps a better phrasing of this would be “Would I take them back?” No. Not for an instance. Though sometimes I do threaten them with selling them and just traveling the world with the money I get. But I’m only joking. Most of the time. 😉
There are days that I feel like I have gotten myself in too deep and have no idea if I (or they) are going to make until they are 18. Sometimes I wonder if I would be a better parent if I would have waited just a tad longer, in order to figure out who I really am. (of course to this day, sometimes I’m not sure who I am.)
There are aspects of parenting which are immensely rewarding. My four year old picking out flowers randomly for me. My ten year old not being too old to snuggle in bed with a book to read with me. Watching both of their minds process the world around them and start to develop their own thoughts on how the world works. For example, Zeus, Skylanders and religion are intertwined (as seen in this blog here.) Or the different stages of asking where a baby comes from (as seen in this blog here) While these discussions can sometimes be downright terrifying (since you are worried about what horrible image your child might be imagining or the therapy bills you are going to accumulate when you find you explained it completely wrong) they can also be vastly rewarding. You are watching them grow from a little life filled blob that can’t even hold up their own heads into young thinking machines capable of asking questions that you might have to google in order to find the answer to. For me, one was “why do the mountains appear blue from a distance when in fact they are brown?”
But then there are sides of parenting which are challenging. And not in the way that a good work out is challenging. They are the knock-down-drag-out-I-am-sure-my-neighbors-think-I’m-a-psycho kind of challenges. One that leave you wondering where on earth these children spawned from. Ones that leave you wondering where in the heck did they ever learn to behave that way. For example, overheard in my house the other day was, screamed screeched through the hallway like some hormone fueled rage of a teenager (I think girl just because you see it so often on media) “Why are you always ruining my whole life?”
Take pause for a moment. I don’t have any teenagers that live in my house. I don’t even have any girls who live in my house. And that phrase was not even said by my ten year old. It was my four year old whose life we were ruining. And it was because we had dared to pick up the pillow he wanted to put away. So we apparently ruined his whole life. I don’t mind admitting for a minute, as he dramatically slammed the door, that perhaps I had ruined my whole life when I thought it was a good idea to be a parent. But that thought lasted a millisecond.. okay second.. okay maybe a minute, before I laughed off the drama and just continued whatever mundane chore I was working on. Maybe one of these days, I’ll get a good recording of this and when he is a teenager and proclaiming that he thinks I am ruining his life and be able to say “hey, look, this is another time I ruined your life, and you survived it then, didn’t you?”
So, to answer the question. Do I like parenting? Yes, I do. All of the challenges and rewards are worth it. I just hope I can turn out good young men. That’s when I’ll know how good of a job I did while liking the fact I am a parent.
I know my blog is suppose to be a little funny and a little sarcastic. But more than that, it is suppose to be a very realistic take on parenting. So for those of you who only want to read something witty, perhaps this is not the right entry for you. But for those of you who want to know the nitty gritty of parenting, here is a story for you. And perhaps I am speaking of something that few people want to think of, or speak of, but for years I haven’t spoken of and still I have no solace. So perhaps I am writing this as a way of closure, or solace for any other family who has dealt with the same thing and has no idea how to cope with it.
I will forever remember the day. January 19th, 2010. The exact same day I went into the ER five years earlier with my first son. The exact same day I almost lost him. When I walked through those same doors, on the same day 5 years later, I almost collapsed. This couldn’t be happening again. It wasn’t. This time was worse.
This time I was too late and the baby was too young. This time I got the news that I’d already lost the baby. It couldn’t be. Why?
I racked my brain for answers. I’d done everything I was suppose to. More so than the things I had done when I was pregnant with my first child. Yes, the one who I got so sick with in my 6th month that doctors recommended my husband call his family for support in case he needed to make a choice between his son or his wife. And yes, that’s right, we were just finding out for the first time that we were having a son. The next time, with the second baby, we never got to find out. I was just shy of 3 months pregnant. Somehow I had convinced myself it was a girl. And somehow I had convinced myself it was my fault.
It was my fault that my body failed at the MOST BASIC thing a woman’s body should be able to do. I could see myself holding the baby that suddenly wasn’t even viable. That’s the word I kept hearing. It was okay because perhaps “it” had not been viable. I could tell you about the doctors… about the coldness of dealing with an “it.” About the apologizes that meant little. But I couldn’t help but feeling like I had did something wrong. It didn’t help that unless one has had a baby that it’s a lot harder to know how much attachment is felt. It is very different for an outsider to feel kicks; a completely other to feel the baby kick you.
Why do I write this? Because it’s been 5 years. And still 5 years later, I feel the pang of sorrow anytime I see a show or reference to a mom who has lost a baby. I want you to know that I worked the entire day while in miscarriage~ and not because I wanted to. Because I had no idea. Could I have prevented that? I don’t know. That’s a question I have to live with. It’s not just a miscarriage. It’s a baby~ no matter what science and doctors tell you. And it’s ok to feel sad. It’s okay to cry and feel lost over what you imagined could’ve been.
The truth is, we got lucky. We ended up with what some call the miracle baby. We go pregnant with our second son a month after I was cleared to try agin. Were there doubts? YES. Do I still have a slight superstition about the date January 19th? Yes. I do. I can’t fix that. I can’t go back and make everything picture perfect. But look to the friends who can at least say “I can’t relate, but I do understand.” In the end, there is part of you that has to believe there was a reason and there has to be a part of you that accepts people who may not understand but will still hug you and try to.
When we were getting ready to have our second child, we did have a slight idea that no two children are alike. In fact, I remember the night before we actually had our second, I had this sudden surging of anxiety. What if my second was too much like my first? With panic gripping me, I remembered the nearly 18 months of sleepless nights, a baby that didn’t nap for more than 20 minutes twice a day, and hated eating. All of this was slightly manageable because I didn’t work for the first year so I could at least zone while the baby slept for those few meager moments. However, with our second, I was already running my own home child care, found out I didn’t qualify for maternity leave (nor my husband for paternity leave) and faced the fact I was going to be working from about the time my second was 10 days old.
As it turned out, however, my children are as opposite as can be. I can remember thinking when they were little, how much they looked alike, but as they continue to grow into their own people, I begin to see that despite the fact that they have the same parents, they are very very different. Here is just a small list of the ways that I see how much contrast there are between the two of them.
1.) My oldest was extremely difficult until he hit the 18 month mark. He didn’t like to sleep or eat. My youngest however, was great until 18 months. He slept well, ate well and played well. We are still waiting for the youngest to grow out of his tantrums…. 18 months later.
2.) My oldest likes to crumble food into itty bitty pieces. (A HUGE pet peeve of mine) My youngest likes everything whole. For example, he won’t eat strawberries which are neatly cut up, he prefers to eat the entire thing, including the stem. For the oldest, it’s better if it’s cut.
3.) My oldest rarely threw tantrum and when he did, a simple stern look and a raised voice would do the trick. My youngest will raise his voice back or laugh in our faces. Still trying to figure out how to work around this one.
4.) My oldest was always very good at walking away from conflict even if he had the right to stand up for himself. I worry sometimes that my youngest will be the one doing the bullying, but at the very least, he won’t allow himself to be bullied.
5.) My oldest was known for screaming for hours in the car. My youngest sleeps in the car.
6.) To this day, my oldest will rarely spend any time playing in his own room. The youngest will gladly play in his room, but I do realize that many times it’s because he is doing something that perhaps he shouldn’t be doing, like shown in this blog here.
7.) My youngest loves spice! He loves to eat jalapeños, chili (you name it, he will at least try it. My oldest will say that even a sprinkling of pepper is way too hot for him. Hopefully someday he will grow out of this as our entire family is one of spice eaters.
8.) I am constantly asking my oldest to speak up because we cannot hear what he is saying. The youngest, we are constantly reminding him we are not hard of hearing.
Now, I’m sure that there are many other ways in which these two are opposite, some of which are escaping my mind at the moment. I marvel at the fact that they can be so different. I mean, I realize that children cannot possibly have the same set of parents. It’s not to say that their parents become entirely different people, but there are so many things vary in the environment. Even though I truly believe I am trying my utmost to hold my children to the same standards at the same ages, the environment has changed. Two parents with one child are very different than two parents with two children. The second child comes into the environment where already it isn’t all about them. They have to learn to share from an age earlier but also working on their side is that the parent can’t be on top of their every move because they are busy with the other aspects of family life (helping with homework or negotiating drop offs for sports, sleep overs, whatever). I often find myself questioning if someday they will act more alike or if we will continue to shake our heads and wonder about their uniqueness. I guess it shows will make us stronger parents in the end because we will have dealt with several different scenarios. Even if the scenario is similar, the personalities and the reactions from both the parents and the children are unique to each situation. =)
Memorial day is something different to many people. Memorial Day to so many people is a three day holiday; I can be convicted of this too. What do I truly know? I live in a world of retired service men and what I’ve come to discover is they don’t have a voice.
Yesterday my little (younger) brother laid out two open beers. I had seen an earlier post of his which recognized two names. Names personally I didn’t know. But I know my “little” brother (and yes for the record I will always call him that.) and I knew as “big” sister I was suppose to do something. Tonight I plucked up the courage to ask him (and yes, courage for anyone who has lived with a serviceman) what the bottles meant. My husband is also a retired serviceman, and rarely have I been able to get him to talk about any of his time in service, so I know how hard it can be for them to speak about any thing they know or feel. This is why I thought to ask; if he wanted to talk about it, he could. If he didn’t, he didn’t have to. I just thought it was important enough for him to place the beer bottles there that I thought I should ask. They sat cold, unopened and in full light (normally he keeps his blinds closed) as he told me they stood for two very brave young men who simply had given their all. They had been friends of his from our hometown. I stood in the doorway, wine glass in hand, and wasn’t sure what to do. Awkwardly, as I stated out loud that I felt awkward, I walked away. Memorial Day to my brother means something far more intense than it means to me. To him, recalling friends who have passed. To me, a thankfulness of service. Different paths, different outcomes. Eventually, I returned to see if he wanted to discuss it more and we did for a bit. What stuck with me is that he said at least I cared enough to ask why he placed them there.
I started reading through several veterans posts on various social media platforms and began to see a trend. Many service men and women felt that few of the population really cared or could possibly even appreciate what Memorial Day meant to them. Some mentioned even that pre 9/11, they hadn’t ever even gotten a thank you for their service. But Memorial Day, as my brother said, is more about remembering the fallen. It didn’t matter how they fell, whether directly from the war or affected from the war and so full of desperation that they felt there was only one way they could escape, it is (and always should be) about remembering that they did die in service for our country. I guess I just never thought of it this way.
Next year, I’m going to make sure my sons and I participate in an event that honors those who have served and fallen due to the service. And on Veterans day, I will make sure to thank all who have served and can hear my thanks. So, to all the Americans who have lost the battle while fighting in the many of ours, I thank you for your service. Even if you can no longer hear my words, I hope you are never forgotten and that more people recognize this day is about you and not about a nice day to BBQ.