What you like more, Mama...

the hippo or the potamus?

(laughter)

Dear Max,

Yesterday afternoon I had to put in 3 miles during your nap. As I was running on the treadmill, the screensaver on the computer across the room caught my eye. Pictures of you flashed on the screen and I found myself watching the screensaver for most of my run. And I am not sure it is possible for you to understand what I am about to say before you yourself become a parent, but I will tell you anyway.

I love you more than anything.

As those pictures showed, you are such a good little boy. You're happy, kind, loving, funny, silly, smart, and clever, and I am so lucky to be your mommy. I hope that you will always know how much your daddy and I love you--you have always been and will always be the greatest joy of our life.

I love you.

Blog for dad

is at whereverifit.blogspot.com

This blog will be for Max and the new one for my writing about Dad.

One month.

It's been one month, and I'm ready to start writing.

****

(April 6, 2010)

I am not quite sure where to begin writing, but I know that I need to, and I want to.

I saved all of my dad's emails from the past 16 months (after his diagnosis), and one of them reads:

"I would like to thank you for everything you have doing for me since I've gotten sick. You have been great! I wish I had your talent to be able to tell you how much it has meant to me. But you were blessed with the writing skills. I am so lucky to have you on my side pulling for me. I will never forget that. Anyway, thank you. I love you, Dad."

I was blessed with the writing skills, or so my dad thought. Now that I need to write, I am finding it so difficult to do so. I just don't even know where to begin.

So that I don't overwhelm this blog with posts about my grief and my journey, I will start a new blog, and I think I will just post in bits and pieces until I am able to join my story--and my dad's story--into one coherent whole.

Kids Say the Darnedest Things....

A collection of some of the silly things Max has said recently:

Mom: Give me kisses, Max.
Max: Kisses not coming. Kisses getting pancakes.

I think this is a delay tactic...

----------------------------

"Thank you, Mommy. You saved my day."

I helped him take his socks off in order to run around barefoot at the park this afternoon. Think he meant to say "made my day," but I really like the idea of saving someone's day better.

----------------------------

Max: Knock-knock.
Mommy/Daddy: Who's there?
Max: Ummm, me.
Mommy/Daddy: Me who?
Max: Hahahahahahahaha, funny!

----------------------------

"Max not ratface."

Yes, I confess I have taught my kid the following insults: turd, turdface, poopface, and ratface--I had just finished calling him a ratface and he decided to fire back.

----------------------------

"People stupid."

Apparently, we say this a lot while driving because whenever we have to slow down or stop due to the cars in front of us, Max comments on their stupidity.

----------------------------

"Daddy do it. Mama can't do it."

As Brandon puts a new fitted sheet on Max's bed. What's funny is that the kid is so right--I can't put a fitted sheet on any bed to save my life. Seriously.

What I want you to know about your Papa

Dear Max,

I started thinking about this letter in November of 2008, and for the past year and a half, I have been trying to figure out just what it is I want you to know about your Grandpa Terry. I was so worried that you wouldn't remember your Papa, that you just wouldn’t have any memories of him—and that is what compelled me to write this letter to you.

The first thing I want you to know about your Papa is just how much you loved him and how much he loved you. By the time you are reading this letter, it is likely that you have read many of the posts I wrote about you and your Papa, and how you had more fun with your Papa than you did anyone else. I loved watching you and your grandpa run to all of the clocks in the house and dance to the music and to the cuckoos as each individual clock went off on the hour. You would giggle and squeal, and I can honestly say that you looked like you were having the time of your life by simply being in your Papa’s arms and dancing to the sounds, especially the clock that plays the Beatles song "Hey, Jude." I loved that image so much that we had decided to name our Angel "Jude" if he were a boy--I wanted to think of that happiness of you and your Papa. The thought still makes me smile.

Your Grandpa was just a silly, silly guy, Max, and that is why he was such a good Papa, not just to you, but to your cousins as well. He was not afraid to make a fool of himself and get on his hands and knees and crawl on the floor with you. He was not embarrassed to squeeze himself into a box just to make you laugh. He didn't mind when I pretend rolled my eyes when he would sit with you in the back seat of my car as we crossed the railroad tracks and he and you would in unison yell, "Choo Choo! Hi everybody!" to the invisible trains passing by, our windows rolled all the way down so the rest of the world could hear. He didn't care what anyone else thought when he talked in his silly voices to you or when he trapped you with his legs extended on the coffee table and made you pay (pretend) five dollars to get through. He loved being a ham and a silly Grandpa just for you, and you loved him for it.

You were a very lucky little boy, Max, because you got to celebrate your second birthday with your Papa. Father's Day 2009 was June 21, and with your birthday being June 23, we decided to celebrate both occasions on the same day (Father's Day). It was wonderful to see you with your Papa, both of you celebrating your own special day. Your grandpa bought you a Cozy Coupe for your second birthday, and that day you and he drove it around the backyard. You were so very happy. And so was he.

Max, I am so glad I took advantage of the opportunity to spend some extended time, just me and you, with your Papa this past summer. It was so nice to watch you and him every day, and that week was perhaps one of the greatest weeks of my life and one I will never forget. I loved to watch your Papa sneak you cookies (for breakfast and for lunch AND for dinner) just to make you happy while I watched in pretend disbelief. And then after breakfast, you and your grandpa would walk hand in hand to feed the birds in the backyard. He would give you the corn for the squirrels, and I would watch from the house as you two walked hand in hand back to the house. We drove around a lot that week with your Papa, delivering meals to the senior citizens, and you helped, both of you feeling quite important. I loved watching you and Papa make soup out of salt and pepper and ice chips with the Waffle House ash trays. We went to the antique stores, and I'll never forget one particular antique mall we visited we had the time our life--he went up and down the aisles tooting up a storm and cracking up about it. "Chemo gas," he exclaimed. We were all laughing hysterically, and you were laughing at your silly old Grandpa. That week we went to practically every playground in town, and you and your Papa went down every slide and swung on every swing. We did a lot of walking that week, too, Max, down the street and at the park because your Papa loved to walk, and was walking up until a few days before he passed away.

Certainly what I admire most about your Grandpa is just how strong he was. I can think of no stronger person than your grandfather. Even when he was feeling really, really sick, he didn’t complain and he didn’t let anything get to him, and for the longest time, I don’t think people who didn’t know him even knew he had cancer—he even went back to work when others in similar situations would have been lying in their beds. I'll always remember going to Wal-mart on Christmas Eve 2009 to surprise him at work and see him working as if he didn't have a care in the world. We stood right behind him waiting for him to turn around and see us, and when he finally saw us, he gave that goofy smile we all love.

Max, your Papa just didn’t let anything get to him, and that is something I hope both you and I learn from him—to be strong no matter what and to share that strength with others. I have a bracelet that says "Unbreakable" on it, but to be honest, it is your Papa that was truly, truly Unbreakable.

There is so much I want you to know about your Papa and I could write and write, but I think perhaps one of the most important things you should know is that he was also the single most hardworking person I have ever known. And I have known lots of hardworking people, but I can honestly say he tops the list. While I was growing up, my dad (your Papa) worked 60 plus hours a week, and then would turn around and work all weekend on our farm—cutting and hauling wood, feeding the cows and other livestock, just general farm maintenance. I know I hated it then (because he dragged us out of bed on the weekends to help him haul wood and brush, etc.), but thinking about it now, I realize that’s just who he was and I can appreciate it so much more. He was a worker, and I’d like to say he instilled the value of hard work on me, and I’m hopeful you will have that, too.

As I said at the beginning of this letter, Max, I originally started writing this letter over a year ago because when I found out that your Papa had cancer, I was afraid not just of losing him, but of losing the memories of him, and I wanted to make certain that you would never forget him even though you have lost him at such a young age.

But I have learned a little something, Max, since I started writing this letter. I started writing this out of fear. I confess. I was just afraid.

But now I know that I have nothing to be afraid of, Max, and neither do you. I know it is terribly cliche, but your Papa will live on. I made a promise to him that I would talk about him every day, that I would relive all of those memories so that he is still here and so that we can all remember him. And I know it sounds even more cliche, but your Papa already lives on--in both me and you.

Because as much as I would have hated to admit it when I was younger, I am so much like your Grandpa. I see it more and more every day. I used to be embarrassed when people said I looked like my dad, but now I am so proud that I do. And since you look just like me, you, too, will always have traces of your Grandpa in your face. I even caught myself combining the potato chips the way that he did, something that annoyed me so much growing up. Before I know it, I'll be freezing chocolate candies just like your Papa did. I have his work ethic, his goofiness, and I am trying very hard to get his strength. You, too, Max, will have all of these things because your Papa will always be a part of you in so many ways.

And you should be proud of that. I know he is.

Love,

Your Mom

The truth...

hurts.

I imagine this post is going to take a long time to write, and that I will probably revisit it and revise it even after I have published it.

Because it is the post I have wanted to write, needed to write, but have tried not to write. Because it hurts too much.

On January 4, 2010, I went in for my 12 week OB appointment. I was expecting it to be a normal appointment, and I had even told Brandon to not worry about going with me since it was scheduled for 2:50, too early for him to leave from work. No worries I said.

So I went in by myself.

After talking to the nurse about the medicines I could take for the cold that had been nagging me for a week, I went in to my room and waited for the doctor. It was not my regular OB but one of the other doctors in the practice (which is normal procedure, but strangely enough, the first time I had not had my regular doctor--I guess up till then I had just been lucky getting her all the time). This new doctor took the fetal doppler out to hear the heartbeat (you're supposed to hear it at 12 weeks), and when she didn't hear it, she told me not to be worried.

But I already was.

She moved the doppler around and around on my stomach, trying to hear the heartbeat, and couldn't find it.

No worries, she told me. Sometimes it is still too early to hear.

So she brought in the ultrasound. She tried the ultrasound on the stomach, moving it about and about just like the doppler, searching in vain for a heartbeat. Still no heartbeat.

No worries, she continued. Sometimes the baby is so low and hidden in the pelvis that you can't hear it from the stomach ultrasound.

By now I was secretly freaking out. Alone.

So she brought out the vaginal ultrasound.

And I could see it in her face. I don't even know if I was really even looking at the ultrasound screen at this point, because the doctor's face said everything.

Which was nothing.

I don't know how long she continued to pretend to look for a heartbeat, but when she did finally look at me and say, "There's not a heartbeat," all those worries that she had told me not to worry about just exploded.

"Can we get a second opinion?" I asked.

Of course, that's normal procedure, she informed me.

Minutes later, my normal OB came in. This is the doctor that has been with me through the entire roller coaster of this past pregnancy, and I could tell immediately that her heart hurt for me. And just like the doctor that had tried before her, my OB looked and looked in vain for a heartbeat, but it had stopped beating weeks ago.

I burst into tears.

***

My doctor asked if my husband was with me, and I told her "no." She then asked if I wanted to call him so that he could be there (she knew he worked in the area), and I said that I would.

"Brandon, I just need you to come here."

That's all I said.

I'm assuming he ran all the way from work to the hospital (we've never really talked about it), but he made it there in record time, and I told him. I probably didn't have to tell him anything, though, because my eyes say everything.

The doctor returned shortly after Brandon arrived and reassured me that I hadn't done anything wrong, that it was likely just some random problem (as are most miscarriages), and would be unlikely to happen in the future. She gave me 3 options: a D&C, waiting for a natural miscarriage, or drugs to induce the miscarriage.

I chose the drugs. I was scared of the D&C and all of its risks, and I didn't like the idea of waiting for the miscarriage to come on its own because you never know how long that would be (and my baby had apparently been gone for about 3.5 weeks and I hadn't had any symptoms save one excrutiating cramp on Christmas day that I just attributed to fatigue or food). And to be honest, I just didn't like the idea of something being dead inside me.

***

I took the drugs at 9:30 on the morning of Thursday, January 7. It was a snow day (school was cancelled), and I had already called in for the next day as well (but I got "lucky" in the sense that school was cancelled Friday, too).

I inserted 4 Misoprostol vaginally. The doctor said to take them this way since it helps make the process work a little better as opposed to taking them orally. For the first couple of hours, I didn't feel anything and honestly wondered if maybe the pills had fallen out. But three hours into it or so, I started feeling a little bit of cramping. By 1:30 (4 hours into it), I was experiencing full-out contractions and didn't think the pain medicine I had been prescribed was working very well, but wouldn't be able to take more for another couple of hours, so I just laid on the couch and tried my best to deal with the contractions. I started bleeding around 4 pm, and by 5, the blood had increased tremendously.

I'm sorry if this is too much information for some, but it's just something I need to get out, write, and remember.

For that next 45 minutes or so after 5 pm, I was experiencing uncontrolled bleeding, almost like clots passing through. I would be lying on the couch and feel that pressure of something getting ready to go through (like blood getting ready to gush), and I would head to the bathroom.

At 6:00, almost on the dot, I hurriedly ran to the bathroom again for what I thought was one of those gushes of blood.

But as soon as it happened, I knew exactly what it was.

It felt like an egg falling from me and splashing into the toilet. I will always remember that feeling and that noise, and as soon as I heard it and felt it, I freaked out. There's no other way to describe it--I freaked out.

Still sitting on the toilet, I cried for Brandon to come in.

"I can't look. I just can't look."

So he did, and I cried.

I'm not sure exactly what happened for the next half hour or so because I was so hysterical that it's hard to remember, but I do know that Brandon verified that it was tissue.

And then he flushed our baby down the toilet.

We had both had every intention of salvaging the tissue, of somehow saving it and burying it somewhere. But in my hysteria, I couldn't even look, and Brandon in his coolheadedness, was just practical.

It was at the bottom of the toilet. There was snow outside and the ground was frozen solid. We have a toddler and 3 dogs and nowhere to store human remains until the snow melts.

He flushed our baby down the toilet.

****
Tomorrow marks three weeks since the miscarriage, and while I would like to say I am doing well, I do have my moments of pure fragility. There are certain things that just make me cry--seeing a pregnant 16 year old student (or any pregnant woman, for that matter), having one of my pregnant 18 year olds invite me to her baby shower, trying to exercise those 12 pounds off that I gained for a failed pregnancy to no avail and yet not losing a single pound (I'm starting to think it's the hormones).

Seeing sisters and brothers play together.

I had a follow-up with my doctor on January 11, and she verified via ultrasound that everything was gone. I've had bleeding and cramping since then, but it has tapered off tremendously.

I'm not sure everything will ever be gone, though. I don't want it to be.

Pain is inevitable...

suffering is optional.

I came across this Buddhist proverb in a book I was reading the other day. The book is by a writer who likes to write about running, and he was answering the question that many people ask runners--how can you run for so long when it just hurts?

His answer: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

This is easily my favorite quote right now, and perhaps one of my favorites of all time.

I know I have experienced pain--who hasn't?--and I know that there is much more pain in store for me in the future. I cannot deny this.

But I will not allow myself to suffer anymore during my current time of pain or the inevitable future pain. I will not choose to suffer--because suffering is a choice. I will feel the pain, but I will not dwell on it or allow it to consume me.