Whereas I am vexed by forehead microphones

It took a Herculean effort, but last night, I left the house. Hub-D took over bedtime for The Chebs and I hurtled into the city to see a SHOW with Stella!

We went to see "Legally Blonde" -- the musical that's previewing in San Francisco before it goes to Broadway. I had scored front row seats completely by accident and we LOVED IT. There were dozens of young people LEAPING AROUND and singing IN TUNE.

For a woman who has spent the last year in Gymboree classes, seeing a Broadway musical is a mind-blowing experience, and we both enjoyed every last minute of the show. Because of my motherhood mind-wipe, I'd forgotten most of the plot of the movie, so I loved watching the events unfold.

However, we found ourselves driven to distraction by one new Broadway innovation, which were the itty bitty microphones jutting out of every actor's forehead.

From our front-row vantage point, we were forced to cope with the sight of tiny microphones on everyone's head. And I'd find myself VEXED when I couldn't, at first, see an actor's forehead microphone. Everyone had one, but some were more subtle than others. The lead actress's microphone was cleverly embedded within her blonde locks, but I found the little devil, you bet I did. (Note: the image to the right is not from "Legally Blonde," but it's the only picture I could find of forehead microphones.)

During the first second of intermission, we turned to each other to discuss the forehead microphones. Is there no other alternative? Does the CIA have something they can lend Broadway performers, so they don't have strange little Indian-looking dots in the middle of their foreheads?

Despite the vexation, we were absolutely entertained, and I have the main theme (called "Omigod") lodged in my head. What a NICE BREAK from the rigors of sippy cups and grief!

Butter

There is nothing that can't be solved by butter.

When we were growing up, my sister and I joked that my mom solved EVERYTHING with butter. It began with burns: "Put some butter on it," and in our minds it progressed to everything including open heart surgery or broken limbs. If the medical community would just employ more BUTTER then we'd be a heartier race, that's for sure.

And it seems that Mom may have been right.

See, Chebbles had been on something of a hunger strike for the past week. Over a week, she had eaten a total of 8 tomato chunks, 10 peas, 15 lentils, 25 raisins, and one bite of most things served to her. Then she'd spill some juice onto her tray and create a work of art from all of the "food" she'd been offered.

Yesterday, my friend L. recommended butter. She said that by simply dousing things in butter, I could con my child into eating. Could it be that easy?

Yes it is that easy.

Last night she ate a plate of spaghetti, a bunch of edamame and corn, and a lot of tomatoes (a la butter). And this morning? For the first time, she ate eggs. She ate TWO eggs, because I'd scrambled them with a pound of cheese and a stick of butter.

And her eczema has cleared up. Was it the butter? Probably! And she finally cut that tooth that's been bothering her on her lower gum. Does the credit go to butter? Hell, yeah.

Now she's peacefully napping in the next room, dreaming of creamy dairy products while I'm wondering how my RE might feel about an aggressive butter treatment of some kind.

Giving myself the creeps

One interesting side effect of miscarriage is the absolute certainty one has that everything else will go wrong.

Hub-D and I had a delightful dinner together at our home, after which he left in the car, in the rain, to meet a friend. The phone rang about 20 minutes after he left, and I just knew that it was the state police calling to tell me that I was a widow.

Just now, Nanny D put Chebbles in her car for an adventurous outing, and as I waved goodbye to my little girl, and she waved back, I thought, "Well, that's the last time I'll see her alive."

Welcome to a dark little world called "The Worst Possible Eventuality is Unavoidable."

I know it's not rational, and that's the only thing that keeps me from tearing after Nanny D's car, pulling Chebbles out of her seat and screaming, "Get away from my BABY!"

As I understand from my reading, it's typical of miscarriage grief -- the thing you dread comes true -- what's to stop everything else you dread from coming true?

Well, odds are none of these things will happen. My husband returned alive and happy from his jaunt that evening. My child is most likely sitting in a shopping cart, purchasing her new potty (!) with Nanny D. And it's just possible that everyone will keep loving me, despite my creepy attitude.

Sunday Shout Out

Chebbles and I wanted to do a quick Sunday Shout Out.

Her new favorite word is "happy." She walks around the house singing an amalgamation of "Happy Birthday," "If You're Happy and You Know It" and "Happy Happy Swim Day," which is sung at her swimming lessons.

Yesterday, Hub-D and I took Chebbles to a place called Studio Grow in Berkeley. I've linked to it to show you Chebbles' FAVORITE photo in the whole world. When she spotted that photo of the boy underneath the crate, she just went WILD! Yesterday, when she was weeping over something, I loaded up this website and she started laughing and saying "Boo!" to the boy in the photo.

Anyway, the three of us went, and Chebbles had a great time drawing and playing with balls and plastic horses and a play stove, and Hub-D had a great time goofing off with her. And I? Well, I don't count. I sat in the corner rocking back and forth and trying not to cry because I felt so overwhelmed and sad about my miscarriage.

But nevermind that. It's a great place for kids, and I'm looking forward to going back on a day in which I'm not angry and sad at the whole world and feeling phantom pains all over my body.

In other news, Hub-D and I are going on a ROMANTIC RETREAT. This is the first thing we've done since Chebbles was born. Our first overnight retreat was an unmitigated disaster, as we had to hire a Town Car to take us home at 1:00am because the babysitter couldn't get her to stop crying. But hope springs eternal! And so does Grandma, who is flying in to coddle our child so that we may coddle one another in the wine country for a couple of days.

Here's hoping that wine tasting in the vineyards of Sonoma won't be as traumatizing as Studio Grow. But just in case, I'll have to bring that photo of the boy under the crate. Boo!

How am I?

People don't seem to know what a miscarriage IS. Is it a death? Was it a child? Is it just a late period with a lot of cramps? What the hell is it?

For me, it's been a big, fat, horrible death. But no one wants to talk about it. I was just as bad before I had my miscarriages. I would drop the subject as soon as I could because it made me feel so squirmy and uncomfortable... "Yeesh!" I would think to myself, "This woman started bleeding one day and lost her baby. Let's talk about ANYTHING else."

Well I still need help, and I still need everyone to ask how I'm feeling, and I want everyone to remember my baby who died. I don't want him/her to turn into a dropped conversation topic. This event will make me sad for the rest of my life.

I have a friend who lost a baby at 27 weeks, and for the first time, I'm asking her a million questions about her baby who died. I was surprised to learn how much she LOVES talking about that baby.

See, what I've learned is that the mourning for an unborn child never stops, and it only festers and becomes more painful when it seems like the rest of the world has forgotten your child.

Tonight, Hub-D came home to find me crying on the front porch. A friend had cancelled a get-together and I'd taken it very hard, weeping and feeling like a reject. Specifically, I feel like a reject who ALSO can't maintain a pregnancy.

"I feel like everyone else has moved on," I told him, "But I'm not ready."

He let me cry without telling me that ladies with trampolines can't be sad.

"Everyone says, 'Call me whenever you want to talk -- day or night -- call me.'"

"It would feel a lot better if they just called me," I said to him. "I feel stupid just randomly calling people up and saying, 'I feel sad now.'"

I can't explain why I feel so hurt and sad right now, I just do. I'm really, really sad that my child-to-be passed away inside my body and was surgically removed after it decomposed and showed up as a fuzzy mass on the ultrasound instead of the solid little heart-beating-body it had been at seven weeks.

I'm just now remembering additional details surrounding my miscarriage, details such as how my doctor sped out of the room right after telling me the baby had died. She said there was an emergency at the hospital and she was sorry the baby had died, but "Goodbye."

I'm just now finding the clothes I wore to the D&C and the balled up Kleenexes in all of the pockets.

I'm just now realizing that everything has changed, and all my plans are different, and I don't know where my tampons are because I haven't needed them since October. I get at least two new medical bills every day, and Chebbles has started pointing out every stroller she sees, calling out, "Baby!"

So the sadness is fresh, and refreshed every day. And I am healing, and I am getting better, but it's not over. It will never be over, and I will never, ever be tired of people asking me how I am.

Love

Goodwill rejected Chebbles' infant car seat, and it seemed like a shame for it to go to waste, so a local charity who connected me directly with a woman who needed it.

I nervously called the number they gave me for T., and when she answered, I just kind of blurted out, "Heh heh do you need a car seat? Because I have one for you. Heh heh."

T. is pregnant with twins, and she's on bedrest at the hospital. Bills are adding up, and she and her husband were so grateful to accept our barely-used Consumer-Reports-Blessed infant car seat (Chebbles outgrew it by seven weeks, the little sprout).

T. and I talked for a little while, and I even inserted the information that I'd lost a pregnancy recently. I wanted to let her know why I went to such lengths to track down someone to help, and she was really sweet, especially for a woman who is eight months pregnant and on bedrest. That's 100% license to be a bee-atch in my book.

Her husband picked up the seat today, and when she called to thank me again, she told me that her due date was in a month.

Exactly the date that my first miscarried baby was due.

So instead of my own little baby riding home in that car seat, T.'s baby will get a plush ride.

She's struggling with her pregnancy, trying to keep the babies in as long as possible.

"I just want to make it to Valentine's Day," she said.

I love her.

Swingset lust

Oh boy do I want this swingset.

My last, tragic pregnancy was so brutal, I was lonely like a whistling cave. I couldn't really leave the house, and when I did, I was so VOMITOUS the entire time that I was a terrible companion. I alternated between lying down on my friend's couches, smearing my unwashed hair, old clothes and B.O. all over the place, and/or rifling through their kitchens for just one specific THING that I had to eat at that exact moment.

So I didn't get invited many places, and while I knelt, puking, in our master bathroom, which the previous owner decorated as though he were on "Extreme Makeover: 1980's Bathroom Edition," I just wept from the emptiness of everything. I couldn't play with my daughter or joke around with my husband -- I was so paralyzed by a combination of illness and terror that life was no fun.

Enter the magical swingset of destiny. See, I believe that if our family constructs the most badass swingset in the East Bay, people will come and visit ME, even if I'm a total barfing jerk. Oh, and I believe I may have mentioned the TRAMPOLINE we might get as well. If we have swings, a slide, a trampoline and that little upstairs/downstairs clubhouse rocking in our backyard -- then we will become a MAGNET for all manner of guests.

You might say, "Why not construct a well-stocked wet bar and/or home theater to attract people?" Because I need people with friggin' KIDS to come over. During that pregnancy, Chebbles truly was my Flower in the Attic, trapped with me, her ill and pissy mother, day in and day out. But if we can lure people with children to come over, then I can manufacture a social life for my sweet child, and pretend that she'll forgive me for withholding all maternal attention and affection for another period of time.

I mean, there's a friggin' SLIDE! Right?

Feeling funny

I'm due to get the pathology report from my D&C very soon (horror), so I'm trying to lighten the mood around here.

Two things:

First, my dad just e-mailed me and my sister to ask if we wanted some sleeping bag that has lurked in his basement for at least three decades. The answer is no, not because it's old but because of the deep truth of this joke:

"How many Unitarians does it take to screw in a light bulb?"
"None, silly! Unitarians screw in sleeping bags!"

Anyone who grew up Unitarian just nods solemnly at that joke. And certainly refuses used sleeping bags.


Second, many years ago, my old boyfriend was eating a cup of yogurt, when he suddenly stood up and said, "You know what I hate??? The ass part of me!"

"The ass part of you?"

"Why do they DO that to yogurt?"

"Do you mean 'asp-ar-tame,' the artifical sweetener?"

"Yeah, ass part of me! I hate that stuff."

Just sayin' is all

Stan: "Damn you people. DAMN YOU. I tell you I want Friskies in a friggin' CAN -- Seafood Mix, Whitefish, Tuna -- I'm not picky, but what do you do? You run out of it. Nice planning. Way to be cheapwads. I've got THREE LEGS, what am I supposed to do, hop to the store? When a guy wants his Friskies in a can, he oughta be able to get it. That's all I'm sayin'."

Me: I'm trying not to offended by all of the adoption advertisements that keep showing up on my blog. It's like Blogspot's polite way of saying, "Ma'am, would it not be easier if you simply pursued 'LOW-COST ADOPTION IN LOS ANGELES?' Instead of harrassing all of these nice people with tales of your uterus? That's all we're sayin'."

The Chebs: She'd rather not have someone screw with a car when she's enjoying driving it. I mean, if a gal wants to go from point A to point B, and has her navigation under control, she doesn't need some INTERLOPER to come traipsing by and start pushing the car. That's all she's sayin'.

Chebbles + Pens TLA

At first, Chebbles contented herself with crayons on a big white drawing pad.

But recently she discovered PENS, and how much cooler they are than crayons. If she had her way, she'd have a big roll of markers and pens in each hand, ready to draw at the slightest provocation, like a portrait artist on the streets of Paris, always prepared to create her art and please the masses.

She's also discovered that if she bolts into my unguarded office, she can stand on my printer and reach directly into my bin of pens. Collected over decades, the pen bin is filled with every variety of writing utensil: pens with little streetcars inside them that go back and forth, giant highlighters worn down from long ago studying, and dozens of cheap printed pens amassed from hotels around the U.S. It is Chebbles Shangri-La.

She's unsubtle about her thievery, shouting out, "PEN!" and "DRAW!" throughout the caper. But it's just not worth it to stop the crime-in-progress. Why? Really, it's not worth the indignant yelling (on either of our parts), and if I supervise the pen usage, the damage isn't too bad. And after an hour or so, she'll momentarily forget (not unlike Rudy of the first season of "Survivor," who just forgot for one split second to keep his hand on the million dollar post) and the pens will drop from her hand, at which time a shifty Mama can reclaim them.

And while she's in possession of the pens, it can be really cute. This morning, I was able to snap her pen usage (image above). She had snatched a red pen from my office and then dashed to Hub-D's office, where she found a business card and promptly decorated it. She thoughtfully kept her art to that specific business card, dolling it up with fun red slashes.

So that's the Chebs, our artiste de PEN. And as annoying as this habit has become, I've got to admire her pluck and passion for the pen.

Five minute follow-up

The mac-n-cheese will be done in five minutes, but after my last morose post, I wanted to clock in.

Things have been much better today. It's really a series of ups and downs. Although that pathology report lurks on the horizon, I am finally feeling physically better. Today is the first day I did not bleed at all -- whew!

Chebbles and I just went shopping for backyard play equipment, and we discovered a truly fantastic TRAMPOLINE that has captured our imaginations.

Even Mimi, Amelia's stuffed Panda, has had a good day. It seems that Brown Bear has agreed to be Mimi's best friend, and the two of them spent much of the day together, enjoying each other's company on Chebbles' lap.

Thank you for your supportive comments -- they mean so much.

OK, back to the mac.

Pity party round-up

Grab some chips and dip. It's time for Mama's post-miscarriage pity party.

* First up, the e-mail I received today: "Thank you for ordering with Early-Pregnancy-Tests.com – the Internet’s leading source for preconception and fertility products." GAWL!!! I thought I could suspend my relationship with Early-Pregnancy-Tests.com, but ALAS, I find myself in its arms once again. Their ovulation tests and pregnancy tests are way cheaper than the ones at the grocery store, and if you're me, you're buying in bulk.

* Second, damn this CAT. Stanley (the three-legged cat whose teeth looked like those of Sloth from "The Goonies" until I paid $500 to have them cleaned last week) STILL WON'T EAT. There is no physical reason for him not to eat. Hub-D won't let me call a pet psychic about this, so I'm out of ideas. I've tried every kind of food created by man. He started at 12 pounds, and over the last two years, he's sunk to 7.5 pounds, and the worst part is how bitchy he is. That cat is a huge bitch, yowling at me as I present food after food option, and he angrily rejects it.

* Third, our wiring. Inspired by our innocent-looking new toaster oven, all of the electricity in our house has gone screwy. Tonight, half of our outlets have lost power PLUS the furnace has lost power. C'mon, gas furnaces shouldn't even NEED power. But whatever. It's cold, but I've got toast.

* Also, my postpartum depression. What's with THIS crap? In the grand scale of what IS or ISN'T fair, postpartum depression after losing a pregnancy falls pretty far on the unfair side of the equation. I was already sad, thanks. Now, I think everyone hates me, plus I think everyone I love is in imminent danger. Glory be.

* Finally, I learned today that I will be able to find out the gender of my deceased unborn child from the pathology report. DO I WANT TO? What am I going to do with that information? It's just going to make me sadder, but now that I know the information is available, I think I want to have it. So, the pathology results may not explain why the baby died, but will tell me with absolute certainty what gender our baby would have been. * SIGH *

Ma

I don't know which pregnancy to blame, but my hair has gone to hell.

A few months after Chebbles was born, a lot of my hair fell out, leading to a constant halo of unruly hair-fringe. Then a lot of my hair fell out after my June pregnancy, then in December, the same thing -- a bunch of hair came raining out around the time the baby died.

All of my emotions aside, I look like friggin' MA from Little House on the Prairie now. You know how she'd have this wistful look as she stood outside the house waiting for Laura to come home from school, and all of her hair would be trying to escape its bun? That's the best way for me to describe the look I'm rocking right now.

I took Chebbles to the grocery store, which was awesome because now I can go to the grocery store without vomiting, and Stanley's preferred "Friskies" canned food was on sale -- but what wasn't awesome was my HAIR. I was totally MA-ing out. As I leaned down to get Chebbles out of her car seat, I caught my reflection in the window, and stopped.

"OH CHEBS!!! I look like MA!" I lamented. "WHO is responsible for these insane WISPS around my head?"

She claimed not to know. So Chebbles and Ma hit Safeway, hair be damned.

Crustaceans and the Super-Secret Infertility Club

We went to a wedding reception at a traditional Chinese restaurant last night.

In the back of the restaurant, there were huge plexiglass tanks filled with crabs and lobsters, called "The Damned" by Hub-D. It made me sad, looking in at their pointy mysterious eyes. They were interacting with each other and staring back at us from their murky water. I contemplated what efforts we might be able to make to save these sea creatures -- I supposed it would take a specially equipped truck, then possibly a plane to return them to their natural habitat -- a return trip that they might not survive. So despite my imaginings, the writing was on the wall for our little crustacean buddies back there.

We were seated in the "White People" section (most of the other guests were Vietnamese), and promptly met a terrific couple with whom we had much in common. But when Hub-D asked if they had kids, the wife said, "No... not yet."

But in that "..." I read volumes. It could very well be my own recent struggles with bringing a baby to term, but I really think they may be in the Super-Secret Infertility Club too. But it's just not spoken of at weddings, or with nice people whom you have just met. I almost piped up and said, "...And I just had my second miscarriage two weeks ago," but I just tamped it down. I've gotten pretty good at tamping it down, as not everyone with whom I interact is prepared to immediately sympathize with me and my dead baby.

But I just kind of felt it from them, that sadness. I never understood the sadness before, nor would I have been able to properly sympathize. But now, I get that "vibe" and I just want to start a support group there on the spot.

And my own sadness was dripping off of my head throughout the evening. I didn't cry, and I ate like a horse (Yum, seaweed!), and we all danced to "Celebrate." But I was freaking sad.

There we were on the dance floor with the happy newlyweds and the crazy strobe light and the balloons, but not so far away were those damned crabs and lobsters, clicking around in their plexiglass tanks.

Post-op

Today I had a terrible post-op visit to the OB. Everything is fine with me physically, it's just that I heard another woman's fetus's heartbeat through the examining room wall.

I blubbered like crazy, having heard that familiar, longed-for "wokka wokka" sound, except NOT from my own belly, but a stranger's. And I started to get very sad. But then I heard a little boy's rollicking laughter. I don't know where it came from, but it lasted for several minutes -- a boy of about 4 years old just laughing his head off at something. It was such a happy sound, impossible to grieve through. I pretended it was my son-to-be, sending me a quick reassurance that someday, some way, he'll join us.

In the meantime, I'll keep fastening and re-fastening that necklace for Chebbles, because it's just so beeeeautiful, isn't it?

Fleeced by the feline dentist

Who gets worked up about their cats' gums? My cats teethe on roof rats, native succulents and my sofa -- why should I spend a minute of my time thinking about their dental health?

Well, because their mouths are cesspools, I learned this morning from their vet, Dr. T., and it's wholly my fault. Not only did she recommend putting Prince and Stanley under general anesthesia for a full dental work-up, but she told me I need to feed them a special dental diet, and -- every week for the rest of their lives -- I should coat their teeth with a special feline dental veneer.

"Let's be realistic, here," I said, "I have a baby and three cats, and I just can't prioritize special veneer applications."

At this point, Dr. T. addressed Prince, who was snuggled in terror in my arms, and said, "Oh, poor Prince, you have to compete with a BABY."

She said "BABY" the same way a San Franciscan might say "REPUBLICAN."

So I handed Prince over to Dr. T. for that full dental work-up. (Stanley, who is much older, and whose teeth do look very much like Sloth from The Goonies, was handed over as well....)

Did I mention that this procedure costs more than $200? PER CAT? And it can be as much as $900 if you consent to purchasing the special "Dental Diet" food and veneer applicator.

Is it me, or does this seem like the BIGGEST SCAM? I mean, can you imagine explaining to a resident of a third-world country that you just spent upwards of $200 so that your cat could have his gums scraped? I can't even imagine explaining it to my husband.

I'm sitting here feeling like an idiot, waiting for Dr. T. to call me and report on the cats' teeth, and the FINAL PRICE TAG thereto.

The only organism that is super-PSYCHED about this situation is Otto, Prince's twin brother, who didn't go to the vet today. He has gingivitis too, but I'll be damned if I'm going to admit it to Dr. T. anytime soon. I'm just going to call him the "control group" and see if the dental cleaning makes any difference.

In the meantime, he's sleeping anywhere he damn well pleases, eating everyone's food and gazing up at us imperiously.

Whereas my RE makes me feel a whole lot better

I encourage anyone who has the slightest excuse to visit an RE to do so. Or at least visit Dr. W., because I left there feeling like Wonder Woman.

Here is what I learned:

* I am not officially a "recurring pregnancy loss" patient because my June pregnancy was so brief as to be categorized as a "biochemical pregnancy." But she's taking my concerns very seriously, testing my blood and body for possible causes, and will stay with me through the 9th week of my next pregnancy, administering weekly ultrasounds to reassure me. Ahhhhhh, that feels good.

* Although we won't know for certain until we receive the genetic testing results on January 22, Dr. W. thinks that the problem wasn't me, but that there was something wrong with the baby. Her theory is based on my age, and the fact that the baby's heart crapped out after 8.5 weeks -- it seems like something like Down's Syndrome to her.

* 50% of Down's Syndrome babies die in utero because they have faulty "hearts and guts."

* Genetic problems like Down's happen when there is an "error in myosis." Dr. W. knitted her fingers together to show Hub-D and my genetic material meeting. Then her pinky kind of wriggled to demonstrate an error in myosis. These errors happen more frequently as we age, but, she emphasized, I should not consider myself to be in the "older mother" category just yet.

* If the miscarriage happened for some reason other than a genetic problem, she would look to three possible causes:

(1) Abnormalities of the uterus. For this reason, we're going to do a histrosonogram 7-10 days after my next period.

(2) Hormonal deficiency. If you don't produce enough progesterone, or you've got a hyperthyroid of some kind, or maybe excessive prolactin (did I mention my MILK CAME IN two days ago?), that can finish off a pregnancy.

(3) Clotting disorders. For this, we have done a blood test already. She's looking for something called "MTHFR." That sounds like something I shouldn't say around the baby. She'll also look for something that might be fighting off the baby inside my bloodstream, which is called a carbolipin antibody:










Dr. W. also told me that she doesn't think the bleeding I experienced in early pregnancy had anything to do with the miscarriage. It wasn't an omen of terrible things to come, but just typical first trimester bleeding. She also told me that I shouldn't have to severely curtail my activities for fear of a miscarriage. There was nothing I could have done to prevent this miscarriage.
"It's not your fault."
"I know..."
"No, listen to me. It's not your fault."
"I know that."
"It's not your fault... It's not your fault"

Then we hugged for a REALLY LONG TIME while I cried and cried. But that part didn't happen except in my imagination, and the movie "Good Will Hunting."

Anyway, she also plopped me down for an ultrasound and praised my ovaries for their excessive vitality. She was digging my follicles, for sure.

Finally, she told me to use a "barrier method" until I get my next period. Apparently when a person's uterus is pissed off by a miscarriage, it is much more likely to miscarry a pregnancy that occurs immediately thereafter. I feel creepy thinking about barrier methods. Let's not continue using that expression.

Anyway, things are looking up around our home. I've had a burst of energy, which I've used to start slowly digging out from under the piles of crap that accumulated while I was sick and barfing, then grieving and bleeding. I'm finding interesting unpaid bills and lots of Halloween decorations that had given up long ago in their hopes of ever being put away.

Oh sad little bats and pumpkins, never you fear. Wonder Woman is here.

RE Visit, part 1

I was SO NERVOUS at my first RE appointment today. I don't know why. It felt like a uterine audition of some kind. The doctor was REALLY NICE and never at any point said, "It's God's way" about my miscarriages.

I forgot my wallet in the waiting room, and left my water in the car, and I felt like telling everyone in the office my whole life story.

But my visit there was fantastic despite my bizarre attack of nerves.

Dr. W. suggested we do an ultrasound to see how things are faring in my nether-regions. I was so HAPPY about this. I'm so into ultrasounds now. YES, let's take a look at my uterus, can we? How is it doing?

I feel like my uterus had this TERRIBLE thing happen to it (I read over Dr. W.'s shoulder when she was looking at my chart, and apparently they used "8mm suction" on my uterus last week, and I lost an estimated 10cc's of blood during the D&C), but no one has really stopped to ask my uterus how IT is feeling. Until Dr. W. got interested, and we peered at it together...

She was ENTHUSED by what she saw. Other than a dark region that could be a fibroid (not causing any trouble, but an interesting landmark nonetheless), and some leftover D&C blood lurking in there, my uterus looks AWESOME. Then she peeked at my ovaries and just went GAGA over them. My ovaries have a lot of follicles, like 7-8 follicles, just hanging around waiting to be ovulated. She was admiring them like little works of art.

So I'm feeling the best I have since the terrible news of our baby dying. I learned more than how positively SEXY my ovaries are, but I must leave now and take Stanley to the vet. Ooh, maybe they'll want to do an ultrasound there too? Sign us up.

Clingy

Tonight is a really hard night, as Hub-D is leaving town for four days starting tomorrow. I didn't realize I was clinging to him as though I were a baby rhesus monkey.

And that James Blunt song came on the radio, containing the lyrics, "And I don't know what to do, 'cause I'll never be with you," etc. etc.

I fear that my continuing morosity will lose me friends. Those that stuck by me in the beginning will tire of me asking why my baby died, will lose interest in my repeated crying jags, and will (understandably) want to hang out with more upbeat people. This goes especially for people who haven't had miscarriages -- before I had my two, I had NO IDEA how much patience and sympathy a person like me needed.

I went about 72 hours, feeling pretty good. Then Hub-D's impending departure (plus that damn song) threw me into a tailspin. I'm going to go to the next room and continue my clinging. It is no exaggeration when I say my muscles are sore from holding onto Chebbles and my husband with such fervor.

Something is wrong with my head*

It's a good sign when I get a headache.

In college, I'd get a huge headache the day after finals. At work, I'd develop a pounding headache as a trade show wrapped up.

Basically, whenever I'm done with a dreaded confrontation, my head hurts like crazy afterward.

I think my brain capillaries get compressed with stress, and once it is over, the blood flows throughout my head again, and it hurts. There is little or no science behind my supposition, but it makes me feel better to think of it that way.

So today I came down with one of the worst headaches EVER. As part of my new, pessimistic "whatever can go wrong, will go wrong because my baby died" way of thinking, I immediately assumed that I was dying of a brain aneurism. I quickly plotted the rest of Chebbles' life, and momentarily wondered how Hub-D was going to handle both the business and the raising of Chebbles on his own.

I took an Advil, which did nothing to dull the pain. But in talking with my friend E., I realized that I am having one of those post-confrontation headaches. It makes sense -- I have confronted the very worst thing that could happen in my pregnancy, I survived, and I'm not stressed out about the pregnancy anymore.

I can pinpoint the beginning of the headache: it began immediately after I faxed the 15-page pre-appointment questionnaire to the Reproductive Endocrinologist today. I stood there in Kinko's, paying for the faxing service (never has such a RACY document passed through that fax machine), and the headache descended. I have passed the torch of my reproductive worries to Dr. W., and I can let my head breathe again.

I also took a leap and gave Nanny D her notice. Soon, Chebbles and I will be free agents. I'm not pregnant, so I don't need childcare, particularly because Chebbles is bizarrely self-sufficient.

So no more nanny. No more embryo. Just the Chebs, me, and this crazy pounding headache.

*Special thanks to loyal reader S. for composing this satisfying sentence, back in elementary school as part of a spelling exercise.

This lady worked SO HARD on her pregnancy. This lady, the day after Christmas, sat at the piano of her father's and stepmother's home in Pittsburgh, thinking that she was still pregnant. She had no evidence otherwise, having thrown up as recently as a few hours before.

She was terrified all of the time. She did not go on walks with her father, which she usually loves to do. She was scared to jostle that baby out of her body, and besides, she was so weak, she wouldn't have made it far. She couldn't really talk or think straight, but just kind of tinkled around on the piano until someone came by and took her picture. She smiled because it seemed like the thing to do, but she wasn't really happy.

This is me, the day after Christmas, and my belly was big and my hopes were up, but I was so damn sick I couldn't really enjoy anything.

And I wish I were still pregnant, that is for sure, but I DON'T MISS THIS LADY. This lady went to Hawaii and just curled up on the condo sofa most of the time. This lady was dry heaving every single day, and was feeling increasingly bitter about her precarious condition. This lady LOVED HER BABY and wanted more than anything to carry it to term. This lady wasn't sure how she was going to conjure the strength to convert her study to a nursery, but she was thumbing through Pottery Barn Kids catalogs and making plans.

But she's gone, this version of me, the pregnant, sick, terrified version of me. Today I am chasing Chebbles around the house with a flapping wooden parrot and she is laughing SO HARD that I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself. I am paying bills and grocery shopping and being NORMAL.

Sure, my version of "normal" now includes a post-op visit to the OB, a trip to an RE, a perinatal grief counselor and the local miscarriage support group. But it doesn't include throwing up. And it DOES include putting on make-up. And flossing without gagging. And crying at the smallest provocation (and strangely not crying at the more obvious provocations).

But I want to tell that pregnant, scared, sick lady that I love her, and I miss her. And life is OK, here on the other side, now that we've lost our baby.

Ford and the dead tree

Two recent events seem well-suited to the grief surrounding my miscarriage.

First, Gerald Ford's funeral. All that glory and ceremony was appropriate -- honoring a president. Ford was very old and had lived an accomplished life -- who am I to compare my 8.5-week-old embryo to him? Well, I was that embryo's MOM. So I pretended the whole funeral was for my dead baby yesterday. The funeral was on CNBC, Chebbles was transfixed by the music and the people, and we watched it together.

Everyone was dutifully solemn in the National Cathedral. Betty Ford looked exactly how I felt: sad and sick. There were so many people in the choir, and it was beautiful. People praised Ford and the handsome pallbearers smoothly lifted the coffin and carried it to an airplane bound for Grand Rapids, Michigan -- his final resting place.

It was really good for me to see a coffin and think about that body flying to the Midwest. It will be hard to dig a good grave in the permafrost of Michigan soil, but many people are working hard to bury this important man.

And that's what I found so gratifying. See, when one's dead baby becomes "evac. tissue," sampled for genetic abnormalities and then incinerated, one likes thinking instead about a flag-draped coffin and people singing and leagues of sad people hanging their heads and saying "Amen." And, in one's imagination, maybe the current President of the United States would take the miscarried mother's arm as she stumbles up the aisle back to her limo, where she can cry her eyes out on the ride home.

The second event relates to my next-door neighbor's tree.

You may remember my divorcing neighbors, B. and V.. B. has already moved out, leaving his wife of 33 years and their son alone. To add insult to an already heartbroken home, the giant tree in their front yard dropped a huge branch directly onto the roof a few nights ago.

We all gawked on their front lawn the next morning. V. and her son came out and told everyone what happened -- the gutter is askew now and there are holes in the roof. So V. learned this week that not only is her marriage disintigrating, but the massive tree in front of their home is rotten throughout. It was a beautiful tree, but old, and weighed down by bundles of mistletoe.

And today? The 70-foot tree is being removed. It's a whole-day affair. A dozen men with chain saws and ropes and spiky shoes are climbing the tree and cutting the branches off one by one. The branches and logs of the rotted old tree are being fed into a mulcher as they are cut down. It's LOUD, and it's visually dramatic as the sun beams into V.'s yard as it hasn't for 50 years. There is sawdust and sap and mistletoe and chaos everythere.

I consider it a big, public TREE D&C. They are dilitating and curetting the branches, the trunk, the bark and the roots. And tomorrow, everyone will be gone, the yard will begin its recovery, and I know precisely how it feels.

Weak

I wanted to post, to let everyone know I'm still alive. But I'm very crampy today, and all that bleeding that I thought I'd been spared? Ha ha ha. It's here.

I'm going to nap now while Chebbles is napping. Never have I been so physiologically and emotionally drained.

I've also scheduled an appointment with an RE for next Monday. I envision this woman as a potential hero, someone to save me from the clutches of Multiple-Miscarriage-Mania. There is a certain comfort in filling out the fourteen pages of intake forms for her office.

If I somehow submit enough quality paperwork, I will be rewarded with a full-term pregnancy, yes?

"A Small, Good Thing"

I've been thinking about that traumatizing Raymond Carver short story, "A Small, Good Thing." The premise of the story is that within the deepest recesses of grief, something as simple as bread, fresh from the oven, can be a comfort. I feel compelled to mention that Hub-D and I have a small, good thing of our own.

But before I describe that, I have three things to get off my chest:

(1) My belly is, for some reason, BIGGER today. I allowed myself about five seconds of pretending I'm still pregnant before I went back to wishing for more cramps, for a shrinking uterus and to wear my own jeans for cripe's sake. At least I can start wearing normal clothes if I'm not going to be pregnant, right? But it's still big and swollen. It pisses me off, because my body was so READY to hold a child to term. It was soft and warm and luxurious in there, and remains so. But the occupant has left.

(2) There is a Phil Collins song called "Can't Stop Loving You," which came on the radio today. FIRST OF ALL, a grieving miscarried mother should NOT listen to ANY popular songs on the radio, but Chebbles turned it on, NOT ME. So anyway, if you substitute "D&C" for "morning train," you pretty much have the "missed abortion" experience in a nutshell in that song.

(3) I had another fantastic day with Chebbles, which makes me fall on my knees and thank GOD for His graciousness in granting me a healthy child before these horrid miscarriages. If You read this blog, Lord, I want to reiterate how grateful I am that Chebbles is so healthy and hilarious. I was trying to feel sorry for myself, moping in the hammock in the backyard, but she came up behind me and started pushing the hammock to and fro. Weeee, Mama, weeeeeee.

OK, now for our "small, good thing:"

When we travel with Chebbles, we have a car seat we install on the plane. In order to transport the car seat through airports, we have purchased this handy little device that attaches to the back of the car seat, and essentially turns it into a backwards stroller. Chebbles LOVES her convertible car seat, and pushing it around tires her out before we fly.

On Wednesday, when we flew back from Pittsburgh (before we learned our baby was dead), I lamented that we lost one of the unique little screws that goes into the back of the car seat device. (It's called a Gogo Kidz Travelmate.)

As we made our way through various airports, I hoped that the one remaining screw would hold the device together. In my head, I composed a letter to the "Gogo Babyz" company, begging them to sell us an additional screw so that we might use it more safely in the future.

Upon arriving home, we made our way to our car. Hub-D has a secret parking spot at Oakland Airport, which involves a certain level of off-roading. I stayed close to a rusted chain link fence, despite having to walk in the mud. And that's when I saw it. For no reason whatsoever, there was a "Gogo Kidz Travelmate" screw sitting in the mud.

It couldn't have been ours, as we misplaced the original screw at SFO, not OAK. It is rusty, but it's PERFECT. Why in the world it was sitting there, lodged in the Oakland mud, rusting for months, I don't know. But it fits. I don't have to seek out another screw.

The next day, we saw the Ultrasound of Doom, and everything in our life went into disarray. Flowers and food began arriving at our door, I underwent surgery, we have cried so hard our eyes hurt.

But there on our front counter is the rusty screw. Who knows when our life will come back together again. Not for a long time, that's for sure. But looking at that screw, regarding that bizarre coincidence, I think that it's just possible that eventually, everything may turn out all right.