Maybe I should break my arm again

I have a giant rash on my left shoulder and arm, and I'm pretty sure it's a stress rash from HAVING TO WAIT TO FIND OUT IF I'M PREGNANT.

Have I mentioned I'm not good at waiting?

I'm trying desperately to distract myself, keeping busy every day at work and when I get home, but there isn't one second of the day that my mind isn't flashing an internal neon sign and screaming at me that I don't know if I'm pregnant, I could be pregnant, I might not be pregnant, I have no way of knowing if I'm pregnant, I MUST KNOW RIGHT NOW.

Gray doesn't understand the stress involved. He listed of a dozen other semi-major things we have gong on, and said his mind keeps busy mulling those things over instead, and then I punched him in the gut and told him to suck on his busy mind. Because I mull every one of those things over (except Mortal Kombat) every day, too, and apparently I've got a speedy mental processor, because it's like I wake up in the morning and go,

"Three days until payday *mental list off all the bills we need to pay*, Gray might be starting a second job *mental list of all the money he would make and how I can spend it*, Lily ate two sticks of butter and Scary tried to bite the kitchen island when it snuck up on her...dogs are both still in need of major training *mental list of all the ways I could dismember them and shove their pieces down the garbage disposal*, need to fix the garbage disposal *mental note to google how to fix the garbage disposal*, I start taking summer classes next week *mental list of all the shit I need to buy for school*, have to remember to take my prenatal vitimin *OMFG I MIGHT BE PREGNANT*"

And then it's all over from there. The rest of my waking hours are spent alternating between thoughts about pregnancy, worries about miscarriage, *mental list of acceptable baby names*, cringing about cervical mucus, and wondering if I'm pregnant.

Last night I decided to take one of those "early detection" pregnancy tests that are supposed to work up to five days before your next expected period is due.

Last night was exactly eleven days prior to my next expected period, so I figured my chances of getting an accurate reading were, oh, SO FUCKING GOOD.

Okay, okay, fine. I knew I was wasting a pregnancy test and my time, but was there a tiny little part of me that thought that just ::maybe:: it would come back positive? Maybe just 1% chance?

Yes, I figured there might be a tiny chance, and so during the requisite three minutes waiting for my pee to soak into the stick, I contemplated the best way to disappear into another country to escape all the scientists who would want to study me because I'm the only woman on earth who got an accurate pregnancy result before her body even knew it was pregnant.

It was negative, of course, which leaves me exactly where I was this time yesterday, which is HELL, if you're wondering.

Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking pot. Seems like that would help right about now.

Here, have a squirrel:

We're considering installing a chair lift

Well, we got the green light from our OBGYN to Make! Babies! Promptly!

Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.

Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.

See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.

It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.

In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.

Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.

Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.

Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.

He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.

So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.

When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."

There is no mistaking me for "normal."

I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.

I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".

But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.

So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.

I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.

I'm also scheduled for a fasting cholesterol test. I cannot possibly be old enough for that.

Tomorrow is the Big Day.

Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.

Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.

WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.

I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.

Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.

I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.

Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.

We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.

I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.

I think I am.

And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!

I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.

Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.

I'll just have bigger tits.

Nozema, on the other hand, is in mourning

I stopped taking hormonal birth control in January in preparation for Operation: Damn You Vagina, Swallow, Don't Spit and the skin on my torso, though pasty-white and semi-scarred, certainly has not erupted in the violent display of porous infections known as "truncal acne" that I feared it would.

Therefore it is obvious that my hideous brush with Backne from Hell during the winter of 2008-2009 was definitely due to the miscarriage of baby Gage. At that time, in the MONTHS following the miscarriage, I hypothesized that my mortifying skin condition was a combination of my terrible genes (inherited from my mom) and those very same hormones (laugh! cry! laugh! growl! cry!) which caused the Backne from Hell. My poor torso didn't begin to heal until I started taking birth control again.

This time, I not only quit suppressing my periods (which I've done for a decade, give or take), but went off of the pill entirely, I can assure you that there has been NO lack of emotional bipolarism, and I assume my rapid shifts from raucus laughter to inexplicable weeping is due almost entirely to my crazy-ass hormones that are now free to course through my body without the barrier of ortho-cyclen to block them.

I may be fucking crazy right now, and I may cry with joy if you tell me your morning poop was shaped like a banana, but I can assure you that every zit on my body is visible on my face.

And that's something.

Hormonal

Here we are, finally in the Month of Operation: Put a Baby In Me.

I think my ovaries are swollen just with that knowledge. I literally cannot think of anything else. I'm obsessed with the eagle nest cams and cry every damn time I see the babies. I watched a DisneyNature film about flamingos and nearly bought one on Ebay before the credits were over before deciding a trip to Lake Natron would be more practical.

I'm fashioning a bunting sack in which to carry around Scary like she's a newborn human. I'm ogling community education brochures and debating the benefits of Yoga over walking clubs. I am DREAMING ABOUT DIAPERS.

And also about being eaten by feral ponies, but that's another issue all together.

I'm trying desperately to keep my expectation waaaaay down low because A) Sure, we got knocked up within one cycle last time, but that's not likely to happen again, especially if I am convinced that it will, and 2) WE KIND OF LOST THAT ONE, so let's not fall in love right away, shall we?

Even if we do spawn on the first try (which, for those of you who've been here before, you know "first try" translates to "five day window where sex-having, fluid-drinking, sex-having again, and ass propping on pillows to encourage sperm to stay in me" are the primary activities), there's always the possibility of miscarriage, something we never even considered the first time because that? WOULD NEVER HAPPEN TO US, right?

Ha.

So. In short. I am drinking a lot of booze for the next two weeks. I am eating deli meats and drinking coffee like they're being rationed. Our pre-conception appointment is on the 22nd, and after that I'm going on the wagon.

There will be about a week there for my system to clean itself out before Operation: Baby begins, so in case you're keeping track, so after the 26th, if any of you so much as text Gray to ask him a question about a suspiciously-cancerous growth on your testicles, I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

He's all mine, so don't even fucking try to save him.

And also pray for our spawn because Gray's involvement in the genetic process ensures the child will have no chin, and mine...The Nose.

More of me. Just what the world fucking needs, eh?

So I'm obsessed with making babies.

This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.

Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.

So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.

Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.

We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.

Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.

Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.

I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.

My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!

My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.

I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).

Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.

You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.

I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?

And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.

And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.

The Color Purple. It Sucks.

You have to be fucking kidding me, Universe.

It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.

Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.

Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."

Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.

And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.

WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.

And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.

Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.

False Alarm, Except Alarm Implies "Bad" and This Would Have Been Good. Ish. Right?

Dude, you do not even want to KNOW what I did yesterday.

Sometimes I'm amazed by the level of self-persuasion I'm capable of inflicting when, against all odds, with the chances stacked against me, like, 99.99999%, I still manage to convince myself that maybe...just MAYBE...I might be pregnant.

Ladies, please tell me you know what I'm talking about here! Please tell me I'm not the only one who has purchased an EPT for no other reason (realistically speaking) than because (apparently) I like sticking things into my urine stream for exactly five seconds and then wondering where to set the fucker so it doesn't drip pee all over the floor. (According to the instructions, it must be 5 seconds. NO MORE!! NO LESS!! OR BABY JESUS WILL DIE!)

Mostly this whole "maybe I'm pregnant" thing was so ridiculous because I've been on the pill forever. Not only have I been on the pill, I've also been "suppressing" so I haven't even ovulated (YES. I SAID IT. Get over yourselves men, like "ejaculation" is such a great word) in probably close to a year.

But still. This Chantix shit makes me so incredibly nauseous and gives me a sharp headache every fucking time I take it (once in the morning, once at night). I was expecting the Look Out! She's Got A Gun! kind of side effects, but I didn't read the fine print closely enough to realize I'd be more likely to have to Take A Deep Breath So You Don't Blow! side effect.

And when else do people get nauseous? WHEN THEY'RE PREGNANT. So right there I've got a totally (un)reasonable piece of evidence to prove that maybe I spontaneously conceived via the magical fallopian express, or something.

Plus! Plus! Yesterday, I got...THE HUNGER. I'm not even kidding you, it was back with a vengeance. It was such a deja vu moment that I forgot one of the side effects of not smoking is shoving food into your face hole during every waking moment.

Hello Weight Watchers. Please watch me closely.

I can't even explain what came over me but once I recognized The Hunger feeling in my tummy, there was an explosion of images in my mind. Images of pink, fatty leg bits and big, gummy mouth bits and drooly smiles and ohgodhelpmebabysmellnomnom!

I started rehearsing how I'd tell Gray when he got home from work. How could I make it as awesome as the first time? I didn't even have a "My Daddy Rocks" bib this time, ya'll! Would I skip class to tell him? Veronica & Co. were already headed into the cities for the holiday and would be at the house by the time Gray got home from work. I should tell him before! Definitely before!

I practiced telling my professor why I had to miss class (she was understanding and congratulatory, if you were wondering). I counted the months from my approximation of when I may have conceived and realized we'd be having a summer baby. August, actually. I thought what a perfect month that was to have a new baby.

And that's when I decided I needed to take a pregnancy test. Just to be sure.

So once I'd decided it was kind of, sort of, not really but maybe possible that I could be pregnant, then I started finding other "evidence" to support my theory. Like that we had sex once. And that I missed a couple of days of the pill and didn't start my period.

And BECAUSE I SAID SO.

It was the oddest experience, buying a pregnancy test this time. Last go-round, probably because of all the sex I was having, I felt like the cashier was judging my whoredome and sizing up whether or not I was old enough to be a good mother. This time? It was almost like she rolled her eyes and though, "Girl, puleeeeeze. You ain't pregnant! You be on the pill. Why you be wasting this money? Psh!" Oddly, she was an elderly white woman.

And you know what? She was totally right. I even fucking donated a dollar to juvenile diabetes at the counter thinking maybe that would be a sign of my pregnant-ness. How many people who deprive the kids of a dollar and then go home and piss on a stick and then really regret it? DOZENS, at least.

But no. I wasted that damn dollar on those damn kids, and they're not even mine!! On the up-side, I can get wasted tomorrow without all those pesky developmental side effects.

365

It's been a whole year today.

Wow. Hard to believe.

But it's been a good year, mostly. And Gray and I are going strong, which is more than enough to keep me happy. So even though I still wonder what might have been, I'm also finally okay with what is. And that's really all I could ask for.

But I haven't forgotten.

Need a New Nickname Since "Bitch" No Longer Applies

Tom Cruise, if you're reading this, you might want to close the browser, take another hit of acid, and return to your space ship. Or you may want to jump on my couch. Either way, fuck off.

So last winter was rough on me, mentally speaking. Actually, all Minnesota winters stretch the limits of my sanity, but last winter was singularly terrible and I hit new emotional lows in which, hourly, I counted reasons left to go on, ticked them off on my fingers as a reminder not to just quit, and then when I realized I only needed one hand to count them, that's when I knew it was bad.

No amount of writing, no amount of vitamin D overdoses, no amount of whining or sleeping or hating everything...NOTHING HELPED.

And then I broke my arm, and it was either the flurry of activity (and subsequent inactivity) which kept my mind occupied, or it was the magical happy place that is vicodin that made the anguish more bearable, but by the time Mummy Hand returned to the tomb, I was more or less shaking off the fog that is my seasonal hell. Er, depression.

So everyone made me promise that this year, I'd follow through on my annual pledge to be proactive about my mental health and to get some help before winter gets me. I've made this promise before, every year since I moved to Minnesota, actually (except for that first year when I decided that getting drunk and calling the cops on myself was the best coping mechanism at my disposal)((I blame Obama for that one, and also the fact that I was 18)).

Yesterday was my first counseling appointment with Dr. Crazy (who really should be downgraded to Dr. Golf Socks, but it just doesn't have the same ring to it, huh?) who listened to me describe what I feel are my most troubling symptoms (suicidal thoughts, the desire to etch my name backwards with blood on every available surface while crab-crawling backward and biting heads off rats, the overwhelming urge to try lutefisk - you know, the usual symptoms of depression).

Then he listened to my concerns about what I always thought might be an anxiety disorder that I live with even during the "human" months of the year, and then I filled in the details of my family mental health history (which, when I said it all out loud in a row like that, sounded eerily like an episode of Jerry Springer, and when I mentioned this to him, he did not disagree).

Then I filled out some basic screening forms, and as Dr. Crazy Socks (good compromise, no?) perused the scores of those forms, he tapped his pen on his lips and said, "Hmmmmm," which either meant this was about to turn into a scene from my Taboo Anal Pleasures VVXI video, or he was thinking really, really hard.

And then he sort of surprised me by explaining that he thinks my anxiety isn't the primary concern, but instead is a symptom of what he called "smouldering depression" (dysthymia), something for which he thinks I can probably thank genetics (so the giant nose and the absent adult incisor aren't the only things my mother passed along to me)((remind me to send a thank you card))(((full of spiders))).

During the late winter months, it's likely that I dip down into major depression due to the lack of sunlight and the temperature-induced isolation. But he feels the major concern is something I never realized I had: the low-grade, smouldering depression. The fact that my "normal" isn't normal for other people, it's below normal. Kind of like my I.Q.

He asked me if I could tell him how much of every year do I feel depressed and I honestly couldn't answer because I'd never thought about it in those terms. So instead, he took a piece of paper and drew a line graph: the horizontal line represented time or months of the year, and the vertical line represented moods over that time.

The very top of the graph was "euphoria" and the very bottom was "major depression", and he said that the horizontal line in the middle was what healthy people consider "normal".

IMMEDIATELY, I understood what he had asked originally. Without further explanation from him, I pointed about half an inch below the "normal" line and said, "THAT'S my normal," and he said, "Yes, I think that's true," and so now I realize maybe why I hate everyone all the time. I guess I just figured I was a bitch.

So Dr. Crazy recommends medication to try and get my brain chemistry to realign it's "normal" (I need to find a general practitioner for that) and he also recommends counseling to teach my brain now to stop thinking like a depressed person (I'm seeing him again next Tuesday), and I think by the time winter strikes I'll be better prepared to handle it.

Of course, the lack of dead baby this year should help, but even so: THERE'S A CHANCE I WON'T WANT TO DIE THIS YEAR. Do you know what this means?!

It means I won't lose 4 months of the year to a fog of sleep and pain!
It means this blog might suck a big dick!
It means I'll need to find something new to blame on Obama!

Gray and I have discussed the fact that this winter is our final shot at making a life here in Minnesota. We are living in a house that we LOVE that is near to things we LOVE TO DO and people we LOVE TO SEE (except my Jill who might as well live in Iowa at this point) with jobs that we LOVE TO GO TO. I will be MEDICATED and less likely to drive off a bridge!

THIS? Is our last chance.

If I cannot be happy in Minnesota this winter, we will be making plans to move on, and I'm not sure that I want to do that when I've built so much life here already.

Plus...FUCK. If I have to move Gray's t-shirt collection one.more.time. so help me god I will burn them all, and then he would be left naked, and I don't think I have the heart to do that to you all.

Cannot Be Bothered To Name This Post

Hoo boy, am I ever antsy this week.

I cannot concentrate on ANYTHING, which means my daily commute is both a) dangerous to other drivers and b) exhilarating as hell. So many things going ON! How could I possibly think about ONE AT A TIME!? I'm like a dog in that if you place a piece of bacon on the floor by the chair, and then you place a piece of bacon on the floor by the couch, and then you balance a piece of bacon on the tip of my snout, I will spend the next hour trembling with anticipation, eyes darting between bacon A, B and C, until someone makes a sudden movement and loses a finger.

This week, Bacon A is the two year anniversary for Gray & I. It's not our wedding anniversary, mind you, it's just the anniversary of the day we decided to stop sleeping around. We're walking to our favorite local bar & grill for their summer block party: live music, $2 tacos, cheap beer, patio seating, stumbling home for drunken chutes & ladders - you know, the usual anniversary stuff. It will be magical.

Bacon B is that I'm taking Thursday and Friday off from work. Don't panic, NOBODY DIED. I simply decided that I wanted a little mental health day, and then on Thursday night, Gray & I, my Jill & her hubby are driving to Wisconsin for ROCK THE DOCK IV (insert spring break screaming and boobie flashing: here)!

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Rock the Dock, it's our annual couples weekend on the lake. For those of you who ARE familiar with Rock the Dock, we're still really sorry about the mess and/or promise not to smoke your ferns and/or shave your dog again this year.

Last year, on our first morning of Rock the Dock, I took a pregnancy test. It was the happiest day of my life, and Gray's. Needless to say, things didn't work out so well with that, but while it lasted, I had the glow of all pregnancy glows. Also needless to say, I was the only sober person that weekend. I am looking forward to making up for lost time this year, so if I come back with a tattoo of big bird on my foot? Don't be alarmed. It just means someone brought tequila.

Bacon C? DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME EXPLAIN ROCK THE DOCK?! It's a whole damn slab of pork, all wrapped up into one lake-y ball of contentedness and embarrassment.

Party Central

Gray fishin' with my Jill

Pretend that's better beer I'm holding

Bonfire on the day we found out we were going to be parents

(Notice he's drinking for the both of us)

RTD II, 2007, my victorious Birchwood Idol win, thanks to Shaina Twain and Bonnie Rait

Aww. Wwww.

Me & Chelle, taking it easy on the tube

I cannot WAIT to go again.

due

today would have been my due date, and so today is kind of a landmark for me, us, and bittersweet because although my cast comes off in one hour and i'll finally be able to go running again and dust my filthy apartment and winter is, like, officially over, i'm also melancholly because our second bedroom is still just a storage room and that dusty co-sleeper down in our parking space is still folded up and forgotten and the only nesting you'll find around here is happening out in the trees.

so this song is for you Gage - we wish you were here

It WOULD Mean More Sweat Pants...

So it's been just under six months since my miscarriage, and I feel like I'm back around day 15 somewhere. I realize everyone grieves differently, and it probably takes much longer to get past a lost pregnancy for some people than it does for others - not to imply that the fast-grievers are heartless or less devastated or more stable (although almost everyone beats me in the stability department, even that one guy who was a girl, who had a baby, but as a guy).

Some couples decide that the best thing for them to do is to get pregnant again right away. To me, that option was too much like buying a puppy the day after putting down an old, beloved companion. I needed to pay tribute to our little lost Gage, and acknowledge that he wasn't interchangeable, wasn't replaceable. He wasn't a light bulb we could change just because it burned out.

I got it into my head that I needed to make peace with the possibility of having another miscarriage. Not, like, be expecting one or anything, because we have about an 80% chance of success with our next pregnancy. But I thought I should be "back from the brink", "will make it though no matter what", kind of okay with the possibility.

Some people cope by getting a dog (which I would have done had we lived somewhere that allows them) or a cat (still trying not to do that)((THINK LITTER BOX!!)) or a fish (we got 2) or a motorcycle (FUCK NO).

Some women name their lost baby, or they go to therapy twice a week to cry about their own mothers inability to show affection (can't relate), or they obsess about what may have caused the miscarriage and how to prevent it in the future (totally relate).

Some people start going to church. Some people stop going to church. Some folks throw themselves into their career (I don't have one) or volunteer work (no one wants me, it seems)((plus I'm lazy)). Some couples break up. Lots of them do, actually.

I knew right away it would be at least a year before I would be ready to try for children again, and after the last six months of bouncing around between anger and sadness and acceptance and blinding jealousy and WINTER, I'm beginning to tack additional time onto the original waiting period.

I feel less ready than I did in November, for a LOT of reasons, the least of which that I've realized how long it will take to pay for all of the miscarriage-related medical expenses. Financially, I've taken several steps backwards - fine, I've been dragged by my hair - the savings egg I'd amassed is gone, and my health insurance plan now pays for less and costs more than it did in 2008. I should be BACK TO SQUARE ONE by August, but still - that's about a year behind schedule, and if you know me, you know I'm a schedule whore.

Also, I've thought a lot about my reasons for wanting children, and I'm disturbed to realized that not a single one of them is selfless. No offense to all my readers out there who are parents, but you guys are seriously some selfish bastards, what with your having children for the tax incentives and the beer fetching possibilities, the unconditional love (which, I might add, is NOT a given once your kid is old enough to wipe his own ass)((or realize you're only human)), the personal growth opportunities, the American Dream, the cute Christmas card. You should all be ashamed of yourselves!

But seriously, all my reasons start with "I" or "me", and I'm really not sure how I feel about that. Especially when I think about my own life and some of the massively difficult struggles I've had. I don't know if I'm ready to put the weight of this world onto any one's shoulders just now. I know my own parents started out with the best of shiny, happy intentions, and it must be painful for them sometimes when they consider all my siblings and I have gone through/slash/done to ourselves in our short live spans.

One of the poets last night read three poems she wrote for her three children and their three entirely different and equally horrifying diseases: multiple sclerosis, diabetes, and bipolarity. With my luck, my three kids will each end up with one of these fucked up syndromes. Although the mop-looking thing might help get them a job in the janitorial arts. And even if all my hypothetical children beat the odds and are totally healthy, between their father's invisible chin and their mother's camel nose, it's basically like giving them a handicap on their face.

Or I might die and leave them (ALONE WITH GRAY) without a mother. Gray's father died when he was a teenager and it seriously jacked up his world for a lot of years. Granted, he is who he is today partly because of that loss, but I often wonder how his life would have been different if his dad were still here.

Or I might traumatize my children by dressing them in matching, neon pink Body Glove outfits. Thanks Mom.

I guess what I'm trying to say here, in a really convoluted way, is that I'm starting to question if it's right for Gray and I to have children simply because I want and excuse to eat strained plums and stop taking showers. I'm just not so sure anymore.

Also, There's A New Highrise Down The Block From My Scale

I was feeling pretty good about myself today. I actually got off my lazy ass and headed to the track for a run for the first time since I was sick. Last month.

But what can I say? I was sick! And then I was depressed! And then I was a bit psychotic! I was in NO CONDITION to go running. I was in the condition to lay around and cry. And eat taquitos.


But today...well, I threw on my tennis shoes, dusted off my Ipod (literally), and went to the community center. And when I walked in? I realized exactly just how long I'd been gone: the lobby has been entirely remodeled. There were walls in places that were formerly wall-less. And not just walls, but sheet rocked, painted walls with pretty pictures hanging on them.

It was a little embarrassing having to ask where to find the sign-in book. The lady at the desk was judging my slothful ass, I could tell. But then I realized I didn't care what she thought because she works at the fucking community center. Who is she to judge me?

I don't know how far I ran because I lost count right around lap number "try not to puke", when my vision darkened and the giant green bean asked me if I knew how to read my pulse (is it count my pulse? take my pulse?) But I did run for 50 minutes. And by "ran", I mean walked almost as fast at that lady with the oxygen tank.


I'm hoping the workout will help me fall asleep tonight without having to, you know, cry and stuff. So I'm going to go take a bunch of Tylenol PM and start writing an analysis on "the romantic hero" for my lit class. That's a good snoozer combo, don't you think? (Hopefully the Tylenol also helps my legs not seize up during the night)((which is totally likely since I gave Gray so much shit yesterday about his robo-arms))(((because we already know that Jesus fucking hates me))).


If this works to fight against the blues, I'll be sure to run this weekend. I'll need it. Here's why:

I'm throwing in the towel and going back on the pill in a desperate attempt to get my skin to CLEAR THE FUCK UP because I'm about two days away from showering with my clothes on so I don't have to subject myself to the horror that is my torso. I know the dermatologist told me it might take two months to see a significant improvement, but she also said I should see some improvement after only one month. Right now? It's worse than ever. And I'm going fucking crazy over it.

Gray and I - specifically the "I" portion of that duo - are just not ready to try for another baby. We're still paying the damn hospital bills from the last baby, and (if you hadn't noticed), I'm still kind of a wreck, so I don't think throwing a helpless child into the mix is a great idea at this point, no matter what we want. (Hear that, Octo-mom?) We need more time to get back into that "place", where the thought of getting pregnant is a happy one, not one that scares the piss out of me, so this birth control pill thing won't really throw a wrench in the family plans.

Hopefully it helps. If not? You'll see me on a 20/20 special. I'll be the girl who skinned herself with a vegetable peeler and then sold the shavings on Ebay.

Eleven's End

Jeremy drove, and I rolled down my window to feel the breeze slide like silk over my arms. I noticed that the sun no longer beat down with the passionate force of summer. Instead, it fell across the landscape as if hung from the side. Fall light had always been my favorite. If I believed in good omens, I would have counted this among them.

On that drive to our first ultrasound, Jeremy twined his right hand into my left and squeezed it just this side of too tight. We grinned at each other, and then we turned our grins toward the windshield and beyond it. We grinned out at the fall light and the road beneath us. After so many weeks spent hoping that the sheer force of my desire would hasten time, we were finally going to glimpse the fruit of our sweaty summer project.

“We should ask him about riding the bike.” He repeated this as if one of us might have forgotten.

“All the books say it’s okay.” His hand was a salty envelope around mine. He wiped it absently on my knee.

“Still, we’ll ask anyway,” and he winked at me again before returning his eyes to the road.
Later, our feet crushed the first casualties of autumn against the sidewalk, and we tumbled into the clinic with our hands still clasped together.

“Isn’t it amazing,” he whispered in my ear, “that you and me…we made a whole other person with nothing but ourselves?” I rolled the luxurious weight of those words around in my head as we waited for my name to be called.

The nurse appeared and shuffled us to the examination room where I was questioned about my allergies and my symptoms. My blood pressure was checked and my temperature taken. Jeremy reached again for my hand. The nurse noticed this exchange and asked, "Are you nervous?"

"No, just excited.” To explain what I felt would have been to heave a great stone up a sheer cliff with nothing but my shoulders. I was about to see with my own eyes that our little clay jar - molded so blindly with unpracticed hands, still unrecognizable in form - was present and accounted for. My heart careened into its slick neighbors, never quite stopping to find it’s proper place before bounding away again.

The nurse told me to undress from the waist down and handed me a paper sheet. I sat on the examination table and covered myself over, then tried to distract my spinning thoughts by pondering the various employments of the gargantuan cotton swabs in a glass jar on the counter. Soon the doctor knocked and then entered the room.

“Will we hear the heartbeat?” I asked him, after the usual pleasantries were exchanged.

“Not this time, “ he replied. “It’s too early for the heartbeat to be audible. But we will be able to see your baby on the monitor in just a couple of minutes.” He busied himself preparing the abdominal ultrasound.

When applied, the gel was icy against my skin. Jeremy stood at my waist and peered over my belly into the soft glow of the ultrasound screen. I studied his features, hoping to catch his first flash of recognition of our tiny life on the screen.

“I’m not getting a clear picture,” the doctor wrinkled his nose, and without looking at me, “We’ll try the vaginal wand.”

He warned that it would be cold and that I would feel a lot of pressure, as if I’d never had a foreign object inside of me. I laughed aloud.

He moved the wand first to the left, then to the right, and he squinted as if searching the contours of the sun. His tongue appeared between his lips, and he bit down on it. His face was folded in concentration.

As his eyes searched from beneath a crumpled brow, mine darted between them, silently pleading for them to loosen in smile. My heart knocked wildly on familiar doors, but its neighbors did not answer. I felt the first jolt of fear in my ribs.

As the moments spun out, I imagined that I could drive my thoughts and direct them safely back home. I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and straining limbs and I fixed my mental course towards a dot on the horizon: an aquatic still life on the ceiling.

I drove my thoughts straight ahead and into that panel which covered the fluorescent bulbs above. Upside down to me, it was the vivid blue of tropical seawater. Anemone swayed in the implied ocean current as clownfish flitted nearby. I thought about the ceiling panel as my car sunk into its sandy bottom, studied it closely as the minutes passed, as the wand searched my inner recesses for the life that should have been there.

The doctor, still moving the wand inside me, said, “There is no fetal pole.” His words were filled with the sound of lost time. “The amniotic sac is the right size for eleven weeks, but it’s empty. I’m so sorry. I know this is not what you were expecting to hear today.”

***

Jeremy drove, and now the light was all wrong. The sun burned red, and everything it touched screamed in agony. It hung crooked in the sky, and had dropped lower to the ground in the since unfurled hour. The dying light pressed harshly down on the landscape, and squeezed from it the warmth of day.

Through my swollen eyelids, I glimpsed flashes of the long, barren winter that lay before us, and the abundance of darkness it would bring. Much time would pass before I’d feel the fertile slant of warm light on my face, and so I began to wrap my mind in layers to keep out the cold.

One Fortune, Three Months Late

I almost didn't go running yesterday. I was at home. There was beer in the fridge. There was porn on the shelf. I start my spring classes tomorrow. There were things I wished to do, like laying on the couch and picking my toes, that did not involve a trip to the track. In fact, I decided I wasn't going running, and then I put on my pants and headed to the track anyway.

There was a small woman running ahead of me, and it turned out that she kept the perfect pace for me (let's pretend she wasn't a foot shorter and her stride wasn't half mine), so I was able to run a respectable distance behind her (and appreciate her little round ass) for most of my workout. After mile one, I thought I could make it another half mile before walking. After that, I decided that I could keep going until I hit two miles. My running partner (the stranger in front of me who probably didn't appreciate me riding her bumper) veered off the track for her cool down, and I decided just to run one more lap, which turned into another half a mile. Then I walked three laps, and proceeded to run an entire extra mile before cooling down. Three and a half miles last night, my friends. Not bad for one week of running.

As I ran, growing more confident with each step, I pondered the changes that have taken place in my life over the last six months or so. Gray and I decided to move closer to work. Then we decided to try for a family. We had a plan all worked out: how we would pay for the hospital, how we would finagle as much FMLA leave as possible so that we could stay home with our baby for nearly the first year of his life, how we would save for a house.

We had this plan, you see? How could anything go wrong when we had a plan, with plans we had planned out?

Still running, I remembered the fortune I got in a cookie a few weeks ago, which said, "Be prepared to modify your plan. It'll be good for you!" I don't take much stock in fortunes or astrological signs or spirituality or karma. I don't believe in anything, really, but coincidence and hard work. But as I reflected on the change of plans it predicted, I realized that it would have been appropriate about three months ago, just before we realized that our plans for a family weren't going to turn out the way we expected. But in the midst of that crushing grief, I undoubtedly would have been unreceptive to any message the little cookie strove to convey.

Now, though, three months later (a quarter of a year, a new calendar year, a day when I ran three and a half miles), perhaps I was ready to consider that message. Perhaps 2009 is a year for Catherine. A year in which I will be nobody's mother, nobody's keeper, nobody's caretaker. 2009 is for me to do all the things I never do for myself: get into the shape I've always wanted to be in, take classes that force me to stretch my writing abilities, focus on getting myself out of the lingering divorce-debt, stop smoking, get some dental work done that I've been putting off because of how much it costs, turn down invitations I have no interest in accepting, drink good wine even if it is a few more dollars for the bottle, stay up late on a night when early bed would be advised, sleep all day Sunday just for the hell of it, see if I can't find some volunteer work that makes me feel good about myself. Really focus on myself. Making myself happy in a way I've never really been able to do because of my responsibilities to other people.

There are children in my future, I have no doubt about that. But here I am, a twenty-five year-old divorcee, finally studying something I'm wildly passionate about, finally beginning to feel like I don't have to carry around the weight of the world on my shoulders. I've been given a chance to be selfish, and I think I might just take that chance and run with it. It'll be good for me.

Popping My Spin Cycle Cherry

Is it going to hurt? This Spin Cycle? IT'S A BIG BLOGGY DEAL folks. All the "real" bloggers are doing it. I want to be like them when I grow up. That's why I dig through their garbage cans and steal their panties. It's all about showing my respect for their blogs. The restraining orders are so unnecessary.

To be fair, I planned to do a post about my goals for 2009 anyway (notice I don't use the word "resolutions", because if there's one thing I'm not, it's resolved). Then I saw Petra's post and I was like, "FINALLY! I can get my toe in the door! The new visitors to my blog, they will be many! I might even get my first troll! THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!" And then Gray looked up at me and asked what the hell I was talking about and gave himself the sign of the cross. And he's not even Catholic. He predicted some time ago that I'd have 40 followers by the end of the year, and I'm sad to say that he was 3 people wrong. And I blame you, lurkers. It's all your fault. It's got nothing to do with my cop-out photo posts and my flagrant disregard for the commonly accepted measures of public decency. It's because you read but don't follow. Bastards.

So here you go, you mooching fools: My Goals for 2009

• First and foremost, I am going to do SOMETHING with our barren, baby-less second bedroom. We moved twice in 3 months to get that extra bedroom - the bedroom that sits empty save for some boxes of garage sale baby toys and maternity clothes. Uh-uh, that's it. I'm done with preserving the shrine to Gage - that room costs us $80 a month buster, I love you and all, but Mama's putting up the damn dart board already. If anyone has a futon for sale, lemme know!

• I know I did this last year, too, but I am going to quit smoking. For reals. STOP LAUGHING! I swear. Last New Year's Day, I quit cold turkey and made it 6 months. Then in June, my baby sister stumbled upon the dead body of someone she loved very much, and I rushed to her side to...I don't fucking know what I thought I was going to do, I just knew I needed to be there immediately...and I started smoking again right then and there. My mom was here visiting from Arkansas - She's the Queen of the Anti-Cigarette Coalition - and didn't batt an eyelash when she saw me light up that day. So I think I was justified. Then I quit again in August when I got knocked up, then I started again in October when I lost the baby...and here we are back to January already. I'm hitting the "reset" button on my lungs. Seriously. (so long as I don't get drunk enough to forget that I quit.)((so basically until next weekend.))

• In my former life, I was renown for my greeting card-sending skills. They were mad, my skills. Everyone in the family and all of our friends could expect to receive cards for their birthday, anniversary, big occasions such as births or funerals, thank you's for everything imaginable, and holidays. I took great pride in remembering my ex's second cousin's husband's birthday, although I'd never met him before and probably never would. In fact, I'm sure many of those distant relatives found it very odd indeed that I had their home address. Some of them may have changed the locks on their doors. I also wrote a quarterly newsletter that I so cleverly named The Campbell Quarterly (freaking genius, huh?) and sent that out to keep the family abreast of our lives, our dogs, our jobs, etc. When my ex and I split, I sort of boycotted the whole greeting card thing, and I've been really bad about it every since. This weekend, I'm dusting off my old address book, burning all the pages with my ex's family, and I'm starting anew. I've already sent out Thank You's for Christmas and a birthday card to my grandpa Gus. (Yes, his actual name is Gus. Cutest damn thing I've ever heard.)

• Running. I'm going to keep doing it. Honest. In fact, I was ::this:: close to skipping the indoor track yesterday after work - it was a holiday! I had food to gather for the party! I had to find the chip'n'dip! - but I dragged myself there anyway. Unfortunately, I neglected to notice the sign on the front door of the community center which read that they were closing at 4:30 for New Year's Eve, so I was midway through my second mile when they shut.the.lights.off. Um, whoops? Guess I'd better leave now.

So. That's pretty much all I can expect out of myself in one year, as I'm really quite a lazy mo'fo, and at any given moment of the day I'd rather be laying on the couch watching Jon&Kate Plus 8. Other things I would add to the list if I thought there was any chance in hell I could manage them: writing more positive feedback letters when I receive excellent customer service (or you know, any at all), submitting a few short stories for publication (I'm laughing, too), cooking with mostly local foods (ever had local tomatoes in MN in the winter? me either), and figuring out how to drink 3 bottles of wine by myself without blacking out (or at least passing out at the same time I black out, so as to avoid the awkward, "Did we have sex last night?" conversation.)

I'm ready for a new fucking year. 2009 go ahead and BRING IT.

Rocky Rocky Pock-Markey

I'm totally blaming hormones for the ups and downs of my weekend. I say "my weekend" like it's in the books, but really it's 5:30 on Saturday night, which means my weekend isn't even half way over yet, and already I've been acting like a crazy person. I've gone from laughing and drunk...right on down the line to sad, crying, depressed...headed on over to reckless abandon and self-indulgence...and ended up where I am now, which is general laziness, inability to concentrate, and desire to watch P.S. I love you (so I can just have a good old cry, god dammit, and get over myself already).

Last night, we headed down to have an early Christmas celebration with my Jill. She did the whole holiday dinner, turkey and all, and we ate like cows and drank like fish and behaved like primates - we basically had ourselves a Zoo of a time. I was really looking forward to it because since Gray and I moved out of town, we only see the "old crew" once every four or six weeks.

Aw. Now isn't that the cutest damn thing you've ever seen?

My Jill and I, we both have what you might consider a "problem" with taking pictures. You know those people who walk around with the little cell phone ear pieces on their head? Because they're on their cell phone every minute of the day? If there was something like that for cameras, head gear that would keep our camera's strapped at eye-level, we'd both totally buy those.

She's saving up for an elective surgery next spring to have the camera detached from her hand. She loves it, but it's really hard to take a bath in her condition.

Yeah, I've got it too. In this picture, it looks like I'm focusing on lining up a shot. What I'm really doing is trying to murder my crappy, broken camera with my laser eyeballs. It's the best super power ever.

On the way home last night - I don't know, possibly because of all the beer - I started getting all weepy and mopey and woe is me-y. It was really obnoxious. Total first-world problems I've got going on. Lost my first pregnancy. Boo hoo! I never seem to make a dent in my credit card balances. Soooo sad! I'm just so tired of the backne. Grow a pair! I woke up feeling equally as mopey, but for less specific reasons. I get really pissed with myself when I'm like this, because who the hell goes around bursting into tears for NO.REASON.WHATSOEVER. Seriously, what the hell is with that? People cry for reasons, Catherine. Not just for fun, or to kill time, or because your shoes weren't where you left them.

Gray and I went to buy his mother's Christmas gifts - anytime you shop with Gray it involves going to Best Buy - and I ended up going TOTALLY BATSHIT CRAZY and buying myself 3 CDs - The Smiths, The Postal Service, and the soundtrack from Once - and 3 DVDs - Jerry Seinfeld stand up, Superbad, and Lars & the Real Girl. I must have lost my mind in there or something, or the hangover totally negated my physical inability to buy something frivolous for myself without feeling MAJOR guilt and possibly returning it two hours later so I can sleep that night. I can't even remember the last time I bought a CD for myself - I literally have no idea when it was or what band it might have been. But I figured, for my sanity, that I'd better do something to pull my ass out of the funk I was in (how better to do that than listening to angsty alternative music?). My dad sent me a check for Christmas - usually I just deposit that check and use it to pay bills, but this time I figured I'd go ahead and actually buy myself something I wanted instead.

And it feels so good to be bad. I'm still on a high from the exhilaration of handing over my Visa for the purpose of dropping $100 on music. FOR MYSELF. This must be how arsonists feel.

So I've spent the entire balance of the day farting around on the computer, wrapping presents, ripping my new CDs to iTunes, and posting photos from last night. I've thought about starting to read my new Stephen King book - THANK YOU JILL OMG I'M SO EXCITED I FEEL LIKE PRINCESS DI WITH ALL MY NEW STUFF - but that would have required concentrating on words, pages and pages of words, and I decided that I'd rather save that for tomorrow. I opened a beer instead. Tomorrow Gray will be at work, and he did all the laundry yesterday, AND he cleaned the apartment for me, so tomorrow I can lay around and read the new SK and listen to my new music.

So I think it's really obvious now why I'm so weepy today. I'm spoiled fucking rotten and because I'm rotten, I smell so bad that my eyes are watering. Sucks to be me, huh? GAWD.

So Much For That

Just last week I was driving home from work and patting myself on the back for my awesome coping skills. I was feeling great! I was happy! No baby-related depression! I attributed most of that to my post about Gage, and all the kind words you people left me, which I must admit was probably at least 25% of the reason why I posted in the first place. It helps to hear people say nice things sometimes. It had been days since I'd cried. CAN YOU IMAGINE? DAYS PEOPLE!!

I was pretty proud of that accomplishment, given that one friend of ours just welcomed his second child this week. Also, Gray's cousin had her first child, one month early, but everyone is happy and healthy. That one, well...I was expecting that one to hurt the worst because I was excited that our kids would be born within 3 or 4 months of each other and could grow up together. (The only setback came when Gray's ma asked if I wanted to go to a baby shower with her. Um, no. Thanks anyways.)

Friday, we went to watch some wrestling at a bar. That was really fun. I curled my hair all up and wore a rabbit scarf. It's good to feel hot on a Friday night. Then came Saturday night. The annual Christmas Party with friends from work. Awesome food (hot chicken, I so want to sleep with you), lots of good wine (too much), and tons of people we adore.

Except...I forgot to prepare myself for the arrival of one friend and his 21-week pregnant wife. I think, had I realized they might be there, I would have steeled myself and been just fine. Instead, when they walked up the stairs, I kind of felt like she'd poked me in the eye with her big pregnant boob, and then bent me over her belly and spanked me (and NOT in the good way).

This friend and his wife, this is their fourth child, and I believe that the last two pregnancies, while not unwanted per-say, were certainly unplanned. I remember hearing that the friend was less than thrilled this last time, and he's since gone and gotten himself all snipped up to prevent further "accidents". Do you think they'd notice if I just kind of "took" their youngest child? I mean, in the aftermath of bringing home their new baby, they might not even notice if the toddler is missing...hmmm. Will consider...

It also appears that the mama-to-be had to, in essence, get her lady parts stitched up to avoid having the child fall the fuck out before he has cooked all 40 weeks. Interesting problem to have, not that I'd wish it on anyone, and I'm glad she's off her bed rest now. Maybe after the third birth, the kids just start slipping out if you cough or something. Or, as Jenny McCarthy says, sex is probably like, "throwing a hot dog down a hallway."

Anyhow, they are such nice people and obviously I don't wish them any ill, but when might I reach the point when other people's pregnancies don't feel like a personal affront? When will I stop interpreting a swollen belly with a giant middle finger? Sigh. And the kicker? She was smoking. (On the upside, I can probably absolve myself of blame for smoking those two days after the positive pregnancy test...that probably wasn't enough to kill the baby, in hindsight...)

So all of this culminated in my drinking way too much wine (thank you to Gray for getting my ass out of there before anyone realized how plastered I was), and OF COURSE, offering repeatedly (bordering on obnoxiously) to babysit their three fully-cooked children any time they want to get away. I guess, in my mixed up little brain, that caring for other children might remind me that I've got it pretty good now with none. Plus, the closer I am to the toddler...the more likely I am to come up with a fool-proof kidnapping plan.

Sunday was spent on the couch, intermittently crying and sleeping. Eventually, I made my ass get up and go grocery shopping. I mostly felt better after that excursion, but I refrained from doing the laundry and decided to lay around for the rest of the day instead.

So...how was YOUR weekend? And did it also involve midget wrestling and copious self-pity? I've got one final Arkansas installment, so watch for that later in the week. For now, I'm busy nursing a case of The Mondays (I totally won Officespace in the dice game on Saturday, so you can also look forward to repeated use of the terms "fuckin' a" and "waaaay down, deeper and deeper"...)

I've Never Had Unpaid Confidants

I've been talking as much as possible about my miscarriage. For some reason, the talking helps me process what I'm feeling. It doesn't allow me to bottle things up, which I hear is good. I've been even more actively seeking support this week because the condom fiasco really threw me for a loop, knocked me back into the sludge I thought I'd begun to shake off. I have a history, one which includes some unhealthy behaviors, all of which stemmed from Trying To Do It Myself and Pretending Like I Don't Need Help. So this time, I'm not going to let myself fall into that. It's not fair to Gray, and it's not fair to myself, and it's really not fair to my hair, which underwent some frightening styles during my dark times.

So, Interwebnet, you are my free therapy (something you may have already noticed). I am shamelessly using you to make myself feel less alone. So YAY for you! I know you're super excited! You're like pro bono shrinks! Congratulations.

***

I talked to my sister's doula today. She was getting back to me with some support group information, and she confided that she, too, lost her first pregnancy at 12 weeks. A remarkably similar situation, one I'm finding is way too fucking common. She told me what helped her the most was making a journal which listed all the feelings she had before the miscarriage, and all of those she had afterwards. She included photos of herself during her pregnancy. She named her unborn baby and put that in the book.

I like this idea for a few reasons. It makes the loss more tangible. I never saw my child and I will never see my child. But I can name and own the feelings and daydreams I had about my child. Also, I like to write: good, bad or indifferent, I like to blather on and on about...well, everything. So this seems like a good fit for me. Lastly, this will give me something to go back to when I'm missing my child. Something akin to a baby book, albeit the world's most depressing baby book. Perhaps I'll call it a Fetus Book?

I think by now you know where this is going.

***

May I present to you: Gage's Fetus Book

We never knew if you were a boy or a girl, and we had planned to wait until you were born to find out. I was worried that if I made a prediction, that I might become attached to the idea, and possibly be disappointed when you were born. Neither Gray or I had a preference, so this fear was pretty ridiculous. But I never wanted to look back on the memory of your birthday and feel even the tiniest twinge of guilt for having wished you had a wee-wee instead of a who-haw, or visa versa. So we declined to participate in the raging gender debate. We chose names for both: as a girl, you would have been Veta. As a boy, Gage. My Jill, she was certain you were a girl. My grandmother (your grand daddy's mother), she was convinced you were a boy. Us? We didn't know. But now that you've died, I've come to think of you as my little boy. I don't know why. If you were a girl, I am SO SORRY, please don't be mad at mommy.

Here's me at 9 weeks.

A little silly to photograph what was primarily a methane bubble at this point, but I was just that excited. Plus, I mean...what if I waited to take the first baby belly picture, and then all of a sudden, I was out to ::here:: and there wasn't a "before" shot? Oh lord, the motherly shame. So I opted to take the cautious approach and just photograph every two weeks, starting at week 7.

I've wanted children for a long, long time. But my ex, he wasn't father material. So I waited. And then I fell in love with your daddy. And he was A+ father material, and he didn't run away screaming when I got drunk and told him I wanted children, like, two hours ago. He just said whenever I was ready, he was ready. Hmmm. Now that the ball was in my court, it was quite a different story. Was it too soon? Were we too poor? Was I too young? Should I finish school first? Gray would need a different vehicle for transporting spawn. I would need to quit smoking. Suddenly, the green light was a little scary. And so I waited again.

And then, this summer I went off the pill because it made my Crazy show. I was so much happier off the pill. I was going to get an IUD, but it was SO expensive and semi-permanent (as in, you don't put it in for 6 months and then change your mind, woman are you cracked? but if I did, it was reversible). I kind of started to freak out about should we? Should we not? Should we? Should we not? And then Gray and my Jill got together and talked and decided I was over thinking things and that my heart knew what I really wanted. And I listened. And they were right.

So we tried. Your daddy, he would prop pillows under my ass, and he would lay there and talk to me about hypothetical babies for the required 20 minutes of Encouraging Sperm to Stay In There and Impregnate Me. Or, at the very least, he'd plug in a movie for me to watch while I waited. I started the pregnancy website lurking, and the OMG are we going to CIRCUMCISE our BABY BOY? internal debate (note: don't watch a video of said activity on YouTube. trust me.) The where will we live, this apartment is too small!! fretting. The expensive peeing on sticks just to freak myself out process. Jill went on her, Oh for Christ's sake could you at least wait until after Rock the Dock? tirade.

And then, on our first morning of Rock the Dock, the same day my period was due, I woke up at the crack of dawn, ran into the bathroom with a pregnancy test, and burst into hysterical tears when I saw that, indeed, we had spawned. Gray was seriously confused as to why I was jumping on the bed and waking him up. He was even more confused by the "Congratulations Daddy" card, thinking I'd maybe jumped the gun a bit, and wasn't I supposed to wait until after I was pregnant to give him that kind of thing. Then I showed him the test, and all I remember is crying and hugging and crying and OMGing.

After that, everything was just kind of a wonderful dream. Until, of course, it wasn't.

I fought The Tired and stayed up late, sketching what I imagined might be your nursery. I was going for gender neutral, but see how it kind of leaned towards "boy"? Yeah, I think I knew something, even then. We inquired about, and signed a lease for a bigger apartment in our building. One with room for a nursery. Since we can't paint the walls, I searched websites for wall decals and decided on these. They arrived in the mail the week after we lost you.

Gray and I texted each other baby names constantly. I quit smoking and gave up my wine, and we all know how hard that was for me. Except, it wasn't. Not even a little bit. We discussed whether we should tell everyone now, or wait the proper 3 months, until I was out of my first trimester. I decided that if something awful was to happen, if we were to lose you, I would want to talk about it, and that would be easier if everyone knew. How prophetic that was.

In an effort to increase my physical activity, I biked around town and ogled houses. I daydreamed about buying the homes I passed. I envisioned you walking in the yards, you daddy grilling dinner (aw, who am I kidding? I'm the griller round these parts.), your friends coming to ask if Gage could come out and play. I remember biking up a hill, by a school, and talking to you. I told you that you didn't have to worry. That never, in the history of parents and children, was a child more wanted than you. That you would never have to wonder if you were good enough or pretty enough or smart enough for us. We loved you so much already, more than I even thought possible.

We talked and laughed about the sleepless nights to come, the toddler antics, the projectile poops, your first smile, your first everything. One night, I paused the TV and said to Gray, "Just think: right now, everything about our child has already been decided - what color his hair will be, what his voice will sound like, his temperament, every physical characteristic. It's just...so amazing. I cannot WAIT to meet our child." And we marveled for a moment about how awesome our lives together would be, as a family. Gray said once, "Isn't it amazing how we, you and me, we made something...a whole person, with nothing but ourselves?"

Sure, there would be trials. There would be vomit and tears and "the talk". We discussed religion, and what we would teach our children about god. Gray believes, I don't. So we decided to teach our child a little about all kinds of faiths, and we would teach him to be tolerant of everyone's beliefs. When the day comes that he asks to go to church? We would take him. When he wants to visit his friends' churches? We would encourage him. When he asked about god and death? We would tell him all we could.

We discussed discipline, how each of us was raised and which practices we wanted to use with our own children. Gray talked about getting into shape so he could coach his kids' teams. He wanted to take FMLA leave so that he could stay home with you for a few months, just daddy and baby, and watch you grow (and probably call me frantically with poop situations).

I began blogging again because of my pregnancy. I say "again" with a chuckle, because my first attempt didn't last longer than 3 or 4 posts. But now, I wanted to record everything I was going through, so that I would remember, so that I could look back and marvel. I never expected that the things I wrote on this blog would include losing my first pregnancy. Nor, that my writing here would be like a salve on the wound, something that would let the pressure seep slowly out, something that would prevent an explosion.

When we lost you, I didn't know if I would ever blog again. But then I did, here and here and also here. I covered mostly everything that I needed to cover in those posts. Except to say that we love you and we miss you. Not a day will pass for the rest of our lives that we don't think about you, and the indescribable joy you brought us for those 11 weeks and 3 days.

I will never forget how I felt knowing I was your mommy.