Faking It

A short time ago I was accused of faking my illness and my miscarriages. My accuser was someone who I've never actually met in person, who was getting their information from someone who is not up to date on my condition, and who was making those accusations for no other purpose than to hurt me. I can say that their mission was accomplished: It hurt.

I find myself still thinking about what she said. Every time I cry because of the lingering ache of losing my daughter, I think about it. Every time I wonder if I'm ever going to be a mother, I think about it. Every time I look at the ultrasound picture of my little girl, I think about it. Every time I vomit up bile, I think about it. Every time the pain hurts so bad I forget to breathe, I think about it. Every time they stick yet another needle into my bruised, scarred, sore arms and feet, I think about it. Every day I was in the hospital looking at all the tubes and machines hooked up to my exhausted, battered body, every time my family and friends left the hospital and I cried, every time the doctors and nurses would look at me and say, "I'm so sorry," I would think about it.

I find myself thinking about it a lot.

And I am now at the point where I don't want to think about it anymore.

I can't help but wonder. I wonder how someone could say something that cruel to another human being. I wonder how any circumstance could justify that in her mind. I wonder what I possibly could've done to make her feel the need to hurt me like that. I wonder if its true, if it could possibly be true. Because if I had Munchausen's, then I could get better.

But it just can't be. I can't fake the lab results, I can't fake the pain, I can't fake the fevers, I can't fake the weight loss. I can't fake a pregnancy test, or an ultrasound, and I can't fake a miscarriage. I can't fake being sick well enough to be admitted to the hospital 6 times, or to convince the doctors to do surgical procedures on me. I can't fake vomiting up bile, or internal inflammation, or bile duct stenosis, elevated LFTs, elevated amylase, inflamed pancreas, or septicemia. This is reality, its my reality.

I also wonder what I am supposed to accomplish by faking this stuff. I can't work. Maybe that sounds good, but I've had a job since I was 14. I was always the girl who knew she would be a working mom. I had my dream job, my dream career. I worked hard in school to be a Medical Assistant, and being a CMA was a huge part of my identity. My job made me happy, it was fulfilling. Being at home all day makes me miserable. Between being sick and in pain, not being able to work, and my miscarriages, I got to the point where I was suicidal and wanted to die. I even took a lot of pills to try to kill myself around Christmas time. Being sick put a huge strain on my marriage, and may have caused irreparable damage. My illness and my miscarriages have brought nothing positive into my life. I pray every day, sometimes multiple times a day, for it to stop. I would give anything, ANYTHING, to wake up in the morning completely healed.

I take comfort in the knowledge that I'm not alone. Unfortunately, I have friends who are going through similar trials, and although I wish they wouldn't have to go through this, I'm grateful to have people in my life who understand. I'm grateful for the support of my family. They are always there for me, they lift my spirits, and they fill me with love. I'm grateful for all of the people who pray for me. I know that God loves me, that He has a plan for me, and I have faith in that plan. I know my Savior has felt my pain, and suffered and died for me, and I'm grateful for His ultimate sacrifice. And, I'm grateful for the experience, because it has given me empathy and understanding. I understand people with chronic pain and illnesses so much better than I did before, and I understand the heartache of miscarriage so much better than I did before. I hope that these experiences will allow me to reach out and help ease someone else's suffering. If I can help even one person, it will all be worth it.

And, to the person who accused me of faking it, I have this to say to you:

I forgive you. I'm forgiving you because I wish to purge the poison of anger from my body. I'm washing away your words permanently. And, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever I did to make you feel the need to wound another human being like that, and I'm sorry that you have so much anger and malice in your heart. I hope for your sake that you are able to let that go before it leaves a scar. I pray for you by name every night, I hurt because you are hurting. We may never meet again in this life, but when I see you again on the other side I want you to know that I will greet you with love and acceptance. Because you are my spirit sister, you are a special, unique spirit, and you deserve nothing less.

Pink Balloons; Lily's Memorial Story

The weather was perfect.

I decided to hold the memorial outdoors, in the Provo Canyon. My mom picked Nunn's Park by Bridal Veil Falls and found a picnic bench in a nice shady area by the river. The babble of the river and the twitter of birds were the acoustic background to our little gathering.

We opened with the hymn, "Nearer, My God to Thee". I chose it because it has long been a favorite hymn of mine. I downloaded the music, but my phone wasn't loud enough and the speakers we brought didn't work. So, being a musically inclined group, we listened to find the starting pitch and sang the rest of the song a Capella. People broke into parts, and it was absolutely beautiful. My Grammie described at as a "choir of angels", and I can say that there were probably heavenly voices added into our mix.

Next, a beautiful opening prayer from my aunt, Kimberly L. Her words served to shore up the wonderful, beautiful, peaceful spirit that entered during our singing and stayed with our group through the rest of the service. After she closed, my Grammie spoke. I asked her to say a few words, but I never specified what she should talk about. I knew that she would listen to the spirit and know exactly what to say. She quoted Psalm 30:5, "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." She also spoke about tender mercies, and told us how the night before she had been flipping through my grandpa's journal. He passed away 5 years ago from complications of Parkinson's disease. One of the pages in the back was bookmarked, the only page thus marked, and in that journal entry she found the words, "Dawn, if you are reading this, I want you to know that I love you." She remarked how amazing it was that when she needed to hear those words, they came, seemingly by random chance.

After she spoke, my siblings sang, "A Child's Prayer". The music was beautiful, but it was not the music that I appreciated most. As the oldest child, I am like sister, mother, and friend to my younger siblings. My sisters are wont to bicker, and when I approached them with this musical number I was worried that asking them to work together would make sparks fly. Instead, they both enthusiastically agreed and worked really hard with my brother to provide a touching musical number. I appreciate them waiving a white flag on my behalf, because it tells me how much Lily and I mean to them.

My mom spoke next. She remarked on the outset that it was probably a mistake to have her speak after listening to her children sing, but she managed her talk marvelously as always. Again, I didn't feel the need to give her any topic or talking points, because I knew that she would know exactly what to say. And, she did. She shared the letter she wrote to Lily. It was poignant, thoughtful, and beautiful, and said so many things that I, for one, needed to hear.

Then, we opened up the floor for others to make their remarks. My 11 year old brother made a beautiful analogy of life and death by pointing out the geography of the trees and rocks and the river. My 13 year old sister shared how, in a moment of despair, she was inspired to know that Lily's spirit lives in heaven surrounded by those who love her and have gone before, like my grandpa and a family friend, Kat. My sister recited a beautiful poem "written" by her daughter, Ivory, to her cousin, that began, "I couldn't wait to share my bows..." Others also shared their thoughts, feelings, and words of comfort.

Following those remarks, I asked my uncle, Stephen, and my step-dad to give me a blessing. Stephen spoke, and it was obvious to everyone, I think, that he really opened his heart up and allowed the spirit to channel thoughts and words through him. It was at once powerful to the point of being overwhelming, and peaceful and comforting.


Then, it was time for the balloon launch:





 I opened up to those who attended the ceremony to write a letter to Lily. We gathered those letters together, and tied them to a bunch of pink balloons.

We stepped out from the trees and into the parking lot.

Surrounded by family and friends and filled with their love and support, I took a deep breath...


...And let the balloons go.

The balloons were picked up by a gentle draft, and floated peacefully away.

After that, we returned to the hollow and closed with the hymn, "Where Can I Turn for Peace?" Often when I am struggling through life, I find myself wondering what I can do to calm the turmoil inside of me. That hymn answers simply, "Where can I turn for peace, Where is my solace...Where when my aching grows, where when I languish...Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish? Who, who can understand?...

...He, only One."

Again, we sang without accompaniment, and it was truly a beautiful sound. My uncle Chris closed the meeting with a beautiful, heartfelt prayer.

This little memorial ceremony was so helpful to me. After it was finished, I just felt lighter. Maybe it was sharing the burden of my heartache with a group of people. Maybe it was symbolically sending my love to my baby girl on the wings of a cluster of pink balloons. I'll probably never know, and honestly I'm not too concerned about the mechanism. All I know is holding this memorial helped heal my terribly wounded heart.

Because of my experience with miscarriage and with memorials, I've decided to work on a little project. My goal is to help other families who live through the devastation of a miscarriage hold a memorial ceremony of their own, with the hopes that it will help them find some peace and closure as it has for me. To that end, I have created this blog titled Miscarriage Memorials. I encourage you to go over and take a look, keeping in mind I'm still in the process of building it. Also, if you or someone you know has had a miscarriage and you need anything, from talking to someone who has gone through it, to discussing holding a memorial service, to wanting help planning a memorial service, please let me know.

Lily Isabella

I want to write your story down while it's still fresh. It hurts a lot right now, but in the future I will regret it if I don't.

Your daddy's favorite band is Clutch. Around the time you were conceived, we went to a concert the night they released their new album. When we first found out you were there, your daddy and I started talking about names. We both agreed that we felt very strongly that you were a girl. We've always loved the name Lily for a girl, but we struggled to find the perfect middle name to go with it. Your daddy pointed out that one of the songs on Clutch's new album was titled, "Oh, Isabella". And so, you were named Lily Isabella.

Mommy was excited, and nervous. Pregnancy hormones have a way of making all of your emotions bigger and deeper. I worried a lot about getting attached to you, because of my history of miscarriages. But family and friends were quick to point out that whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and I may as well enjoy my pregnancy. So, I fell head over heels in love with you!

Pregnancy is such an interesting thing. You're you, but you also have a little life inside of you. It's amazing. In the quiet moments, I would talk to you. I would tell you how much I loved you, and about your family. I told you about your aunts and uncles, your cousins, your grandparents. I told you how excited they all were to meet you. Your Aunt Talia and Uncle Justin were always excited to touch my tummy, even though there wasn't really anything to feel yet. Your Aunt Sylvee would always ask how Ivory's little cousin was doing. Grammie and Grandpa Johnson were so excited to meet you. I hope you always know that you have a family who loves you very much, and that you would've been spoiled rotten.

At 8 weeks, I had my first doctor's appointment. I got to see you on the ultrasound. You were wiggling and moving all around, an adorable little black and white blob. I got to hear your heartbeat. I can't describe in words what that was like. Like the most beautiful music I've ever heard. It got very real then, seeing you, hearing your heartbeat. I was the happiest, proudest momma in the world!

For being so very small, you sure made your presence known! I don't know when I've ever been so sick in my life! Heartburn, edema, and the perpetual nausea! Between the hormones and my existing medical condition, I started melting away. I couldn't eat anything! But, I was happy to suffer. I was happy to be so sick. Because it meant that you were in there, growing.

And then, overnight it was over.

I miss you. I hurt. I cycle between feeling too sad to cry, to a blubbering, bawling mess every 5 minutes. After talking to your Grammie Johnson, we decided to hold a memorial service for you. I can be distracted the next couple of days with planning that and also rehearsals for the play.

I want you to know that you are loved. As your mother, I love you more than words can say. You are my baby girl, my sweet little Lily. Right now, it's hard to imagine life without you. I know that you are in a place that is safe, you are healthy and whole and happy and surrounded by people who love you. I know that you are held in the arms of our Savior and our Heavenly Father. I know that when I'm sad and I miss you, that you are here with your mommy. I feel so lonely and empty without you. I miss you. I love you, I love you, I love you!

Goodbye for now, Lily Isabella. I can't wait to meet you on the other side. In the meantime, never ever forget that I LOVE YOU!!

Predicting Gender

I'm having a lot of fun looking at these Old Wives Tales about predicting the gender of your unborn child. Here's how I stack up:

Cravings -- It is said if you are craving salty foods, you are having a boy. If you are craving sweets and fruit, you are having a girl. I'm definitely craving sweets. GIRL!

Chinese Gender Prediction Chart -- Basically, it's a chart that takes your age and the month of conception to predict gender. According to this chart, we are having a GIRL!

History of Parent's Kids -- This one is kind of complicated, but since I am the oldest child, I will have what my mother had but starting with her second born. (So, I'll have girl, girl, boy, then girl but I won't have that many kids!) GIRL!

Moodiness -- I've been super cranky. That means GIRL!

Clumsiness -- I'm not the world's most graceful person, but I've never been a klutz. Since I've been pregnant, I routinely trip over air. That means BOY!

Side Sleeping -- I've always slept primarily on my left side, however since I've been pregnant I've been sleeping more often on my right side. That means GIRL!

Wedding Ring Test -- You tie your wedding ring to a string, then hold it over your belly. It most definitely swung back and forth the three times I tried it. GIRL!

Heart Rate -- They say if the baby's heart rate is high, it means girl and low means boy. This is another point in the GIRL! column.

Names -- We settled very quickly on the name for a girl, but we've always struggled agreeing on boys names. Therefore, we are having a BOY!    

Feet -- If your feet are colder, you are having a boy. If they are the same, then it's a girl. I haven't noticed my feet are any colder than usual, so GIRL!

Areolae -- Apparently, if they are darker, it's a boy. Another point for BOY! 

Morning Sickness -- If you are sick as a dog, you are having a girl. Yup, definitely GIRL!

Mother's (and Father's) Intuition -- Eric and I both think it's a GIRL!


So, that's 3 points for boy, 10 points for girl. I'm excited to see how it turns out!

I'm Pregnant!

I'm pregnant!

That simple little phrase is so loaded. It means so many things.

It means that for the fourth time, I have a little human growing inside me

It means that maybe, just maybe, I'll get to meet this little human.

It means that maybe, this Christmas we'll have to buy a little stocking.

It means my parents will have a second grandchild.

It means Eric's parents will be grandparents for the 6th or 7th time. (Depending on whether Mindy or I pop first, Congrats you guys!!)

It means I'm going to gain weight, and I won't be upset about it.

It means taking pills that make me queasy for a couple more weeks in the hopes that it will help me keep this one.

It means waking up in the morning and performing Olympic level acrobatics to get to the bathroom. And, I am actually happy to be nauseated for once. It's still not fun though...

It means becoming very well acquainted with my bathroom, as I am in there peeing every hour, on the hour, round the clock.

It means sharing that news and seeing people's faces light up with genuine excitement!

It means seriously talking about names.

It means breaking out some of the baby stuff I've accumulated over the past year.

It means cleaning out the spare bedroom. Gag!

It means turning that bedroom into a nursery. Hurray!

It means being anxious about seeing blood.

It means spending time reading about what little pieces are developing and how big my baby is at any given point it time.

It means every Wednesday, I get to tick another week off the list.

It means realizing how so very long it takes to get to the second trimester, with no guarantees that it will help my morning sickness, but with lots off hopes that it will!

It means that I am a lot more aware of what I eat and drink.

It means calling Eric 'daddy' from time to time just to see that cute sappy smile.

It means staying awake at night worrying that something might go wrong and trying to push aside the thoughts of 'How would I feel if it did?' and insert, 'How will I feel if everything goes perfectly?' instead.

It means a lot of crying. A lot. A really ridiculous amount of crying. At everything. Just one little sappy thing and I'm a blubbering mess of sobbing pregnant woman. And explaining to my petrified husband that I'm just really, really, really hormonal and I'm fine and not to worry about my tear stained, splotchy face. It's bad.

It means exhaustion to a depth and breadth that is unbelievable. Accompanied with this new insomnia. I'm exhausted and I just can't fall asleep!

It means a list of food aversions a mile long. I'm on the "Eat What I'm Craving or Starve Both of Us" diet. Which involves a lot of running places at crazy hours and crying because a certain restaurant isn't open at the time. Did I mention I'm crying a lot now?

It means parts of my body are swelling. This includes: Feet, ankles, hands, face, and breasts. Some people are happy about the breast thing, others are annoyed that they have to go bra shopping because is there anything worse than bra shopping? Plus some of us know that this is only the first trimester, so some of us will probably have to go bra shopping a couple more times in the next couple of months. And some of our backs/shoulders are hurting. Pretty divided feelings in this house about the swelling.

It means hopefully hearing a heartbeat for the first time. We're pretty excited about that part.

It means hopefully feeling the baby move for the first time. We're pretty excited about that part too.

It means hopefully holding our little person and looking at their precious little face for the first time. We wish we could fast forward to that part.

It means our lives will never be the same again.

It means our little family is getting a little bigger.

Who knew those two little words could mean so, so much?

The Sadness, One Year Later

It's been a couple of weeks since the one year anniversary of my first miscarriage, but the past month has found me thinking a lot about the events leading up to that day, and the events following it. The thoughts, feelings, situation, physical discomforts, the works.

April Fools Day was the day I "completed" my natural miscarriage. (You can skip this next part, it's a little graphic.) I had been bleeding pretty steadily for a long time. The couple of days before April Fools Day, it had gotten heavier and much more uncomfortable. I started passing small clots. I remember that I was told it was supposed to be like a heavy period, and kind of laughing because it wasn't anything like that. The "cramps" I felt weren't cramps, I'm convinced they were contractions. I can't really describe the difference; yes, they were more painful, but it was more than just being painful. It was like a deeper, heavier sensation, and got to the point where I couldn't walk or talk through them, because they were so intense. I was surprised at the pain, but I didn't feel like I wanted to do anything about it. Part of me felt like I deserved that suffering, and that the pain of the process was kind of cathartic. Lucius was in the room with me through most of it, and every time a contraction started he would start crying. It sounded like he was saying, "Mooom! Mooom! Mooom!" The only other time I heard him cry like that was the first night we had him at home. He would also lay on my belly and sigh, and when I cried he would lick the tears off of my face. Normally, I loathe him licking my face, but I was so sad that I welcomed it. He was warm and soft, and I could hold him close and feel him move and breathe, and I could put my head on his chest and hear his heart beating.

Then, on April Fools Day, I ended up on the toilet, hurting into my bones, sobbing, and finally I passed a huge clot, and then there was this wave of relief. It was like a blanket, such a deep relief that it almost felt heavy. I bled for a couple of days later, but it was much lighter and without the contractions. I remember that it was April Fools Day because part of me was laughing, thinking that maybe this was the universe's prank on me.

Learning about the miscarriage was hard, but going through the process was harder. I can still remember how heartbroken I was.

So, why was I so sad?

I've been reflecting a lot on this lately. Time gives us a lot of perspective, and it has certainly given me perspective on my first miscarriage and Why, exactly, I was so, so sad.

I've always wanted to have children of my own. Like most little girls, I think, I dreamed about my future life a lot. I dreamed about meeting Mr. Right, I dreamed about being proposed to, I dreamed about my wedding day, and I dreamed a lot about having my first baby. I imagined how I would feel finding out I was pregnant,  telling my parents, grandparents, friends, and family. I imagined how excited my mom would be. I imagined my stomach growing, I imagined what it would feel like to feel my baby move inside of me. I imagined my future husband feeling the baby move for the first time. I imagined him talking to my belly, telling our baby how much he loved it. I imagined hearing their heartbeat for the first time, I imagined watching my little one on the ultrasound machine. I even imagined going into labor, pushing, pushing, pushing. And, of course, the absolute best part: Laying eyes on my child for the very first time. Would they be bald, or would they have a lot of hair? Would they look like a mix of me and Eric, or would they be mommy or daddy's doppelganger? Or would they look absolutely nothing like us? Would they get my weird middle finger I inherited from my maternal grandmother? Would my mom find her nose on their face? Would they have daddy's beautiful brown eyes? I imagine that amazing new baby smell filling my nose as I cover their precious little face with kisses for the first of many times. I imagine Eric taking that bundle into his arms, and wiping tears off his face as he stares and them and just drinks in being a daddy. Then, family, friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, one by one taking them into their arms for the first time, grinning from ear to ear.

I've wanted that for as long as I could remember. And, the moment I looked and saw those two little pink eyes, motherhood became a reality that hit me like a freight train. I've said many times that it's like my perspective on everything completely changed in an instant, like I had been wearing sunglasses my whole like and for the first time I put on clear frames. I can remember what everything felt like and looked like before, but even though nothing has actually changed, I'm seeing everything for the first time.

When I got that positive pregnancy test (and the subsequent tests I took over the next couple of days), I wasn't thinking about having a miscarriage, or even the possibility of having a miscarriage. I was thinking about all of those things I had spent a lifetime dreaming about shortly becoming a reality.

Is it any surprise, then, that when I found out I was losing that pregnancy that I was devastated? Yes, I was only 6 weeks pregnant. In that short period of time, here is what happened in my womb:

 


"The nose, mouth, and ears that you'll spend so much time kissing in eight months are beginning to take shape. If you could see into your uterus, you'd find an oversize head and dark spots where your baby's eyes and nostrils are starting to form. His emerging ears are marked by small depressions on the sides of the head, and his arms and legs by protruding buds. His heart is beating about 100 to 160 times a minute — almost twice as fast as yours — and blood is beginning to course through his body. His intestines are developing, and the bud of tissue that will give rise to his lungs has appeared. His pituitary gland is forming, as are the rest of his brain, muscles, and bones. Right now, your baby is a quarter of an inch long, about the size of a lentil."

(Picture and info taken from babycenter.com)

I look at this, and read this, and just think, "WOW". Heart beating, nose, mouth and ears forming, little arm and leg buds, and that adorable little tail. To think it grew from the size of the dot on this "i" to the size of a lentil in just a few weeks. To hear that amazing little creation called a "lump of cells" makes me sick! A booger is a lump of cells, a blood clot is a lump of cells. That little thing with it's little beating heart is my baby, and it died.

But, it's more than just having my baby die, small as it was, new as it was. It was having that future die as well. I never got to feel my baby move. I never got to hear it's little heart beating. I never got to hold it. I had to flush it down the toilet, and that was really, really hard! Not to mention the death of my friend, Kat, around the same time. That certainly added to my heartache.

This was my first pregnancy, and I really, sincerely thought it would end 30+weeks later in giving birth to a baby. So, now I can never be without that fear anymore. And, as time has passed, and I've had two more miscarriages, I'm starting to feel like I will never have a child. That is devastating to me. I watch people around me get pregnant, grow their cute little bellies, and have their adorable little babies. I am so happy for them. In fact, having my nieces around to hold and snuggle and kiss help me get through the hurt. But, it's hard to be left behind. It's always hard to be left behind, isn't it?

However, despite all of those reasons that that miscarriage broke my heart, I absolutely cannot dwell on that. I push, push, push myself to leave that hurt in the past. I can't wallow in it, I can't drown in it. I have to stay positive, I have to keep my head up, and I have to move forward. Today, it hurts a lot less. I don't cry about it very much any more. Some times, when I have a hard day, I'll curl up in the bottom of my shower and have a good cry. But, I get out of the tub, dry myself off, and continue with my day. I pray every day that the time will come when I will have that whole experience, complete with a healthy, happy little bundle of joy. 

I still have faith that day will come!

Six and a Half Years Later

Six and a half years later...

...And I'm still alive. Ask my family, and they will tell you that six and a half years ago, there was no knowing if I would live through a deadly, devastating disease. A disease that, though treatable, often goes unchecked or inappropriately treated.

Eating disorders.

I am a bulimic. I will be a bulimic for the rest of my life. I'm in recovery, and I have been for over 6 years. Bulimia ruled for four years of my life, and it could've very easily taken the rest of it. If it wasn't for the actions of the family that loves me, I could possibly still be struggling with it. Or dead.

This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness week. This week is important, because awareness is key in the fight against eating disorders. There are so many misunderstandings and misconceptions about eating disorders. Very few sufferers of eating disorders get any form of treatment at all, and a small percentage of those people get the appropriate treatment. I am extremely fortunate that I was able to get the treatment at Avalon Hills that I needed to put me into recovery.

With awareness, we can get more people properly diagnosed and treated. With awareness, we can save lives.

Six and a half years ago, I took the first step on my journey to being treated. I am so glad I did. With awareness, we can give others the life changing treatment I had.

The Importance of the Symphony

My mom remarried when I was 8 years old. They actually got engaged on my birthday, I remember because when my mom called, I assumed she was calling to wish me a happy birthday. Instead, she told me that Dave proposed. My birthday was not mentioned.

I don't remember how I felt about Dave when my parents were dating, but I do remember that at least in my tweens and teens, we did not get along. We have very similar personalities, and we often butted heads. I can say that there were times in my life that I hated him. I didn't even want to be in the same room as him.

My teen years were marked with a lot of angst, as teen years tend to be. I had a lot of issues, the biggest one being my struggle with bulimia. I began binging and purging at the age of 12. By the time I was 15, I had hit rock bottom. Three months in Avalon changed my life. Saved my life. Upon release from that institution, I learned a very interesting fact.

The insurance company only paid for my first month of treatment. The last two months were paid in full out of my parent's pockets. It was literally tens of thousands of dollars. In order to pay that money, my step-dad cashed out his retirement fund. It took them 6 years to pay that money back in to his retirement. If you know Dave, you know that the phrase 'penny pincher' is a mild way to describe his frugality. For him to spend that kind of money on me, an angsty, rebellious teen who made no bones about my dislike of him, caused 16 year old me to begin to reconsider our relationship.

One thing that we have always had in common is a love of classical music. Of course, I prefer Baroque era music, composers such as Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, while Dave loves the Romantic era, Schubert, Chopin, Mendelssohn. But, we can always agree to meet in the middle with Classic era music.

After I finished my treatment in Avalon, I went back to high school. Because I was taking Orchestra, I was required to attend concerts for concert credit. My mom, being a blindingly brilliant woman, suggested to me that I attend these concerts with my step-dad. I was very reluctant. It was hours of time spend just him and me. Grudgingly, I invited him to come with me.

Surprisingly, it turned out to be a lot of fun! Sharing a common interest gave us something that we had never had before. From that moment, our relationship began to change. Maybe it was just me growing up, but I think that the Symphony had a lot to do with it.

From that first trip, it became a sort of tradition. Our daddy daughter date to the Symphony. And I can say that this little tradition is my favorite thing to do with Dave. I hope that in the future, we can share this experience with my children. Three generations of music lovers at the Symphony.

Tonight, we are going to see one of Dave's favorite composers, Mendelssohn Italian Symphony. And I can't wait!!

(Here's how we do the symphony really cheap. If you are between the ages of 18 and I think 32, you can purchase tickets for $10 each. Then, you can either park downtown, which I hate, or take Trax. Now, you can take Trax from Provo. It's a little bit longer traveling time, but the station is literally right in front of Abravanel and the trains come every 10 minutes.)

Living in the Moment

I think this is a great follow up post on my last post. A little change in perspective.

My counselor discussed with me living in the moment. Initially, I kind of rolled my eyes. Most of the 'Living in the Moment' discussions I've had have seemed pretty irrelevant to me. I don't feel like I am the kind of person who lives in the past or dwells in the past. I feel a lot of the time like the past is for learning, and that I just need to focus on the future and the next step.

However, living in the moment isn't just about not living in the past, it is also about not living in the future.

You can ask anybody who knows me. I'm a planner. I have plans, goals, dreams, aspirations. I spend a lot of time thinking about the future and my goals. My plans change often, but I always have a general outline of what I want to happen in my life in the next (insert period of time here). School, marriage, family, I even think about retirement and grandchildren. It is comforting to me to have a plan. The times that I feel the most helpless or out of control are times when I don't have a plan for the next step.

I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing. It is important to have goals and have a direction you want your life to head in. However, there are definitely drawbacks to spending a lot of my time and energy focused on the future. The biggest one being that I'm missing the now.

Eric and I just celebrated our one year anniversary. The first year of our marriage is gone. We will never get that back. There were good things, and bad things, and mediocre things, but they are gone now. That first year of our lives as husband and wife is over. Time moves forward, it stops for no man. I can't change the fact that it's gone, but I do have control over whether or not in a couple of years I look back on this time and regret I was so focused on the future that I missed the now, the now we will never have again.

Since my first miscarriage, I have felt so strongly that having a baby would heal the hurt that I feel. Every subsequent loss has only served to push me harder into trying to get my take home baby. Yes, we are ready to start a family. We have talked about it, intimately, in depth, on multiple occasions, and the conclusion that we always come to is that we are ready to be parents. Well, as ready as one can be to be a parent. Emotionally, I want to be a mother so bad that it is physically painful sometimes to see others achieve that goal while I am left in the dust.

However, once we have a child, we can never go back to being just a couple with no kids. Sure, in 20-30 years they will (hopefully) all move out and we will be empty nesters, but we will still be Mom and Dad. And, although I am totally ready to commit my life to raising what I hope will be responsible, mature, healthy, happy adults, (I don't ask for much...) I don't want to look back on my life with Eric and think, "Wow, I really wished I had been more involved in that part of our lives. I wish I had enjoyed that more. I wish I could have that back and relive it."

And so, while there continues to be a plan, and while I am going to continue pursuing my goals, including the goal of motherhood, I have decided to try to be more mindful of the present moment, to enjoy it, to really live it. Because, I love my husband. I adore him. Every day, I feel like I am more in love with him than I could possibly be, and the next day that love is multiplied. I want to enjoy my life with him as it is right now, warts and all, because in the future, I will only have the memories.

My Desire

Yeah, I'm a nerd. I love Harry Potter. But, I was thinking today what I would see if I looked into the Mirror of Erised. As you may or may not know, the mirror shows you the deepest desire of your heart. If I looked into the mirror, this is what I think I would see:

Myself. Healthy, and pregnant with a little Juchau of my own.

I want to be a mom. I want to be a mom so bad, that it is physically painful. I never knew I could want something so, so badly. Each loss cuts me deep, wounds me more than I can even say.

The first pregnancy, I was just excited. I was overwhelmed and apprehensive as well, but I think those feelings are normal. Bringing a child into this world is a life changing event. Your identity completely changes. You are all of a sudden a mother, with a baby that is going to need to be taken care of. It's simultaneously exciting and terrifying. I can't say that I didn't think miscarriage was a possibility, I know enough to know that miscarriages happen. But, when it did happen, I was devastated. Completely devastated. Like the rug had been completely pulled out from under me. I landed on my ass, hard. I didn't know where to turn, but I was in too much pain to just stand up on my own and walk it off. So, I think I crawled at first. Crawled with eyes blurred with tears as the loss of a friend and my life in general smacked me from side to side. Then, one day, as I was yelling at my husband for God knows what (obviously not important, nothing we fight about is EVER important) he looked up at me and said, "You know what, I'm hurting too. That was my baby too." And I realized, I was on the floor crawling around, and he was on the floor crawling around, and for the first moment we were able to look at each other, grab on to each other, and help each other off of the freaking floor and onto our feet where we could compare bruised knees and awe in the ignorance that we didn't even think to lean on each other until that moment.

That is where strength in marriage comes from. Trials. Painful, earth shattering trials that will either tear you apart and fling you to the corners, or will bring you so close together that you marvel how you ever lived when there is a very important piece of you living in your partner.

The second pregnancy, I was quite a bit more apprehensive. I was still excited, and Eric was like a kid on Christmas. He would touch my belly and talk to the baby, tell them he loved them and he was going to take good care of them. He took the bad news the way he always takes it, stoically. Kisses me on the forehead, hugs me, tells me he's sorry and he loves me and lets me cry. That loss was painful, but with a smattering of guilt. One miscarriage, well, statistically people have them. I know very few women who haven't ever had one, and even fewer women who haven't had one and who are done having kids. But, I know even less women who had more than one in a row. I had a wall, and I didn't realize it but it had just gotten taller.

This pregnancy, I was not excited at all. I didn't even properly inform my husband. I swear I told him, but apparently I never actually said the words, "I'm pregnant." I probably said, "I might be pregnant, I'll know in a couple of days." I wanted to be sure, I wanted to get lab tests and see those numbers going up before I would begin to feel excited. Maybe I was little, titchy bit excited, after all, two pink lines is always an exciting and terrifying thing to see, but I just knew in my heart it wasn't going to take. I thought if I could just get to the 8 week mark, I would be ok. Once again, Eric was excited. I thought he knew, but I guess he was just excited at the possibility. He would put his hand on my belly, and talk to it, and talk to me about it. How it would affect our plans for the future. It's amazing how much you can love something that is just a little mass of cells.

I dreaded going to the bathroom. Every time I would wipe and it was clear, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then, I wiped and there was brown on the toilet paper. My heart sank into the floor. I know that brown spotting can be normal in early pregnancy, so I tried to tell myself that this was just cervical irritation and nothing more. Then, the next day, it was red.

I didn't cry. Not right away. I didn't feel like I could cry. I was sad, so, so sad. My sadness was beyond tears. A little piece of me dies every time I have a miscarriage. I look at women who have normal, healthy pregnancies and I feel sick inside.

If I'm honest with myself, I always knew I would have a hard time having a baby. I didn't have any good reason to make me think so. My mom had 4 pregnancies and 4 healthy babies. Sylvee had no problems with her pregnancy. She had so little problems, she didn't even know she was pregnant until Ivory started kicking her! My grammie had a couple of miscarriages, but she also had 7 healthy pregnancies. But, when I hit puberty, I just had a feeling, a nagging doubt in the back of my mind, that I would struggle with getting pregnant.

Well, I can get pregnant OK. I just can't keep the pregnancies very long. And, every time I lose a baby, my wall gets thicker. At this point, if we do get pregnant and STAY pregnant, I won't be able to enjoy it as much as I would if I hadn't had all of these problems. The first trimester has become a terrifying aspect for me, like a monster in a closet.

I want to be a mom. I want to be a mom so bad, it is physically painful. I see teenage girls getting pregnant for fun. I see women who get pregnant and don't want to gain any weight, so they starve their babies. I see women get pregnant and decide they can eat whatever they want, but don't want the test for gestational diabetes because they have to get poked by a needle. I see women who are addicted to drugs have multiple pregnancies, and have multiple babies carted away. But, I see the other side. I see women, like me, who would walk on hot coals to get pregnant and stay pregnant. I see women who are willing to have painful procedures, take medicines with terrible side effects, and suffer every month, just to see those two little pink lines, just to see that little heart fluttering away on the screen. I know how much I would love and cherish my child, how I would sacrifice everything and anything to have a healthy baby in my arms. Sometimes, the pain is so bad, I don't know if it is my stomach or my very broken heart, I'm just writhing on the bed or in the tub, sobbing, and praying.

My husband is an atheist, and he is even praying.

At least I'm not alone in this. I know there are millions of couples who struggle to have a baby, whether they deal with infertility or multiple miscarriages. (Side note, Do you know what the medical term is for a woman who has multiple miscarriages? Habitual Aborter. Tell me that isn't the absolute worst thing you have ever, EVER, EVER heard!!) There is a solution to my problem. Thank God for modern medical science! And, I still have faith. Not every second of every day. I do have weak moments where I sit in the bottom of my shower and cry because I feel like I will never be able to have a baby. But, most of the time, I have faith that someday I will hold my child in my arms.

Eric has been my rock through all of this. I know how badly he wants to have a baby in his arms too. When I have my weak moments, and my doubts, he looks at me and says, "We can do this. It's going to happen. I promise." When I look into his eyes, it gives me strength, and I feel like we can continue on this journey together. Because, as long as I have him, I can do anything.

In the meantime, I can just close my eyes and picture that which is the deepest desire of my heart. I imagine a baby moving and growing inside me, imagine the ultrasound pictures showing little fingers and little toes, imagine giving birth, imagine holding my child in my arms and smelling their head, kissing their face, holding them to my breast, even though I know when my open my eyes...

...my womb and my arms are both empty.

A Sample

Feedback is very appreciated. Let me know if you are interested in reading the rest, knowing full well that the entirety of the novel hasn't been written yet. And, Thanks in Advance for taking the time to read this!!

    The service was spoken in Russian. That was the one thing my mother insisted on. She never really learned how to speak English very well. She didn’t have a reason. Uncle Vlad spoke Russian to her, and so did I. She never really spoke with anybody else. Uncle Vlad bought her groceries, paid her servants, did everything he could to protect his sister from the cruel reality of the outside world.
    But no matter how hard he tried, or how much money he spent, he couldn’t protect her from the cruel advance of cancer.
     The officiator droned on and on about her, although it didn’t seem like he was talking about her, my mama. Katya Naumenko Tvardovsky. Born May 20, 1964. Died, much, much too soon.
    Standing there by her grave site, I felt numb. It was February, the world was cold and bleak and empty. The one and only light of my life, my mother, had been snuffed out. All that remained of her was an empty husk that only really looked like her in certain lights. Everything that was my mama was gone, gone, gone. But, even though my heart had been ripped out of my chest and was about to be lowered into the ground in a shiny, mahogany casket, all I felt was numb. Numb, numb, numb.
    Uncle Vlad stood next to me, his face set in a grim, hard line. He had fought the funeral plans every step of the way. I don’t think he meant to be difficult, I think he was in denial about his beloved sister leaving this world to join our ancestors in the next. So, he did what he did best. Argue, fuss, drag his heels. He bickered with the caterer, the florist, the officiator, even me. He would pick a casket one day and then change his mind the next. He went through my mama’s wardrobe multiple times to try and pick an outfit for her. He didn’t like anything that she had, saying, “My sister should’ve let me buy her nice clothes! No one should have to be buried in this garbage!” At this point, he would buy her a new outfit, then return it to the store the next day, saying, “This is not my sister. It is too cold, too formal. She would not like this,” and with those words he would begin pawing through her wardrobe again, muttering obscenities as he went.
    In the end, I picked out her outfit. It took me two minutes to find it. Her favorite dress. It was red satin with a black belt. She would often put it on, the dark red fabric in stark contrast to her milk white skin, and prance around the house in it. “Someday, Dimitri, I will go somewhere nice, and I will wear this dress.” Sometimes, I would even come to the house to find her wearing it under an apron while she cooked dinner or vacuumed.
    As Vlad and I had our final moment with my mom’s body before the casket would be closed, he admired the details. The simple gold band that was her wedding ring. A strand of pearls, a gift from my uncle, was around her neck. The dress was baggy on her twig thin body. She looked insubstantial, light, delicate as glass.
    “Katya was a good woman, a kind sister, a loving wife, and a devoted mother,” the officiator was saying, “She will be loved and missed by all who knew her. Katya’s son takes comfort in the knowledge that his mother and father are reunited in heaven, where they will watch him as he continues to be the best son he can be.”
    He lied. I took comfort in nothing. I was an orphan, and all alone in the world.
    Except for Uncle Vlad.
    The eulogy was falling on deaf ears. The officiators voice was like a low, throbbing hum. I was so focused on what was going to happen next, I didn’t have the energy in my body to listen, to hear, and to understand. Suddenly, everyone was looking at me. My Uncle Vlad gave me a gentle nudge, and I knew that the time had come.

The part I was dreading more than anything in the world. I took one step toward the coffin, then another, then another. Each step crunched on the frozen ground, as loud as a cannon blast. My ears were ringing, stinging with the bite of the chill air. I had a single red rose, my mama’s favorite flower. On it, I had tied a red ribbon and a note. My goodbye.

    “Say goodbye to your mama, Vorobyshek,” Uncle Vlad whispered in my ear.
    That was when the pain came. I had been icy and numb for so long, the heartache sheared through my like fire. The tears pounded, throbbed, forced their way out. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn’t help the sounds that came out of my mouth. First, they were just quiet sobs, but as I looked down on the casket that held my world, they turned into moans, than cries, than screams. I held it together long enough to place the rose on it’s designated spot on top of the casket, then the anguish weighed so heavily on my heart that my knees buckled and gave out underneath me, and I was lost.

     Here is how they indoctrinate you into the Russian mafia: They beat you with sticks until something breaks, either the stick or you, and you can’t make a sound. One single peep and you are out. After that, they give you a small job. Running a little cocaine or transporting some AK47s. Something small that involves only a couple of years of jail time. If you succeed, you are in, but even then only conditionally. Of course, your position in the mafia is always conditional.
    Failure is not an option. I’ve known many a man to be shot for screwing up. I know because I’m often the man pulling the trigger.
    My uncle’s long time hit man was a French man named Remi Lefevre. Remi was good, but he had a lot of what some people call ‘quirks’. My uncle just called him a ‘pain in the ass lazy Frenchie’ or something along those lines. Remi was one of the best hitters in the world, but he had a lot of requirements. Sometimes, I think he just liked seeing my uncle fume as he was forced to jump through hoops. He talked with this slow, lazy drawl and smoked like a freight train. I guess we shouldn’t have been so surprised when he was diagnosed with lung cancer and succumbed within 3 months of his diagnosis. At Remi’s funeral, my uncle spat in his grave. “Lazy Frenchie bastard! You up and die on me like that! I hope you are roasting in hell right this minute!” I took it as a sign of professional respect that my uncle didn’t unzip his  pants and piss on Remi’s head.
    And so, the spot was opened up for a hit man. It was a cushy gig; my uncle paid well for someone else to take care of his dirty business. I was not short on cash by any means, but I was wanting to prove myself to my uncle. I wanted him to look at me like an equal, a member. I was tired of being spoiled and babied. I wanted Uncle Vlad to look at me and see a man, not the little boy I knew he saw now.
    I walked into his office one day and announced, “I want Remi’s job.”
    There was a minute of steely silence that stretched into two minutes, three minutes, five minutes...
    I hadn’t been nervous going in there. I had so much adrenaline pumping hot and fast through my veins that I didn’t have time to feel nervous. But, as the minutes stretched, silent and empty between us, the nerves that had been diluted with fear began to fester and bubble inside of me, until I was just at the point of turning around and walking out of his office when he spoke.
    “Vorobyshek...” he said slowly, drawing out the word like it was an unfamiliar taste on his tongue. He sat up straight and sighed. “Just tell your Uncle Vlad one thing. Why? Whatever it is that you want I will buy for you.”
    “I don’t want money, or gifts.”
    “Then you are just testing my patience, yes?”
    “No,” I gulped back the bile that rose hot and bitter in the back of my throat, “No, Uncle Vlad, this is a serious request.”
    “Oh, Vorobyshek...”
    “I want a bigger role in the brotherhood. I’m a good shot, and I know I have the strength to pull the trigger...”
    “Dimitri, stop.” This was whispered, but I stopped cold. Uncle Vlad rarely called me by my first name. He continued in a voice that was cold and dead. “You are the only family I have left to me. You have no idea how painful it was for me to bury first your father, my best friend, a man I loved like a brother, and then to have to bury my sister, the only woman I’ve ever loved. You are all I have left of both of them. You are all I have left of anything. You are the reason I get up in the morning, you are my reason for living. I have no wife, I have no children, I only have you, my Vorobyshek. If I lost you, I would be lost.”
    “Uncle...”
    “No. The answer is no.”
    “But, I know I can do it...”
    “Absolutely not. Now, leave my office. I will call you when I am calm enough to speak to you again.”
    I thought for a second about protesting, but it was only a split second. Angry, hurt, I turned and walked out of his office.
    Before my mother died, I would have come to her with my grievances regarding my Uncle Vlad. She was the best listener, she never interrupted, never judged, never scolded. She just listened quietly, and would give advice if pressed. Since I couldn’t talk to her in person, I did the next best thing.
    The grave site was so new, you could still see the lines of the sod, which was a bright, blinding green compared to the crispy brown that surrounded it. They had just placed the headstone, a grey double heart shaped chunk of marble that bore both of my parent’s names. I was told when I was little that my father never had a real funeral, my uncle was so concerned with getting my pregnant mama out of Russia as quickly as possible that he had my father cremated and the ashes scattered somewhere. I found out shortly after my mama’s passing that she had kept a ziplock baggie with a couple of handfuls of ashes in the safe. Uncle Vlad put them in a beautiful box and buried that box in my mama’s casket, according to her wishes. Under their names was written, “Divisa in terra, resumptionem in Coelis” Divided on earth, reunited in heaven.
    I raised my eyes, staring into the depths of the steely grey winter sky. I took a deep breath, and blew it out in a puff of fog. I closed my eyes and sunk to my knees, feeling the dead grass crunch under my legs, feeling the cold, frozen earth spread its chill in tendrils that climbed up my body.
    “Mama, papa,” I whispered, “Are you there?”
    I kept my eyes closed, listening to the stillness around me. Willing with my whole body to hear something, feel something. Some sign that they were there, watching me.
    “Mama, papa...” I whispered.
    Then, all of a sudden, I felt them. I can’t describe it, they were just there. Not around me, but inside me. They were speaking, not with words, but right to my core. I felt limp and woozy with the suddenness of their presence, and overwhelmed by the love and peace they filled me with. I began to weep, not tears of sadness, but tears of something more. Something that was simultaneously sweet and painful.
    “Please, please help me,” I murmured, “Tell me what to do?”
    They didn’t leave, but they didn’t respond either. I sat for a couple of minutes, just enjoying the bittersweet of the moment. Cherishing the feeling. Then, right before I was about to ask them again, I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

Why Pancreatitis SUCKS!

Diagnosis: Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction type II, which means I have all the "classic"symptoms (severe recurrent pain, nausea, and vomiting), they've eliminated more obvious diagnoses, ie cancer, hepatitis, etc, and I've had at least two cases of elevated liver functions.

Solution: A procedure called an ERCP. I don't want to explain, so here's a link.

So, basically they go in and cut the sphincter that is causing the problem, and double check to make sure there are no stones in the bile duct. I had that done Friday morning.

The Upshot - This ERCP might be the solution to all of my problems.

The Downside - A small possibility that I might develop pancreatitis and end up spending a couple of days in the hospital.

Just my luck...

I went in, had the procedure done, they got my pain under control and sent me home. I'm home for a couple of hours feeling fine, then some pain starts creeping in. So, I do what any sensible person would do and take some pain and nausea meds with some water - first and only thing I've had to "eat" since Thursday night.

A couple minutes later, I'm getting pretty uncomfortable, so I decide to hop in a warm bath to see if that makes the pain manageable until the medicine kicks in.

15 minutes since the first little nudge of pain, I'm curled up in a ball on my bathroom floor contemplating the death I feel is immanent. I crawl to my phone, speed dial my husband who let's it ring just enough to let me think my final words to him are going to be immortalized in a voicemail message, but he picks up and I scream at him to come home now because I'm dying and he needs to take me to the hospital!!

Longest car ride of my life, followed by a wait of what felt like hours. I think (and I'm not exaggerating) there were 8 kids under the age of 10 in that waiting room, and their various parents were letting them run hog wild and SCREAMING! I told Eric to take me home because I wanted to die somewhere QUIET!

Luckily, they took me back then. My doctor came in, I don't remember his name but he looked like he was fresh out of Jr High. Regardless, he was a very nice, competent doctor. They drew labs, and eventually after I had been writhing for almost two hours, they gave me pain meds and fluids.

Then, my nice doctor walked back in and said, "Your pancreas is very angry!" He informed me that a normal amylase is in the 200 range. Mine was in the 1600 range. So, yeah, angry pancreas!

They can't give me medicine to treat it. The solution is to be admitted to the hospital for a couple of days, nothing to eat or drink, massive amounts of IV fluids, and control my pain and nausea until my pancreas calms down.

I'm just thinking of my pancreas as a teenage girl, and we pissed her of by messing around in her "room" and now she is pitching a "BF" and she is grounded with no "friends" (food) or "TV" (water) until she can calm down and learn her lesson. That turned it to be a fantastic analogy.

Anyway, that is why pancreatitis SUCKS!!

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

Today is Pregnany and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I don't suppose I can let the day pass without commenting on my experience with pregnancy loss.

I've always pictured myself having kids, although I was never the girl who loved children and loved to babysit. In fact, for the most part other people's children drive me crazy. My nightmare job would be running a preschool or being a Jr. High School counsellor (which, I maintain, is THE WORST job in the world. Seriously, those people should get hazard pay!) I maintain profound respect for people who work in those positions because somebody has to do it and it ain't gonna be me!!

Regardless, I have always felt that my life would be incomplete without children of my own. Finding my soul mate just brought those feelings closer to the surface. I not only want to have children, I want to have HIS children. And then, I found out I was pregnant.

My whole outlook on life changed in an instant. All of a sudden, I had life inside of me. I was looking at milestones that would be different from now on. We would have a baby for Thanksgiving, for Christmas. We would be celebrating our one year anniversary with me being "great with child" and just a few weeks from meeting our son or daughter. My parents would be grandparents, my grandparents would be great grandparents, and my great grandparents would be great-great grandparents. I could finally have the five generation photo that I had always dreamed of having, to display next to the four generation photo that was taken when I was a small child. I was going to be a mom, Eric was going to be a dad. I thought about the baby names we had picked out, I thought about decorating a nursery, I thought about who I was going to see for the prenatal care, diapers, and car seats, and just everything that welcoming a new little life into the world would bring us.

And then, as soon as it began it ended. There would not be a little one joining us this Thanksgiving or Christmas. My five generation photo would have to be put on hold, and I had to deal with the possiblity that it may never happen. Those names we picked would go back to the shelf, unused. There was no longer life inside of me. Even though the flame of motherhood had been lit, there was no baby for us to bring home. Then, to top off the emotional heartache, was the physical pain.

Mere days after discovering our loss, I faced another blow in the unexpected loss of a friend. A young woman who was only a couple of months older than me, struck down in the prime of her life. Then, just weeks later, I found myself holding my scared little sister's hand as she heard her baby's heartbeat for the first time, and a couple of days later found out that she was 24 weeks pregnant with what would be my dearly loved little niece, Ivory. I found myself sitting on the floor of my closet, crying, mourning my loss all over again. The realization that my sister was going to have a happy, healthy, full term baby was bittersweet. I would never, ever wish a loss on anybody. On the other hand, I found myself questioning what was wrong with me that I couldn't have what she had, what billions of women have had, the joy of motherhood. Everytime my parents speak about becoming grandparents, about their grandchild, it sends a sharp sliver of hurt through me. Every time I see another friend discover she is expecting, it hurts my soul. Not because I'm not happy for those things, but because it brings into sharp relief what I lost, and what I will not be a part of.

Although my loss has caused me heartache, it has also had it's positives. I've met women who have had similar experiences, and shared their pain. I've grown closer to my husband, closer than I could've imagined. I've had a chance to reevaluate my priorities, and as important and meaningful as my education and career are to me, I have recognized my higher calling, and I will continue to work towards it.

If I can point to one thing that has helped me the most in this situation, it has been being verbal about it. I'm not changing the world, I'm not changing people's lives, but I am discovering that speaking about our trials, sharing our imperfections, our hurt and our struggles makes us stronger. Shared experiences unite us. I am not alone. And, if you, like millions of women, have experienced this loss, you are not alone.

Miracles

I was reading an article on ksl today. It was discussing a little girl in West Jordan, Sierra Newbold, and the capture of the man who raped and brutally murdered her. It was really quite a spectacular piece of police work, with not a small amount of luck, and, as the police chief so elegantly said, "I myself believe it is divine intervention."

To which, of course, people on the message boards responded without fail, "If it was divine intervention, than why didn't God intervene and prevent that stuff from happening to that girl in the first place?" Like the mindless drone of insects, it was repeated practically verbatim in every other post. If there is a God, he would never let bad things happen.

The story, in a nutshell, is this (I posted a link to the full article below, and give full credit to Pat Reavy and ksl.): Three days after Sierra's body was found, a young woman has her Jeep stolen. She reports it to the police, and also tells her boss about it. Later that day, her boss walks into a bank where she discovers her employee's stolen truck in the parking lot and the man who stole it inside robbing the bank. She confronts the man in the parking lot, and is able to capture a picture of him on her phone. West Jordan police respond to the scene. The detective who was investigating the murder of Sierra Newbold catches wind of these developments, and has a feeling that he should go to the scene of the crime. Upon arrest of the suspect for the bank robbery and car theft, the detective notices black soot on the knees of the man's pants. He remembers that the field in which Sierra Newbold's body was found had been burned a few days prior to her murder, and that her pajamas were covered in this same black soot. Going on this hunch, they run DNA and lo and behold, they have a match.

Luck? Divine intervention? Just plain old good police work? I feel that it is a combination of all of the above.

Of course, that is not the point of this blog post. I read this story and think, "Miracle." Miracle that this family could have some closure, miracle that this man is off the streets and will never harm another child again, miracle that all of the pieces fell into place and led to this man's arrest. Others see it and say, "No miracle here. The miracle would've been her not being raped and murdered in the first place."

And, you know, they are right. That is a miracle. Every six year old girl on the earth today who hasn't been kidnapped, raped, and murdered, is a miracle. Every day that passes that this little girl is allowed to continue her life, alive and unhurt, is a miracle. Every young woman who goes on a first date without getting assaulted is a miracle. Every child who is born into this world healthy and whole is a miracle. Every day the sun rises, every night the sun sets, every breath, every touch, every minute, is a miracle. How do I know this? How do I see these miracles? Because, this life isn't a given. It is because horrible things happen to good people, because people make mistakes, because some people are truly cruel and evil, that miracles happen. If no one ever got hurt, or killed, or maimed, if every pregnancy was uncomplicated and resulted in a healthy newborn who would live a full life without ever having to suffer, if everyone was guaranteed a life without pain, or heartache, or loss, without suffering, there would be no miracles.

My heart hurts for this family. It isn't fair what happened to them. I picture the last moments of this little girl's life and it makes me physically sick to my stomach. (Not that I haven't had a moment without being nauseated in the past month, but you know what I mean.) But, here are the consequences of that incident: An innocent little girl is in heaven, and never has to suffer another moment. A mother has lost a daughter. A sister has lost her best friend. A father feels the emptiness of his home. A man was captured, a man who may be responsible for other incidents such as this. These parents, who have lived without their child for years, have hope that they will find an answer, find some closure. A community is mourning. Who knows how many little girls were saved by this man's arrest. Every mother who reads this story holds her child closer. Some people installed home security systems, some people bought guns, or big dogs, to protect their family. Maybe as a result of that, a life is saved.

When you take away the bitter, you take away the sweet. The more the pendulum swings back into pain and despair, the further it can swing forward into happiness and joy. Nobody wants the bad things to happen, but without those negative experinces, there is no joy in life.

So, take a minute today to see the miracles. They are all around you. Enjoy the good moments. Because they won't last. They can't last. And that is what makes them so, so, sweet.

Here's a link to the article if you would like to read it:
http://www.ksl.com/?nid=148&sid=21194209

Hospital Part Two

Now officially admitted to the hospital and installed in my room, Eric and I decided that he should go home and sleep. He was extremely reluctant to go, but A) He had to go to work in the morning, B) The only thing he had to sleep on was a rather uncomfortable recliner and C) He couldn't really do anything for me at that point.  So, he gave me a kiss and went home.

I did not sleep well that night. I was getting pain medication regularly, and the nurse would come in to check vitals every couple of hours. At 3 am, they came in to draw liver function tests (LFTs).

Dr. Watts' PA came in that morning to talk to me. He said that since they ruled out a biliary leak, they were looking at a couple of different diagnoses. He ordered a CT scan with contrast and (to rule out constipation) a suppository. Oh boy!

For the CT I had to drink contrast. They gave me six cups with the contrast divided equally among them and they mixed it with cranberry juice. I was supposed to drink one cup every 10 minutes. It was disgusting, but since I was NPO I was grateful for something to drink. Pain meds give you such a dry mouth, and even though I was getting IV fluids pumped into me I was still insanely thirsty. Then, after a dose of Ativan (because I am extremely claustrophobic, I had a panic attack getting a DEXA scan and that is just a bar that goes over your hips and legs, let alone a tube they slide you into), they wheeled me down for the CT. I had to sit a minute because they called me down a little bit to early, so I sort of dozed in my wheelchair and tried not to fall off of it. Then, they got me on the table and ran the contrast into my IV. Holy Hannah! They told me it would make my body warm, they failed to mention it would feel like my entire being was on FIRE! And, I felt like I was peeing my pants. (For the record, I didn't.)

The suppository wasn't incredibly successful, but I didn't think it would be. I have been backed up, but not THAT badly.

The news of the day: My LFTs were still elevated, the CT scan was normal. So, on to another sleepless night at the hospital. Highlight: My amazing father-in-law bought me JK Rowling's new book, which I had to read a page at a time because that's how long it would take for the pain meds to work and put me to sleep for 45 minutes or so.

Friday, Dr. Watts came in to talk to me. He said that my LFTs were still elevated, making interesting fluctuations, but still not normal. He decided that I should have a consult with a GI. So, I waited, and waited, and waited, but the GI never came.

Highlight of Friday: My mom and my sister came by and brought my little niece, and she snuggled with me. They gave me this awesome hot pad that was heated with water that would cycle through it, so it was always the perfect temperature. It felt really nice on my belly. Ivory loved it too, because it kept her nice and toasty while I was holding her. The nurses came in to ooh and aah over her, and we had a nice long chat. It was very relaxing and I was sad to see them go.

Eric came over every night after work, but being at the hospital was really hard on him. He felt really powerless and I could tell it was painful for him to watch me be in pain. He told me that he wasn't sleeping well without me at home, and he always looked so exhausted. One day, he said that he had a really vivid dream that I came home. He could hear me come in the door, say Hi to the dog, and crawl into bed next to him. He rolled over to ask me how I got home and I wasn't there.

Saturday, Dr. Watts came in again. LFTs still elevated. I told him the GI had never come in, and he told me that they never got the hepatitis panel ordered. My mom had done some research on Sphincter of Oddi dysfunction, and it describes my symptoms EXACTLY. Nausea, vomiting, intermitant severe pain, elevated LFTs. No jaundice, no fever, normal CT. Me to a T. I asked him about it, and he ordered an MRCP. He also decided to switch pain medication because I wasn't doing well on the one I was on.

Once again, they doped me up with Ativan before the test. Thank heavens they did! Even with the Ativan, I still was panicking a little in the MRI machine. The tube they put you in is TINY and the test takes like 45 minutes. I was very uncomfortable.

Saturay my mom and Dave came in and visited. Eric came by after work. At this point, I was at the end of my rope. I was physically, mentally, emotionally drained. I started to have a lot of anxiety, and I paged the nurse. An hour later, I still hadn't seen her. That had been going on all day; I would page them because I was in pain or extremely nauseated and dry heaving into my "horse condom" as Eric lovingly calls the blue emesis bags, and it would take them an hour or so to get into my room, by which point I was very uncomfortable. So, crying, hyperventilating, I called the number of the patient advocate and blubbered out that I think they all forgot me and I was so anxious and so upset and I really, really, really needed help!

Next thing I know, I've got three nurses in my room. The charge nurse came in and talked me down. They gave me some extra buspar and got me nice and doped up so I could sleep. Eric was really upset, and understandably so. I just had a meltdown and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sunday morning, they decided to discharge me. The MRCP was normal and my LFTs were, you guessed it, elevated. But, I had gotten to the point where I was off of IV pain meds and onto oral pain meds, so even though they had no answers, I was discharged. I was relieved, I was so ready to just go home.

So, that is where I am at now. I take a big handful of pills so I can function and nothing has changed. The pain is exactly the same, the nausea is exactly the same, and I have no answers. I'm going to try to get a referral to a GI and push for some answers. I'll try to keep everyone updated on this blog.

Once again, thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers! They are very much appreciated!