Reflection

Millie

I sent a version of the following as an email to my family last night, explaining why I've been a bit out of touch. It's not the whole story, but it may shed some light on why I've been out of touch with you all as well. Please don't judge me too harshly.

Hello family, 

Dad called me after the holidays saying, "You're not answering your emails. What's wrong?" 

I was a bit defensive, admitting finally that I was maybe a little depressed, but it was true, I wasn't participating in the family chatter. It wasn't until after I got off the phone that I realized there was something behind that depression and that it hadn't occurred to me to tell any of you, or indeed, to admit to myself. 

And then it just seemed really sad to me that I went through the holidays burying this awareness. 

And then I realized I do this all the time, which seemed even sadder. 

So, in an attempt to break my habit and to have you all a bit closer, I want to tell you two things—first the thing that was bothering me then, and also the thing that is bothering me now.

Then: 

Because of Tamoxifen, the drug I take for breast cancer, I am at increased risk of endometrial cancer (cancer of the uterine lining). It's a numbers game and the odds are better that it will help me, so I'll likely be on this drug for ten years. In the two years I've been on it so far, my endometrial lining has gotten very thick, and I've had three endometrial cancer scares. They've done ultrasounds and sonohysterograms (a more invasive ultrasound) and finally, this time, most invasively of all, an endometrial biopsy. 

I wasn't as worried about the risk of cancer this time around, which everyone thought was small, as I was troubled by the biopsy itself. The procedure has similarities to an abortion, which is connected to traumatic memories for me, as well as the fact that I never got to have children. Over the holidays I was anticipating that experience but trying not to think about it either, and then waiting on biopsy results, which in spite of not worrying, got me worrying. Luckily the biopsy was negative. 

Tamoxifen is hard on me in other ways as well. After ten years, there'll be another drug and its side effects to contend with too. I won't get into details now, but suffice it to say, it can be depressing. Anyone you know who has breast cancer seemingly in their past - just know that it's never really over. I know I'm not the only "survivor" who feels like I shouldn't complain, like we're supposed to feel lucky because there are life-saving treatments available to us now that didn't exist before. I do have a lot of appreciation but that doesn't take away what's hard, or the worry about what will happen, in my uterus and otherwise, in the next eight years.

Now:

The new thing bothering me is very different, but I've been crying about it all week, ashamed, and embarrassed and, I don't know, just feeling heartbroken and terrible. Here's what happened: 

I was trimming the fur around my dog Millie's mouth. I have been grooming her every couple months for four years now without major mishap, but this time, I messed up. She tried to lick the scissors, which I had recently sharpened, and before I knew what was happening, I had sliced into her tongue. There was a lot of blood for about an hour but nothing the vet could do about it. 

She's doing fine, fully healed already, not in pain or having any trouble at all, and yet, writing this out, I'm crying all over again. The split in her tongue remains and will remain forever. Every time I see it, I feel rotten. 

When I called the vet I was in tears. The woman I spoke to told me she had a similar accident with a dog she had years ago and she, too, felt terrible. 

"Did you ever stop feeling terrible?" I asked. 

"No," she admitted. "I feel kind of terrible right now." For a moment, we laughed and I cried some more and we felt terrible together.

On the bright side, life goes on.

A belated thank you for all the holiday cheer and thoughtful gifts.

love

Amy

Full Disclosure

I'm in the process of loading my latest video to YouTube, number #150!
But I haven't yet shared with you #149!
So here it is!
More of my videos here.

I haven't spoken up about this yet, here or otherwise. I wanted you to be the first to know: I'm finally writing the book, the Babies or Not memoir which this blog was originally intended to foster, all about working as an abortion counselor while struggling with infertility and the story that brought me to that place in my life and then beyond that place. It's about how "Babies or not?" the question became "Babies or not..." the resolution to live a full, brave, brazen life, regardless of cancer and marital upheaval and how parenting fits (or doesn't fit) into the picture.

I write every day, have been for a month or two now. I'm about seventy pages in and going strong. (I'm aiming for around 250 pages for the finished manuscript), and it feels like the most important, right work I've done. I look forward to sharing more with you about this - but for now - back to work!

Life Goes On

The photos in this video are on display at the Newport Art Museum until May 20th. More about the show here. More of my videos here.

It struck me the other day that it's still well under a year since I finished my treatment for cancer. It struck me not long before that that it was just a month or so after my last miscarriage that I was diagnosed with cancer in the first place. The whole cancer thing put the babies or not question to rest. I haven't menstruated since my first dose of chemotherapy, probably never will again.

Which reminds me of a time a few years back when I found myself longing for the day when I could be finally off the fence, finally done wondering if I'd ever bear children. Even if the answer turned out to be no, it seemed like it would be a relief.

And the truth is, though it wasn't easy getting here, I am very relieved to be out of that limbo. And amazed that just eight months after finishing radiation, I'm feeling fit and healthy and, though I've backed off a bit from the half-ironman plan, I haven't exactly decided against it yet either.

Next

Two brothers, father, sisters-in-law, nieces, kiwi hair... More of my videos here.

Three more chemo treatments to go, one of them today. All the usual worries apply – neuropathy, infection, fingernails lifting off. But this is small potatoes compared to the Cytoxan and Adriamycin. And "just three more!" beats so much louder in my mind than the old litany of worries.

At the same time, with radiation around the corner and Tamoxifen on its heels, new concerns are cropping up, lymphedema, carcinoma, and artificially induced menopause.

Underneath all of this, of course, is the tiny little possibility of breast cancer recurrence, metastases, premature death. What? Death? That little thing? I don't think of it so often anymore, maybe just once a day.

When I first started down this cancer road, my brother D~ said something about the "new normal" and I snapped back at him that there was no normal anymore, nothing was normal. But yesterday I had a little flashback to the old normal, when the scariest health concerns I faced required little to no medical intervention: miscarriage, urinary tract infection, irritable bowel. Those were the days.

I remember hearing David Allen suggest in an interview once that we should all mark our calendars for a month from now, and mark his words. Something big was going to happen to change everything. Something big always happens and changes everything. So do your best living now. Give your gifts. Make that call. Take a break. Get new tires on your car. Whatever it is that you're overdue for, get it done. It's time.

The Day I Found Out

I was asked to make a video about the day I found out I have cancer for a web site aptly named The Day I Found Out. The site has been up for some time now in an older format and will relaunch soon. You, my dear and loyal bloggites, get a sneak peak:

More of my videos here.

Moving Forward

I've been a negligent blogger. Ever since I put the last miscarriage behind me, I've been moving – biking, running, swimming. J~ is training for the Hartford Marathon in October, his first ever, and his excitement is contagious. I've never run more than six miles in a row myself, but now I'm considering it. I'm maybe just maybe going to do the half marathon. That's enough for me, I think. Thirteen miles? We'll see how it goes.

I've been reading three books on miscarriage, and I want to recommend all three, particularly the idea of reading all o them at the same time. They cover some of the same scientific bases but from different points of view, which makes it possible to get a nuanced understanding of the state of this mysterious medical field. I recommend these books especially if you, like me, have had multiple miscarriages and don't have a lock on why. So without further ado, here are the books. Click on them for more info:

          

Since I last wrote. J~ and I visited a new fertility clinic. This was not an easy thing for me to do. In fact, I told J~ I wanted to cancel because I hadn't secured all my medical records in time. He asked for the real reason, and I had to admit my fear of being judged, my discouragement, my desire not to give over any more of my life to what seems to be a losing battle. All of this made me cry to admit, and the tears cleared the air. I didn't cancel the appointment.

The doctor was friendly, respectful, and patient as I recounted my history and ran him through the gauntlet of my ten million questions (I came with a list). He recommended a battery of blood tests (for hormone levels, clotting and immunology issues, thyroid function, insulin, and of course genetics testing for both of us.) He also recommended a Sonohystogram (SHG), a procedure in which saline solution is injected through the cervix in order to better view the uterus via ultrasound.

I've said many times that I'm not up for anything invasive. Loyal readers, you've heard me say it. My rule of thumb: Nothing ever again goes in through my cervix except sperm. The doctor did not pressure me, or at least it didn't seem like he was pressuring. But many of my questions led back to this test. For instance, though I know it's a long shot, I've always been haunted by the question, What if I have scarring from the abortion? Could that cause an early miscarriage? The doctor said, "The SHG would show if there is scarring."

I reconsidered. Could J~ be there with me? I asked. "Of course!" boomed the doc. And suddenly I was in tears. I had not been even close to crying recounting my history, or hearing that even if they find a problem and fix it, at my age, I may very well miscarry again. None of this was new information. The new thing was the realization, on some deep primal level, that the abortion is over. That I am not a frightened teenager all alone. That no one is judging me for what I'm going through, there is no shame in it. There will be no gruff, anonymous doctor treating me like just another vagina on a gruesome assembly line. I won't have to pretend, later in the day, that nothing happened.

(For the record, by the way, while working in an abortion clinic, I have seen with my own eyes that not all abortion docs are like that. I wouldn't go so far as to say they are usually personable and compassionate, but once in a while they are very much so.)

As things stand today, the blood tests are behind me. (I've never seen so many little glass vials lined up for my blood!)

As instructed, I will call to schedule my SHG when my next period arrives. (That is, if it arrives. J~ and I have been supremely uncareful this month. Then again, I'd be shocked if I'm pregnant again already. It's the first cycle after a miscarriage. I'm forty years old. And if you don't count #6, which, let's face it, maybe never really happened, this last pregnancy took almost two and a half years to achieve.)

I'm not optimistic that I'll ever get pregnant again, less optimistic that I'll find any answers. But right now, I feel good about going forward with these tests. Even if I never have a child to show for it, at least I'll eliminate some of the unknowns.

Ten Weeks Not

First off, I want to thank everyone who has taken the time and showed so much heart in sharing their stories and opinions. I take it all to heart. J~ and I read and discuss your comments together. It helps. It really does.

The other day I ran into a woman I know, an acquaintance who also happens to be a doctor. I took a deep breath and stopped her to ask if she knew an RE she could recommend who specializes in miscarriage. She didn't even know what an RE was, but of course asked many questions, and before I knew it I'd stumbled into that conversational cul-de-sac I have come to truly hate.  

Have you considered adoption?

Why must everyone ask this? It's part of why I find it so difficult to seek answers and support. Do people honestly think I haven't thought of that? Don't they realize that what they're saying, on some level, is, Have you considered giving up? 

You wouldn't ask an overweight neighbor, Why don't you just go on a diet? If someone stopped you on the street to ask for directions to Joe's Restaurant, you wouldn't say, Have you considered going to John's Restaurant instead? even thoughthe food at Joe's is greasy and over-priced. Wouldn't that be considered rude? Why is this different?

Okay, okay, I'm venting. I know people care and are just trying to understand. My anger isn't with this individual, or with anyone else who broaches the subject. It's just way too flip of a question about way too tricky a subject, and I hate how little sensitivity is built into our societal consciousness. It hits a very raw nerve. Perhaps it would be better if I just got angry in the moment, but instead I take on the role of educator, ambassador for all of us in this hidden realm of pregnancy loss. I make the mistake of answering with depth and feeling. I bare my soul. I told this woman, If my husband and I were ten years younger, if he didn't already have a child, I bet would be looking into adoption. If someone left a baby at our doorstep, or if J~ was saying he wanted to adopt, I'd probably be thrilled. I'd be nervous and I'd have to think about it, but I'd be thrilled. But this is not where we're at.

She was still looking at me with puzzlement and concern, so I went on to talk about the teenage abortion I never wanted to have, my fear ever since that I'd never get to have children. And just when I was about to admit that, at this point, after this many failures, I feel like I want the experience of a healthy pregnancy more than I want the child, I deflected her questioning expression by bringing the subject back around to my quest for help, to my fear of asking. To how much courage it took for me to stop her in passing and ask these revealing questions in the first place, let alone call up strangers on the phone. Because, let's face it, I've been wanting good medical support for a long time and have felt completely overwhelmed and discouraged about seeking it out.

And then she gave me some really good, simple advice. She suggested I let myself have my emotions but keep that separate from the work at hand. Make a list of tasks and do what you need to do. 

So I did. I sat down with J~ and went over his work schedule. I made some calls. And I made two appointments at times when he is free to come along, one with each of the major fertility clinics in the state. (I can't go out of state without paying out of pocket, so this is where I'll start.) Of course neither clinic wants to see me until I'm no longer pregnant, so both appointments are in July. Hopefully by then I'll be a clean slate, so to speak. Hopefully I won't be writing again next week at "Eleven Weeks Not."

At least for the time being, I'd like my body back.

Puppy Love

The drive home


Meeting the neighbors


Learning the ropes

Millie has arrived! She's nestled in my lap as I type this, alternately sleeping and chewing at the zipper of my fleece jacket. She chews on everything. She has kibble-breath. Until we blocked the entrance, she treated our computer room as her own private toilet. And I'm completely in love with her.

I had no idea it would take so much to ready myself for a puppy. I'm not talking about money (four digits and counting), or trips to the pet supply store (six), or long drives to visit with her at the breeder's house (four), or hours pouring over puppy care and training manuals (too many to count), or days spent rearranging furniture to accommodate her presence in the house (two), or hours of work and away-from-home play cleared from my schedule in anticipation of her needs.

For years I've had a space reserved in my heart for all of these exertions, but that space was cluttered with baby dreams. In order to make room for Millie, I had to excavate some mighty disappointments.

Sometimes it feels like I'm a one-track record, going on and on about my grief for all my lost babies, but then, as if passing by a mirror, I catch a glimpse of what I've been through and I'm reminded that it's not insignificant. Anyone reading this who has suffered or is currently suffering such a loss, I hope you are surrounded by people who recognize this fact and honor your feelings. And I wish you many adorable puppies.

Inventory

In honor of our anniversary, J~ and I spent a long weekend on Cape Cod, biking, window shopping, hiking the sand dunes, eating big decadent meals, and reminiscing about our early days as a couple. What a strange time that was for us, both reeling from our suddenly broken marriages, thrilled and nervous about the bond quickly forming between us.

The three years since we married are marked with so many milestones, not the least of which was made plain to me this weekend: somewhere along the line, this crazy new romance became a solid partnership. There have been down times of course, our failed pregnancies not the least of them. But the hardships we've faced together are framed by a shared tenderness, which turns them, to a certain degree, into treasured memories.

As I settle into the likelihood that I will not have children of my own, I accept that there will always be a certain amount of sadness in the picture for me. But I also see how that sadness has mellowed over the years. Until menopause – as long as there's hope – there will be vulnerability, but perhaps one day I'll carry only tiny scars where once there was an open wound.

Scanning my inner horizons, I see another emotional trauma yet unhealed, that of my first marriage's end. Time has helped, but I have not managed to close that wound. Perhaps this also has to do with hope, though I'm not sure what I'm hoping for. I certainly wouldn't trade what I have now for a return to that relationship, though it was not without its own beauty, and I appreciate the role it played in my life.

One thing is becoming more and more certain to me with every passing year: Life is short. Too short. It's a tragedy for all of us. The more I accept this, the more apparent it becomes that I can only do my best, assume everyone else is doing their best, grieve the disappointments as they arise but get back to appreciation of the fleeting present moment as quickly as possible. Because life is also pretty darn great.

Opportunity

I received an email this morning from Lisa Rosenzweig, a Columbia University doctoral student in Counseling Psychology. She is researching the miscarriage experience. Have you had a miscarriage in the past six months? You may want to consider participating in her survey. If you have questions (like for instance, why limit to just the last six months?) you can email her directly.

Here's her text:

Research Opportunity

Everyone has a unique experience with miscarriage and many find help and support through websites like this one. Unfortunately, little is known about women's experiences of support and how this may affect responses to miscarriage, and so I invite you to participate in my dissertation research study examining women’s experiences following a miscarriage. Although there is no direct benefit to you, survey results may help healthcare providers better understand and meet the needs of women following miscarriage. This online survey takes approximately 15-20 minutes and is open to women who have miscarried a wanted pregnancy in the previous 6 months who are 18 years of age or older, living in the United States, and involved in a relationship with a significant other. Participants are eligible for a raffle for a $50 American Express gift certificate. For more information, please don't hesitate to contact me.

Lisa Rosenzweig
Teachers College
lsr2106@columbia.edu

Or Not.

See more of my art >>

Friday
9:15 am: Positive home pregnancy test. It's a faint second line, but it's really there. I stare and stare. A sweat breaks across my lower back. I leave a message on J~'s cell:

I want to talk to you... about... something.


9:30 - 10:30 am: I post a photo of the test on this blog. I have some happiness, some trepidation about the demands of parenthood. Though I know it may very well happen, I'm surprised to note that I'm not worried about miscarriage.

So why this nervous shaking in my thighs?


10:30 am: J~ returns my call and I tell him the news. Our conversation is guarded – upbeat, but not ecstatic.


11 am: It's decided - I will ride with my bike club on Saturday, despite the cold I'm fighting, despite the pregnancy. I find myself having an imaginary conversation with an imaginary Devil's Advocate:

D.A.: With your history, I'm surprised you don't just crawl into bed and stay there for the next nine months.

ME: No way. I don't want it that bad.

My response catches me off guard. I don't?


4 pm: I have not veered from my original plans for the day – work (client design stuff, plus I'm preparing for an art show, only two weeks away and still lots to do), a walk, and a drive to the bike shop to pay for my new bicycle.

This is no small purchase. I've resisted for a year, unsure of my commitment to the sport, reasoning that if I were to get pregnant again, I would not be riding much. Last year, a fancy new bicycle seemed like a leap of faith in the wrong direction. But a year later I'm still riding, still loving it. And another pregnancy has not emerged.

Until today, of course.

Isn't this the way it always goes in the movies?

Okay, now I'm getting a little excited.


4:30 pm: I plunk my credit card down on the counter along with a patch kit, a spare inner tube, a few tools and accessories. The shopkeeper is chatting with her friend, commiserating about how, with young children, they no longer find the time to ride like they once did.

I resist the urge to blurt that I am pregnant, resist the pull to think about what they are saying. Resist also the desire to add an expensive form-fitting windbreaker to my purchases.


5:30 pm: Home again, I do another HPT, anxious to see a darker line. But it's just the opposite, fainter than the first test, almost nonexistent.

I feel completely deflated.


Saturday
7 am: another HPT: Negative this time, no doubt about it. Damn.


9:30 am: Bleeding. And to think - my period wasn't even due until Sunday! If I hadn't done the test, I never would've known an egg had been fertilized. Bum egg, bum sperm, bum uterus. Who knows.

10:30 am: pick up the co-op order. I look at all the other co-op members. It feels strange, and sad, that no one knows.


1 pm: 40-mile bike ride with my club. Feeling happy.

Happy? It makes me nervous that I'm happy.


Sunday
Another 30 miles with the club followed by a two-hour nap on the couch. Still feeling happy. I can't make heads or tails of it.


Monday
I'm troubled that I don't seem to have any lingering feelings about this miscarriage. I admit to K~, my friend and counselor, I may be more excited about my work and riding my bike at this point then I am about getting pregnant.

And then it hits me, and I start to cry.

It's been a long, hard road. It didn't lead where I had hoped it would lead. This was not the goal. I did not want to find myself here. But it's happened, and there's nothing to be done.

I've moved on.

Recap and Reprise

Past and Future Ghosts, 11 x 17" gouache and ink on paper.
This piece will appear in an art show upcoming at Windham Arts Collaborative, in Willimatic, CT. If you're in the area, come to the opening reception on Friday, April 3rd. I'd love to see you! (Details here)

I began this blog shortly after my second miscarriage, which took place on a Wednesday night in November, 2005. I was at work when I knew for certain.

I worked as an abortion counselor.

I left the clinic early that evening, heading home to my hot water bottle and an empty apartment. (My husband, A~, was away on business.) Luckily, this loss was easier than the first - quicker, less painful. I could handle it on my own. The grief that followed was a hard but familiar terrain.

Shortly thereafter, my marriage shattered. After more than a decade together, it was a sudden and devastating break. I felt like I'd been run over by a truck: nauseous and heartsick and unable to breathe properly for months. At the same time, I felt freed of a great weight. A life I thought I could never endure (without A~) became a life full of promise. I wrote all about it on these virtual pages.

During this time, I was introduced to J~, who was struggling with a very similar life crisis. Three years (and, sadly, two more miscarriages) have come and gone. J~ and I are married - happily, to say the least. B~, my stepson, now in high school, is thriving.

Babies or not? It's still an open question, though it burns less urgently than it did when I began discussing it here.

Babies or not, life is good.

The Naked Truth

"Oh, so are you in graduate school now?"

The question came from J~, a new friend, prompted by a passing remark about my application process. I had met her for the first time that afternoon at K~'s house, where she and I and M~, another mutual girlfriend, had gathered. After traveling to Northampton together to see a band (the Wailin' Jennys at the Iron Horse) we were making the long drive back. J~ had her neck craned around in the front passenger seat, and in the slanty headlight beams of the car behind us, her expression seemed bright and eager.

Instead of a straightforward response, I blabbed on and on about my tortured decision to apply, and to which and how many schools, about the pregnancy and miscarriage in the midst of it all, and how I felt okay, actually, about being waitlisted, even though my chances are extremely slim. I've been holding my life open for a child for four years, I said, and hearing this from my own mouth, it felt suddenly weighty and true. Memories flicked through my mind, all the branches of my life's path I did not explore for fear of losing my chance at motherhood. Suddenly the underlying emptiness felt undeniable, unconcealable.

I'm considering being an abortion counselor again, I went on, but I'm not sure that would be good for me, psychologically speaking — or a doula, or a miscarriage doula, if such a thing is possible, but I have internal arguments against those, too...

When I finally stopped talking, there was silence. Nothing but dark highway and a collective, carefully controlled deep breath. J~ unscrewed her neck and said to K~, our driver, "Speaking of babies, [Jane Smith] had her baby."

"Oh she did? What was it?" K~ asked.

"A human," J~ quipped, and the two laughed and bantered about this friend I don't know and her humanoid boy-or-girl offspring. M~ joined in as the topic shifted to more people I don't know. I sunk into my seat, feeling awful.

It was a simple yes or no question. I don't know why I answered the way I did. Maybe it was the novelty of having such animated, genuine attention from someone who didn't yet know my story. Maybe it was shame about the anticlimactic truth. Or maybe it was all the gorgeous mournful music we'd been listening to, loosening the drawstrings around my heart.

I keep insisting that I'm happy. I keep siting all the blessings in my life. But in a moment of weakness, the floodgates had opened and I was as surprised as my captive and unwitting audience at the stinking slurry of sadness and confusion that issued forth. I felt like I owed them all an apology, not for the truth of my feelings, but for subjecting them to it without ascertaining consent, or at least giving fair warning. But it didn't feel right to claim more group attention, so I did my best to let it go.

Here it is, people, the naked truth: as much as I'd like to think that I can root my engagement firmly in the myriad blessings of this present moment, cordoning off the wounded areas of my heart like a crime scene, sometimes I trip over the police tape and fall flat on my face.

But eventually I always get up and stumble around again, and inevitably I remember my belief that the key to emotional resilience is robust, honest emotional process. In other words: grieve to make room for joy.

It occurs to me now that perhaps the opposite is also true: If you take in enough joy, you crowd out the sadness and grieving becomes inevitable.

After saying thank yous and goodbyes in K~'s driveway, I climbed into my car and cried all the way home.

For the time being, anyway, I felt much better.

Time Capsule #6: Moving On, Once Again

This is the final post in a series of six I held back out of concern that the content might impact a graduate school admissions decision. (The verdict is in, by the way. Tune in again soon for the latest.)

Sunday, January 6, 2008

Sometimes I go about in
pity for myself, and all
the while, a great wind
carries me across the sky.
-- Ojibwe Saying

J~ came home from work early Thursday, brought me food, tea, glasses of water, refills for my hot water bottle. He stayed home Friday, too, and did more of the same. Meanwhile, I lay on the couch. Surfed the web. Outfitted my new blog with a host of links. Solidified my decision not to apply to any more graduate schools, at least not this year, and contended with cramping and bleeding much more like a heavy period than last time's full-blown labor.

On Friday afternoon, J~ picked up B~ for the weekend, and Saturday, still tired, but glad to be recovering, I accompanied the two of them, along with two of B~'s friends, on an outing for lunch and ice skating in Providence. Physically, I wasn't sure I was going to be up for the trip. Emotionally, however, I was prepared to enjoy the company of three thirteen-year-old boys, and to appreciate the fact that I have such an easy opportunity to have them in my life.

And I did appreciate them, their earnest desire to be cool, their sweet pubescent awkwardness, the way they flop so smoothly back and forth over the line between budding adult sarcasm and sincerity, and childish play.

But home again, exhausted, and quickly settled in bed, I confessed to J~ that it had taken some effort for me to open to the gift of these boys. It meant also being open to the reality of what I don't have, what I very well might never have. I cried for a few minutes in my beloved's arms, and felt grateful again, as I do so very often, for all the blessings in my life.

Time Capsule #5: The End

This post is fifth in a series of six posts that I held back temporarily, so as to prevent them from impacting a graduate school admissions decision. I've been told the decision would arrive this week. Perhaps today...

January 1, 2008 1 pm

It's over. How could it not be over? I discovered this morning that I am bleeding. Red red blood. A steady drip.

My period is just ten days late. I don't expect to go through anything close to labor this time, thank goodness, though I'm keeping a hot water bottle close at hand.

I'm thankful that this didn't drag out for a month, two months, four. I'm grateful that J~ will be coming home early from work today, to be with me. I have mixed feelings about telling my family – I'd been hoping for the opportunity to share unequivocal good news, but now it seems like stale, old, rotten bad news. Sharing it now seems like casually dropping a bomb. Nothing can be done or said to fix the situation. When I imagine speaking to them, I feel awkwardly mute, as if I have a plastic egg in my mouth. I could lay the information at their feet some other way, but what do I expect them to do with it? Do I really want to hear, yet again, "Oh, Amy, I'm so sorry"? Wouldn't that break my heart all the more?

I'm glad I haven't made any rash moves with my graduate school applications, though the two conflicted inner-selves I sent off to work it out over a plate of imaginary waffles are still sitting at that imaginary table. The waffles are long gone, the sticky plates pushed aside. They seem to be making progress – their identical heads bent together as they scribble out lists of pros and cons, make charts of my long- and short-term goals, mindmap my dreams. They offer this report:

Latest thinking — I may not apply to any more schools. The application to my favorite program is done. If I don't get accepted there, I may be brave and give myself another year of focused work on my freelance career, on being a writer and artist in my own right, before I consider investing time and energy into any graduate program that feels like a back-up plan.

One thing's for certain: I get the day off from major decisions of any kind today.

Time Capsule #3: Embracing Uncertainty

This post is third in a series of six that I held back temporarily, so as to prevent them from impacting a graduate school admissions decision. The decision has been made, the letter is on its way. I don't know the verdict.

December 31, 2007

I cried yesterday admitting to J~, admitting to myself, that as much as I would like to be certain of the fate of this pregnancy, I simply do not know. I keep telling him, telling myself, telling YOU, that I know it's all over. It feels like this is true – my pregnancy symptoms seems to be fading – but really, I can't say for sure. Which means I have hope.

Shouldn't this feel like good news? But I hate hope right now, I hate it's teasing little dance in the back of my mind. I hate fantasizing that all will turn out amazingly, miraculously, fine. I picture myself completing graduate school applications without any true bleeding, but without a whiff of nausea or breast tenderness either – in other words, without distraction. I imagine that as soon as I pop the last manila envelope in the mail, the pregnancy signs will simply, suddenly, kick in. I'll be amazed and surprised and happy.

But I always come down out of that fantasy into remembering how sure I felt that it was over, how I've never, in all my pregnancies, had that feeling and been proven wrong. And then I feel sad all over again.

Last night, after dropping B~ with his mom for the last few days of his winter break, J~ and I went discount-shopping, luxuriating in the time alone together. We bought socks for each of us, some much-needed drinking glasses, and a new colander to replace our old, falling-apart one, then took ourselves out for samosas and curry. We had a surprisingly nice time, under the circumstances, then came home to Christmas cookie leftovers for dessert, a fire in the wood stove, and the pleasure of each other's company.

Contemplating the possibility of another miscarriage, I said to J~, "Maybe the gods want to give us the gift of more time for just the two of us, before we rush into parenthood."

"I never expected we'd get so much time to ourselves," he mused. "I thought B~ would be here until he graduates high school. And I thought we'd have a child together very quickly." He was smiling as he said this, both sad and appreciative. We watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm on my laptop, which made us laugh, and then we kissed. And then we did things we wouldn't have done if there were children in the house, and it was lovely.

And then it hit me: in spite of everything, or maybe because of everything, I really do like my life.

Red Flags

My friend who was in the hospital for two weeks, and in intensive care for several days, is headed home today. She is okay – for now. But end-of-life planning is in the works. She is not quite fifty years old. Too young.

Another young woman I know is raising one child rather than the five she always dreamed of. She had her tubes tied because her much-older husband wants no more children, and she believes, religiously, that he - as the man, the head of the household - knows best. When I met her she was clearly depressed, but trying to convince herself otherwise. Because of recent health issues, she has had a hysterectomy. She is twenty-seven.

"But what if something happens to him and she remarries?" J~ wondered, when I told him this story. "Why couldn't he have had a vasectomy?"

What does it say about me that I didn't think of that, such a basic and better alternative?

Which reminds me, conversely, of the abortion client I had who was surprised to learn that she didn't need her husband's permission to get her tubes tied.

It is interesting to realize that reproductive choice, as a feminist issue, isn't just about choosing NOT to have kids.

Today on NPR, thanks to the break-out success of the movie Juno, Talk of the Nation is doing a show (right now, as I write this post) on abortion. An old woman is speaking about her abortions and subsequent miscarriages. I am glad to hear her. "There is no public grief..." she says, "and I think that's where the problem is." Another speaker talked about how striking it was that people in her life had very strong opinions on her very personal choice...

Speaking of strong opinions: since I am waiting on the verdict about whether or not I will be accepted to graduate school, I've been censoring myself on this blog - temporarily - for fear that any one's strong opinions about my present-day very personal choices might color an admissions decision. It's not that I have anything to hide. There is nothing to suggest I wouldn't make an excellent and committed student. But I wouldn't want to raise any red flags.

Wouldn't it be nice to live in a culture, in a world, that honored women for grappling with reproductive choice and challenge, without ever supposing to know what's best for anyone other than oneself?

Grief and Loss, in General

I wrote a post yesterday which seems to have gotten lost into that infamous computer-freeze abyss. In it, I opened with a quote I heard in an interview with Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, from her book, Kitchen Table Wisdom:

"The way we deal with loss shapes our capacity to be present to life more than anything else. The way we protect ourselves from loss may be the way in which we distance ourselves from life. We burn out, not because we don't care, but because we don't grieve. We burn out because we've allowed our hearts to become so filled with loss that we have no room left to care"

Remen specializes in teaching medical students and other doctors about the emotional and psychological aspect of their chosen profession, about the difference between curing an illness and healing a person. Her lessons, and her writings, don't just apply to doctors. They apply to teachers and counselors and others in helping professions, to parents, to chronic miscarriers and infertiles and anyone who ever lost a loved one. Everyone, in fact, who has ever experienced a loss. And who hasn't?

Nothing

Yes: Nothing.

I have done nothing, beyond discuss with J~ what something might entail, in regard to further medical intervention in our fertility journey.

We did decide to ask some questions of the doc, do a little research of our own, and possibly, probably, get all the blood tests - genetic for us both, immunologic, clotting, the works, for me. But taking action? Doing the actual research, making the actual calls, getting our arms stuck with actual needles? No. None of that has happened.

I can't say why, exactly.

I think of the downstairs bathroom overdue for a thorough cleaning and the kitchen floor we've been meaning to replace and the reservations to be made for our very first anniversary dinner. Yes, I know, this issue is a little heavier than mundane household chores, a little more daunting than "dinner for two," but still, the hold-up is, at least in part, related to how busy we are.

Okay, I know busy-ness is an excuse, but to be fair, J~'s weekends, ever since his son moved to Vermont, have revolved very heavily around the boy. B~'s been home every weekend, and J~ has done an awful lot of driving. As for me, I must admit, there's relief in focusing on grad school and my freelance graphic design business and the book proposals I've been chipping away at forever. I'm making real progress on all these fronts, which feels great.

Then again, I do worry about getting pregnant without being any better equipped to stay pregnant. As for the primal, primary, necessary act, the prerequisite to finding ourselves in just that situation, we haven't slowed down one bit. In fact, I would go so far as to say we've been more inclined toward that one, what with so many weekday evenings with no child in the house. Which also helps explain why we're finding so little spare energy to move on the difficult issues, like cleaning that bathroom.

In conclusion? Believe me, I see the contradictions riddling this entry. I see room for improvement, to say the least. But I keep coming back to the bottom line, which is this: I'm happy.

Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be a mother. I'd love to avoid another miscarriage. So why don't I do something about it? What's my excuse for all this passivity? What do I have to say for myself, young lady?

Nothing.

Rule Number Three

J~ and I flew to Tennessee for four days, Sunday through yesterday, so that I might introduce him to a place I once lived and loved, at the end of a dirt road at the end of another dirt road at the end of yet another dirt road, and to the dear friends I made there a decade ago.

We stayed in a lovely guest cabin belonging to some of these friends, under a quilt I sewed for its owners nine years ago, under a roof beam I helped raise a year before that.

Alone together, J~ and I hiked and talked and lounged. We made love in a field. We slept late, read books, took a good long run, and scratched behind the ears of many sweet dogs. With friends, we laughed and ate and shared stories. We also visited loved ones in the hospital, and cooked and shopped for groceries for their return.

Which brings me to the subject of this post.

Some of you, with your comments this week about my choices (or lack thereof) regarding reproductive testing, have your finger on my third of three rules to live by. I'll say more about those choices in a minute, but for now, without further ado, here's Rule Number Three: Ask for help.

What could be easier, right? But for some of us (namely me) this can, sometimes, seem near impossible. I put limits on how much help I imagine I am allotted. J~, like so many men, trained that they are supposed to appear all-knowing and all-competent, does this too. Which leads to the recursive: When uncomfortable asking for help, ask for help asking for help.

Which is why I've asked J~ to help me think about what comes next. I am shy about calling the doctor to ask the one question I forgot to ask in our appointment: what about the sudden, heavy bleeding I had with the demise of my most recent pregnancy? Is that to be expected in pregnancies that fail for the typical, genetic-combination reasons? Could this indicate a clotting disorder?

Maybe I will test for that, after all... but I'm not sure I'd take blood thinners (aspirin included) as, I am told, clotting disorders rarely lead to miscarriages, and when they do, it usually doesn't happen until at at least 14 weeks -- none of my pregnancies ever got beyond twelve.

I probably won't take progesterone, or even have my levels checked, as my research (and the doctors I've spoken to) suggest that low progesterone has never been proven to cause pregnancy failure. Progesterone might test low because a pregnancy is not viable in the first place.

As for karyotyping (genetic testing of myself and J~) I don't see the point. It would have been nice to have information about the past pregnancies. It would be nice to rule out, definitively, all other problems. But now, at worst, we'll learn that the odds of a good genetic combination aren't in our favor. In that case, short of IVF (which helps by selecting genetically viable fetuses from the outset, and involves a level of invasiveness and expense that is beyond what feels right for me), nothing can be done to improve our odds except to keep rolling the dice.

In the spirit of Rule Number Three, I welcome your thoughts, comments, stories, experiences, insights, prayers, jokes, etcetera! Let the comments section be a beacon to me and to all who light upon this blog post!