11 years- and interjections

 The years pass. Fewer days hear her name said, either in my mind or in a whisper. The memory of her keeps me moving toward more: greatness, liberation, quiet, calmness, peace. I strive to fill my life finding ways to realize my potential. I strive to be better at being me.

She colors my existence. The shadows of my soul are molded in her likeness: round cheeked imperfect perfection. I can still see so much of her in perfect preservation. The purple hue of her nails and the bloodless abrasion on her skin from too long deprivation of air still paint images of flawless beauty in my head, forever mute. 

Sometimes I see myself from above, out of body, my spirit untethered, collapsing before her cremation arrangement at the funeral before others arrived— too overcome by life to stand, my c-section scar not a week old and grief too heavy to hold. The memory is still too heavy for the tears I’ve long since stopped shedding and yet, there they are for the me that knelt on the floor. The tears I shed today are symbolic of grief for the grief that other me had to carry.

Her birthday is less than 6 days away. Her death day is less than 6 days away. 3280 days ago. Weirdly those are the days of my own birthday. Why have I come here on this day? I was compelled. 

(Even stranger is the recognition now, a day after I wrote the original blog, that the previous paragraph above is wrong. I was wrong. I calculated 9 years ago, it was not 9. It was 11. It was actually 4,012 days ago  today. 4/12. As in April of 2012. How have I lost 2 years? Or rather how has 2 years passed? But I alter words from history so I will allow my earlier self to continue. And I’ll make interjections via parentheses.)

A feeling that I should visit this place randomly occurred just moments ago, like a long forgotten memory that I suddenly recalled back into existence. I’m not sure why. But I’ve learned to follow my intuition since her death and so I’ve come. To listen to the dead. To hear the spirits in the stillness. To honor the grief that was. To honor the love for her that is.

A couple years ago, I finally set down the guilt. And I stepped toward forgiveness for all I felt I missed in grieving. Grief is difficult to walk through like dense fog, but it is malleable, amorphous, an ephemeral thing that ebbs and flows and finds its way into the cracks and explodes your world from the inside out. Then over time, over many explosions, like pottery you are able to put yourself back together with veins of gold, not the same, but not less either.  

I am meant to grow, I know this. To grow so my heart can reach above the cloud of grief. So I can see from above and guide myself to accept that I have no control and to be okay with that. I’ve gotten better at this. (And yet sometimes I’m no better at all, I think. But…)

I HAVE grown. That seems counterintuitive since I am here at this blog of grief and loss. But it is also one of change and love and growth and power. There is power in forgiveness, and power in grief. Grief is, after all, all the love that has no place to go and so it turns in on itself and you are instead supposed to give that love to yourself. That is hard to learn. For me it took many years. These last 9 years I have learned to love myself much more. 

I’ve embraced the dreams I’ve dreamt since I was a child.  I have written a full-length novel. It is a story of loss and grief, and strength and love. A historical fantasy that is colored by so much truth.  Maybe one day I’ll publish it. That is my loftiest goal. Maybe one day I should take these blogs and publish them, too. 

Her life has brought me to other places too. Her death has also taught me to listen to my intuition fully. Her spirit has guided me to hear more from the other side. Her love has encouraged me to see more from the other side. But I no longer define myself  by her death. I have learned the courage to step into my own power. 

Many years ago a medium gave me a very specific and detailed message from her. I recall it vividly. She told me things only I knew; literally, not even my husband had known. It gave me an indescribable amount of peace. Ever since I’ve longed to give back to others similarly. I hope that my mediumship work will do that. It is one of the ways that I’ve embraced loving myself, a way of stepping into my power — finally accepting that the quirky aspects of me are actually the parts that are authentically me regardless of what others think— and they are awesome.  

I am not the person I once was. I am more me now than I ever was. Her death and her life has changed me. I have gotten to a place where I feel I can finally see above the fog. 

(The old me wouldn’t have forgiven myself for getting the date wrong. This me realizes that I’m tired. The kind of tired where I have a book in my hand one second and then no idea where I set it. Or where I take a wrong egg and crack it thinking it’s hard boiled and it spills over the table. Or where I grab my salad out of the fridge only to find at lunch time leftovers. Or where crawling out of bed for work is more like an MC Esher clock painting as I drip out of bed in a puddle in the floor.

Or maybe it’s the few days before her angelversary and somehow… I’m still searching for solace in spaces between the words on the page.)

Covid 19, anxiety and number 7

We are somewhere between thigh and chest deep into Covid19. Our life, currently has slowed to a social distancing confinement of interaction. To date 10,800 + people have tested positive for the virus in the US. 4100 of those were in NYS; it is March 19. The first case was identified March 1. I believe it has been among us for much longer.

Here are the musings of my anxious mind. I want to remind you that this is a place I come to think. It’s been devoted to Gabbie previously but since She can be carried in our hearts only I feel that I am the ripple from her existence. She still impacts me daily and I impact others. I pray my impact is positive.

My hope is that by writing all my anxieties that I can deposit it. And let it fester here or simply sit in silence here instead of echoing in my head.  The echoes weigh heavily. But here they are. Maybe I can put them down for long enough to sleep.

1. Do people really think it’s hype?  Like really really?  Is there not a single shred of selflessness within these people who think for even just a fleeting second that maybe, just maybe the virus might destroy so much? Is it selfishness? Ego? Entitlement? What?  If for just a minute I thought that my actions might seriously impact my mom, my dad, my in-laws, the friends I have that are immunocompromised, I would change my actions. I would try everything in my power to lessen the likelihood of my choices impacting others, those I live and those strangers who need the rest of us to care. How does this not get even the slightest consideration by people who are denying social distancing and going drinking or to spring break?  What kind of people has our society groomed?  It is much much worse than I had wanted to believe.  I hope that it is just that most of you are avoiding at all costs and just doing so quietly.

2. Do you really think that this a hoax? And that the government is just trying to take full control of you?   I have nothing for this except to say please educate yourself. Find sources from both sides. Read. Read. Read. Dr. Fauci is an excellent balanced source. Seek information. But do not just be stubborn without real balanced information.

3. I have no real evidence as of yet but I am scared for my own abilities to defend myself. I may be wrong. And maybe this is over reaction and my anxiety speaking to which I am certain my husband would attribute this thought to... but here it is my “evidence”. Many years ago my ENT said I had no immunity of the 7 most people had to upper respiratory infections. I was given a booster then and instructed it wouldn’t last forever. That was maybe 5 - 7 years ago. Then I’ve developed strange ailments. I started to see a sleep specialist because I was always tired. I was given Gabapentin for what they thought was restless legs while on it I had SEVERAL back to back infections of strep. Then tested  positive for mono. I stopped taking Gabapentin and read into it and realized it leaves people open to viral infections. WARNING IF YOU ARE On GABAPENTIN IT IS A SIDE EFFECT IN SMALL PRINT.   Additionally, I recently tested positive for an autoimmune. I’ve not yet had it confirmed by a rheumatologist. All of these things are disconcerting to me. There are so many unknowns for me. I know it’s probable it is anxiety talking but... the unknown makes anxiety worse. And Anxiety and fear threaten immunity so I try to be rational.

4. I’m concerned that if the numbers continue to rise of those people  who require beds, that like Italy, doctors will have to decide who to give a ventilator to and who not. What if I’m right about number 2 and that is me?  But this is doomsday thinking so I tell myself to have faith and take precautions and we will be fine. THANK YOU HEALTH CARE PROFESSIONALS.

5. I am concerned that poor choices by others refusing to believe this is real will put my loved ones at risk. If the numbers continue to rise will it include an even longer required closure forcing friends to have to close up their livelihoods. For how long?

6. Every cough or moping, lethargic behavior sends alarms through my mom senses. My hyper vigilance is exhausting but real. 14 days is a long time to go before exhibiting signs. My view is that when people start to exhibit signs they refuse at first to acknowledge them and stay home, and instead contaminate others by ignorance either intentional or unintentional. So those lists of where people were while showing symptoms eeks into my mind. I went to the dermatologist. What if I touched something and accidentally brought it home?  Thus number six...

7. Every step out to the grocery store or literally anywhere there may be people resets what I perceive as our window and restarts the anxiety all over again.

So what then? Live in fear. It’s chaotic and unknown. But fear is what causes people to hoard and behave irrationally. Fear cannot be trusted. I wonder if the hoarders are staying home?  So I try to balance fear and anxiety with knowns. And trust that people I would be in contact with are similar of mind. They have loved ones too. But number 1 makes me see flaws in that. People make poor choices in the moment. Some were raised to believe they could be anything including selfish, self righteous, entitled, and invincible and those who believe they are exerting their American right to be “free” by ignoring directives. Others are just out trying to get basic necessities. Others are torn between belief it is bad and belief it can’t be as bad as it’s forecasted and so they toggle.  In any case I wish more of them would stay home. Do you REALLY Need The item from the store? Can you wait until you have a small quick list to allow you to be able to stay home longer?  The more of us it spreads to the fewer beds there will be. The more doctors may fall ill. Who will take care of us when there is no one left and no beds and no ventilators because you wouldn’t give social distancing a chance to work?

Here is what I do know.

1.Thanks to divine intervention or angels on my shoulder before the craziness that was the weekend before everyone went crazy shopping (I hope they got what the needed) I bought triple the groceries I usually buy. I don’t know why but I felt we had to stock  up.   I am thankful we did. My kids have food. And I can avoid stores.

2. The cold broke enough so that our freezers in the garage would keep food and not spoil it.

3. My husband and I and my girls who are in 5-6 different schools each day are now instructed to stay home. Our surface area of contacts reduced exponentially.

4. Somehow I had the foresight to have shifted to occasionally assigning work online to my students despite the pushback because they despise (and with good reason for many of them) the chrome books they have. The shift to online learning was easier for them. I had committed to using them occasionally in an effort to prepare them for college readiness.

5. My husband is patient.  My girls are flexible.

6. I have a very powerful angel who has provided guidance on a variety of occasions. I’m trying so hard to see her signs.

7. I am introvert. With anxiety because I once had a baby I couldn’t save and I’m terrified of not having control even though I have very little control over anything. This pandemic is real-life submersion therapy Of having literally no control except how much I wash my hands and my counters and I’m trying not to fail. So please stay home.

May you heed warnings. Be thoughtful. Be considerate. I hope we feel we have overreacted in the end because that will mean that staying home worked and we made it less bad than it could have been. We are only asked to stay put how hard is that?  Our parents fought in wars. We are only asked to fight by staying home.

So stay still. Stay home and in the words of Dylan Thomas “do not go gentle into that good night.”

Stay well.

Four seasons

Fifteen

Crispy autumn years

Burning beautiful

The leaves flutter like heartbeats and hearty monarchs counting out cooling days

The ending of innocence

soon

Not yet not yet

Sometimes full of shivery cool attitude or sizzling second summer charm

Layers of warmth wrapped in hoodies

Brilliant sun and gray overcast skies of teenage angst and campfire-popping life

Hold on to her beanies those years fly by

Eight

Springing April showers

Mossy mild-dew smells promises of beauty to come

Pressing upward pushing through

Breaking dirt cracking

Jokes Fresh full green giggles and wide-leafed smiles

Just beginning to reach for more

sunshine rays between teardrop clouds

Grounded storm-cloud quick lightening

Attitude Clap-backed middle child wants

Running through yards head and hair thrown back

Laughter like robin and sparrow flight

Barefooted Ponytail pretty

growing like wild flowers touching down for a tiny butterfly second.

Four

Summery years like camping trips

Gone in a sizzle of sass and sunshine

Golden locks wander about like vines

Goodness holding

Wrapping around fingers

A buzz of bumble-bee-nectar sweetness

Skipping hopscotch bouncing bubble beauty

Goldenrod giggles belly laughing

Lemonade stand lovely

Reaching up grasping humid hugs

Holding on

Need a light in sparkling shooting star nights and yet

Smiles like light through sunset pink lips after the heavy-heat cloud-drooping darkness

the rainbow

the sunshine goodness of sticky bedtime kisses and butterfly-flutter-by dreams

An eternal finite moment an ageless time

Winter frozen

An image that never alters iced over

Staying as long as and perfect as a snowflake at your fingertip

An image of unattested beauty fluttering as snowy butterflies

Cacooned in season of stillness

Lips frosted rosebuds at rest

Cheeks curving mounds of whiteness hued blue

Time stopping Silence so loud

White clouds exhaled feathers on tiny wings

A crisp staccato broken ice heartbeat

Silent

Cold perfection

Inhale unflawed love

Smelling memories and waiting

Ever unrequited anticipation

breath held

Still

Stark

unchanged

Forever perfectly pure echo of life

The seasons change in beauty and wonder. The gold of autumn that cannot stay, the wildness of spring that need not be tamed, and the utter brilliance of summer that cannot be quieted. So short a time they stay, so quickly they are altered.  Winter though, I carry in my heart a collection of perfectly pure snowflakes, wispy winter butterflies speaking to my soul of sleeping life.

This place is a graveyard of words

It's been a while. An infinite and yet finite amount of time. I'm not sure what this place to think has become. It's like a graveyard of words. When it's so fresh and new you go and sit on the still-soft ground and sob and hug the earth, the memory, your heart, your hurt, your words, until your sorrow seems to seep like rain into the dirt and your words are jagged like the clumps of dirt, freshly dug. As the ground grows hard with time and you rebuild your composure like fresh fragile grass, you cry less. Your words like the dirt grow harder but more articulate as you understand the place you're in now. Then the stone arrives with her date and you can stop counting the time that's passed because the date will never change. The grass color is just barely noticably different. Your tears no longer soften the hard ground, the headstone won't give against them anyway. The words are smooth and never change; they will always be the same date, the same memories. They are hard now, those words, like the headstone in a graveyard.

Gabbie doesn't have a gravestone.  She has a marker in my garden with her name and date. She has a stone at my mom's church. She has a large stone beneath a tree in a garden in the city. They are permanent like her death. She has me.  I carry her words around within me. I carry her around within me.

I do not know what to do with this place. This graveyard of words.  I come still and read my words. I come still and read about this heartache. I come because I need to remind myself sometimes of what is important. I'm not sure why. The important things in life find ways to remind me of their importance all the time. I don't really need to seek out reminders.

It's been 5 years, 3 weeks, 6 months and 1 day since she has passed.  The date stays the same and still sometimes I count how long it's been, how much life has changed. I can still see the grass is a different color, the ground hasn't really totally settled. It never will. I think I planted different grass. My tears do not soften the earth where she is not. They soften my heart where she is.

I had considered not returning.  But, like a graveyard I think I would still come. I'd come to sit, to read the words, to see the date again. I'd come and watch the changing of the seasons of grief. Maybe now, instead of never returning as I had first thought when I stopped by here today, I return to put out new flowers and tend the grass, clean the stone and look around at all the ghosts.

Thanksgiving is upon us.  I am thankful for so much. I am thankful for all the things that are important.

Missing

It's been nearly 3 and a half years. Gabbie has become a part of the walls of my brain. All thoughts are infused with her loss. Not in a horribly sad way, but more like a lens through which I see things. I think a lot about my reaction to matters, especially with the girls and D.   Is my reaction to stress,  to them,  to life,  one that I want to convey?  I'm still quite snippy.   I see this like I'm standing above myself and I say something snippy and then it's too late to retract it.   Those moments come and I feel guilty but haven't figured out how to stop them before I say it. I find I am most snippy when I am tired, rushed or stressed. Perhaps it's because then I have the least patience. 

I still live with a terrible sense of guilt. Today I should be walking in the WNYPBN'S annual Walk to Remember.   I didn't. Instead I stayed home. I finished the first book I've read in a very long time.  I napped when the baby napped.   For hours.   I cried.   I cried when D was home because I felt guilty for not walking for her,  and I cried when he left and I had put the baby down for her nap.   It was for the same reason--- for guilt, but also for sadness.  She'd be 3 and half.   It's been a long time since I'd considered what she'd look like or be like.   Now that Evie's getting older and beginning to talk, I realize how much I've missed of Gabbie.  She'd be walking and talking and have favorite foods,  and a style. She'd have favorite cartoons and... and none of it matters.   And life is not that. And today,  I cried because I have been feeling guilty for so long and I still don't know why.   I can't explain the guilt.   I didn't kill her.   I didn't do anything so that she'd be sick.  And yet still I feel guilt about her not being here.   And I know that this is so irrational. I'm angry at myself for feeling guilty for not walking and I feel guilty that I'm angry. I don't cry or wallow in her absence often anymore. But today, I allowed myself the deep sobbing cry that hurts your heart, alone on my pillow while the baby slept and D was at the land and the wind blew the trees into beautiful fall colored shimmers outside the window.   It didn't help but it was necessary. I think I'd let the saddness fester for too long. I'd go visit her rock at the Botanical Gardens,  but going any where isn't necessary. I know she isn't anywhere but right here. Her bear, her spirit,  is here.  It's all I have of her and it'll always (and never) have to be enough. 

The business of living

Children have a way of pointing out things that we otherwise can't see.

A while ago I posted about Gracie asking if there was a phone in heaven. And when I told her she didn't need it,  that she could just talk because Gabbie was all around and could hear her all the time, she asked Gabbie to come visit because she loved her.  BUT Gracie also asked Gabbie if she'd visit more so mama wouldn't be sad all the time that she's gone because mama loves her and misses her. This simple verbalized thought pulled at my soul. I tried very hard to not have my sadness spill out everywhere. I didn't do so well. I'm getting better though. I went off my antidepressants; I've been off for two weeks. I feel good about that though I still have terrible anxiety in the car. TERRIBLE anxiety mostly as a passenger.  I can't watch out of the windshield.

I feel awful that for Gracie's childhood one of the things she remembers most how mom was so sad.  Gracie is 5. At 2 she lost her sister. She'd wipe the tears from my face in the early months when Sky and Daddy were back to school. I really have no recollection of those months except darkness. Then we celebrated the firsts without Gabbie, the first Christmas, and Easter and Birthday (which was Gracie's 3rd). Those all blend too. I missed so much these last few years. 

Then I got pregnant and worried and feared and concentrated on not losing her baby sister. And I lost another year of Gracie's growing. With Evie's birth I suffered physically and mentally. I was wounded that I'd never share those moments with Gabbie. I wallowed and emersed myself in Evie's firsts. As the months went on I began to have clarity. All of those moments I lost with Gabbie that stimulated such deep darkness and sadness has now translated to a clarity in the obvious loss of moments with Gracie as she, herself, stated, and now I wonder what I lost with Sky-- the child who shares so little with me about what she feels or thinks but who was old enough to know she has a sister she never got to meet.  Sky is 12, now.

I try to remember back to sky being little like Gracie and Evie.   Often I can't remember things I wish I could. But it's not just related to Sky, it pertains to many things. I can recall elements of a written story or literature effortlessly; they are things committed to my mind somehow as though they were permanent, like walls of my subconscious holding up the roof that houses all the memories. But real memories are missing, I struggle to recall things I feel I should be able to.  Am I so self absorbed in moments that I cannot see what goes on even immediately around me?  I want to remember what Sky's favorite food was, or where she was the day she first started walking. I want to remember what she wore home from the hospital, and Gracie too.  I want to remember.  But I can't. I want to remember other things too.  I feel like my world is absorbed in,... in,... I don't know what.... living day to day? Living in the rat race? Living in a self absorbed bubble? Living with distractors?... that I do not make room inside my head for important things because it seems as though those things are just the business of living.  I go about my day preparing for tomorrow and am not even sure I even lived today. Is this the nature of teaching? Or is this my nature?

I want my girls to grow up LIVING. I want them to live for sunrises and sunsets.  I want them to savor the taste for travel, and ache to try new things. I want them to love to live and live with love but not let either of those things consume them. I want them to strive for greatness but not obsess over it. I want them to be involved in the moment but not so involved in it or themselves that they forget to remember it. 

I don't know how to teach them that because I know they learn by watching me and I am a failure at all of these. I cannot remember. I sometimes sarcastically think: what if one day I wake up and realize I've forgotten all of the important things and am left with only fictional stories? 

The memorial walk is Sunday and I am struggling with deciding if I want to go. I think I've tried to stop feeling.   I stopped my medications.  I've not read a novel in months.   (I love books;  they allow you to feel someone else's feelings,  to live another's life).  I haven't cried for her in ab while. I just don't know if I can bring myself to go.   But then I know,  I'll feel guilty for not. What else do I have for her if not this?  This business of living is complicated

My Last menstrual cycle

FRIDAY: Today I awoke in pain.   I'm so swollen I look 3 months pregnant. I have to overlap pain pills with 600 ibuprofen just to take the edge off. I have no choice. I'd go to the hospital for the pain if I didn't know what it was,  but I do know, so the trip would be pointless. I walk hunched over like I'm very very old. A simple tap on my stomach sends shooting pain through my body.

Today is the beginning of my last period.   I thought for a while today about how I'll never have another baby. I considered how Evie is my last. The decision (not that there really was one,  because having babies really is too dangerous for me) is made. I cannot nor will not have any more. My body,  God,  whatever,  has decided that for me. And I'm okay with it. There's been so much pain for me these last few years. So many things have gone wrong, it's time to let things go, starting with my insides I guess. It'll be nice to be healthy again. Derek isn't home tonight,  I'm staying at my in laws with the kids.

SATURDAY: Taking the cycle of percocet and ibuprofen still.  I tried to eat this cereal morning,  I threw it up. Not good.  I still hurt. Yesterday at its worst, I lay in bed crying.  Curled in the fetal position hand over my face,  sobbing. D's parents saw this. I don't think they knew how much this disease hurts.  

Disease. That's the first time I've called it that. That's what it's called in everything I read: a disease. A disease that much is not known about.   I wonder how long I've had it and it was masked by birth control?   I wonder if it may have caused the issues with my water?   I wonder if it's been causing my bowel issues this whole time?   This smart likely.

SUNDAY (or realistically Monday since it's 4 am): I can't sleep.   Not because I'm not tired but because D woke me up checking on me. I'm not sure if he was even awake.  My stomach still hurts some. And my lower abdomin still hurts too.  I wonder if the medicine regime that I never take messed with my stomach. It feels like I got punched in the guts. I can't take ibuprofen anymore--- surgery is a week away. I'm nervous about it. What if it's worse than suspected?  What if they can't get it all?

I say these things knowing that the success rate is good. That's more than other diseases offer. I should be grateful and I am.

One week out, and nearly through one more flare up.   This one was the worst. I'd have been in the hospital again if I didn't know what it was.  They get progressively more painful.  One week out and as scared as I am I hope the surgery comes and is over quickly.   It's a rather large and looming date in my future. Now to get through one more major appointment with my general practitioner for her to give the surgery the go ahead.   I hope it goes smoothly. But that appointment is Tuesday.

Father's Day champion

I don't have much to give.  I don't have money to buy a gift or even an idea of what I could get him if I had money to spend.  What I do have is words. And love. 

When I met him he was a bachelor without children. I had S. She was almost 2; she's 11 now.  When he finally came into S's life it was a transition that he eased into. I will not say it was flawless but he was beyond good with her.  He assumed a role with her that many fail at, and when he became a steady person in our lives we both gained something that cannot be replaced.

Then he and I got married and had G-- daddy's girl.  He never flinched adding one more to our family only 9 months and a day after we got married. She became his cuddle monster, he had a knack at putting her to sleep when I could not. Crawling into bed on his side for a few minutes of sleep in the morning or when she had a nightmare became expected of her and he welcomed it, and welcomes it still. 

He makes sure to make the time to take the two to sporting events, practices and rehearsals. He spends hours at recitals and cheers them on. He is their champion.

And then we had Gabbie.  He became the father of an angel too. And he became our everything when I was nothing but a puddle in bed, he made sure we still rolled on while I was lost.  He is our champion.

Then we found out we were having Evie and he became her champion before he ever knew her. He rallied her when she was quiet inside. He waited to see her rolling inside my belly. And the nearer it got to meeting her he worried silently, staying strong for me. And then she came and again he was my strength taking care of her when I could not, taking care of me when I could not.

And now, that I am so tired, and hurting with this endometriosis which is sometimes more physically painful than anything I know, he does what needs to be done. He does it his way, and it works and I can't and wouldn't complain, because it's more than I can do sometimes. Sure you could say, "it's what he's supposed to do he's a father and a spouse" but not every man can nor would.   Many marriages have ended after a loss like ours. But he holds strong and he does it without complaint--- all of it: the stepfather to a tween, the father to two beautiful girls of his own,  the father of an angel,  the man who takes care of me. I don't know what I'd do without him. Thank you Babe, for being the best father to my children and partner I could ever imagine and hope for.

The verdict--- The large elephant in the middle of my near future.

Perhaps severe endometriosis--  that's the verdict.  The sentence: partial hysterectomy with the possibility of loss of an ovary or two.

So here's the problem, or the perceived problem: the theory is I have retrograde endometriosis.  That's, theoretically, when the menstruation cycle does not empty correctly from your uterus but instead empties in a reverse fashion out through your Fallopian tubes and into your body. The menstrual tissue then implants in the abdomen cavity and grows because of an immune system problem or hormonal problem.  This is just a theory, but the theory, currently, that my doctor is subscribing to.  There really is no absolute proven clinical cause for a woman to have endometriosis.

The other options besides surgery weren't really options at all.  I could go permanently on birth control or hormones to control it's growth, but all birth controls I've been on have made me sick or altered my psyche, so those aren't really an option.  I could treat the pain with doctor prescribed narcotics but that's only masking the problem and would eventually worsen the situation.  So, like I said these are not options.

The procedure will be robotically done.  The idea is to go in and take out  my sick uterus and affected ovaries, then take out all the displaced tissue to keep it from growing and affecting other organs and causing more damage.  Going into the surgery which right now is the only real option, I know for certain I will not have my uterus when I wake up, that is the only certainty.

There are many unknowns.

1. Will I have one or both ovaries or will I be on hormone replacement therapy forever?

2. Will there be complications with other organs?  The doctor mentioned a common complication is damage to my bladder.  It will be fixable but will require a bag until it's healed.

3. If there is too much damage from the displaced tissue it may require invasive surgery and not just laproscopic, so I may wake to another large scar similar to my c-section where they had to go in and fix the damage.  

4. There is about a 40% chance that the surgery may not solve the problem entirely depending on how severe the stage of endometriosis.

Pros:

1. I may have no more pain.  

2. I will no longer have my period.  (Seriously, though every woman should cheer at this because I don't care who you are, your periods are annoying at best and a high maintenance painful bitch at worst.)

3. I should be at least a couple pounds lighter right? I mean come on I'm giving up a body part for this. (I say facetiously.)

4. I may finally feel better.  Maybe even capable or running again.  Perhaps I won't be so tired ALL of the time.  Post surgery me seems pretty wonderful.  I hope.  

5. I will no longer have a uterus that I still believe caused us to lose Gabbie-- a sad and final revenge on it?  Perhaps.  But I'm still angry it failed me.
These are pretty good Pros.

Cons:

1. There are many unknowns.

2. I am slightly (okay perhaps slightly more that "slightly") terrified of surgery.  I mean come on, I needed a transfusion with my last big surgery.  How though, unless your a surgeon and you live for this crap, who really likes surgery?  Crazy people.  

3. I will never again have the option of procreating.  Of being a new mommy again.  Of seeing that little face with squinty eyes blink at me in the bright light of a hospital room.  But realistically I can't anyway.  D can't (so it's a non-issue anyway) and the thought of pregnancy again is silly. It is too stressful, dangerous, (stupidly risky) and endometriosis is damaging and causes infertility.  I am however, attached to my uterus-- pun both intended and not intended.  It gave me four beautiful girls.  It allowed me to grow miracles.  It is a part of me, a useful, blessing-providing organ that gave and without it, I am... well... without it.
4. Scheduled for July sometime around the 20th (I am still waiting for the specific date from my Doctor) my summer will, realistically be over.
5. I feel bad that D's vasectomy was for no reason since I have to get a hysterectomy anyway.  We were trying to prevent me from having another surgery which obviously was not in cards.
6. I will not be able to pick up a very active, very sweet 1 year old who will not understand.  This perhaps makes me the most sad.  I will not be able to carry Evie, pick her up, or hold her while standing for at least 6 weeks.  This one sucks.
Okay, they all suck.

So there it is.  The Elephant in my future.  

Antidepressants

A year ago after Evie I became terribly postpartum. I was so in love with Evie and so sad I'd never have the same opportunities of mothering Gabbie. I became anxious that something would happen to her. Riding in the car as a passenger became terrifying-- who knew if we'd all be okay; I couldnt breathe.
So, I started on Celexa. It took away the anxiety and deep sadness. But now, possibly because of its side effects, and possibly because of hormones I am having terrible abdominal pains. 

These pains are similar to, comparable to those of a c-section as your body comes down off the anesthesia and you feel it for the first real time. It's horrible crippling pain.

Last month I went into the hospital for the pain. They admitted me. I had inflammation around my ovaries, fallopian tubes, intestines, colon and appendix but they could find no cause. My belly was distended with the pain, it is now. They did CAT Scans, and internal and external Sonograms. They gave me pain killers which helped with the pain but doped me up to sleeping most of the time. They gave me an antibiotic which melted some of the inflammation.  They sent me home. I saw a gastro, he found nothing in colonoscopy. 

I uncovered that some of my symptoms may be caused by the side effects of Celexa.  Some of the rarer effects are pelvic inflammatory problems.   Awesome by the way.   As D stated. .. I think I'd rather be sad.   But the problem with this point is the first occurrence of this pain was before Evie after I had been off antidepressants for a while, so maybe they aren't related. I'm at my wits end. I will be seeing my OBGYN Wednesday. I'm definitely weaning of the antidepressants even though I'm scared of the saddness and anxiety returning. I pray that the Celexa is the problem and is an easy fix,  though I'd be annoyed that the doctors didn't see it. However,  if it's not,  the alternatives are pretty sucky options.

As an update,  Gabbie's still sends me signs.   Butterflies,  and whispered "mama"s as I fall of to sleep.   Evie is walking and talking,  she just turned 1.  My older two G and S ate such good big sisters.  G has had a lot of questions lately regarding Gabbie and her ashes.   Time seems to fly so quickly.  

Like a teething baby

It's been nearly 4 months since last I posted. Time has continued on with work and sickness and busy schedules of dance and choral concerts for the girls. In those 4 months the girls have grown, obviously most notably, Evie. As this month begins to proceed it marks the 3rd full year without Gabbie. Sky just tok her babysitting course, Gracie turns 5 and soon after Evie will be a year. How? How has life proceeded on thusly with years passing and grief waning? So how does it feel now in the third year? 

Grief is like a teething baby on a hip: so heavy to hold but impossible to put down.  Sometimes in exhaustion it rests a weary head on your shoulder and gently drifts to sleep quietly but the weight of sleep drapes over her, making her heavier to bear and even more impossible still to put to rest because you'll wake her if you try. Grief is like that heavy, sleep-laden baby: quietly resting but unable to be put down for fear of waking it. Grief is sometimes invisible, unnoticed just like teething. Sometimes through teething, she is pleasant and smiling, playing gently and sweetly the teething is not noticeable, no rose cheeks nor gnawing jaw.  Grief is sometimes just like this, dormant in its pain. But then, then in a midnight waking, it sneaks back in and aches, with frequent reminders of the pain that steal away again after a time. Occasionally, grief, like a teething baby, needs to be cuddled, held close to your heart so you can wrap your arms around it and sooth it. Other times it just wants, needs to be let free, to gnaw, to chew, to grip something and hold it painfully tight because the pressure of it on the inside needs to be set free but yet it cannot be liberated. This is grief. 

In less than 8 days she will be gone for 3 years.  I sometimes wonder if I remember her face for what it was or because of the pictures we have of her. I'm afraid, or saddened maybe, that I might somehow remember falsely her face--- perhaps less or more full than it was, or her chubby hands with their perfect nails that had already began to darken from lack of air, or how her bow lips tilted slightly downward. She was from me. I should remember her face without a picture, but the guilt of not remembering precisely though perhaps a bit unrealistic is a real guilt.  No I don't abuse myself for it, but if I were not to remember then who would? 

I didn't bring the girls with me on my commute to work these last two mornings because of illness at the babysitter's house.   The absences of the two was deafening. I thought of how I used to cry in the car on my way to work those first few weeks I returned to work after losing her, noting how different it would have been and so much more difficult with an infant to prep everyone for the day. It disturbed me to think how easily routines change when missing a vital component of one. Routines seem to be the glue that keeps me together much of the time. When I'm thrown off by hurrying, or chaos it stresses me out.  I can't wait to pick up my teething baby (and her crazy sweet sister) and return to routines, teething and cuddles and crying and all.

Ninja be damned

Yesterday was Evie's 7 month birthday.   People say that time flies; I don't think that's an accurate analogy.   It doesn't fly it sneaks by unbidden like a ninja, stealing away valuable moments in the darkness of shadows. Yesterday we enjoyed Christmas with my in-laws and in those precious moments of family Evie turned 7 months old and I never realized 7 months were already stolen away. And now in just 3 days the new year will begin, I have been putting some thought into what I want this year to bring and I realized I don't know when I last made plans for a year, but that's a lie; I do know.   

3 years ago when I was pregnant with Gabbie we made plans.   We made plans to have a baby girl.   We made plans to sell our house to buy a 4 bedroom house in the suburbs.   We made plans for the year.  But time,  like a ninja,  stole those plans in the shadows of a night in April,  and I awoke and all those plans no longer mattered.   That 4 bedroom house became a series of apartments, a place to suit the need of a place to stay. Sure we made them home,  but it's always been a borrowed home.

But now,  I've been thinking again about the future and that ninja. I want the girls to grow and know a place to call home.  I want them to think about the events that time steals away with fondness and have a home as the backdrop for those moments.   I want them to grow up in a house that is ours.   I want to steal back those moments.   I want to give to Evie the moments that Gabbie will never have, and resume with the plan that has been on hold for the girls for the last 2 years 8 months and 3 days.  I want to make plans to buy a house like we had planned to do when we had Gabbie. The thought brings tears to my eyes that roll gently down my cheek.

As I say that though, as I think about making a true plan to buy a house, I have terrible anxiety. Time is a ninja: a dangerous threatening shadow that steals away dreams and moments and life. My inner defenses say that if I make plans I'm setting myself up for heartache, disappointment, pain. But life cannot stop for fear of something that is always there. Time may be a ninja but often it just stands silently in the recesses of the moment and observes. I cannot always fear it.

My heart is in my throat.  Let's proceed with the plan, ninja be damned.

Marching on.

I have things to do and instead I'm blogging. Christmas is just around the corner. I didn't cry this year setting up the tree, or shopping for gifts. It makes me melancholy to think that I'm handling the grief better.

33

I was right. School started and it's been a collection of days which progress to weeks which smush to months.  I am an automaton going about my day. Each day preparing for the next. My mornings set me up to prepare for the day: Shower, get dressed, do makeup, do hair, brush teeth, get G dressed, prep the coffee, get breakfast, load car, wake Evie, put her in her seat, drive to the babysitter's and then to work to start my job. Throughout the day I teach, prep lessons for the next day, leave work, get the girls, make dinner, make lunch, lay out clothes for next day, go to bed. In the routine are moments when I get to sit for a minute if I'm lucky to pretend time is not marching onward and enjoy the girls. For just a minute. Maybe two. If I want more time to cuddle, to play, to just hold them something else must suffer. Sleep? Prep? Dinner?  I was right time is marching on and I am spending it just getting through each day and I'm losing my battle against it.

I went to the Walk to Remember on Sunday. I brought Gabbie's flag project. I watched the 57 flags fluttering in the breeze. I cannot believe that my first year I had 33 the day before the walk and now there's 57.  It's my third year there.  Some day it will be my 33 Walk if still they do it and I will still go.  It has been 2 and half years of time passing by without her. So much of that time seems missing somehow. Now I have Evie and time keeps marching and she's 5 months old. She smiles, giggles, rolls over, cuddles, blows raspberries, and kisses. But while I'm working on trying to balance life and raising three girls I sometimes feel like I'm somehow missing out on them. I'm so caught up in trying to be prepared and to remember things that I'm losing the time I have right now. Evie is my last and holding her, especially at night it's almost like the time I have with her is tangible.  S sits in the front seat of the car now, she's 11 and big.  I can see her starting to mature. He wishes for things like trying Starbucks or owning a Northface are real and telling; she's becoming less of a little girl and more of a young woman.  G and I had to have a discussion about strangers because in her innocence she thought that if a stranger told her they were taking her to me she should go with them.  She knows now that she should run and scream.  It's things like that that make me realize the world forces us to steal their innocence.  And time required them to know things, to grow up before I wish they had to.  Time is stealing my babies away.  Or perhaps I've only just been lent them, they were never really mine.  The thought makes me sad.  

But I digress. I went to the Walk by myself, I'm perfectly ok with that.  I do not expect nor wish for company, not even D. We grieve differently and simply put, that is perfectly ok.  I do not get to celebrate her birthdays or her milestones, and her flag project is important to me, so I went. One woman waited by Gabbie's sign to hug me and thank me for the project and the page on FB. It humbled me. We talked for a few minutes. After she left I stood there by her sign by myself and cried quietly. I miss my angel's face so much. I cannot even picture who she'd be today. I wish I could. A woman touched my shoulder and asked to give me a hug. She wrapped her arms around me and told me Gabbie was right beside her angels in heaven. I have no words.  Friends of mine I met in a support group walked by and stopped to hug me too and take pictures of me at her sign.  The goodness in hearts is astounding. I was never actually alone. When I was looking at the flags the photographer mentioned how beautiful they were. I told him the project was mine and he commended me in it's beauty. Again I had no words. 

There is so much I want to say, to her, to the girls, to people but there are no words. I do not miss her less. I miss her all the same, still to the deepest parts of me. It doesn't hurt less it just hurts differently. I will always count her in my kids when people ask me how many I have. I will always explain I have 4 beautiful girls. When they ask me how old they are I'll tell them the ages of my earthly beauties and that my angel in heaven would be 2, and someday 3 and someday 33. 

I will continue to collect flags. I will bring them to the remembrance days even if going to the Walk made me sad. Someday maybe I won't cry. And if not, well then I'll cry every year and be ok with it. But the flags give people peace. They make me proud to be her mama. They make me humbled by other's love and sadness and gratitude. And if collecting the flags and displaying them as often as possible raises awareness about pregnancy and infant loss to just one person then it's one more person that will talk a bit more kindly, hug a grieving person longer, and live a little more in the knowledge that not all babies come home from the hospital and it's okay to say their name. 

I know she can see what we have done together. I know she watched the flags on the wind sending the prayers to other angels. I hope she is as proud of me as I am to be her mama. I am the mother of an angel and 3 beautiful flesh and blood girls. And no matter how time falls away, passes by, or matches on, to my very last breath I will make sure that they know how much I love them and am so proud to be their mama. 

holding on

Evie is home, and safe, and beautiful, and smart.  She was born with her cord wrapped around her neck, and not breathing but she's here and okay.

She's starting to smile now, and giggle.  Her giggle is funny.  It's sort of airy and then when something is really funny it cracks a high pitched hiccup sound that surprises her and makes her stop laughing.  She grabs on now and cuddles up.  I hold her.  A lot.  I put her down too.  But I hold her.  A lot.  My favorite time is in the darkness.  She cries for me and then eats.  After her bottle she get so tired that she fusses quietly some. Her little arms and legs move and she pouts her bottom lip big.  Rocking back and forth, the chair silent in the night I hum to her the song from "Three men and a baby".

Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight

Her little face always turns toward me in the darkness, her eyes glossy and sparkling.  She stops fussing and her body softly relaxes and her eyes get heavy.  Sometimes I hold her after she's fallen back to sleep even though I'm tired because the idea of putting her down is painful.  Sometimes I hold her in the moonlight and cry because somethings are too beautiful to see and have and hold, and until you have something so invaluable, something you've prayed so hard for that your knees have brush burns, you can't possibly understand.  It is so beautiful it hurts your soul.

Depression is a sneaky beast.  Most of the month it lies quietly dormant and sends me images and thoughts of Gabbie and how all this time and love I give to the girls, but especially Evie are moments I'd have had with Gabbie too and I brush them aside.  But realistically, and D reminds me on occasion, we probably wouldn't have Evie if Gabbie had stayed.  How ridiculously unfair that one should be swapped for the other.  During the month being busy with Evie and the girls I can put the thoughts away.  However I've noticed that I don't often look forward to things, in fact I can't remember the last time I've looked forward to anything.  My temper is often short.  I find myself being snippy with the girls.  The sad thing is I hear them mimic me sometimes to each other.  I don't like it.  The worst of it is the anxiety.  I cannot ride as a passenger in a car.  I can't breathe.  I see pictures in my head, flashes of accidents.  Those flashes flip on at home too.  I see the girls tripping, or falling down the stairs.  I warn then to be careful, to hold on to the railing, to hold hands in parking lots, and then when they do get hurt I get annoyed because they didn't listen to me.  I don't care for this quick-to-snap self.  Then pms makes the sadness so much harder to handle.  I am weepy and volatile.  My emotions are all over the place and the dreams are evil.   My doctor is pretty sure that, although I can usually control the sadness, the anxiety is part of PPD.

This month not only am I getting my period but I'm returning to work.  I'm not nervous about where the baby will be during the day, her babysitter is fantastic.  I'm just sad that I have to leave her at all.  I want to keep holding on to her, to not let go. What if school does what school always does and marks the year by the humdrum passing of each month?  Before I know it she'll be a year and my littlest and last will be big.  I need to hold on tighter.

New beginnings

Tomorrow D has his procedure.  And our ability to have babies ends.  I'm sad.  What makes it worse is it is also the same day that my cycle ends.  I look at Evie and know she is my last, that the rainbow after my storm really is it.  I know my body can't handle anymore pregnancies, and to even think about more would actually be cruel to me, to my girls, and to D but I'm stubborn and proud and don't like to think that I won't make anything so beautiful again.

That being said, I can't get enough of Evie.  I don't mind the feedings, the late night hours, I love the one on one time with her.  And time is so fleeting.  She's only 2 months but so big.  She won't be a baby much longer and I know it isn't fair but my time with her almost has to count for 2 times.  I still feel so robbed.  With the girls, S and G, I didn't know what I had.  I was selfish, and young, and naive.  But with Evie, it's different.  I feel guilty knowing how much I didn't know with my two sweet older girls.  Yes they are precious and now more precious still.  But it is not the same. My naive nature when I had the first two is tragic.  Not having anymore beautiful babies somehow means I can't share what I know with any other babies.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm just a hormonal mess.  I can't have more.  I know this.  I'm sad.  I'm ok with it.  I have to be.  Just like I have to be okay with so many other things.  I guess this picture I found today is even more meaningful...

Perhaps it's time to plan time for me and D.  Of the 5 years we've been married, I've been pregnant for 3.  Maybe it's time to focus on us.  It's time to focus on my girls and making the best use of time I have with them while I still have them everyday, while they still want to spend time with me.  Perhaps it really is time to trust in new beginnings...it doesn't mean I have to be okay with the past, it just means I can look forward to the beginnings and take the rest as they begin: One beautiful day at a time.  I owe myself that much and somehow this picture makes me know Gabbie would agree.  It didn't appear on my newsfeed on FB today by accident.

How dark the darkness

I have not handled this recovery well. I have lacked grace and patience. I am shamed by my attitude. It is easy to say "well look at the beautiful result" and much harder to step outside this body that created her and be at peace with the consequences of her arrival. In the darkness of night with this baby on my shoulder whose name actually means "life" I realized why I've lacked such grace. My most recent comparison for recovery should be no comparison at all, the darkness I was in after Gabbie made everything else pale by comparison. 

Two years ago after the arrival and departure of Gabbie I remember very little about the hospital and the physical pain except the heartache because at that time the grief was a physical heart-skipping-beats kind of agony. I could not tell you who visited us there except for a small few including some family and a friend who also suffered a loss like ours. I had had a c-section with Gabbie also. I don't remember anything about it aside from what happened in the hospital. 

Two weeks after I delivered her beautiful body, we said goodbye officially. I stood for hours at her funeral and hugged and cried with so many. I stood for hours split from hip to hip with deep pink around the mostly unhealed incision, perhaps with my stitches still in. I'd even gone shopping with my sister to get a dress that was appropriate to wear. I did it without thinking about the incision, without thinking about the pain or perhaps even noticing it. This time I couldn't even get out of bed two weeks later much less walk through a store and I definitely couldn't stand for hours wrapping my arms around anything but myself and my own physical pain. I see the me of two years ago in my memory and I realize that the darkness that consumed me then was so complete it made me blind to everything inside me. 

The point of comparison is almost apples to oranges. My heartache washed everything else away. Where as then I struggled to get out of bed because the darkness of grief, like night, was all around me and blinded me to everything else, this time the darkness is only within. I can see the outside. I just can't seem to get there. 

I went to the dentist yesterday. The same one I had gone to just after Gabbie was born. Then the women in the office made a big deal about me having her without ever asking how it went.  I had lied then at the end of the appointment and said she was fine after sitting quiet too weak to set them straight while they told their beautiful stories of their healthy babies. I was emotionally scarred from it. I have not returned in two years and now I probably need a root canal. The dentist scolded me for not taking care of my teeth because he presumed it was out of laziness that I had not returned more often. I did not explain the real reason though I wish I had or could. It was his staff and their sincere naive and blind pleasure in my delivery that made me not return. That is not easy to explain nor understand. And then when I finally was up to going back in I'd been pregnant and couldn't get X-rays to have a thurough check. But I'm there now and that should count for something however people presume too much and now again I don't want to go back because I've been made to feel small. Perhaps this is where I should note.... Doctors, if someone comes to you after an extended absence or even a forever absence seeking help, don't scold them for not coming in sooner, instead be gracious that they are there. You'll only make them wish they never came. 

So my point about the dentist is that when I could have returned to get X-rays between pregnancies the pain of a tooth was so far from my mind that, like the physical pain of a c-section, I could not feel it in the darkness just after Gabbie. It is another example of the strength of grief. Now I see and feel enough to at least attempt to take care of me physically. That is a stride, it is evidence in the stages of healing my heart. 

But now, two years removed from that pain that I could not feel, it is the most recent point of comparison. The only thing I remember about then was the self loathing at the perceived reason for losing her: my own body. My body created the water that allowed her room to move. My body did not tell me she was leaving. I was not aware she needed saving nor was I mentally aware enough to do the things that might have saved her. And yes I'm back to this...  I still have levels of that self loathing for a body I feel failed her and me.  I am more accepting of the fact that I had no control but acceptance is not forgiveness.  A part of me had hoped, I think, that this c-section would redeem my faith in my own body, that somehow this recovery would make up for the things my heart (not my rational mind) perceives as fatal flaws. But I've again been disappointed. My body is falling terribly short of whatever standard I had unwittingly and unfairly set for myself. I am again disappointed by my physical capabilities or lack thereof. I am struggling through a recovery that is more "there", more harsh, more complicated than the most recent comparison. It is as though now I am hurting enough for two surgeries because I never physically felt the last one. And I feel I am not handling it well and I am now ashamed that I have handled it all with such a lack of grace. 

In all the world I am my own worst critic. I have so little control over what my body does. I'm a soul inside a vessel set to sea; sometimes I can steer it and other times I have to go where the tide takes me. What I do have is my reaction to it and I have even fallen sadly short of the standard I've been striving for. I'm trying to redirect the thoughts of disappointment in myself and my experience to something more positive and self affirming. It's is not easy but I risk the darkness in me becoming darker if I don't. I have good qualities. I need to focus on them more. At least now I have stepped from the darkness enough to know I need to find better ways to take care of, love, and forgive myself for whatever wrongs against my soul I have imagined. 

I should be

I'm not sure why I'm here today.

I feel as though I'm waiting today.  Or maybe sad.  Or tired (always tired even when I get decent sleep.  I mean she slept 6 straight hours the other night twice in a row but still I was so tired when the sun rose). Or maybe I'm troubled.  Pregnancy hormones attempting to return to normal leave a sort of deep emptiness.  I have her, my Evie, and she's healthy, and ok, and I'm thankful.  But somehow I'm still sad.  And anxious and short tempered. I can't explain why.  I know that I should be happy.  I have a beautiful family and a healthy little girl to hold.  Yet I look at her sometimes and cry.  She doesn't fuss and only cries when she's hungry or wants to cuddle.  She's easy. And beautiful. And healthy. So why am I sad?  Why am I waiting as if for something to happen?  Why do I have anxiety about things happening?  I'm afraid to put her to bed in her crib--- what if I don't hear her?  Or what if she leaves me in her sleep?  I'm afraid to leave her with a babysitter (even people I trust totally). I'm afraid to take a shower while Evie sleeps and G watches TV, I think of things that could happen while I'm in there (from one of them choking to a stranger coming in the front door and taking them) though I know most of the scenarios are so unrealistic, but what if? I find my patience to be much shorter.  Two times of saying something, anything, is one times too many and I get irritated.  I can hear how quick I am to be snippy but it's always too late to take back the harsh retort.  It's not all day nor all the time but it's often. 

I just feel off.  Off and sad and anxious and tired.  And I see all the things I missed with Gabbie and I feel robbed. I should be okay with that for now I know what I have. Shouldn't I be?  But I'm not okay with that. At all. What's wrong with me?  I feel like a zombie just going about the business of living; it's a business of breathing, eating, sleeping, and hopefully taking care of my family existence with a smattering of life mixed in. But I cannot remember the last time I really (and I mean really) looked forward to something with excitement and child-like anticipation. Nor do I think I even remember how to. 

the finality of never...

We went to the doctors today to have my staples removed.  On the way I asked D what birth control he thought I should go on if she asked.  He said none because he's going to go in and have a vasectomy so I don't have to worry any more.  He said we shouldn't have anymore.  And I'll be honest I don't know if I want anymore either: this pregnancy was so hard and the delivery nearly killed me. I will not take the risk of being lost forever to my girls for a chance to have another baby, or be so selfish as to make D worry like he did the past 9 months and even more the last two weeks. And seriously, the universe has been pretty adamant in its opposition: an angel in heaven because her cord was wrapped, a beautiful baby born who needed a puff of air because her cord was wrapped, the same scenario in both pregnancies with polyhydramnios, terrible pain, the worst recovery I've ever had, loss of half my blood volume, dangerous anemia, transfusion, fear, anxiety.

So I look at Evie and love her so far beyond words, and I look at the girls and feel so much luckier to have them than is describable, and I feel sad to think I'm done, that I'll never make anything as beautiful again.  I eat up my time with Evie holding her and being so needed by her knowing that the time is fleeting, and hanging with the girls is so wonderful. To think that I'll never be able to make another like them makes me sad.  It feels like I'm missing something by making that choice.  But how can I miss something that isn't even there, or thought of, or conceived?  And then I wonder if the sadness and "missing out on something" mentality is derived from the fact that what I'm missing is not what could be here but what never will be here.

It is not, nor will it ever be that I am not thankful for the blessings I do have.  I will never take them for granted.  Ever. It is more that now, that we're talking forever, it is a finality:  I will never make another beautiful baby, they are my greatest achievement, pride, honor, blessings, and love. And perhaps I had thought (though it was not a conscious thought) in some avoided corner of the former me, that having Evie would somehow help me find the same happiness that I lost when Gabbie left; but Evie is not Gabbie.  The happiness I get from Evie is Evie's happiness not Gabbie's.  Evie created a part in my heart that is all hers including happiness and sadness and pride and love.  So that means while I enjoy and revel in the happiness that my girls have been providing and that Evie has just created I am still deeply missing Gabbie forever.  And right now it's so obvious what I missed out on two years ago and am missing out on still.  A sob catches in my throat, the girls are sleeping cuddled up on me for an afternoon nap and the duality of my love for them and the sadness of never being able to share this love with Gabbie or any other baby ever again, now that that we're really talking about being done forever is.... heavy, like flying with the lightest and loveliest wings and carrying a ballast of the most tragically beautiful and heaviest sadness that I just will not put down.

I know that I cannot, should not ever even consider having another.  I just have to get used to the idea.  Change in all forms is so complicated.

Homecoming

The night before we went into the hospital D was woken from a sound sleep by a voice calling "Daddy."  When he got out of bed and went to check the girls they were sound asleep and so his nerves were put in edge. When we woke up and the baby inside was not moving as much as expected, the nerves from the night had him prodding me perhaps more than he would have to just go to the hospital just to be sure instead of waiting until lunch. He didn't tell me this until the doctor had already said we were staying. Thank goodness we went in. For all the complications with the delivery and then after I just don't know.... And can't think about it, I'm so thankful for little voices that whisper something's wrong.

And as it turns out I had to get a blood transfusion.  I'd lost half of my blood volume during labor. My blood volume after my c-section was a 7.5 or so.  By the next morning it had fallen to 5.9, which is dangerously low.  I had terrible time breathing and staying awake.  I was dizzy when I sat up and had a pounding sound in my ears.  My complexion had an awful white pallid appearance, even my lips had no color. Sometimes choices are made for us without us really having any opinion in it.  So I spent 6 hours on Thursday getting a blood transfusion from a donor.  

By Thursday afternoon I had more color, more energy and the room stopped spinning. By Friday morning the pounding in my ears was gone, my chest didn't hurt to breathe in the smallest gasps of breath, and I wanted to go home. The doctors however were not consenting and now Evie was starting to look yellow with jaundice and her bilirubin levels had risen some. 

By Saturday, today, I was ready to leave with strict orders to start piling on the foods rich in iron and to "do nothing" for at least 2 weeks. Evie has been released to go home but a nurse has to visit our house in the morning to check her levels again and she already has a doctor appointment for Monday morning. 

After we signed the discharge papers for Evie I cried. She really was coming home with us. A butterfly flew up to my hospital window and fluttered across the window pane and off again. She'll forever have an angel. In my wheelchair chariot out of the hospital with Evie in her car seat on my lap I cried again. The combination of happiness at the reality of bringing Evie home and memory of leaving Gabraella behind there is something that cannot be given words. How can such extremes of relief, happiness, anxiety, anticipation, sadness, and thankfulness be present in a heart at the same time?

Sitting in our recliners at home with her in front of us sleeping peacefully the relief caught both of us, and the anxiety we had from this week ran for just the briefest of moments down both our cheeks. Nothing about any of the last 2 years has been easy. I'd go anywhere and do anything with him.  

I do want to mention that the care and kindness of the nurses at Sisters Hospital was absolutely beyond any standards I had previously set.